Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (3 page)

The day was hotter than a pot-stove at eveningmeal.

It was the high point of summer, when days were as long as they were muggy. From horizon to heat-shimmering horizon, the cerulean sky was clear, marred only by Mu’s great, shining orb. Flocks of redbirds huddled in the cover of shade trees rather than fly in the sweltering air.

Two people braved the heat, marching up a hill, following a path that ran parallel to a stream too straight to be a natural creek. Countless bushes littered the trail’s side, their yellowing, crisp-edged leaves yearning to taste the water that flowed so near.

A lad in his seventeenth summer led, two dozen paces ahead of a girl a year or so his junior. Tall and lanky, but with broad shoulders hinting at a powerful build in the near future, his close-cropped, sandy-brown hair stuck up as stubborn as a bristle brush. His skin was fair, but the years spent in the groves and vineyards had provided a rich tan. He wore simple-spun, drab brown field clothes and leather boots.

The girl behind him, scurrying to catch up, called out, “Nikalys! Slow down!”

Nikalys ignored her pleas and continued to march, a slight smile on his face.

“Blast it, Nik!” shouted the girl. “My legs aren’t as long as yours!”

As ordinary looking as the boy might appear, the girl trailing him was anything but. More than two years from her Matron’s Day, her beauty already rivaled that of most women in Yellow Mud. Golden hair the color of early-harvest straw cascaded down her back, straight at the top, wavy in the middle, and with curls at the end. She, too, wore simple clothes: a dusty tan summer skirt—a little over knee-length—a pale lavender blouse, and sturdy leather sandals.

“Nikalys Isaac! Slow down!”

Nikalys halted his ascent and, keeping his back to the girl, called over his shoulder, “Slow enough for you, sis?”

As she caught up to him, Kenders gasped, “You’re a lout, you know that?” Her breathing was rapid and heavy.

Turning around, Nikalys looked down—he stood a full head over his sister—and smiled. “If your legs weren’t so short, you wouldn’t have a problem keeping up.”

She stared up at him through narrowed eyes, eyes that shone green as the siblings stood in the sun. Had Nikalys stopped a few paces up the path, in the shade of an old oak, their color would have been a rusty brown.

He waited for a retort, but none came. Instead, her gaze swept past him, focusing on something further up the hill. “Isn’t that odd?”

As Nikalys turned his head to see what had drawn his sister’s attention, Kenders reached out, grabbed his arm, and yanked, pulling herself past him. Breaking into an immediate sprint, she left the path and bolted northeast.

“Race you to the lake!”

Nikalys stumbled down the hill a few steps, regained his balance, and spun around, catching sight of Kenders as she darted into the trees. After pausing a moment to give her a small head start, he moved into the thick brush, his boots crunching on dead leaves as he ran, aiming for Lake Hawthorne, the largest freshwater body within the Oaken Duchies.

Lake Hawthorne was so massive that it took rafts a week to cross at its widest point. Along with a few large trade centers, dozens of villages and towns dotted the coast, most of which were farming communities that leveraged intricate irrigation systems to sustain their crops during the region’s hot summers and mild winters.

Yellow Mud was just such a place.

A remote settlement, the village could only claim a few hundred residents. The ochre-colored soil responsible for the town’s name was particularly fertile and suited for growing white grapes and green olives. The groves and vineyards that surrounded Yellow Mud were communal, worked by the town as a whole, their bounty shared equally amongst everyone each harvest. Families kept what they needed and took the rest to Smithshill, a city to the east, to sell.

Like all children in Yellow Mud, Nikalys and Kenders had helped in the fields since they could carry a basket or tool. While spring and harvest were the busy seasons, certain times of the year—this being one of them—there was little to do but wait for the grapes and olives to fatten. Luckily, Lake Hawthorne provided the means to keep cool in summer’s stifling heat.

Today was Seventhday, the day of the week people worked in the morning, but took the afternoon to relax with family and friends. While Nikalys and Kenders typically had some light chores on Seventhday, this morning their father had relieved the pair of any responsibilities, giving them the entire day to enjoy. Before he could change his mind, they had sprinted down the street whilst good-naturedly teasing their older brother, Jak. With a grin on his face, Jak had called out that he would join them later.

