2. A Visit From the King

“Well that’s the last of it.”

Tien jumped. She peeked carefully around the smooth trunk. Hurrah! Papa was speaking to Eunaat who had just brought the cart around from the barn. It was already laden with sacks of fruit. The goats were harnessed and hitched to the cart.

Tien folded the letter and slipped it back out of sight, her heart beginning to thump with anticipation. She strained to hear.

“I feel badly that I cannot send Graic up to the border with you,” Papa was saying. “But that was Phan’s orders.”

“It is not every day the King rides through Panzaar.”

“Yes, exciting times,“ Graic agreed. “And what about this present he has promised us, the reason we are all to gather in the village square. I, for one, could not sleep a wink last night for the thrill of it all. Though his Highness shouldn’t have gone to such trouble, because it’s the thought that counts. The satisfaction in knowing that he cares.”

“Peace, Graic,” Papa cautioned. “Perhaps he has had a change of heart about our tribe.”

Tien frowned. She could imagine Papa chewing on the corner of his lip, his mouth pursed. Her eighteen-year-old brother’s outspoken opinions, especially those about the king, caused Papa great concern. He worried that the wrong people should overhear. Which is ridiculous if you think about it. Everyone here quietly agrees with Graic. And in any case, no Aryk is in a position to rat to the king.

“A fair point, Papa,” Graic was saying solemnly. “Have no fear. I will be on my best behaviour when Phan unveils his image in bronze later today.”

“Graic…”

“Papa.” Graic swept both hands through the air. His face bore an expression of injured surprise. “All jesting aside, what else could the big surprise be? Indeed, what more could we want? Freedom to roam our own country? The right to possess books? How very dull! No, a statue of our monarch, I tell you, is the perfect gift for this pampered tribe.”

Papa shook his head at Graic and raised his thick-fingered hands in mock defeat. He turned to Mama. “Sumina, have you given Eunaat the things you wanted him to sell in Tira? We… Haim!,” he shouted out suddenly.

The child who had been in the process of sneaking a piece of fruit from the cart, jumped guiltily.

“Put that orange back. You know very well that there are two full baskets in the kitchen.”

Tien grinned. Her twelve-year-old brother also knew that any fruit going to the Tiran markets was the best of the crop. The Raseen made sure of that.

“Here, Eunaat. The flax should fetch a fair price.” Tien could scarcely hear her mother. She peeped around the tree. Mama was handing the lanky farmhand a linen bag. A shock of auburn fuzz covered her small head, and she scratched absently at a scabby bald patch where the Raseen’s shears had torn her scalp. Mama’s shining curls were gone, tossed like garbage into the bonfire. Since that terrible day when the Raseen had forcibly dragged her over to the branding coals, Mama rarely spoke. Some days she did not bother to bathe or even change into fresh clothes.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Tien’s heart warmed at the comforting sound of Eunaat’s voice. Each harvest, Eunaat came to transport the fruit. He willingly took on any task, and proved to be honest and hardworking. While conditions worsened for the Aryks, and the adults in Tien’s life grew increasingly fearful, Eunaat remained the same. Tien had plucked up the courage, several weeks back, to ask him to deliver her letter, scrawled in coal on a piece of her old tunic, to Fanzine. Eunaat had taken it willingly. Only after she’d given him the letter, did it occur to Tien that Eunaat might betray her trust, and for the next three nights she had lain awake, trembling as she listened for the drumming of hooves that signalled a Raseen raid.

But now he has brought me a reply.

Graic's voice sounded again. Tien rolled her eyes. “Stop playing up to your audience, dummy,” she whispered furiously from her hiding place. “Let the man be on his way!”

She was desperate to leave now, and let the excitement carry her along. If she had much more time to think about it, she knew she might not follow through with her plan.

“Eunaat, I’ll get you to bring back the biggest container of lemon oil you can find,” Graic was telling the Tiran, with an earnest expression on his face. “I hope to discuss many things with the statue of our monarch, whilst I polish him thoroughly from head to toe.”

