Chapter 13: Grasio the GuideA Chapter by Steve ClarkBerin, uncertain of their newfound friend, keeps a watchful eye as they embark on a journey across the desert.Grasio the Guide The next morning the trio began the three-vero journey across the Put Desert
towards Oda, the first main town in Kraik country. On their journey, Grasio
taught Glavino how to locate the different animal tracks left by the creatures
of the sand. “Just like at home,” Glavino cheered. “Harder on sand?” “Yes.” There were lizards and snakes aplenty, Grasio said,
judging by the tracks. “Snakes?” Eek! I hate snakes!” “Berin, they make for great tasting.” “You eat them?” “Sometimes.” Grasio’s wry smile widened. “Ah, I thought you were telling the truth there for a
moment.” “Have you tried to eat them?” “Never. They are put here in the world to taunt and
torture humans.” “And to eat.” “Do you actually eat them?” asked Glavino. “Their meat is so sweet.” Now Berin was uncertain. Was he telling the truth? “Tell us!” “Of course I do. But not all the time, maybe once an eklar.” The thought made Berin vomit the previous night’s
insects. Glavino laughed, mentioning something about Tubal insects not being
ideal for one’s body. Grasio pulled Berin aside and gave him something to
drink. “Try this.” “What is it?” asked Berin. “It is a little wine. It will help settle the
stomach.” In spite of Berin’s better judgement, he drank the
wine. It tasted sweet, reminding him instantly of Juolo’s father’s wine. “How did you make this? There are no crus around the
area, are there?” Grasio grinned. “No, there are not. This is not grape
wine. It is pomegranate wine.” Glavino overheard the word ‘wine’ and came over. “Did
you say pomegranate wine?” “Yes, nearly any fruit can be turned into wine. My
father taught me, and his father taught him, and so on. Though, the Tubal
pomegranates are not as good as Presa.” “Presa?” inquired Berin. “Oh, yes, my ancestors are not from Goiim. You thought
Grasio is a typical Goiim name?” “I did not,” piped Glavino in quickly, attempting to
sound knowledgeable. “Yes, when Goiim first became a tribal force, the
Presa council offered cheap passage to Goiim for any who sought adventure in a
new land.” “Why was that?” “My father always thought it was because Presa was
becoming overcrowded. The capital, Porto Cerro, where the council resided, was
so full of people it was almost impossible to live in. The tight spaces my
ancestors had to live in…” He paused, almost deep in thought, then continued. “I suppose that is why I love the countryside so much,
the open spaces. I could never live in a city.” “Me neither,” agreed Glavino. Berin nodded, though he
found at times living in a citadel exhilarating. He was not sure why; perhaps
it was the opportunities a city provided. “Cities can provide freedom from constant danger the
elements can bring.” Grasio ignored Berin’s comment and continued, “Yes, I
suppose even when Lachgalt was becoming larger and larger, I grew to dislike
it. One can have too many people and not enough space.” Perhaps he never heard me. I am not going to repeat
for his sake. The three continued westward in the open desert. “How do you feel now, Berin?” “Much better. The wine helped, thanks.” There were more signs of sand animals as they
travelled, but Grasio told Berin and Glavino of the peculiar tracks made by the
equally peculiar tracks of the serpico,
an insect with a stinging tail rising angrily above its head, ready to strike
its enemies. “I think I would prefer to not know the potential
dangers of snakes and other strange creatures around me,” said Berin. “I will quieten down, then,” said Grasio. Late in the afternoon, they reached a small alcove of
trees where a well had been dug. “This is where some folks believe is the location of a
small tributary running from the underground river,” said Grasio. They freshened their bodies with the slightly dirty
yet rejuvenating water and arranged camp. Grasio began a fire, rubbing a stick
in between both hands with its tip against another stick wedged in the ground.
Soon smoke rose from the wood and sparks were zipping off as Grasio blew
against them. As the flames grew thick, Grasio began telling them the histories
of the Sonderya, the Lands of the South. “Goiim is named after a great man, a man of courage
and wit. No one knows his ancestry for sure, but we do know he was born about
200 eklars before our time. He
married the most beautiful woman, Ewusia, from the village we now call
Dordabis. They had sons that were recorded in the books. There was the eldest,
Analizy, who apparently married an angel from the realms above. I forget her
name. Of course, no one today believes she really was an angel. Though, she was
as beautiful as one, which we know for certain. There are rock paintings of
her, which glow like the sun, especially in comparison to all the other
paintings. “Then there was Czcibor, the great warrior, who helped
expand his father’s influence throughout the lands around Lake Lach. “Anyway, it is believed Vidor, one from the tribe of
Hakkas, was killed by Czcibor while he was trading with Goiim. That started a
feud between the two tribes. Some time later, Czcibor and his son Grzegorz
invaded Hakkas territory. In that eklar
they wiped out the Hakkas people, leaving their leader Gabor as the final to be
killed. Goiim was so distraught at the extent of the killings he did not allow
the two warriors to return to the Lake Lach area. Instead, they established
themselves at the foot of the mountains, where the town Hakkas is now. I think
Goiim suggested that name, in honour of the tribe they destroyed. I believe it
was guilt that drove him to urge that decision. “A few eklars passed.
