The gentle hum of an external transport pod grows louder and deeper as it hovers above the Abbai desert, cutting through the golden sand, leaving behind it a long cloud trail. The winds of the Abbai carry not only sand, but the powdered remains of scorched, brittle bones. Baked by the unyielding intensity of the sun, the fragile sands are stirred like the sea, revealing the shallow, open graves of those who failed to endure. Even so, once again a solitary figure, small in stature, wrapped in the protective layers of worn and beaten robes, wades through the deep dunes, slowly trudging north towards a distant refuge.
As the transport pod draws near, the figure stops. As she turns towards the approaching pod, her long, white hair ripples across her face. Her eyes all but closed, the woman lifts her head as the transport pod glides to a stop beside her.
The pod window slides open. “What are you doing out here?” shouts a man, through the raging wind, “You’ll die out here, if the Grangor doesn’t get you first!”
The woman nods her head before she turns and continues walking. The man turns and looks at his wife, who sits next to a young girl holding a young child. She shakes her head at the man, widening her eyes and raising her eyebrows. The man pushes his face out of the window once more.
“Keep going! Solita is a few miles that way,” he shouts before closing the window.
The small town lies between the parched Abbai and the cool sun-kissed coast of Eastern Arn. Tucked behind small hills to the west, Solita is almost three days walk from its nearest neighbour, the city of Idra, upon the East coast of Arn. As the pod glides away, the woman continues trudging through the deep, soft sand, squeezing her staff in her hand, pulling her robes tightly around her face.
Ambling down the southern road, towards the edge of town, Lguen, a tall, slim, bearded man, stares down at his hands, flexing and extending his long, lissom fingers. The golden sand beneath his feet is suddenly interrupted by a long shadow reaching right across the wide road. Lguen stops, looking over his hands, recognising the unsettling shape of a lynching frame. As he turns to look up, Lguen is dazzled by the bright sunlight. He steps to one side, finding shade in the shadow of the huge wooden mast. At the top of the mast, the withered body of a small boy hangs by the wrists, suspended by ropes tied to hooks in the top corners of a square wooden frame. His ankles are tied to hooks in the bottom corners, but the extension of the boy’s distorted, dehydrated torso, has created enough slack to allow him to flap and flutter in the wind. The boy’s body is so dry, holes have begun to appear in his skin. Flesh beetles swarm silently above him, struggling to contest the raging current of strong winds.
Lguen continues walking, the quiet street accentuating the creaking and rattling of the stretching ropes and loose metal couplings.
Grasping at fragile hopes of fortune and privilege, two small boys make vicious attempts to strike each other with long wooden staffs. The promise of a genuine conflict along with handsome wages, dangles before them, blinding their fear, and numbing their pain. Through a small hole, in a large crack in a rear block wall, wide watchful eyes glisten, as the staffs snap loudly together and begin to splinter.
Behind the cracked wall, lies Desta, a teenage girl with eyes so red, they glow in the darkness of the void between the ceiling and the roof. Her elbows pressed against the wall, Desta’s chin rests upon her forearms, as she lies on the wooden boards, wriggling her feet in satisfaction. The two boys stop fighting and both step back to catch their breath. As they rest, Desta looks further up the hill, to two older children who appear to be wrestling in the long grass.
Desta flinches at the sound of wooden pots ringing out beneath her. She jumps up, smacking her head against the roof beam. Desta crawls across the floorboards, past folded clothes, cups and bowls, past her bed, her blankets, and a small collection of broken tools. She opens the trap door in the floor and slides through the gap, emerging atop of the large chest in the bedrest below.
As Desta rushes into the kitchen, her father, Lguen, is on his knees, picking up the wooden bowls and attempting to load them into a small cart.
“Father?” says Desta, as she watches through a veil of concern. As Lguen struggles to grip the wood, another bowl slides from his grasp, hitting the edge of the cart before it cracks against the stone floor.
Desta picks up the bowl. “Your hands now!”
“I know,” says Lguen. “Do not worry Desta, your father is much more than a pair of hands.”
Quickly Desta picks up the remaining bowls and stacks them neatly into the cart. “But how will you craft?” she asks.
“I cannot, at least not well enough to exchange for value. I must find another trade,” says Lguen, as he sits down on a small wooden stool beside the low kitchen table.
“But what can you do without your hands?” asks Desta, her eyes beginning to glaze.
