© copyright Regine Haensel 2019
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Chapter I
Complications
The last thing I remember is drifting off to the distant drumming
of the Lord’s Militia signalling day’s end in my room in Aquila, the house
Papa and I share. But now my eyes are open wide seeing nothing but dark. No
strip of moonlight through the gaps of my window shutters, no winking stars.
When I press my eyelids down briefly there’s not even the weird lines and
sparks of light that usually show up. I turn my head this way and that. It’s
like a sandstorm at night hiding moon and stars, except there’s no stinging
grit against my skin, no song of sand and wind.
I stretch out
my arms; groping hands touch nothing, no bed covers, no wooden bed frame. A
chill breeze lifts the hair from my neck. I become aware of my cold and naked
feet standing on a rough surface. Not a wood floor, maybe cobblestones? I
could be standing out in the street in front of our house. Sleep walking? I’ve
never done that before. It’s unbelievably quiet – no leaves hissing in a
breeze, no creaking branches. No squeaky wheels of a late-night cart, no
footsteps. A speck of brightness off to one side draws my eyes. I squint as it
slowly grows larger; hope by this light to see the outline of my window or the
walls of a familiar house, but instead, dark shapes stand against an indistinct
background. None of the shapes look like anything I recognize.
A whispering
voice: “Samel.”
I take a step
forward. “Who’s there?”
A sudden
flare obliterates everything and my eyes swim. Quick as a darting fish, my fist
knuckles the wet away. I’m just seeing clear again when icy liquid gushes over
my feet, making me jump back and almost slip. But I spread my legs and get
balanced. Flames blaze and steam rises as water meets fire. I flail at the
mist, trying to clear it so I can see. Heat presses, wetness drips from my
skin. I open and shut my eyes, take deep breaths. What is happening? Where am
I?
When I open my eyes again, early
morning light fills my bedroom. Familiar, ordinary. Just another dream, I
guess. My fist pounds the mattress. What am I supposed to get from this? It
doesn’t make sense.
Bedding tangles around my waist
and legs; my body’s slick with sweat. I push at the scratchy blanket, but it’s
twisted into knots and won’t budge. I stretch a leg; my toe rips a hole in the
sheet. “Talons and beaks!” My voice
cracks the way it’s been doing lately. Good thing I’m not wanting to be a
singer. Voice going, skin itchy. Toenails too long – almost like an eagle’s.
I’m making a mess again.
In my head I can hear the other drum apprentices snickering.
Yesterday one of them muttered to another, “Clumsy as a newborn camel.” Knew
they were talking about me. Turned to glare at them. Don’t know what I’d have
said or done, but Tamtan, the drum master, walked in just then and we all bent
to our work.
I frown at my
knobby knees. They do make me think of camel legs. Except camel toes don’t look
like mine. I can hear Papa now: “If you’d pay more attention, you’d notice your
toenails are too long. Cut them!”
The sheets
are old, too thin. That’ll be my excuse when I ask Papa for coin to buy new
bedding. Still, he won’t be happy about it. It’s not like we’re poor, though.
Papa’s stipend as a Lord’s musician has always been enough to take good care
of us. I’m sure Tamtan’s other apprentices resent me partly because of that.
None of their fathers are musicians of the calibre of Papa.
I shove all
the bedding away. Too hot. The dry season is usually scorching in Aquila, but
this is the worst I remember. Good thing Rowan isn’t here – she’d find it
harder to take than me, having lived most of her life in norther forests.
Sister, where are you now? I should have defied Papal, snuck away and joined
the caravan to travel with you.
Generally, I
do what Papa wants, or I argue him round to my side. Man and boy, just him and
me living together all my life, we don’t always agree, but sort things out.
I’ve been happy enough. That changed after Rowan came. And now she’s gone
again, who knows for how long? Life should be easier, but it isn’t.
The dream.
Was it about Rowan? Maybe she’s in danger. I scramble out of bed, dragging the
bedding to the floor and leaving it. Rummage in the wooden chest at the foot of
my bed and pull out the silver bracelet of linked ivy leaves. Slip it onto my
wrist. Mysterious, magical circlets that came from our parents, one each. I
thump to the floor, struggle with my unruly legs, then settle. Close my eyes
and think of my sister; picture her long hair, dark like Papa’s, her grey eyes
that I’ve been told are like our mother’s. My concentration slips.
I’ll never
see Mother again, can’t even remember her. Did I call her Mama? Did she ever
sing to me? Maybe I got my musical abilities from her as well as Papa. I was
too young when Papa and I left her and Rowan. And Mother’s been dead for over a
year now.
I scratch an
itchy toe. Tailfeathers! Better cut my toenails before they do more damage.
Then get clothes on. The house is quiet though I can tell by the angle of the
sun shining through my window that it’s still early. Papa’s either asleep or
gone already to the riverbank, to the old barracks of the Lord’s Militia.
They’ve been mostly empty for years, the grounds allowed to grow wild, but
Papa and his musician friends along with other artists of Aquila are changing
that. They’ve joined designers, stone masons, carpenters and labourers to turn
the dilapidated buildings into an arts school.
I sneak
across the landing and peek into his room. No Papa, bed made neatly, bedding
stretched tight as a drumhead. It was under that bed I found my bracelet. It
was Papa’s really, but had abandoned him. He wasn’t happy about that.
I rattle down
the stairs. No Papa anywhere. Why didn’t he wake me this morning as he’s been
doing ever since Rowan left? Drag me along as usual with him to the school when
I don’t have other duties. Not that I’m sorry to be left at home. At the
building site I’d just be hanging around waiting for someone to find tasks for
me: carrying tools, cutting grass, cutting brush. Scut work is no fun and not
that good for a musician’s hands.
I search for
a note. Today is supposed to be my day for working with Papa – composing,
playing the flutes, cleaning and repairing them if necessary. If he doesn’t
come back for that’ll be the third lesson we’ve missed since Rowan went. The
arts school is important, but so am I!
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Books
by Regine Haensel
The
Leather Book Tales
Queen of Fire
Child of Dragons
Companion of Eagles
Short
Stories
The Other Place
A Rain of Dragonflies
