The third night found us camped by a rock shaped like a turtle. All around, the night creatures carried on: squeaks, shrieks, rustles, snapping branches. By now I managed to pay them less attention. My eyes and mind were on the campfire, a last precious bit of light before utter dark closed in. Even in clearings we’d crossed on our trek, the sun had been muted behind a screen of clouds. If a shaft of light ever managed to penetrate to the forest floor, I planned to ask Reldion if we could stop and bask in it like cats in a window. I hoped he’d take me up on it. The Californian in me missed the sun so much!
During the day, we’d said very little to one another. Reldion’s normally-brash approach to riding and his perpetual stream of songs and conversations with himself had given way to quiet concentration on navigating the often-treacherous forest terrain. By night, all of Reldion’s pent up talk came out for me to enjoy (or ignore, as I was doing in this case). On the rare occasions he brought me into the conversation, an mmhmm usually deflected his attention. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel like talking; I just had this unsettling sense that the forest was listening.
As my mind drifted around Reldion’s monologue, I saw it just beyond the circle of light: an unmistakable smile in the dark. Goosebumps zoomed up my arms, but it was already too late. A whisper filled my head, different from those I’d heard entering the forest. I opened my mouth, only to find my voice extinguished like a blown-out match. Determined to alert Reldion, I tried to get to my feet, wave my arms, even kick snow into the fire if that’s what it took. My limbs and torso couldn’t budge, no matter how my mind screamed. I was forced to watch, helplessly, while my peripheral vision glimpsed shadows advancing on Reldion and the fire. So much for the all-seeing eyes of Reldion le Valen. They saw nothing when turned inward to one of his rambles. Or maybe that was unfair. They might have enchanted him, too.
They felled Reldion like a tree, hitting him from behind with a wooden club. With Reldion on the ground, our attackers moved in. The first thing they did was kick out the fire. The lack of light didn’t hinder their movement at all. In fact, they seemed to see better without it. Still, it didn’t stop me from seeing their worn, brightly-colored clothing, the head scarves and earrings, and clattering jewelry.
I stared in incomprehension as they moved through the camp. Why were Wagoners attacking Reldion?
One Wagoner lifted me easily and slung me over his shoulder. Then he began to run, a startlingly smooth lope, given the terrain, that didn’t seem to wind him at all. At this point, I still couldn’t move or speak, and my head felt about to explode with questions. Where were they taking me? How did they see so well in the dark without lights? None of the Wagoners had lit a single flame, yet they still ran without hesitating or stumbling.
Then the answer came to me. These were the ones Fiona had called “Wilders,” who shunned civilization. I’d bet if I could see them in the light again, they’d have dark hair, just like the children who’d brought me Gerry’s crown and Driver’s License.
After our extended run in the dark, I saw faint flickers of through the trees, like Christmas lights the size of rice grains. As we neared, they turned out to be bonfires and their orange reflections dancing on the trunks of distant trees.
These Wagoners, I reflected, must not be afraid of attracting the attention of Edonai Forest’s night creatures.
At the campsite, I discovered my guess was right: all of these Wagoners had black hair. The ones who had attacked our camp had yellow eyes with dark pupils, like wolves’. They carried me past painted wagons, women cooking at the fires’ edges, children playing, and countless mean-looking dogs that were likely related to wolves, themselves. We stopped at an extra large wagon painted in gold leaf scrollwork and studded with clusters of shining gold coins that reflected the flashing firelight.
My captor shrugged me off his shoulder. One of his companions handed him a rope, which they used to bind my hands and feet; I hoped that meant the spell keeping me from moving would wear off soon.
The wagon doors, also trimmed in gold, swung open. A fat man in sagging breeches and a half-laced shirt emerged. (I immediately dubbed him ‘King Tub.’) The wolf guys knelt and from this subservient position, spoke to the man in a Wilder dialect. I strained to listen, seeking any words the Wagoners outside Edonai Forest might have taught me. To my frustration (thought not unexpected), the only recurrent one I recognized was gold.
