©Copyright Regine Haensel
I
The last thing I
remember is going to bed in my room in Aquila, the house Papa and I share,
drifting off to the distant drumming of the Lord’s Militia signalling day’s
end. And now my eyes are open wide seeing nothing but dark. No strip of
moonlight through the gaps of my window shutters, no sliver of stars. When I
press my eyelids down briefly there’s not even the weird lines 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. My naked feet stand on a
rough surface. Not a wood floor, maybe rock or cobblestones? I could be sleep
walking, standing out in the street in front of our house. It’s unbelievably
quiet – no trees hissing in a breeze, no creaking branches or the squeaky
wheels of a late night cart, no footsteps. I squint at a speck of brightness
off to one side that slowly grows larger. Hope to see the outline of my window
or the walls of a familiar house, but instead, dark shapes stand against an
indistinct and slightly lighter 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 and almost slip, but I spread my legs and
get balanced. Fire blazes and steam rises as water meets fire. I flail at the
mist, can’t see, heat presses, wetness drips from my skin. 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. Another dream, but not about my sister this time.
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, won’t budge. I stretch a leg, my
toe rips a hole in the sheet.
“Arrgh! 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. Making a mess and not
fitting.
In my
head I can hear the other drum apprentices snickering. Yesterday one of them
muttered to another, “Clumsy as a new born 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 glare at my knobby-kneed legs. They do make me think of
camel legs. Except their 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, though, 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 apprentices resent
me partly because of that. None of their fathers are musicians.
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. Sister, where are you now? I should have defied
Papal, snuck away and joined the caravan with you.
Most
of my life I’ve done what Papa wanted or argued him round to my side. We didn’t
always agree, but worked things out and I was 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 after all? 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 bracelets that came from our
parents, one each. I thump to the floor, struggle like a new born camel 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.
Tailfeathers!
Better cut my toe nails before they do more damage, and get dressed. 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 river bank.
The old barracks there of the Lord’s Militia have been mostly empty for years,
the grounds allowed to grow wild. 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 drum head. It was under that bed I found my
bracelet. Papa’s really, but it 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. 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 work for me: carrying tools, cutting
grass, cutting brush. Scut work is no fun and not that good for my hands.
I
search for a note. Today is supposed to be my day for working with him –
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!
The
food cupboards hold bread, honey, butter, a bit of cheese, figs. I’m not really
hungry yet. Why didn’t he leave me a note? Even to say, practise the flute or
go get more food. “You’re old enough to figure that out for yourself.” That’s
what he’d say, and it’s true. I’m not stupid and he’s never said that I am. But
we used to talk more, spend more time together.
I
wander into the living room. One of the big woven baskets the women from the
Grasslands people brought sits there, full of sheet music. Papa copied some,
but I did most of it. I leaf through a few sheets, put them back, finger the
basket. It’s really well made. They could sell these in the market here.
The
Grasslands People wanted help to find some missing children. That’s what
Rowan’s gone to do, and I know they helped her when she was trying to find Papa
and me so I guess she felt she owed them. Still, it seems odd that they
couldn’t look for the children themselves. Would Rowan have gone if she’d been
happier with us? Maybe its my fault.
I’ll
try again to talk to my sister. Sit, breathe deeply, touch the bracelet, close
my eyes and concentrate. Sometimes that will work and I get some kind of
picture, but today I wait until my knees start to cramp and my arms itch. No
visions. Weird that I had that dream and now nothing. Still so much to learn
about how and why the bracelets work and why they don’t. Was my dream
influenced by the bracelet even though I wasn’t touching it or was it just an
ordinary strange dream? No answers just sitting here and now my belly’s
rumbling.
I’m
munching bread and cheese when there’s a rat-tat at the door. Hope its Ali from
across the street. I haven’t seen her in a couple of days and she’s always
working on something interesting; I could help, though I should practise the
flute. But a boy stands outside, a messenger from Papa: he does want me at the
river bank.
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