Grzegorz attacked the Kiriathain people in the mountains and expanded the
territory further. Yenga, the Kiriathain leader, was killed in an epic battle
siege lasting half an eklar. His son,
Imba, had to hide with their spiritual leader Mawla’i. Grzegorz, knowing he had
to destroy the next in line to destroy the hope of the Kiriathains, searched
for years amongst the mountains. But he was unfortunate. “It was not until Mwasi Mkazi, a descendant of
Kiriath, told Grzegorz of Imba’s location. Imba and Mawla’i were slaughtered in
front of thousands of the Kiriathains, as a symbol that their chieftain lineage
was forever finished. Mwasi Mkazi was established as a puppet chieftain under
the guide of Grzegorz, but he was killed in a horse riding accident not long
after. The Kiriathains have not had a native leader since that time. “Now, it is time for us to sleep. Next time I will
tell you about the civil war.” Berin and Glavino had sat enthralled at the tale, not
realising how late it had become. In spite of the hefty names, they attempted
to follow Grasio’s tale of the tribe of Goiim. “That is why we saw ruins in Goiim,” said Glavino. “They seem to be a warring nation, with all this, plus
a civil war.” “Not nice to live around,” whispered a sleepy Grasio.
He turned over and his breath evened out instantly. No wonder Grasio prefers the wild. Here, life is more
stable. There is no risk of one’s neighbours attacking. At least until Juolo
and the children were taken. The elements of the outdoors, though wild, have an
order to it. Human behaviour has no order. Why would Labar invade the northern
lands? What drove him to expand his kingdom? I would never stoop to that level. Or have I already? He wondered again as he had the previous nights about
the killings. Berin shuddered. His mind filled with the faces of those he had
killed. Lying there, the breath of life leaving their bodies, eyes wide, mouths
aghast. The more he shut his eyes, trying to count linuna, as his mother taught when he struggled sleeping as a child,
the more their faces became more vivid. Opening his eyes, he gazed towards the
stars. The gods know I killed for the right reasons, do they
not? He would kill to save his children, to save Juolo.
Perhaps there were good causes to kill. His mind cast to the trader. That had been an
accidental death. At first he wanted to slaughter the man who sold his family.
Then again, that passion had subsided. Still, Berin knew his final blow caused
the death. “I am sorry,” he whispered to no one particular. A soft breeze blew across the trio’s camp, the embers
of the fire flickering, as though alive. Berin shuddered, though this time it
was due to the elements. On his skin grew unfamiliar bumps. He breathed deeply,
taking in the fresh air. “I am sorry,” he repeated. A small tear crept from his
eyelid to the ground. He blinked to stop another. Sniffing, he shifted his body
to face away from the others. Berin fell asleep with troubled thoughts, curled up
inside his jibba. The next two veros passed at a swift pace, with the
three reaching the town of Oda as the sun was beginning to set. “Oda is not much of a town,” stammered Glavino. Goats
ran everywhere through the mud huts, causing much distress amongst the locals. “It is more of a rest stop than anything else,” said
Grasio. That night they slept soundly in comfortable beds at
the local inn, glad they had survived the parched desert with only minor
blisters on their feet and dry lips that were to be rectified in a few veros. Berin awoke suddenly, his eyes adjusting to the wee
light creeping through the window. He glanced around, wondering for a moment
his location. When his eyes met a stretching Glavino, he remembered. “My soul dreamt of good last night, Glavino,” he
whispered. “Hmm.” “The first time since, since that night.” “Mmm.” Glavino turned so he leaning on arm, ready to
listen to Berin. “I usually remember no dreams, but this one was so
vivid. I dreamt Erinu having her berrinula
ceremony.” “Her what?” “I mean, her undinuco ceremony. Sorry, berrinula is
what we called it on Alanga.” “Was she pretty?” “She was dressed in a brilliant white. They had just
returned from their time away with the other girls. The tent was set up, the
food and wine arranged and the boys eagerly awaiting their arrival. The boroughsman
was ready to give his speech. She walked in first, confidently striding across
the grass, in front of the boys. All eyes were on her. The other girls were
hardly noticed. They lined up, opposite to the boys, awaiting further
instruction.” “What happened next?” Glavino’s question aroused Grasio from his slumber. “Morning,” he said as he turned to listen. “Morning.” “Berin was just telling me about a dream he had last
night. About Erinu’s undinuco ceremony.” “Her what?” “Glavino, let me explain. Our tribe has an annual
spring festival, where we celebrate the new harvest and its produce.” “We have one of those in Goiim.” “Right. On the second to last night of the festival,
the boys and girls, who have come of age in the last eklar, return from time spent with the elders of the borough.