Suddenly the talk ceased. The big man beckoned with one sausage finger. Black hair covered the knuckles. (Eww!) To my horror, two wolf guys dragged me toward him. King Tub took some strands of my hair between his fingers and inspected it. I hoped it would repulse him; I hadn’t washed it since Castle Autumnstead. Instead he smiled, revealing golden teeth and gestured for the wolf guys to rise. They smiled, too, but uncertainly.
For a moment, King Tub disappeared into his wagon and shouted something. A woman appeared, her hand on the key hanging around her neck from a leather cord. Her black hair fell like a veil to her waist, except for a strange blonde hair extension. The sight made my skin crawl. I wondered if they scalped hapless travelers to get those.
All business, the woman beckoned for the wolf guys to carry me and follow her. I was starting to feel like a piece of furniture. We went to the edge of the rows of wagons to a place where, despite the clean wintry and pine air, it still smelled like sewer backup with hints of petting zoo. They left me on a stool to look at sad bobcats, wolves, bears, birds of prey, and a few I couldn’t identify.
As I sat there trying to breathe through my mouth, I thought I heard my name. My entire body clenched at the sound. I didn’t dare look around. The Wilder’s camp creeped me out enough already. If I saw one of these caged animals speaking, even if it were just my name, parrot-style, I’d scream.
“Leah!” More persistent this time. I didn’t budge. Had the voice actually sounded annoyed?
“Leah from another world, do not ignore Reldion le Valen as if he were a beggar on the street!”
“It is you!” My voice cracked as relief ran through me. I scanned the circle of cages on wheels until I sighted Reldion’s red hair. I hopped over, letting the stool topple behind me.
“What’s with these Wagoners?” I whispered fiercely.
“They are Wilders,” Reldion said with a shrug, as if that explained it all. “The dark-haired people, who swore themselves to everlasting opposition against the red.”
This was no time for stories. “So…they are the enemy of your people,” I said, trying to cut to the chase.
“And all from civilized lands as well. When Queen Arencaster asked me to undertake this mission, I was afraid this would happen. There is no way to keep a secret from a Wilder when you wander their territory. They have the ability to communicate with animals, and so, nothing escapes their attention. I hoped the Wilders here would leave me alone. Most of their Families out in the world do. This one, however…”
“Reldion… You didn’t personally wrong these people, did you?” I had a mental image of red-haired children growing up among the black-haired Wilders, Reldion’s thanks for their hospitality some years past.
“Only by my existence,” Reldion said. “As you know, I am equal to a prince among my own people. It’s clear to me what has happened in this family: Shaldom Valtan has clawed his way to power. To say he is greedy is like saying a le Valen makes women abandon their senses.”
I finished mentally gagging just long enough to hear Reldion say, “He worships gold.”
“You mean King Tub,” I said, finally putting a face to the name.
Reldion raised an eyebrow. “You’ve had the pleasure of meeting him, I see. In any case, Shaldom rules by intimidation, making hostages of beasts special to his people.” He stuck his arm out of the cage and gestured at the area. “So no, my excesses of the flesh had nothing to do with -” Reldion fell silent. I would have teased him about having heirs among the Wilders, but for the grave expression on his face. “Someone’s coming!”
I sprang back to the stool, planning to sit down as though I’d never moved. But the stool lay on its side, and I lacked the hands to set it right. There was only one thing to do. I dropped to the ground.
When the Wilder saw me, he shook his head and said something, I guessed along the lines of So much for that escape attempt.
He set me upright; then proceeded to Reldion’s cage. The two exchanged words that sounded angry, but really, it was hard to tell with the Wagoner’s language. Perfectly jolly statements frequently sounded like the speakers wanted to kill each other.
As I had done at King Tub’s wagon, I listened hard for words I might know. A few fun ones came through: you dirty bastard (a Wagoner favorite); Shaldom; eat. Encouraged, I continued to listen. It was a bit like finding a radio signal. Unexpectedly, one of the Wilder’s sentences came through with perfect clarity. “Lucky for you, his pet bear died last week, or you’d be sharing the cage with it right now…until it got hungry.”
Whoa! Shocking content aside - the Wilders were cruder than Reldion, if such a thing were possible - I had understood him!