Lguen lets out a sigh before he lifts his head to look upon Desta’s face. “Desta! It is not your place, nor your responsibility to worry about these things. I will visit the town council, perhaps they will find for me manual labour that does not require such dexterity.”
“What?”
“It means skill, usually that by hand,” says Lguen.
“And what if they find you no work?” asks Desta.
“Then I will have to look elsewhere.”
“But what if…” Desta flinches as she is loudly interrupted.
“It is not your place to worry! Do not try to turn this to your favour. I am still responsible for you, hands or no hands!”
“Even now you will not let me help!” cries Desta.
“You are helping, being here is helping! I cannot collect the water without you, I cannot repair this beaten old block alone. I need you to be patient Desta, now more than ever.”
“And what is it that I’m supposed to wait for? How long am I to stay this way?”
“Desta, you are enamoured by the outside world. I know how much you wish to leave this place, but we are in no position to do so now.”
“You keep saying that, the same thing over and over! What are you waiting for? She’s not coming back!”
“I know,” says Lguen.
“Do you?”
“I’m sorry Desta, I truly am, but when the kingdom of the…”
“No!” shouts Desta, “No, I have no time for miracles! They are your beliefs, not mine. I’ve heard the people tell of truths, what is really happening beyond our pathetic little town. Nobody is safe anymore, so why hide?”
“How else am I to protect you,” says Lguen, as Desta storms out of the kitchen. “I gave her my word.”
Lguen casts neither eye over Desta’s abrupt exit, his head hung in tired and all too familiar despair. Lguen watches his rigid fingers slowly contract, as he attempts to move them as quickly as he can. He reaches out and runs his fingers over the soft grooves of the heavy grain. His heart reaches for the comfort that remains absent in the empty seat on the other side of the table. His tired body swaying slightly with each shallow, heavy breath.
The fringes of the Solita market brim with the gentle flurry of trade. As people pull their carts through the wide streets, the golden uniforms of the Arn Guard are all that separate the colourful, dusty robes of eager consumers. The traders rush to load their stock onto their stalls and sale carts, erecting sun canopies and trading signage. Pushing through the crowd, the opportunistic and zealous few rush to purchase the freshest or the rarest of stock.
Behind his trade cart, taking a crate from his son, Tyn, Badon turns to address an approaching customer.
“Badon,” says the man, as he lets go of his cart handles.
“Maurile,” says Badon. “Give me a moment please.” Badon drops the crate onto his cart and wipes the dust from his hands onto his robes. “It is good to see you so well.”
“And you Badon,” says Maurile.
While Maurile picks out the best of Badon’s Fruits of Vale, Tyn continues to load the trade cart. A firm hand lands softly upon Badon’s back before he turns to face a tall Arn Guard who smiles back at him.
“My love,” says Badon, caught in a longing gaze into his wife’s dark green, magnetic eyes.
Laneen squeezes Badon’s hand before glancing over at Tyn. Pressed against the polished breastplate of her uniform is a small bundle of blankets. Badon pulls the blankets to one side, revealing the smooth plump face of a small child. He kisses the child above the brow, letting go of Laneen’s hand.
“Badon,” says Laneen. “Send Tyn to collect Oisee this night.”
“What, why?” says Badon. “No, no, I will collect her, he needs experience closing trade.”
“Does he not need experience in this?”
“Of course,” says Badon. “Of course, you are right. Perhaps your mother should accompany him.”
“He will be fine,” says Laneen as she strides past the cart into the road. “Until again my love.”
“Until again,” says Badon, smiling at Laneen before turning to Maurile.
As the sun creeps across the clear sky the stock levels fall. Trade is good once again, and the people of Solita fill the streets. Working up a sweat, Tyn rushes between urgent customers at the cart and the remaining stock at the rear of the storage hold.
“Tyn, slow down,” says Badon. “These people are not going anywhere, the quicker the supply the quicker the demand.”
“Yes, father,” says Tyn.
As the two of them are serving customers, there is a small crash as a crate falls to the ground inside the storage hold. Badon glances over his shoulder before almost immediately returning his attention to the customer. Moments pass before once again a tumbling sound rings out from the hold.
“Tyn, check the stock,” says Badon, glancing over his shoulder once more.
Tyn finishes serving his customer and steps into the hold. He picks up a small crate, looking around the darkened room, in search of any sign of unstable fixing, or broken crate framing. Tyn returns the fallen crate to its frame hole and scurries back to the cart.