Glavino, what do the boys usually do? I was never involved in one in Alanga.” “All the usual, hunting, learning to live off the wild
for seven veros.” “Right,” said Grasio. “Juolo told me it is a secret what the women do, that
no one is to ever know.” “Perhaps all they do is learn how to mend clothes!”
said Glavino with a hearty laugh. “Perhaps,’ Berin said before returning to the story.
‘When they all return, they line up opposite each other.” “I heard you say that last part when I first woke.
Keep telling about the dream.” “Fine. The boroughsman called out the names of pairing
for the first dance.” “With whom did Erinu dance?” “Opulani, the son of Punapulani.” Glavino sat bolt upright. “Punapulani. A wretched man! Poor choice by the boroughsman.” “My thoughts exactly. Anyway, Erinu danced well with
him, before the second dance. I did not recognise the second boy, though he
seemed more courteous and welcoming of her and danced rather well. Her hair
flittered around as they spun to and fro across the green.” “Who chose her for the third dance?” “The first boy to be able to choose. I think it was
the boroughsman’s son. I did not get a good look, for that was when the dream
ended.” “So this was not a dream of a real event?” asked
Grasio. “No. Erinu, yes, is of age, but her undinuco is next spring.” “Ah, so maybe it is a vision of the future.” Berin turned, staring at the roof of their room. “I hope so.” A tear started at the base of his eyes,
threatening to fall. He turned away from the two men, the tear dropped across
his cheek and streaked across the corner of his lips. He gently licked its
saltiness away. “Glavino, tell
us about your undinuco,” whispered
Grasio in a cheeky manner. “Yes, with whom did you dance?” asked Berin. “I would rather not say?” “Oh come, Glavino. Tell us.” “No.” “Why not?” “Because I do not remember!” Stillness crept over the room. Berin glanced at Grasio
over Glavino. Not another word was said between the three that morning. For the
rest of the day, Glavino snapped at the slightest of things. Berin left behind
his money pouch when they ventured through the tiny market. Glavino recoiled
his breath before muttering something obscene about Berin. Grasio was taken
aback, but nothing like Berin was. Here was a typically jolly man, ready to writhe
with him at any moment. “What is wrong with Glavino?” asked Grasio when they
were alone. “I know not.” “Has this happened before?” “No. He has made us all gloomy. Normally it is the
situation that affects us. He is usually so…so…” “Exuberant?” “Yes.” “You should talk to him?” “Me? Why?” “Because he is your friend.” “We fail to talk about this.” “What about all the stories you have told him? Told
us?” “Well, yes, but that is not talking about emotions.
Only women do that.” “Well, yes, I suppose.” “It will blow over, I am certain.” “Perhaps.” Though Grasio did not look convinced, his
eyebrows pointing towards the bridge of his nose. Berin left the conversation,
befuddled at Glavino’s reaction. Later that afternoon Glavino’s mood settled. “He seems more…more…” “Amicable?” “Yes. Grasio, how do you always know the correct word,
even in the lingua franca?” “I know not.” “You should be a linguist.” “Whatever do you mean?” “You could be a storyteller, weaving tales in any
tongue. Like Melchiorre. Hey, Glavino, do you think Grasio could become the
next Melchiorre?” “Oh, yes,” said Glavino, his eyes gazing into the
distance of nowhere. “Who is this Melchiorre, Grasio?” Berin told him of the storyteller, allowing Juolo’s
enthusiasm for the man to permeate through his words, his expressions. “And where is this Melchiorre now?” “I am not certain.” “Perhaps he has been captured by the Bacana,”
whispered Glavino. There it was again, the shiver that came with every
mention of the word. Berin began feeling the cold ripple up his back when they
were imprisoned in Manas Hu. It never failed. Berin repeated the word. Bacana. Was it true that Melchiorre was a part of the large
scheme, to lull Vergarans into the one city so it could be overrun swiftly?
