CHAPTER EIGHT: RETURN FROM ADALAYIA

 

 

The return from Adalayia passed without incident and for this Kerry was happy, and to prove this, she even ventured to hum her mother’s favorite song “Calling to the Heavens.” She stared out a window, recalling the city’s sights.

 

It was not often she made the journey to the wizard’s city—a thing she did more out of necessity than of desire, even though she enjoyed her time spent there. For her, there was no place like her own, simple home and her unworldly concerns. No hurt could find her here.

 

Life in the cities was rough, the wizard ruled with an iron hand, and being of mild nature, she would not have survived long. She hated drudgery and tedious manual labor. She preferred to fend for herself in the country, for here she was the master of her own fate.

 

She owned no weapons and for this she was proud. Strife was far removed, her realm was at peace, a peace that had lasted for generations, and would last for generations to come. The barriers were not diffident edifice; they were purposefully withstanding. She knew this, just as she knew Stirling had succumbed one summer ago, which meant she was alone.

 

She wasn’t frightened by the loneliness. She had made the journey on her own and it had chanced without mishap. She would make it again when the time came. She returned to her vigil upon the window, the day was ending, and as often was the case, this saddened her. After all, why did the night have to come at all, could it not always be day?

 

As the burning ball of the sun eventually fell from view, she turned away from the window. She checked the line of bolts upon the front door and the security of the windows, settling back in the rocker when all was finished—the rocker her mother had whittled away most nights in as did Kerry now.

 

For many long hours, she skipped back and forth, eyes upon the ceiling, knitting away time in absence. Sleep arrived somewhere in that time, though she could not be sure when.

 

Day came as a splash of color to a darkened land, struggling to break the horizon, meandering long, bursting upward. She was up and about by the time the sun was a full globe in the distant sky. Her morning routine was ingrained upon her just about as staunch as the land around her. Her dreams that night she would never recall.

 

Morning tidings were a mixture of offerings and collections, though she ate, as always, frugally. Afterward, she returned to the short, stout trees and eternally thanked them for their offering.

 

She admired their steadfastness, knowing they nurtured all they needed to sustain themselves from the very air about her. Still, her father had taught her and proven to her that to produce meat they needed what she provided, and so she was tied into their cycle of growth as much as they were tied into her own.

 

The tender meat of the fruit was a main staple for her and most of her people, and it was this that she traded in Adalayia, though it was dried and preserved for the journey by endearing hands.

 

The trees yielded variety, changing with the seasons, though she never felt poorly for exchanging their winter offerings for the things she needed from the city, primary amongst this being the white, powdery grit she knew to add sparingly to her gatherings to preserve and store them.

 

As she wandered from tree to tree greeting them, her stare ambled out into the hard that surrounded her hovel. Momentary reflections went out to the stone crossing, the vast, steep bridge that separated the Adalayian proper and lead to the capital city of Adalayia.

 

Thinking of the city made her think of Stirling, sad thoughts for a heavy day. Heavy because the sense of loneliness had returned once more. She broke the silence with a piercing whistle, a high-pitched whine formed from a spout of air into properly cupped hands.

 

Kerry thumped the top of her father’s crossed rod, waiting impatiently now, tossing another ensuing toot into the air, turning away disappointed at long last. She returned to her chores—self-implemented labor that perhaps didn’t need to be done at all—throwing surreptitious glances upward.

 

“Off again,” she whispered to herself, angrily.

 

She swept out her house, cleansing it of dust and soot, chasing away lines from the windowsills and billowy plumes from the rafters. She made up the bed—a bed she had not slept in for some years now. Gathered chairs, three, around the small, cylindrical table tucked into one end of the small structure.

 

A line of sweat broke her brow and this pleased her. She aimed the rocker towards the window at such an angle that she could watch the sun wander through the sky throughout the day and then easily turn to watch the sunset. Afterward, she moved back outside, beneath a benevolent sky.

