The Longest "Frond"

 My collection of short fiction called "Fronds" contains this story of a monk in the southernmost civilization in Tond. His peculiar manner of perception, in which sounds have colors, is known as synestheisa in the world outside of Tond.

He Stands Against the Cold

“You few who have been given kulfong, the ability to see the hidden colors of things: it is to enhance your knowledge and your art so you are more able to face your challenges. Use it wisely.”

From the Chronicles of the Emb Brethren, who always and ever came to Tond one-thousand years ago.

 

The sun was setting and the heat of the desert day was dissipating when the traveler emerged from the shade of a shallow grotto. He surveyed the road. If his memory served him correctly, he should be in the next town by sunrise.

He wrapped his lump of cheese and remaining crust of bread in his travel-cloth and stuffed it into his saddlebag. He mounted his horse and proceeded along the road.

The air was pleasantly chilly. It would soon get much colder. He remembered the abbot showing him the frightening cloud-wreathed icy visage on the hanging scroll, and reminded himself that the element air (with its associations of cold, distance, and spirits) could be far more dangerous than the other three of fire, water, and stone. He had wrapped himself in blankets for protection. An undecorated brooch fastened the blanket across his chest. Underneath, he wore the grey-brown robe that signified the Emb Brethren; his wide-brimmed hat was also of the type they wore when abroad. Almond-sized stones of many colors dangled from a rope bracelet around his left wrist; only this would distinguish him from others of his ilk. Wrapped around his right wrist was the atlatl used by his people; his spear was fastened to his saddlebag, pointing forward. He carried no other weapon. His face was hidden behind a gauzy veil of beige.

The dirt road passed by monotonously beneath his horse’s hooves. On either side he could see boulders, and sometimes in the distance, dim shadows of looming mesas against the stars. This was a rocky, not a sandy desert. After an hour or so of riding, a pale gibbous moon peeked over the horizon, seemingly above his destination.

He focused his thoughts, dedicating his individual moments as the elder Brethren had taught him. Every moment belongs to Shar, he told himself; every splinter on the metaphorical wooden cart of time belonged to Shar who fiercely and benevolently drove the cart. The horse’s hoof thudded on the road, producing intermittent flickers of dull red-black in the traveler’s mind — that was a sound for Shar to hear. Above, stars trembled in the cold sky; those were lights for Shar to see. But his mind wandered. This form of meditation calmed him but it was difficult. His memories flitted about, recalling the trial that he had failed, and the sabotage to the cold-house back in the home of the Brethren. His finely-tuned senses were also aware of other half-known presences in the world, shadows of the air who held no allegiance to Shar and had only malice towards the earth and its creatures.

He was pursuing one of them now. His eyes caught glimpses of footprints on the road, tracks that were neither man nor beast. He knew he was going in the right direction. He told himself that his journey itself belonged to Shar; but it was not to be revenge; revenge only brought more destruction. He quoted to himself, “Cursed are we if you do evil unto me; twice cursed are we if I repay you with evil.” If he was to judge the fiend for destroying the cold-house and dooming the Brethren, it was merely to prevent further harm.

The night grew colder as he continued his journey.

It was much later, and the stars were beginning to dim when he saw the first glimpses of the next town near the horizon. Blocky shapes were dotted about. They resolved into buildings as he drew closer and the sky brightened. The town was called Membuk; that he knew, from an old word (not in his language) for Southern Spring. He knew nothing more about it except that one or two of the Brethren sometimes came here to sell some of the cheese or bread they had produced, and return with cloth for clothes or ink for the scriptorium. The visits were infrequent, and the Brethren seldom mentioned the town otherwise.

He slowed his steed as he entered the main road. The town had no wall; squarish brick buildings stood close to the road. Sounds mingled in the air from further ahead, producing the concomitant scattering of colors in his mind. As he proceeded, the road became less dusty. The strange, unnatural prints appeared here too, though trampled under other footprints and hoofprints. They bent off of the road to the right, to a high, circular pyramidical structure that the traveler recognized as a cold-house. He rode closer to it.

The drab brown, rough-textured construction material was the same as in the cold-house in the Brethren’s compound; he knew it was a precise combination of sand, clay, egg whites, lime, hair, and ash. Such material was waterproof and resistant to heat. If it was sealed except for the tiny vent at the very top, a cold-house could store food indefinitely and even create ice in its below-ground chambers. But as he rode around the circumference of this one, he saw the telltale damage. A hole gaped on its side, like a wound big enough to walk through. The cold air of the desert night would not present a problem, but the food would spoil when the hot air of day surged in. The sabotaging creature had been here too, perhaps as recent as last night; the stench of ruined food did not yet reach his nostrils. Or maybe the townsfolk had removed all of the stores? Certainly a possibility, though nobody was near the structure now.

