3. A Hiccup

Two farm goats, sturdy but slow, pulled the cart out onto the track. Tien could hear the wheels creaking as they approached her hiding place. She tossed a quick look over her shoulder to make sure no one had lingered to watch Eunaat’s departure. The courtyard was empty. Tien moved around the tree as the cart rumbled past, and sprinted after it. Then, just like she had done in her mind many times over the last few days, she grasped the rail at the back of the cart and heaved herself up into it.

Tien flopped panting against the fruit sacks. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure at her success; her limbs trembled with exertion. This was easier than she had imagined. The goats didn’t seem to notice the extra weight, and Eunaat sat oblivious, high on his seat behind the beasts, singing at the top of his lungs. Tien stifled a giggle as she burrowed in amongst the sacks of oranges and apples. Eunaat warbling a tune! He was normally so quiet. At the orchard, he never spoke more than was absolutely necessary. She opened her pack, pulled out a thin sheet and draped it over her legs and shoulders. She could throw it over her head if anyone passed by.

I am going to be in deep trouble when I get home, Tien thought gleefully. But I don’t care. Fanzine will just die when she sees me on her doorstep! She nearly laughed aloud at the thought of Fanzine, slack-jawed with surprise. I’ll get a whole night and day with her, she gloated. It will be just like old times. A persistent twinge of guilt clouded her anticipation. She pictured the alarm and worry that would etch itself into Papa’s face when he found that she was gone. Mama would silently begin to wring her hands, over and over. Maybe I should have left a brief note. But then again, I couldn’t. There is no paper left. It will be all right, she reasoned. Papa promised that I could visit Pojabe after my sixteenth birthday. That was over a month ago, so I’m really just keeping his promise.

She rocked with the cart, her mind wandering. It was hard to believe that only three years had passed since her family had relocated from her birthplace, Pojabe, to the fruit-picking town of Panzaar. It had been a difficult move for Tien, who had missed Fanzine terribly. Fanzine had been her best friend ever since she could remember. The one with whom she’d shared every secret. Life with Fanzine had been tinged with excitement. She had the knack of turning the most tedious chore into an enjoyable experience. In fact anything she did became an adventure. And it had rubbed off on Tien. Fanzine’s exuberance for life had inspired Tien to take a few risks and laugh more.

The cart struck a pothole. Tien fell back against a fruit sack, snagging her scarf on the wire that secured it. She pulled it free, and tugged it back over her head. My thick braid was my one redeeming feature, and now I don’t even have that.

She rolled her eyes, remembering a comment she’d overheard years before. ‘More freckles on the girl than stars in a clear night sky,’ one of Mama’s friends had murmured to another. The woman had spoken carelessly, with laughter in her voice; talking loud enough for Tien to hear, but as if she was not there. ‘And such a stout face. A small blessing she at least inherited her mother’s thick chestnut hair.’

In that moment Tien realized she was not beautiful, that in fact she was plain. She had slipped away to her bed and lain there in the shadows, tears scalding her despised cheeks. Later she’d taken Mama’s mirror and scrutinized her face with its liberal sprinkling of freckles. Her eyes appeared more green than brown, with their rims so red from crying. She wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue, more at the lady than herself. Then she had made the lady a villain in her story.

Tien touched her face now, and smiled suddenly. If Fanzine had been described in such a manner, she would have just laughed and perhaps drawn attention the size of the lady’s backside, she thought. Fanzine didn’t give a scrap if anyone thought she was pretty or not. Tien missed the carefree spirit that Fanzine’s friendship had brought out in her, for deep down, Tien knew that she had a lot more in common with Papa than she wanted to admit. She was timid and cared too much about other’s opinions. It was maddening. I should be confident, proud of who I am. I should do the bold, exciting things I dream about, that Blayre of Dins Hallow does. Actually, she remembered with a grin, what I am doing now is bold and daring.

The cart rattled past neat rows of orange and apple trees, whose upper boughs were still shrouded in a silvery mist. Only the fruit, hanging from the lower branches like balls of candy, were visible. They left behind the dairies, where the sheep milled about, patiently waiting to be milked. Carts had begun to roll past in the opposite direction; farmers heading in to Panzaar to meet King Phan. Tien made sure that the sheet concealed her. The sickly sweet stench of the retting dams pervaded her nostrils long before she saw the shallow waters, golden with the putrid flax juice. Tien blocked her nose, and peered out with interest. Already the farmers were at work laying sodden flax plants out on the wooden tables. Other workers were beating them with thick mallets to break the outer hull and get at the valuable linen fibres beneath.

Poor Mama, Tien thought. She‘d love to be able to weave the linen into the intricate designs that our ancestors were famous for. If only her hands were not so clumsy and big. The Aryks had long ago abandoned the art of weaving. Their fingers seemed to grow thicker and shorter with every generation and as a result, the patterns they wove grew increasingly amateur. So now they reluctantly sent the dyed fibres to Tiran weavers, who created masterpieces.

Tien laid her head against her pack, trying to get comfortable. The secret pages that Miss Roovil had given her barely made a rustle in the lining of her pack. No one would ever think to look for them there, she thought, her eyes brightening. She resisted the sudden urge take them out and look again at the beautiful drawings that covered them. Miss Roovil had plunged her hand into the smouldering heap of books after the Raseen had left. Only a few pages were worth keeping, but she smuggled them to Tien before her arrest. Tien shuddered at the thought of Miss Roovil being treated terribly by the Raseen somewhere.