I fixed my gaze on the slushy, hay-strewn ground and concentrated while Reldion cursed the Wilder out with phrases HBO might have hesitated to put on the air. The giggling Wagoner children outside Edonai had taught me vocabulary, not grammar, but somehow, it was all comprehensible. And I was getting a sense that Reldion was drawing on both Wagoner and Wilder dialect.
The Wilder wheeled Reldion’s cage away. I wished my “signal” had come in earlier so I would know what was going on. Another thought hit me, a snowball in the pit my stomach. I didn’t dare let on what I had discovered. If I continued pretending to be ignorant of their language, they might let something slip.
The Wilder woman with the key around her neck and blonde hair extension, came back to undo the ropes around my ankles. I made no move to escape, still determined to spy on the Wilders with my strange new language ability.
To my disguised elation, she brought me to Reldion’s cage, which was parked in front of one of their huge bonfires.
“What’s going on?” I hazarded to whisper. My stomach churned from all the gruesome possibilities, beginning with Reldion and myself being thrown into the fire.
“Shaldom is asserting his power over the Family. A gathering such as this is like a banquet in civilized lands. Instead of having servants prepare the food and entertainment, Shaldom has commanded the Family members to do so.”
“What are we here for?” I said, still fearing that a public execution would be part of the entertainment.
“We’re on display,” Reldion said. “It’s a form of humiliation for us and a show of accomplishment for Shaldom.”
“But he didn’t capture us.”
“That doesn’t matter. Those scouts that attacked us serve him. They are his ‘hands,’ and so the deed is his.”
It must be Wagoner logic.
Reldion’s description of the gathering proved accurate. Before every song, dance, and diversion, Shaldom barked out an announcement of what it would be. Reldion’s and my position beside his wagon put us in prime earshot for all his blustering. Shaldom himself sat on the top step of his wagon, while the other Wilders sat on the ground, some atop blankets or stones.
Before ‘giving us’ the final entertainment, Shaldom made a speech about his rise to power ten years before. I had expected a sanitized narrative like a politician’s, but King Tub didn’t leave anything out: how he murdered the previous leader; his many excesses; how he ruled by terror and would do so until he passed on the position to his heirs. I guess the fear angle worked for him. King Tub didn’t seem to mind that no one applauded. Even at the end, the Wilders seemed too afraid to move or speak.
“And now, my family,” King Tub declared, his words slurred from too much wine. “The Chosen People of Mersania.”
Mersania! I wondered if the Wilders told the tragedy I had heard at Fiona’s homecoming, too.
Wilder men and women with various instruments took positions around the fire. One, a slender man with a sharp chin and a beard cut to a sharper point, came forward and bowed. “Brothers and sisters,” he said in measured, musical tones. “I present you the ‘The Chosen People of Mersania.’”
“Brothers and sisters,” came a growly whisper behind me. “I present you the ‘The Chosen People of Mersania.’” Unsure what the echo was, and not daring to turn around or do anything conspicuous that might interrupt the story, I continued to listen.
“Somber Mersania, born with the First People’s white Hair and eyes of silver. The last survivor of the First People, orphaned and forced to flee the only home she’d ever known.”
“Sad Mersania, last of the First People, orphaned and forced to run away from home.” Now I realized Reldion was translating for me. How unusually considerate of him. But…I didn’t need it. In fact, I barely needed to pay attention to understand the Wilders. It was as though they were speaking perfect American English.
“White-haired wanderer with eyes of silver. She roamed among the rocks, the snowfields, struggling, starving, tragic vagabond who’d once been more exalted than any queen.” The singer’s voice was the gentle croon of a folk singer, rain pattering on a rooftop or a stream trickling past a stone, wearing it smooth. I was nearly lost in the spell of his voice when Reldion whispered his interpretation.
“Tramp with old woman hair and gray eyes. She got lost in the rocks, the snowfields, struggling, hungry. Oh woe was her; her life was once so great,” Reldion said.
I covered my mouth with my hand, tried to look bored or in thought. I hadn’t realized until now how shaky Reldion’s command of the Wilders’ language was.