“We thank you for your custom,” says Badon before turning to Tyn. “Anything?”
Tyn curls his bottom lip and shakes his head before both of them turn sharply towards yet another noise in the hold. They step carefully towards the dark doorway, as customers peer past them in an attempt to discover what it is that demands their trader’s full attention.
“Hey! You can’t just take that! Thief!” cries one of the customers, as she reaches toward the arm of a cloaked figure.
Badon glances at the mirror above the door to the hold before he turns and rushes towards the cart. As he catches a glimpse of the thief darting into the street, Badon leaps around the cart to give chase.
“Stop!” cries Badon. “Stop right there you filthy thief!”
Tyn rushes back to the cart just in time to see his father disappear into the crowd. “Fadhal, watch my cart!” says Tyn as he hurries by a tall slender trader, slapping his hand on his back as he passes.
“Sure,” says Fadhal quietly, “I don’t mind running your business for you. No Problem!”
Tyn hurries up the steps onto the mezzanine balcony above the traders in the main road. As he runs beside the golden sandstone balustrades, the distance between the thief and Badon increases by the second. Tyn stops, he watches as the thief turns and runs towards the new blocks in the East sector. Again Tyn bursts into a sprint, scurrying down the steps on the other side of the mezzanine and disappearing into the side streets.
Badon gasps for breath, leaning over and resting his heavy hands on his weary knees. As he stands tall, inhaling deeply, Badon catches sight of Tyn, as he races down a narrow street and disappears beyond the surrounding blocks.
“Move-move! Watch out! Move!” cries Tyn, as he darts through the crowd.
The thief looks over their shoulder, then leaps into the air landing on the wooden shade of a trade stall.
“What mockery is this!” says Tyn, his mouth hung open, as he watches the thief leap from one stall to the next. Suddenly, Tyn slams into a large burly man and tumbles to the ground. As quickly as he falls, Tyn is back on his feet. “My fault Sorry,” he shouts over his shoulder before catching sight of the escaping thief in the distance.
The thief scurries around the corner of the milling block, skidding to a stop. Deterred by the shadow of a wall standing at least six storeys tall, the thief slowly removes her hood. As she stands perplexed, surprised by this new addition to her familiar route out of the town centre, the sound of pounding feet brings an end to her inanimate reverie. She turns sharply as Tyn skids into the alley.
“I have you,” says Tyn, gasping for breath.
As he peers into the young girl’s eyes, she steps back slowly, her eyes dancing around the alley, until she looks skyward. There’s no way out, the walls of the surrounding blocks have no windows. The yellow stone is smooth and uninterrupted from top to bottom.
“I didn’t take much, please, you must let me go,” says the girl, pulling her hood over her head.
Tyn tilts his brow, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Do I know you?”
The girl steps back into the deep shadow of the block. Tyn steps towards her, his chest still billowed by fatigue. “Just hand it over, whatever you took, and I’ll tell my father you dropped it and got away.”
The girl frowns, although her reaction is barely visible in the dark corner of the dead end. “Why, why would you do that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” asks Tyn.
“Just let me go, please.”
“Then hand it over,” says Tyn, holding out his open hand, as he takes another step forward.
“I can’t,” says the girl.
“What? Why not? What did you take?” asks Tyn.
“Two pappe fruits and some Gonua seeds.”
“Gonua? And do you still have them?”
“Yes, but, I’m not, I can’t, you wouldn’t understand! Please, just get out of my way!”
“If you don’t hand them over I will have to explain to my father why I let you get away. I cannot do that, nor can I lie to him. So you have a choice, either you hand them over, or I take you to Arn Guard.”
Tyn lowers his hand to his side, the aggressive intent embedded in his brow is quelled by the sound of sharp breaths and sniffling. “Are you crying?”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“I bet,” says Tyn quietly. “Are you all right?”
“He left me no choice.”
“What are you talking about?” asks Tyn. “I don’t have time for this, I must get back to the cart.” He takes another step forward, widening his stance and folding his arms. “Hand them over now, or…”
Tyn is interrupted by a sudden gust of wind, as the girl leaps into the air and propels herself from one side of the alley to the other, gracefully scaling the walls until she reaches the very top.
“How did she… She must be…” says Tyn under his breath, staring up at the girl, with his mouth hung open.
The girl turns around and leans over the edge of the block. She looks down at Tyn for a moment, almost apologetically turning her head to one side before she quickly disappears.