As he dashed through the forest, Nikalys realized he was catching fewer glimpses of Kenders. If he wanted to beat his sister to the lake, he would have to try harder than he was. Regretting the head start he had granted her, he increased his pace and quickly closed on her.

He was still twenty paces behind Kenders when she dipped into a shaded gully, slipping from view. Cresting the edge of the gulch, he careened down the leaf-strewn side, burst into a small clearing, and nearly collided with a stationary Kenders, rooted in place like one of the oaks.

“Whoa!”

Skidding to a stop, he grabbed her arms and, together, they shuffled forward a few steps, kicking up leaves and somehow avoiding falling to the ground.

“What are you doing? Why’d you stop?”

Kenders lifted a finger to her lips, motioning for him to be silent, and glanced around the forest, her brow furrowed.

Nikalys scanned the underbrush as well, looking and listening. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he looked back to his sister and found her facing the opposite side of the gully, where the lake waited.

Kenders whispered, “It’s coming from there.”

Looking in the direction of the lake, he asked, “What’s coming from there?” He listened again, but heard nothing. “You must have ears like a barncat.”

Kenders did not respond. She stood motionless, peering northward, her face etched in concentration. She looked as if she were trying to hold onto the final note of a song that had just ended.

Tapping her shoulder, Nikalys said, “Hey. What is it?”

With a slow, wondering shake of her head, she said, “I thought I heard…well…” She trailed off, paused a moment, then looked at him. “You know the sound straw makes when you crumple it in your hand?”

Nikalys blinked, his confusion deepening.

“Yes?”

“It was like that,” she mumbled, a frown spreading over her face. “Only, it was more like I
felt
what crushing straw sounds like.” She shook her head again. “That’s not right, either. I don’t know how to—” She cut off, whirling to face the lake again. “There it is again!”

Wary, Nikalys looked in the direction she stared. “There what is?”

“You don’t hear—feel—it?”

Nikalys held perfectly still for a few moments, trying to see if he heard or felt anything. Eventually, he shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t.” Studying the earnest expression on her face, he murmured, “You aren’t jesting, are you?”

“Why would I?”

Frowning, he looked to where the lake waited, took a few steps forward, and asked, “‘It’ is coming from that way, yes?”

Kenders nodded, still staring north.

Nikalys let out a quick sigh and said, “Well, let’s go see what ‘it’ is, then.” He had only taken a single step when Kenders reached out and grabbed his hand, stopping him.

“We need to be careful.”

“Why?”

Kenders’ gaze danced north again. “We just do. And don’t ask me how I know, because I don’t think I could tell you.”

Nikalys did not like this at all. Reaching up, he gave Kenders a brief, reassuring pat atop her head. “Fine. We’ll be careful.”

“I’m not a barncat,” said Kenders, slapping his hand away. She began walking north, toward the gully’s slope. “Let’s go.”

Nikalys followed.

* * *

Jak leaned against the sun-bleached oak door, waiting for his father to emerge from the barn’s dark interior. He stared at a nearby fencepost, trying to decide if he wanted to spend the afternoon napping under the ash tree outside the Isaac home or head to the lake for a swim. While he had told Nikalys and Kenders he would meet them, the hike was a few miles, uphill. A trek like that in today’s heat almost canceled out the lure of cool water.

A bang echoed from the heart of the barn, followed by a stifled curse.

Turning his head, Jak called inside, “Need some help?”

A muffled voice drifted from within. “I’m not that old!”

With an affectionate smile on his face, Jak sighed, “No, but you are that stubborn.”

He waited patiently in the barn roof’s shade, listening to his father rustle about the barn as he examined his dirty field clothes, inspecting them for any cuts or holes. His mother hated when he came home with something new for her to sew.

“All done!” called his father.

“About time,” muttered Jak. Standing tall, he turned toward the door.

Thaddeus Isaac trudged into the light of day, squinting against the bright sun. The man had celebrated his fifty-third yearday only a few weeks ago, but looked a decade younger. In recent years, his hair had begun to go gray, turning his curly black locks into salt and pepper. His eyes were a brilliant blue, bluer than the sky today. It was a feature on which the women of Yellow Mud would frequently comment to Jak’s mother. Marie’s typical response included a slight smile and nod, reacting as one might when someone mentioned the fact that grass is green.

