Phil Emery is a British writer who lives in Newcastle. This
story originally appeared in the British magazine Nightfall.
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Exodus Over Mara
by Phil Emery
Talen
We began to move at dawn. It's only firstnoon and already the train is stretched too far. We may lose the stragglers but I can't afford to slow the
pace. We must reach the next water-hole before the second sun climbs to its zenith. Our water reserves are virtually gone and we'll not be able to travel far after morning. Even now the wind rises, preparing another storm. The desert constantly reminds us of its name.
Mara.
The Demonwind.
I look back along the line. This two hundred or so men, women, and children are all that remain of Jastor's citizenry. Their steps are sluggish
with despair and pity for themselves. I force harshness into my voice as I call for more speed.
Go on, stare your anger at me, but if you want
to drink today move!
A pity we're not like the Zuls. Those desert reptiles can go twenty days in this heat without a drop. And how those long hind-legs and flat wide
hooves stride the sands. If we had more of them we could ride to Dunesedge and the forestlands beyond, but there are only enough to carry water, supplies, and tents. The water barrels are nearly empty and the supplies will not last the journey across Mara. Then we'll have to start slaughtering Zuls -- and that will mean carrying less water between water-holes.
At least with the barrels so light I've been able to place the weaker on Zul-back: those too young, old, or sick to maintain this pace.
Dereth passes me on a Zul. Leaving Jastor has broken the old man. He, for one, will never see Dunesedge. The look he gives me is full of that
knowledge. It's a look I've seen too many times on this exodus.
Why did the Augurs of the Holt Tribes choose me for this? And why did I come? I don't know. In my twelfth year I broke away from the Dwellplace of my tribe and fled to the deeper woods, not understanding why but accepting my need to go, searching for something even then. Only after
another twelve years did I return. And why did I return when the Council's summons had no power over me? I have no answers.
They sat before me in the Meethut, fifteen wizened men and women, one from each tribe of the Holtfolk. The place stank of their age.
"The Council honours you with a mission, Talen of Ravenholt," said one.
"I'm no longer of Ravenholt," I replied.
"Keep silence!" snapped a second. I hardly heard the third as I fought my anger.
"You were little more than a child when you forsook your tribe, yet even children know of the Sundering." All eyes turned to a hag who was easily the most aged member of the assembly. As if a signal had been given she began to drone.
"The fore-sires of the Holtfolk dwelt far to the south in twenty-one cities. They were built lovingly in a land called Anborean, which means
'Whisperer' in the old tongue. It was a place of soft breezes and green plains. Anborean never knew cold rains or harsh winds. There is no word in the old tongue which means storm.
"Then part of our golden, gentle sun wrenched itself away and became a second sun, a white burning exile in the sky. Anborean became arid and little would grow. The plains turned to desert. Vicious windstorms lashed the cities. Six of them were battered to ruin. Then strange grey clouds began to roll across Anborean. They drifted over the enduring cities carrying an incurable plague. When the clouds drifted away and the dying had ended only six cities held life. Then came the Sundering.
"The grieving survivors gathered at Jastor, oldest and largest of the cities. Here many spoke bitterly and sadly and decided to journey northward in search of kinder lands. These were the fore-sires of we Holtfolk, for they crossed the desert and came to these forests. Those who
remained were only enough to people a single city and so Jastor was chosen to live amid the corpses of its twenty cousins.
"From that time the land was no longer called Anborean, but instead Mara. The Demonwind."
The woman had finished, but the Council appeared lost in their own thoughts. The quiet stung me into a retort.
"I know all this!"
The one who had spoken first spoke again. It was not a reply, just a continuing of the ritual of Council bestowing a mission. It didn't matter what I knew or didn't know. They would observe the ritual, worn into their old brains like a rut in an ancient track.
"Although many lifespans have passed we are still kin to the tribe of Jastor. Now they must leave their city and cross the desert as did our
fore-sires. The Augurs of Jastor have sent word. The plague clouds will soon return."
He paused and for a moment there was silence again. But this time I didn't speak.
He went on. "It is our duty to send a guide to
lead them over Mara, one who knows the skills of
wayfinding and survival in the sands."
"I don't."
"The Holtfolk still possess the journals of the
first exodus. The knowledge is there and may be
learned. Our own Augurs have studied the sky omens
and chosen you."
Why?
Why did they pick someone linked to the tribes
only by birth? Why did I come? Perhaps to find in
the desert what I hadn't found in the forest? But
what is there to find in a desert? There's so much
I don't understand.
While these thoughts have passed me so has most
of the train. All the faces say the same things.
How many will die today?
Shall we all die?
You came too late.
You failed us.
It's true. I was too late. I knew that when
I first caught sight of Jastor and saw the grey
clouds above her. I knew walking through her empty
streets, hearing the crackle of fires burning
bodies. So many fires. I knew that night when I
spoke to the survivors in the city's Meethut. It
was a vast thing of stone and glass. It would've
held a populace of thousands. Yet the assembled
people were only a few hundred. Even then the look
was there.
You came too late.
You failed us.
One of the Zuls has halted. The one that pulls
Hanos' litter. Unable to walk for two days, this
morning he became delirious and had to be strapped
down. It isn't the plague, the last victim died on
the third day out, but the dying continues. There
are fevers carried on Mara's winds. As if the heat
isn't enough.