Back on the main road, he rode into a clearing, and dismounted. Here was the oasis that the name “Southern Spring” indicated; a lake lay in front of him, fringed by trees. There were palms and other types he couldn’t name. At least thirty people had gathered in the now bright morning light. Most were of an alien type with rounded faces and bodies; he found these people strange but pleasing to his eyes. Women were unfamiliar to the Brethren.

He folded the veil up onto his hat, and walked up to a man with a cart of mangos. “I seek shelter during the heat of the day.”

The man regarded him with a frown. “The Brethren do not journey here of late. Your name, stranger?”

He answered, “I am B’Cholil”, meaning that he was the son of S’Cho but had not yet received his adult name. “Besides shelter, I seek one who has seen the creature that has destroyed your granary.”

“I saw it,” the man replied, his curt voice edged with dark red streaks in B’Cholil’s mind, “but I do not think that information is for you. Why do you seek it? I hope you will not help it on further raids.”

The traveler emitted a bitter laugh. “I seek it because it has torn apart the cold-house in our abode. The other Brethren are repairing the damage, but I left early yesterday morning. I seek to stop the creature. If our cold-house is not repaired in time, the other Brethren could be forced to slaughter too many animals at once, or starve.”

The man squinted at him, then pointed down another road without a word. B’Cholil bowed and touched his hat in thanks for the tip. He knew that, due to the man’s suspicions, he should not ask about repairs to the cold-house; his question could be misinterpreted.

A few minutes down the road the man had indicated, B’Cholil came to a curious building, covered with adobe to smooth out any sharp angles. A wooden sign in front proclaimed, in two languages: South Springs, Lodging and Food. He tied his horse on the hitching post next to a trough of water, and entered the wide, rounded entryway.

The Wandering Folk were uncommon this far south but nonetheless maintained their lodgings for all travelers. The inn B’Cholil had entered was clearly of their making, with a wide entry room (with tables for dining) and several passages leading to hallways of rooms. The same adobe had been used inside to create a curving space more like the inside of a cavern than a building. The central fireplace held no blaze; with the desert heat beginning, this would be uncomfortable. Only two other people were present, sitting on two of four chairs at a table by the far wall. One of them motioned to B’Cholil. He took a seat across from them at the same table. He did not remove his hat, but kept the veil folded up.

They were two wanderers, both dressed in ragged clothes that appeared to be remains of once-fine garments. The taller of the two had a thick beard, and wore his hair in spiky tufts, the style of the Dynastics who lived in the north. The other was one of the strange people B’Cholil had noticed by the lake earlier, with no sign of a beard, and large eyes that were luminous in a way he could not quite account for. It was disconcerting.

“I am S’Yag,” said the bearded man, “And this is M’Anda. We come from Arsh, eastwards by five nights travel. We go west to Renjwaa. I see you are one of the Brethren.” B’Cholil winced; the man’s voice effected the same dark red streaks in B’Cholil’s consciousness as had that of the man by the lake. These were never a sign of amity. But the words seemed friendly enough, so B’Cholil introduced himself. His thoughts moved elsewhere for a second. S’Yag had introduced the other person with the prefixed M; so his suspicions were correct. She was a woman. B’Cholil had spent his life with the Brethren, having been given to them as a baby by his poor father, and had never been beyond the borders of the fields and farms of their compound. He had never seen a female.

M’Anda had motioned for the innkeeper to bring them something to eat. At the same time, S’Yag reached over to a cloth bag that occupied the fourth chair. He untied it and pulled out three items, placing them on the table in front of B’Cholil. One was a figurine of a Dynastic warrior, carved out of a single piece of fine darkwood; its grain was visible under the glossy varnish. The second was a small scroll written in square stick-figure glyphs of an unknown script. The third a polished black decorative stone of the type favored by the Sherványa Easterners; slightly larger than palm-sized, with two irregular beige stripes. It was glued to its carved wooden stand. “We are traders,” S’Yag said, “Would you like one of these? They come from the far parts of Tond. The scroll is in the old Drenn script; the legend of Silkod, I’m told; though I cannot read it. Maybe one of the Brethren could translate it? Maybe also the stone would look nice in one of your halls or meeting places.”

B’Cholil nodded in appreciation of the objects’ beauty (he remembered to silently dedicate them to Shar; all proper art and craft was ultimately for the one who infused the universe with art), but he said nothing aloud. The calligraphy of the scroll was beautiful, complicated brushwork, dark brown on lighter brown fiber, but he had nothing of value to trade for it. He didn’t know if any of the Brethren could read Drenn anyway. The stone was similar to some that were displayed prominently in the Brethren’s dining hall, but those had shapes and markings that suggested events in the stories of Shar.

M’Anda spoke for the first time. Her voice was high and melodious, though again edged with dark red. “That’s a pretty thing,” she commented, indicating B’Cholil’s bracelet.

B’Cholil’s eyes narrowed. He tucked his arm under his cloak so the bracelet would not be visible. “It is of value only to me. The stones are not precious. I only use it to remind me of the seven questions that the Brethren commanded me to answer in my lifetime.”