Eyeing his father, Jak asked with a grin, “Everything in its place?”

In his deep, gravelly voice, Thaddeus replied, “Mock me all you want. Having an orderly barn makes it easier to find things when I need them. If I asked you—right now—where the iron long-spade was, could you tell me?”

“Of course,” said Jak with confidence.

“I doubt that very much.”

“Ask me.”

“Fine, Jak. Where is the iron long-spade?”

With a wink and a grin, Jak said, “The iron long-spade is in the barn. Wherever you just put it.”

Thaddeus shook his head, chuckling while asking, “Practicing to be a playman, are you?” With a lighthearted slap to his son’s head—he had to reach up to do so—he walked past Jak and headed down one of Yellow Mud’s dirt roads. “Close up. And hurry, please. I’m hungry.”

Jak slid the double doors shut—one after another—secured the latch, and jogged down the road after his father.

A few inches over six feet with a dark tan complexion, black wavy hair, and deep brown eyes, Jak bore no resemblance to his brother and sister. Until recent years, he had thought himself a balanced mix of his parents, but the older he got, the more he looked like his father. His muscled arms were strong enough to lift a full bushel of olives in each, and his quick smile brought color to the cheeks of young women.

After catching up to his father, the pair settled into a relaxed walk home. Back in the sun again, baking under its rays, Jak made a decision on his afternoon. “I think I’m going to head up to the lake after all.” Peering skyward, he added, “That sun is awful.”

Thaddeus looked up, too, shading his eyes with his hand. He had left his straw hat at home—something about which Jak had teased him all morning.

“It has been quite warm this year, hasn’t it?” With a wink, he added, “Perhaps Sutri and Mu are back together again?”

Playmen’s tales said that Mu, the god of Sun, Honor, and War, had a tumultuous relationship with Sutri, the goddess of summer and Time. Their trysts, with alternating periods of heated passion and cool indifference, supposedly affected the summer weather.

Smiling at the minor jest, Jak said, “If they don’t cool off soon, they’ll end up cooking us mere mortals.”

His father grunted his agreement, wiping the sweat from his face for at least the fifth time since leaving the barn.

They strolled through town, exchanging quick pleasantries with friends and neighbors. Most people got along well enough with one another, although the occasional, minor dispute arose. Last spring, the town thatcher, Wendell, had accused his neighbor of stealing a new tool he had purchased from a traveling peddler. Such an accusation had the town talking for a full week and nearly led to a formal inquiry before the village council. Two days before the hearing, Wendell quietly apologized to his neighbor, admitting he found the tool wedged between two bundles of straw.

Yellow Mud’s buildings were simple structures: wooden walls made from stacked oak logs topped with pitched, straw-thatched roofs. Homes had small, stone pipe chimneys sticking from the roof, allowing smoke from the stove-pots inside to escape out. The climate of the area allowed for open-air windows in buildings, letting a breeze flow through should one ever come. Every so often, a rare cold snap visited during the winter turns, forcing residents to jam straw pads in the holes. None in Yellow Mud were prosperous enough to afford a luxury like glass.

Father and son were halfway home when Jak caught a whiff of wet metal. Thinking he had imagined the odor, Jak sniffed the air twice. Each time, the scent was a little stronger. Curious, he turned to look at his father.

Thaddeus, a perplexed expression already on his face, asked, “Do you smell rain, son?”

“I was going to ask you that.”

Both men slowed to a stop and turned in a circle, searching the heavens for signs of a storm they both knew was not coming.

Jak muttered, “How is that possible?” When Thaddeus did not respond, Jak glanced over. His father’s face was lined with worry. “Father?”

Over neighbors’ chattering voices, Jak heard what sounded like a strong wind blowing through the boughs of the forest. That made less sense than the smell of rain. The only thing rarer than a shower this time of year was a stiff breeze. As he faced north, the sound shifted, no longer the wind in the trees, but something which he could still name.

“If I did not know better, I’d say that was a waterfall.”

Turning to see what his father thought of his assessment, he found himself alone in the road. Other Yellow Mud residents had stopped whatever they had been doing and were now staring north, bewilderment on their faces. The only person moving with any sort of purpose was the patriarch of the Isaac family, sprinting as fast as he could.