Tag: creative process

Read Part 1 here.

Gav was about to add more tea to his cup when he saw something move in the shadows. He reached carefully for his knife while turning back to the fire. He watched the shadows deeper in the shed. Nothing moved. He was tired. He had been travelling for days, most of them soaked in rain. He could be seeing things. His instincts said otherwise. Something was there. But it hadn’t attacked yet. It would have had enough opportunity to pounce while he was about his own business. So why move now? Maybe it was an animal, a cat or a dog or something similar. Maybe a snowdog, they had come down after the forests burned. They could be shy creatures. Not as bad as wolves but still dangerous. Gav kept his knife close. He’d seen too much to hope for something harmless.

He waited. Nothing moved. He turned slowly to the fire. There, again.

‘Whoever you are, come out. Now.’

Nothing moved. He had to be seeing things. He waited. Nothing happened. Finally, he decided there was no reason to get anxious over shadows and turned back to the fire in full. He poured out more tea. Right then he felt something move behind him. He still had his knife, but he was also holding the pot of tea. One way or the other, the attacker would be either stabbed or scorched. Gav waited. The thing crept slowly, like a creature trying not to be seen. He stayed as he was, trying to see as far as he could. He saw something sway at the corner of his eyes. He wanted to turn but something kept him. It was neither cat nor dog nor wolf. That swaying was strange. He waited. The creature moved more and stopped. The silence was filled with rain and the crackle of fire.

Gav turned, the girl jumped. Her eyes were enormous. He had never seen such eyes before, the irises so pale they were the colour of ice. Her hair was dark and unkempt, a haphazard mass around her shoulders, blades of hay sticking out here and there. Her dress was so worn and faded it had become an unidentifiable grey. Her feet were bare. He wondered how long she had been hiding in the shed. Her face was gaunt, her stature bent over. He carefully put the pot back down. He saw her stare at it as if it were gold.

Carefully, Gav stretched out the cup with his tea. She turned her enormous eyes to him. Then she saw the cup and to his surprise held out her hand. There was something in it. It was a cup, made of clay, chipped and scratched with faint patterns. She must have saved it as her last possession. Gav nodded and took up the pot with tea. He held it out to her. Cautiously she came closer. He filled her cup slowly, watching her. The girl watched the fluid with a hungry, feral look. He set the pot aside, she scuttled back to the wall, crouched down, and started sipping hastily, blowing and sipping, holding her clay cup with both hands. Her fingers were slim and bruised with gashes, her fingernails torn. She looked as if she had been digging in soil. Roots would be scarce here.

Cautiously, Gav got to his feet and went to his saddle bags. His breeches weren’t dry, but he had an extra pair and decided to wear them. Then he took a piece of driedfruit bread, a radish, and a strip of salted meat and went back to the fire. The girl was still crouching, blowing and sipping at her tea. He reached out and touched her shoulder. She jumped as if whipped. The look in her eyes was that of abject terror.

‘Here,’ Gav said, showing her the driedfruit bread. She stared at it as if it was poisonous. ‘It’s good. Look,’ he said, broke a small piece off and ate it. ‘Eat. It’s good.’

Warily, her eyes darting like a bird’s, she reached out and finally snatched the driedfruit bread out of his hand.

‘Slowly. Slowly. Slow down. You’ll choke that way,’ he said when she stuffed the bread into her mouth. Cheeks bulging, she followed his slow chewing motions. After she finished chewing and swallowed he handed her the radish and the slice of salted meat. She stared at him for so long he feared she stopped breathing.

‘Take it, it’s good.’

She did not move, crouching as she was, cup and driedfruit bread clutched in her hands. Understanding she did not believe him, he carefully set the radish and meat before her and returned to his log. He feigned to watch the fire while drinking his tea. Through the corner of his eyes he saw her carefully reach for the radish and slice of meat. They disappeared somewhere in the folds of her dress. It was just as well. She spent long minutes finishing the driedfruit bread, chewing slowly, sipping her tea. 

It was night. She was in a tent. There were shouts and rough laughter beyond the tented walls. Within, the furnishings were garish and opulent, filled with the loot gathered over weeks and moons, maybe whole suns of pillaging. Bara could not look at the flashing things, goblets and caskets, statues and furniture, busts and cabinets, all stacked and put together in haphazard disarray, showing no eye for value, let alone taste. It seemed all that mattered was that it flashed and looked a fortune, though most of it, it had to be said, probably cost so much in gold.

She had luckily managed to arrange her Order’s flight such, that they could take away what was sacred. Bara still recognised those artefacts equal to the ones she had tended to for so long: bowls and plates engraved with the Seal, reserved for Solstice and Midsun, now spoiled forever by the unsanctified touch of the heathen hordes. They were from other Sanctuaries, other Shrines, three at least by the number. Bara looked away.

She had stopped crying and the terror had receded to something dark and ever-present. Whoever it was the leader threw her to did not do what the stories said such men did. He threw her onto a horse instead and rode with her somewhere for at least an hour by the clock. She had managed to run away when he stopped the horses to drink, the days were always hottest before the sun began to set. She managed by pleading to release her water. The hills were too steep however and he caught her, dragged her back, tied her up and blindfolded her, setting her roughly on the saddle, cursing by the growling she heard. Her whole body was bruised, not to mention the taints she had suffered to her soul. 

