Simplicity is a mark of wisdom; a cartontz knows as much.
-Genesifin
It took two days to reach Ziel, and before they passed into the lugazzi, Brenol lit upon his heels and set his hand on the soil. “Thank you,” he whispered, his tone almost tender. The boy turned ahead to the neutral ground and did not look back. Upon crossing, Arman’s transparent figure came into view.
“No. Arman,” Brenol said incredulously. “How do you stay so clean?”
Arman surveyed the youth nonchalantly. “How do you get so dirty?” His long face spread into his attractive and even smile. The boy almost wept, it was so good to see.
“Not many Massadans walk with the respect you have for the terrisdans,” Arman said, flicking a long finger in the direction of Conch.
Brenol shrugged, although he sensed the juile’s comment was more a question than a statement. Brenol found it nearly impossible to set words to the experience—the feel of the land’s eye upon him, the comfort and alarm of it tickling his neck, the relief and disappointment to walk the lugazzi—and he doubted he ever would.
“Well, what’s the plan?” the boy finally asked. “Do we borrow a boat from the maralane? Or wait for Ordah?”
Arman shook his head and lowered his hand, indicating the need for low voices. “The maralane do not simply share their territory. It will take some fine negotiating before we will be allowed to pass into their waters.”
Darse thrust his hands into his pockets. “How did Jerem get over then? Is there a way to get past the maralane?”
“Not likely.”
“Arman,” Brenol said impatiently.
Arman breathed out heavily. “I do not know, Bren. I do not know. I have moved the pieces and parts of this situation around in my mind for many steps. For days. And yes, I know he is somewhere around Ziel, and I feel it like a stone in my stomach that he is out on that island with her, but under no circumstance could he have gotten there. It is an impossibility. Who would help him? No maralane would. And Ordah’s vision is painfully lacking.” His tone was short, as though he were furious at himself for a mystery unsolved.
“I wonder if the location prevents Ordah from seeing Jerem,” Darse said quietly. “Especially if the water does bring the special properties that Jerem’s after.”
Arman turned and peered at the man appraisingly. “That is a thought… Let us keep moving. We are almost to the place where we shall call for a meeting.”
Arman’s estimate was far from what Brenol would have considered close, for the next several hours consisted of tedious climbing. The group strained their way through the rocky terrain clothed in megaliths and stony outcroppings, and both Darse and Brenol rasped in the thin air. Finally, as the scents of evening began to suggest nightfall, the trio crested a rise and were rewarded with a vision of Ziel.
They clambered down after the juile with alacrity, and after a spell they stood before the vast body. Arman led them around the shoreline to a peaceful nook protected by tree and rock, and Brenol breathed in the rich aromas of fresh soil and Ziel’s nectar as he watched the sun dip down behind the mountains.
Arman distributed some cold rations and roused a fire to life. Brenol allowed the heat to soothe his aching muscles as he watched the juile begin his next task.
Arman stole into a thick of trees, singling out a gray-blue trunk with leaves as fragile as ashes. He dug the tips of his fingers into the bark and peeled it as one would an orange. He collected at least eight long strips of the spongy gray, pulled up a tight fistful of sandy grass from his feet, and finally burrowed his olive fingers around in the moist brown clay until he had uncovered a brick-red nut about the size of a man’s heel. He carried his treasures back to the light of the fire. Brenol forgot his worn body and arched forward to observe.
Arman’s voice shook his nerves to life when he finally spoke, despite its muted rumble. “It is a knock on the door.”
“Huh?” Brenol responded.
The juile’s nimble fingers dipped back and forth as they teased and wove the gray bark loosely, but durably, around the red nut. He pushed the strands of grass in so that they cupped the nut from below. It resembled a caged nest. “Every culture has an etiquette. The maralane are no exception. Yes, I could just slap my hand upon the water and wait for a response, but it would have the same effect as a stranger walking through your front door and taking a seat in your favorite chair. Assuming. Rude.” He lifted his intense eyes for a moment to meet Brenol’s. “And most creatures from the upper world do not understand it. They forget that the water is a world that does not allow for trespass. The maralane are a different race but not as unintelligible as many believe.”
Brenol nodded to Arman in understanding; he saw a parallel immediately. The etiquette of creature to terrisdan was also a tricky enterprise.
“How does it work?” Darse asked, leaning in.
“The brechant nut burns, but not hot enough to consume the bark from the coantal tree. The light shines through the waters to those watching. They will emerge when they see, or at least when it is appropriate for them—I am no expert on maralane culture. We just make our lamp and wait.”
Arman shuffled out onto a mossy boulder that edged the lake. He strung the nut basket from a branch hanging low over the waters. He left but soon returned to extend another bough, dripping with the blaze of campfire, to the basket, until the grass nest within ignited. Darse and Brenol waited without much anticipation.
Pop! Pop! Pbbbthhhuuup! Pop!
The two blinked, stunned as the nut roused into a fiery red globe, glinting and fizzing. It was more alive than the firework stick Darse had purchased for Brenol one autumn. Brenol’s mouth rounded into a child-like grin, but then dropped in open-jawed awe. The nut had only begun its demonstration. It now danced and jumped about in the confines of the spongy basket, rocketing out streams of crimson light in all directions and leaving smears of color in their night-soaked vision. Scarlet flames beamed down to the lake, pushed the waters aside, and dipped into the depths like a knife passing through jelly.
Darse turned to Arman and asked wryly, “Just make our lamp and wait?”
Arman’s face erupted in a smile. “I enjoy surprise.”
Brenol laughed, “No. You enjoy astonishment at your tricks.”
He flicked his fingers out in the juile equivalent of a shoulder shrug, yet his face was mirthful. “I do have bountiful tricks.”
Brenol’s laugh echoed out again, sliding over the waters like a skipping stone. He bobbed his red head in agreement and silently marveled at the light shower.
~
The lamp burned for several hours, although the fantastic shafts endured for only the first. After that, it became a steady glow: a crimson-orange orb, alive like an ember, creating a lovely luster against the dark backdrop of night. Brenol and Darse had ceased craning their attention out upon the still waters long ago, sinking instead into the soft sounds of the evening and their blankets.
Arman, though, marked the cold, white hand that silently grasped the dying brechant nut and smothered it under the black waters. The only movement the juile made—a slight frown—went unnoticed by his sleeping companions.