“At last Mersania reached the forest, poor waif, and contented herself to die under the trees. They comforted her, reminding her of the gardens in the Milandeir, the Last City.”
“At last Mersania reached the forest, skinny and sick. She…she…looked forward to dying. The trees reminded her of the gardens in…what the hell is Milandeir?”
I really wished Reldion would stop helping. Apart from his sometimes comical inaccuracy, as the concepts became more complex, Reldion’s faltering translations were running into the singers’ next lines. At last I succeeded in mentally blocking him out.
“But she did not die, Mersania of the First People. A family of Wilders, their surname Samarin, happened by where she lay. At first they thought she was an elder, one of their people. But when they came to her side, they saw her fine-cut clothing of rich fabric, her smooth, unlined face, her small child’s hands. They fed and sheltered her many days, but she would not speak to them. Although Mersania had been found, her eyes remained distant, the soul behind those mirrors lost in the mists of grief. The Wilders waited, brought her with them where they roamed, their voiceless, pale doll.
“At last, in the spring, Mersania broke her long silence. She told them her family had been killed, but not who they’d been or where. As spring gave way to summer, Mersania spoke more. Her face, ever-pale from long imprisonment in marble halls, took on color from the sun. Her bones, once so prominent, disappeared. At times, she appeared as a normal child, rather than a waif. It seemed at first, the Wilders would adopt her into their Family, to be the child of their generosity. But Mersania was too great for that. Too great even to be their queen.
“Why us, Mersania?” the Samarin people often asked. “Why did you choose us, when you might go anywhere in the world?”
“You are wanderers and outcasts, as I am,” she answered each time. “We have an understanding.”
“Autumn came with early frost and snow as stinging as remembered grief. Many Wilders were buried in what was usually a season of plenty. The animals of the forest suffered as well, and preyed upon one another. Undoubtedly, it was these conditions that brought the dragons, sinuous black snakes that struck from the heavens at the Wilders’ camp. While the others cowered, fled, Mersania walked out alone to meet the foe. Winter wind and dragon storm buffeted her slight frame, but she neither flinched, nor backed down. Their battle raged for three days and nights, and in the end, Mersania subdued the dragons. That winter she tamed them, trained them to fetch food for the Samarin Family.
“When spring came again, Mersania left with her dragons to see the world that had taken her people from her. Before she departed, Mersania also gave the Samarin Family gifts, including the ability to communicate with animals through mind and physical signs. Had she been exalted as a goddess, the great trees and mighty peaks of Edonai would be angry. So the people hailed her as their savior.”
“I have never heard this story of Mersania,” Reldion whispered to me. “All the Wagoner families I know of end her saga with the tragedy that has her walking. I wonder if the Wilders made it up. Every group of outcasts needs to feel chosen in some way.”
They were able to understand the animals in ways no one else in the Other World could, I thought.
“Over the years,” the singer continued, “the Samarin family grew and prospered. A single Family became many, all following the ancient laws of our people. Over the generations, Mersania could always be counted on to save the people, just when it seemed times of battle or famine had stolen away our hope.”
The singer was recounting other occasions Mersania had saved the Wilders when Reldion whispered, “I still have my knife. Draw close to this cage when I tell you, and I will cut your ropes.”
Hope thrilled in me like a bird that sees its cage door is ajar. “How will you get out?”
“I’ll find a way,” Reldion said vaguely.
“I can’t leave you, Reldion! We’re in this together! And I don’t know how I’ll find find the dragon’s cave without you.”
“I’m flattered that you think so highly of me. But you are more capable than you believe. This I know, as sure as my name is Reldion le Valen.”
All around us, the Wilders applauded, cheered, and shook tambourines. The storytellers bowed in all directions.
Meanwhile, King Tub descended from on high to kneel beside me and admire a hunk of my hair in the firelight. “Gold hair. Soon you warm my bed,” King Tub said in English, with a lecherous laugh and crude gesture. He waddled away to join the Wilders, who were now dancing in a circle around the bonfire.
“On second thought,” I whispered to Reldion when we were alone again. “Tell me when.”