Glavino thought not, but Berin felt in the base of his heart something was
sinister about that man. But Grasio need not know. “Perhaps he has been captured,” Berin repeated Glavino’s
words. Grasio need not know the rumours of Melchiorre. “You think I could take his place?” “Perhaps.” “How would I survive all that travelling?” “You are a man of the wild! You would have no
troubles!” “We teach you a thing or two.” “Ahh, this is nonsense,” said Grasio and headed in the
direction of the inn, lugging the supplies they had accumulated with the
guide’s deft negotiating skills. That night the three ate heartily at the inn. A few
women were eating there also. Grasio left the two northerners to chat with
them. “If he wants to bed them, he will have to find
somewhere else to sleep.” “What do you mean, Berin?” Oh, how innocent you are, Glavino. Berin watched Grasio in his discussions with the
women. They were clearly not interested, though Berin sensed neither was
Grasio. All he was doing was chatting to them as though they were a group of
men and he was telling them stories of his childhood. After some time, Berin
grew bored. No one was going to bed together tonight. He retired to their room,
eager to get some sound sleep before the long journey ahead. Glavino followed
soon after, also looking bored in the candlelight. Grasio was right behind, a
smile on his face. He looked content. Berin wondered what had happened in those
few moments after he left. Grasio saw Berin studying his face. His smile
widened. “Lovely ladies?” queried Berin, though he wondered why
he was asking it as a question. “Indeed.” “What happened?” “Nothing. I wished them a goodnight and came straight
here.” “You mean to say nothing happened?” “Yes.” “Not even a kiss?” “I did not want anything of the sort.” “Sure…” “Can a man not spend an evening in the company of
women without the thought of interaction?” Berin stopped. He wondered about the last woman he had
spent with. Never. Juolo and his mother were the only two women he really knew.
Juolo was his one and only. There was some comfort in that. The three left the next morning towards Ettel on the
far side of the Danby River. The innkeeper at Oda warned them not to head south
to Ignal. “There are vicious bandits on the plains between the
Aig mountains and the desert. It would be best to carry on westward and travel
through the Haut Passage on the far side of the Aig mountains.” Grasio heeded this warning. “Those bandits came to the plains near my home two eklars ago,’ he said. ‘They tried to
take all my belongings, but I frightened them off.” “Frightened them?” gasped Glavino. “How?” asked Berin. “With my wit and charm,” smirked Grasio. Glavino giggled like a puerile boy. “No, seriously, you remember that boar head I had
hanging on my wall?” Berin nodded, vaguely remembering the moment he laid
eyes on it. The night they stayed in Grasio’s cabin, he woke up, seeing the
hollowed eyes staring at him. He shivered then, and he shivered again. There
was something about dead animals, something mysterious, something ghostly. “Well, I placed it over my head and hid out amongst
the heather. When they walked close by, I raised my head and made some
ridiculous noises. Made them squeal.” By now Grasio’s smirk had developed into a huge grin. Berin
had to smile. Perhaps he could have frightened them with his wit and charm. Glavino, on the other hand, was processing the story
in his brain. “You could never be that scary, could you, Grasio?” he
asked. “Oh, of course. I have had many years of practice,
scaring bandits off the plains.” Glavino was puzzled. “Should I tell him?” Berin whispered. “Yes.” “Grasio is not being serious, Glavino.” They both laughed, echoing Glavino’s earlier giggle. “The real reason the bandits left is because the two
beasts arrived in that area about that time. I am certain the bandits were so
fearful of the noises the beasts emitted, they decided to never return.” “Amazing.” “Were you ever afraid of the beasts?” asked Berin. “Of course. But I would never leave my homeland, not
under any circumstances.” “Except to help a father find his son,” interrupted Glavino. “Right.” Berin’s thoughts clasped for his son. Where is Rini?
What is he doing at this moment? Waiting to gaze at the stars above? Was he
safe? Was he being cared for? He knew not the answer. But with Grasio as their
guide, and Glavino back to his usual jovial self, Berin felt a little more at
ease. We will find him. That is for certain. © 2016 Steve Clark |
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Added on June 20, 2016 Last Updated on June 20, 2016 AuthorSteve ClarkAdelaide, South Australia, AustraliaAboutA free spirited educator who dabbles in the art of writing novels and articles. more..Writing
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