The road ahead had turned a rusty red and was now winding through the small canyon formed by the Ginger Rock Hills. This was the slowest part of the trip, but it was also the most interesting. The deep orange soil of the hills stood in stark contrast to the leafy bushes that covered them. The road was narrow and steep and the land around the five hills was wild and overgrown. Tien had always felt a thrill as she travelled past the Ginger Rock Hills, a longing to explore the untamed slopes. One day I will come back and discover the secrets of these hills for myself, she thought. Just not today. She settled back and closed her eyes, lulled by the cart’s rocking motion.

***

It felt as though she’d been travelling for an age. We must surely be there soon, Tien thought impatiently. She strained to see ahead, and felt a surge of excitement. They were going rounding a much smaller hill now, one not quite close enough to be part of Ginger Rock. Tien could not see what lay beyond, but the hill itself was familiar. She had come here many times as a child, to climb to the top and play among the boulders there. Pojabe was minutes away.

Suddenly, a bloodcurdling screech raised the hair on her neck. Tien heard Eunaat gasp. The cart lurched as he swerved to the right, to get off the track. Tien clung grimly to the side rail as Eunaat urged the goats behind a stray mulberry bush. Then Eunaat threw himself under the cart. Tien cowered beneath the sheet. Her limbs felt cold and wooden. She could hear Eunaat’s ragged breathing below her.

The initial screech was echoed by several answering shrieks, and then raucous laughter rang out.

“It is refreshing to find a man who is passionate about his job,” crowed a voice.

“That was just the beginning, my friend. There is still the quaint township of Panzaar, just full of juicy little Aryks to squash,” came the answering snicker.

Tien’s stomach churned as if something was sliding and writhing inside it. She heard Eunaat stifle a moan. He began to whisper. It sounded like he was praying, but the words were tumbling out, fast and confused. Tien closed her own eyes, and prayed that Eunaat would stop talking. Please don’t let them hear him, please, she begged silently.

“You’d do well to remember that the orders do not include actual squashing,” the first voice admonished laughingly.

“Are twelve carts really enough to carry them all?”

“Well there are not more than one hundred and fifty in all. They ought to enjoy the privilege of being allowed to stand. It will be the last time they do.”

“Ha! All right, let’s not dawdle. Gidallop!” As they galloped away, their harsh laughter fading, Tien peeped fearfully out at their retreating backs. The men who had spoken were uniformed. They wore loose red pants and white tunic shirts, each with a cruel-bladed scimitar tucked into a narrow belt. Long black extensions had been woven into their hair and swung in countless tiny plaits down their backs, miniature barbed shafts attached to the end of each. Though she couldn’t see their faces, Tien knew that their eyes were thickly rimmed with kohl, that their teeth were capped with black gold. Raseen!

Her skin prickled into goose bumps. She wanted to scream out to Eunaat to turn around and go back to warn her family about these nightmarish men and their carts, but the words stuck in her throat. She lay there, frozen in horror at what she’d heard. What could she do? Eunaat was muttering in a high-pitched voice, as he led the goats carefully back onto the track; something about getting to the shelter of Pojabe as soon as possible.

The township of Pojabe lay ahead, its huts blending into the landscape of hills and boulders. It looked exactly as she remembered it; small, or as Papa used to say, ‘a friendly size’. Pojabe was more a village than a town. The goats’ hooves thudded dully on the rich red earth of the main street. The market’s wares were all set out in their stalls. Smoke drifted lazily from the outdoor stoves, ready for roasting meat. Livestock brayed. Several chickens wandered about, clucking and pecking at unseen nourishment in the dirt. But there were no human voices, not a single person was about. Eunaat groaned and jumped down from his seat. Tien heard him running to look inside the first few buildings. She could tell by his panicked gurgles, which were growing louder, that they must be empty. Fanzine and all the people of Pojabe were gone.

What has happened to them, Tien wondered? Her brain felt thick and lethargic. Where have they all been taken? Are they dead? She lay there as the Raseen’s cruel words echoed through her head, over and over. With a rising sense of panic, the enormity of what she had just heard began to sink in. Mama and the others are about to face some unknown terror, she told herself, a sour taste rising at the back of her throat. And there is nothing I can do to help them. Another wave of nausea hit her.

“Well, what have we here?” Tien jumped. The voice was not loud, but in the silent street, it sounded like a trumpet blast.

Eunaat screamed shrilly, then whimpered like a kicked dog. Tien scrunched herself up into a ball.

“A little mouse has evaded capture, ha?” laughed the man whom Tien, from her hiding spot in the cart, could not see.

“Renda, come and look.” “What is it?” It sounded as if the man, Renda, was in a surly temper. “This one wasn’t taken. Shall we have our own fun?”

“Let me see.” Heavy booted footsteps came close, and there was a brief silence. “He is a Tiran, Maligo.” Renda’s voice was raised in exasperation. “See, there is no mark upon him. But he has seen us, so we cannot release him.” There was a muffled grunt from Eunaat.

“Well, all right,” said Maligo, sounding disappointed. “I’ll go and see what goods he was bringing, shall I?” Renda did not seem inclined to answer. Tien heard boots approaching the back of the cart. She stiffened, her mind whirling too fast for her to tell what she was thinking, or what she should do. She heard a rustle as the sacks near the back of the cart were opened and examined. “More stinking fruit!” Maligo grumbled. “We really should not have surprised these good people until they had roasted their meat. No self-respecting Raseen can carry out his duties while surviving solely on fruit. I’ll go soft and sentimental as a peach, if I have to eat another one. Give me a leathery slab of meat to gnaw on any day!“ His voice moved away. “All done,” he called out, from the front of the cart now. “Let us collect our bits and pieces and return to Tira. Phan will be pleased with our day’s work, I think.”

Adrenaline coursed through Tien’s body. Pure relief. She focussed on slowing her breathing. How could he have not seen me? she asked herself dazedly. Then a soft chuckle sounded next to her.

© 2006 by Shelly Taylor