Both S’Yag and M’Anda gave a hearty laugh. “You do not wish to trade, I see,” commented S’Yag, “No matter then. We speak of other things.” He pushed the items to the side of the table as the innkeeper reappeared with three mugs of ale and a tray of barbecued meat and onion skewers on flatbread. B’Cholil silently thanked Shar for providing sustenance to all, and eyed the flatbread. (Had the granary not been destroyed?) He sipped ale from the nearest mug.

The innkeeper took the Dynastic warrior figure in his hand. “This is fine workmanship.”

“It is the most delicate krok’sh darkwood,” replied S’Yag, pronouncing the difficult Dynastic word as if he was fluent in the language, “Carved by pfrekach craftsmen in the Tower of Sunset by the River Cheihar. It is in the elder tsajuk style, without the extra (and unnecessarily gaudy) jewels for eyes. You won’t find many like it.”

The innkeeper turned it over in his hands, felt the smooth lacquered surface. “How much do you want for it?”

S’Yag did hesitate. “One Emb gold piece, or two Dynastic silver drakhnar.”

The innkeeper replaced the artifact on the table. “I do not have such money.”

“In that case, why don’t I trade it for that instrument?” S’Yag pointed to a stringed kitál next to a large pink spiral conch shell on a display table.

“The kitál is for my guests. Many can play it. Maybe I’ll trade for the seashell? Such are rare here in the Emb Lands.”

“The seashell, and our meal is free,” replied S’Yag.

“I need to pay my servants. The seashell, and your meal is half of the usual price.”

“Done.” S’Yag handed him the warrior figurine. As he went to place it on the display table and retrieve the conch shell, M’Anda called out, “Why don’t you join us for a meal? There is no one else here.”

The innkeeper glanced around, then said, “Certainly.” S’Yag put the shell and the other two items in his bag, and moved the bag to the floor. The innkeeper sat on the chair.

B’Cholil motioned to the flatbread. “This is fresh, and delicious,” he said, biting off a piece. “The creature did not destroy all of the grain?”

The innkeeper frowned. “There are three cold-houses in South Springs. The creature destroyed one of them, but we keep grain in the others as well. Right now the brickmakers are mixing the ingredients to repair the damage. They will have it fixed in five or six days.”

“I pursue the creature that ruined it. The same creature, I believe, attacked the cold-house in the Brethren’s klemon. They are repairing it also, but I followed the creature. I did not see it, but they said it was very strange.”

The innkeeper replied that he had not seen the creature either, but M’Anda said, “It was one of those scrambled animals. Part this and part that. Looked like a box, really, though that’s crazy. A box with horse’s legs and something feathery. Couldn’t see its head. Up in the north, they’re calling them gruntags. Part of word that takes a whole minute to pronounce and it’s all consonants.”

“Gruntagkshk,” intoned S’Yag, again indicating he was fluent in the Dynastics’ abstruse language. “It means ‘manufactured creature’. I don’t know if they’re coming from the Dynastics’ land, though. They’re all different. Four legs, six legs, eight legs; insects, bears, fish, even weapons and tables and instruments all mixed together. They don’t make any sense. At least that’s what I’ve heard; I’ve only seen this one. M’Anda and I saw it last night. We were coming into town. We saw it rip pieces out of the mud of the cold-house, but the townsfolk had gathered with torches and spears, and they chased it away. It had some kind of metal armor framework that you could see through. It galloped away like a horse.”

“That’s what they told me, too,” the innkeeper added, taking a bite of the barbecue.

M’Anda added, “Did it attack the cold-house out of malice, or because it wanted the food, or because it sought the cold? We don’t know. At least it ran away before it attacked anything else.”

“Nothing guarantees that it won’t come back tonight,” added the innkeeper, “But we’re ready. We’ll attack if it does.”

B’Cholil was about to explain that he was pursuing the gruntag to find out more about it (and to thank the others for at least explaining what it was called), but his thoughts abruptly scattered. A wave of nausea passed through him. He grabbed ahold of the table to steady himself.

The innkeeper glanced at him. “The air is a little stuffy in here. Have another sip of ale. That should help.”

B’Cholil put the mug to his lips and drank a little more, though his arms felt oddly heavy and the ale now had a sour, spicy flavor. Then the room pitched sideways and he collapsed onto the table, drooling. His muscles twitched and spasmed for a second, then he was still. The innkeeper grabbed the mug before it smashed on the ground.

B’Cholil’s senses battled within a fog of dark blue, humming sounds, and the smell of wet granite. The center of his mind would not focus; for a moment his body recalled the galloping motion of riding on his horse, then he was prone on a hard surface and the cold-house shimmered above him. Clouds of milky white flowed by, assembling into the faces of M’Anda and S’Yag. A shower of decorative stones fell from somewhere unseen but did not touch him, and then all sights and sounds vanished. 

To continue B'Cholil's story, the longest in "Fronds": Amazon.com: Fronds: Stories and Flash Fiction: 9798394939907: Scribner, Steven Eric: Books