As I come closer I can hear Hanos' cries, weak
as they are. His family is gathered around hiding
him from view. They see me coming and let me
through. Kerelle is there. She kneels beside him
and dabs the sweat from his face.
I force myself not to return her look, fixing
my eyes on Hanos. My awareness of her nearness
seems to thicken the parched air, making each breath
even harder.
Hanos is dying. I no longer deny it to
myself. He shakes continuously. Less violently
now, but that's because he's so weak. His father,
his mother, his sisters -- they wait for me to
speak, to say something to help them lie to
themselves. I've no skill with words. I walk
away, fighting the urge to run.
Kerelle voices the question the others want to
ask. "He can't survive this pace, Talen.
Can't we rest?"
I don't turn around as I call back:
"No."
Kerelle
The winds have been cruel today. They caused
the children to cry -- some of the women also. The
men hung their heads and I think some of them cried
too. We lost old Lod and Rela, his second wife.
Talen searched for hours, out alone in the worst of
the storm that sprang up, though he knew better than
anyone how pointless it was. For a time I was
afraid we might lose him too, and what would happen
to the rest of us then? Only he knows how to
survive out here, how to find those rare
water-holes. Lod was my uncle. I suppose I should
mourn him but so many have died on the journey. I
can't seem to feel as I should.
One of the babies died. Von, Cyann's child.
Not that either of them lacked food or drink, even
though supplies are low. Talen saw to that. But
Cyann is so slight, so weak, and Von was so
small. I think I hear Cyann. The wind carries her
sobs between the tents. The winds are lesser now.
They dropped after nightfall.
Hanos died today. Who would have thought?
Young, grinning, long-striding Hanos. Talen was
fond of him, though I doubt Hanos knew it. Talen
didn't cry -- he never does.
He comes through the flap of his tent now. He's
not surprised to find me here, I've come before on
other nights. Sometimes he sends me away like a
child although I'm the same age as he. Sometimes we
talk of the journey, of my life in Jastor. And
sometimes if he lets me I talk about how I feel about
him.
But tonight he just ignores my smile and moves
to the glow of the brazier I've just fueled with dry
Zul-dung. Talen's mouth is small and almost
delicate, yet he pulls down the corners into a
pretence of callousness. The eyes that stare at the
hands he holds up to the warmth are grey, though at
times they seem to become darker. They're like that
now -- heavy with anger and sorrow. The anger is
solely for himself -- he's lost four lives today. As
for the sorrow, perhaps that too is for himself. I
don't know. I wonder if he does. I try to
remember when I last saw light grey laughter in those
eyes. Talen never laughs with his mouth, only his
eyes, and even this he tries to hide.
I move to him slowly, carefully, and lay a
hand on his shoulder. The muscle is like rock, hard
with tension. His face snaps around. A tired
face. I don't know when he last slept.
Straightening up he jerks away from me.
"No."
We both stand without moving. The word didn't
hurt. The word is meaningless, a trickle of pain
spilled from his mouth.
He goes back to the tent flap, turns and looks
at me. His lips part, perhaps wanting to say
something well-crafted, something gentle. Yet
nothing comes, and the lack of words is full of
meaning and hurt. He passes into the darkness
outside, letting the night wash over him and
insulate his pain from me.
For maybe the first time I feel real anger
toward Talen, but I'm also afraid.
I'm afraid of the night.
There is a dream I sometimes have. In it I
take Talen in my arms and crush him to me, squeezing
darkness from his body as diseased water from
sponge. But after the darkness has gone there is
nothing left to hold.
Talen
Why didn't she shout now, throw something,
anything? Anything to make it easier for me to just
turn away and run.
I want to run, like on so many other nights in
the forests. Sometimes I'd go until I dropped, the
air whipping against me and my lungs sobbing with the
effort. Running without knowing if I was running to
or from something. Running until I hurled myself
into a nausea both jagged and liquid. A nausea to
drown thoughts and feelings, submerging a vague pain
beneath a physical one.
I want to run now. But instead I walk slowly
for the water-hole, while the winds drift and murmur
like far-away mourning over the desert. The watches
don't see me even though two of the three moons are
waxing. The brightness makes them complacent and
they pick tunes on seven-stringed quords.
I kneel by the pool. It reflects my form. The
form's hands reach up and my own reach down to meet
them but meet only water. I lift dripping palms up
to my neck. The water trickles onto my shoulders
while the music of the quords trickles through the
air. The playing is skillful, expressive,
gentle. My hands hold no such skill. Yet without me
they would all die.
Their need frightens me. I don't want the care
of their lives. Why did I come? I still want to
run -- turn into the night and not return. But
somehow I know if I run this time I'll run forever.
Mara's winds begin to freshen in preparation for
the dawn as I scour my hands for something not there.
Kerelle
Two things pass into the tent with Talen. The
first is a gust of wind, reviving for a moment the
brazier which has cooled like my anger. The second
is relief. Every time Talen leaves my sight part of
me wonders if I'll ever see him again.
I can't be sure in the dimness.
I stare at his face disbelievingly.
Talen doesn't cry.
His mouth opens and a word forces itself out.
"Kerelle?"
Then fear brushes against my relief and I
remember nightmares. But I've waited for this.
Wanted it. Of all the questions inside him this is
the only one I can answer. I take his hands and
pull him close, put my arms around him, and
squeeze.