He mimicked zealous rubbing around his own backside, then smiled broadly as Haim fell about laughing. A smile played across Tien’s lips too, but it quickly vanished. Haim was too young to understand the bitterness behind Graic’s jokes. Graic, had been eight when Phan had come to power, old enough to remember how life for the Aryks used to be. Phan had changed everything. He’d made it clear from the start that he regarded the Aryks, not as humans but worker bees. ‘You are skilled farmers,’ he’d said, ‘and I will be pay you well to work within your own borders, where the soil is fertile.’

This logic had made sense. Aryk soil was rich and dark, and the abundant crops of grains, fruit, silk and flax plants were a vital part of Pendelethe’s prospering trade with neighbouring lands. Wealthy women, from around the world, adored the beautiful linen tapestries and shawls woven from the flax. So Phan had moved all the Aryks living in Tira and even in Pasco, back across Aryk borders ‘for now. Not long after, Tiran middlemen appeared, hired to transport the produce across the border. And then slowly, inch by inch, Phan’s mask had slipped, revealing his true feeling for the Aryks.

For decades Pendelethe’s three tribes had existed in harmony. Now, after ten years under Phan’s regime, the isolation of the Aryks from their countrymen was complete. They were little more than slaves, toiling the land for pittance, and expected to meet Phan’s impossible quotas. In recent months, Phan’s hatred had become more systematic and purposeful. First he had ordered that all the books in Aryk be burned, soon after came the blood-chilling announcement that every Aryk must be branded with the symbol of a purple clover, so that none of them could slip over their borders unnoticed. Through it all, the Aryks had barely let out a peep of protest.

Tien’s lip curled. She was too young to remember any regime other than Phan’s, but she’d read the history books at school, and had discussed with her teacher, Miss Roovil, about how the Aryks had once been. How could any sane person think that tolerating mistreatment is honourable, she wondered? Perhaps it had happened gradually. The Aryks were a gentle people, to whom respect and a humble attitude meant everything. Their honour code seeped in to influence every part of their life. It was Aryk culture to nod politely, come to agreement peacefully, and to never defy authority. Tien rubbed her own bristly scalp through the scarf. Had the Aryks grown to feel they deserved this treatment? That in some way they had called it upon themselves? She knew there would be no answers for these questions. The adults refused to discuss the situation at all. As if by ignoring it, they could pretend that nothing was wrong.

And now it was too late. The pattern was set. The Aryk way has been a grave mistake, Tien reflected, though I’d never let Mama and Papa hear me say it. She smiled at the irony. But now, it seemed that changes were afoot. Out of the blue, the king had requested that all the Aryks in Panzaar gather today in the village square to meet with him. The king’s envoy had mentioned a peace offering, the gift Graic had joked about.

But what good will it do? Tien thought glumly. In the face of Phan and his entourage, who will dare to say what they really feel? I’m not sorry to be missing the king’s visit. Especially if the Raseen are accompanying him. I’ve been planning my trip for ages, and nothing, not even Phan can stop me going. No one will notice. It is not as if they will count each and every one of us if this is a goodwill trip. Papa and Mama will notice, her conscience argued, and they will panic. Papa will be a nervous wreck.

“Well I don’t care. That is his problem,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “I’m going.”

“The load looks stable. I should make a start.” Eunaat’s voice broke through Tien’s ponderings.

She squashed herself back against the tree, as her family fondly farewelled him, their tenuous link to the rest of the world.

“Don’t forget,” Graic called after him, in a falsetto voice. “Only the very best lemon oil.” He muttered something about making ‘Phan smell like the lemon he is’, and Haim doubled up with laughter again, beaming up into Graic’s face while the juice from a snatched orange ran down his chin. Mama pretended to swat the boys away, but she almost smiled as she and Papa walked back inside, their arms entwined.

© 2006 by Shelly Taylor