No man had touched her since she had taken her Oaths. It was a sacrilege for any other than her own persuasion to touch the First of a Sanctuary, for she was the lainar, the Drum and Cymbal of the Gods. By her Their Will was known. And now two had touched her, grabbed her, one even daring to put his mouth on hers, and worse, touching where the Sacred Words were spoken. The horror of it made Bara silent with tears, yet tied and blindfolded as she was there was nothing she could do to save pray for the Mercy of the Gods.

It was dark when the heathen stopped the horses. Bara could smell fire and cooking and surprisingly, the sound of women’s voices, though their tongue was rough and their laughter like cackling. The smell of horses was distinct in the air, and the clink of a hammer on metal could be heard. She was plucked off the horse and dragged somewhere, the heathen not caring when she stumbled and fell flat on her front. She was set on her feet forcefully and pulled into somewhere closed. Only after the rope was untied could she remove the blindfold and see where she was. 

It was a large tent, separated into two spaces by wide velvet folds, exquisite Wara carpets setting out the floor. Imp-lights glowed in various corners, windlights swaying from the tent poles. There was a chaotic mix of chairs to one side, their legs and frames battered, but their making of high quality. One was even an eating couch, the covering still ivory white, probably San silk, the blackwood frame beset with tortoiseshell, making the entire piece exquisite in its elegant simplicity. It was probably stolen from one of the grand mansions set on fire in the wake of the hordes’ destruction. Bara was surprised they did not sell it to the greymerchants, who had neither honour nor loyalty, and fared trade with anyone and anything. From what she had heard, the longchair would gain a great price with them. 

The rest of the first part was carpet, strongboxes, small caskets and large cabinets, statues, busts, tall candleholders of Zerasin silver set in great halls of ceremony, and two breathtaking Xuyan vases, tall to a man’s waist, loot upon loot piled and stacked upon each other without care, aligning the tent’s walls from front to back to center. The other part, shielded by heavy crimson velvet, was a clustered space as well, dominated by a wide bed, laden with opulent covers and cushions, patterned like peacock feathers, probably robbed off the caravanserais, for none other owned such cloth.

Bara stayed in the part with the chairs. She found water in a heavy jug made of silver and gold. It was of such vulgar lavishness it had to be from one of the Trade Houses who liked to flaunt their ungodly wealth. She barely managed to fill the matching wash basin with water, but she succeeded. Her dress was soiled, her veil in tatters, but one end had somehow managed to stay clean. She used that to get rid of the worst and maybe wipe away some of the defilement. She washed her arms and legs and neck and face thricefold, wishing for blesséd wine to clean her mouth but that was for naught now. Finally feeling somewhat clean, Bara tried to discern where she was. In the silence of the tent, she could hear the sounds of the camp, for it had to be a camp, fhārch never lived in houses. The sounds were the same as before, voices in that rough tongue, cackling laughter, metal clinking, the whinny and stamp of horses. 

Bara finally managed to sit down and calm her shaking hands after asserting that there was no means of escape. She had tried to step out and lances had crossed right in front of her. She had sounded out each tent-wall and always heard that rough tongue close by. Someone had brought her food and drink, a servant no more than a boy, silent and cunning by his eyes, his skin coloured deeply by the sun, though his eyes were light like grass. It was said their blood was weak and so their eyes faded, showing the colours of water and saplings, but to see it was still a surprise. The boy looked at her blatantly for a moment before rushing out again. Bara did not know what to think of it. She hardly saw the young unless on Solstice and Midsun when the peasants filled the olive grove to be receive the Blessing.

There was wine and roasted meat and bread and even grapes. Bara ate the grapes, they were from the soil, and so straight from the Gods. She touched neither the wine nor the bread and meat. They were not sanctified, and even if she had for hunger’s sake, she would probably have thrown it all up again, the fist in her stomach was clenched tight.

Bara sat and waited, doing her best to keep her mind focused with prayer. There was nothing she could touch to start a fire, since none of the things around her were purified and she could not touch the naked coals glowing in the coal stove with her bare hands, she had never learned that holy practice. Thus she sat on the unblemished silk of the longchair, held her hands in her lap, her veil covering her hair, soiled though it was, and prayed for steadfastness and guidance and the Mercy of the Gods.

She could not say when the noise began. It was first a rumble that disturbed the Silence she had found herself in, for even in this heathen place the Gods would See her and grant her Peace. The rumble became thunder and suddenly the whole camp was filled with hoofbeats, shouting, and wild cries, jubilant and coarse. Bara felt how the shaking began, how it took hold of her limbs and even clenching her hands to fists would not stop it. They were here. And if they were here, so was their leader. Unable to sit any longer, Bara got to her feet. She would have to do something, anything. She could not let him touch her again. She searched the haphazard clutter about her for something that she could defend herself with, and finally found a dagger among the loot, a long straight thing in an exquisite scabbard, it’s blade sharp enough to cut a hair. She sat with it hidden behind her back, unsheathed. She would defend herself to the last, even if it meant destroying her mortal self. 

Only then did Bara realize she could have done just that already, but it was too late to cleanse herself with water and ashes and say the necessary prayers. To bring herself to the Plains now would be a pointless waste of her living blood, for it would be like throwing the Drum and Cymbal into the Fire rather than laying it to rest so that one day it may sound again. Bara was at once furious and terrified, furious at her terror, for it had clouded her senses and made her blind to an honourable escape. And terrified, for the horde had returned and only the Gods knew what would happen next.

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