 

She greeted the trees again, reassuring them, tidying away their woes, waiting until precisely midday to touch a bit of life fluid to their limbs. She whispered words as she poured, words her mother had passed down to her through the years and words that had been passed down to her mother and her mother’s mother and so on through the ages back to the dawn of Adalayia. Three times a day, she spoke thus, granting only as much as she needed to receive in return what she wanted.

 

Upon finishing, she emitted a shrill summons to the heavens again, and again the call went unanswered. Her thoughts were troubled now, where had the other gone?

 

She called out again, anticipating an answering return that did not come. She did not fear the other’s passing though. A gift had been placed before her stoop that morn and she had properly dressed it out, relinquishing a full half, part of the bargain, cleaned and waiting. A shiver passed along her spine and she returned indoors.

 

Deep thought carried her back to the top of the stone bridge, staring down as she had that very first crossing into the endless falling off. She recollected now that only the sight of Adalayia had coaxed the fears from her heart. She would have moved to Adalayia then without ever returning home had her father not pleaded with her to change her mind to the contrary. Her promise could not keep away her yearnings though, and thus the heavy thoughts that she began the day with remained with her throughout the day.

 

Shifting in endless strides back and forth, she waited, adhering to the settling of the sauntering sun. She dispersed the last of the life liquid and then began the long trek to the water’s edge.

 

The long walk didn’t bother Kerry; this was a time for easing the tensions of the day. She meandered around each falling off, making her way gradually downward. She had taken this stroll a thousand times with Stirling, and many thousands more as three, but each time, she spied something new that she had not seen before and this made the journey worthwhile and in a way, magical.

 

New erosions of the land spoke to her. She understood the gentle outcroppings sprawled across the face of the earth, the way a sheer precipice reached up to lofty heights and the way the gently oscillating wind meandered between ridges and falling offs.

 

When Kerry reached the water’s edge, she took only the meager supply that she needed, more come winter season, returning the excess, before she began the hike home. Returning home was more difficult than going as the trek was uphill and not down. She walked awkwardly then, levying the weight of the buckets, trudging uphill with strategically placed footing.

 

A fresh breeze rolled in just as she attained the summit and she paused to enjoy it, staring off into the sparse land. Her eyes followed a line that meandered to the edge of the horizon and she envisioned the nestled paths that lay secluded from sight, knowing most of them though she had never walked them.

 

Upon her return, she fancied a tremor of delight floating from tree to tree and for this she scolded them. “Not yet,” she whispered.

 

The allure of the stone bridge was clambering upon her thoughts again. She passed through the doorway into her house, sealing the door, shifting to the window and settling into the rocking chair beside it. Weary of heart, she closed her eyes for a time, waiting for the arrival of the slumping sun. “Tomorrow,” she whispered to herself for hopefully by then, she would have forgotten the things that brought her pain.

 

A lofty screech caught her attention and she shot from the chair, her eyes probing the empty crossed stave planted outside the door. The screech repeated and she sprang out the door, scouring the skies with hope-filled eyes. Into cupped hands, she replied, the whistle reaching far. The scream returned, but this time it was farther off as the other was going away and not toward.

 

She blew into her hands again, forming a perfectly shrill shriek. Again, the answering call grew more distant.

 

“Wicked, wicked, Waring!” she shouted. Stirling had bidden her to keep the beast sharp set, but she preferred to give it equally proportioned repayments.

 

She sounded off again, stouter and longer, louder than she should have. No call broke the air. She was frightened now, something drove the other off. She scrambled into the house in search of the lure. Sure it would bring the other home. She began slowly rotating the line of the lure, allowing it to slip outward a hand’s length with each turning just as she had been shown and sure to allow it to flash against the sky.

 

She howled out with poised lips, not as fervid as her other call, but still purposeful. “Come back,” she said in a half-spoken voice, “come back, I promise I will not go away again…”

 

The line was at full span now. Its thin, arcing shadow raced along the ground beside her. She offered whistle after whistle, turning the lure until her arm stung with pain.

 

Glumly, she returned to the vigil at the window, finding no pleasure in the spectacle before her. Dusk passed, night came. She still stared with fixed eyes, lost either in thought, remorse or remembrance. Tomorrow would be bright and beautiful, she promised herself.