Conscious thought was a novel new country. Ch’Byartha had existed, barely, for some time now—part of the nature of which was not knowing how time passed within its borders—in a semi-dreamlike state, drifting in and out of bizarre worlds of pain and fear. He knew not which parts were real, which were complete fantasy and which were a terrible bleeding together of both. Fever dreams filled with monsters and misery and a pressing need to tell people dreadfully important things he could not remember. It frustrated him to desperation This aching need to communicate vital things, life changing things, life saving things his mind was convinced it knew yet never found opportunity to express, or indeed, even remember exactly what they were. All it could remember was the terrible pressing urge to convey them.
And now he was awake, aware of reality, such as it was, and the feeling bled away like the shadows of night before a sunny Spring morning in the Western Savannah. Or was it only wearing a mask now? Had it disguised itself as a half-forgotten dream? Was he forgetting something? Did he care? The sun was warm on his face, he could hear countless birds. The oxcart he rode in was not terribly bumpy as the highways here were smooth and well made. His pain was moderate but familiar. The child had lived, they had escaped Aedlin as he promised. The fact that it was by no feat of his did not distress him. He had never truly known how they were going to get out. The world was as pleasant as it could be, and he was quite inclined to enjoy its hospitality.
“And din Ch’loi busted you outta box and din she busted up the Army guy and din we hid inna bottom of a wagon dat hadda secret closet! And din we hid inna house with dese nice people only dey wasn’t so nice afta dere baby died and dey left us to rot inna city!” The child was filling in some of his blanks, in her way.
“Seems I missed a great deal of adventure and derring do,” Ch’Byartha lamented.
“You was dere,” she told him.
“In body, yes, love, my mind and spirit however were off wandering and wondering where my body had gotten to.”
“Ch’loi carried you.”
“She did, didn’t she. One wonders why she would go through so much trouble for a simple guide she had found so easy to leave behind before.” He deliberately baited these conversational hooks every hour or so, so far, no bites. The child didn’t seem to mind them but for all of the response he got from Ch’loi, she might as well not be on the wagon with them.
The driver, a man named Mowosa, said, “Over that rise then, mistress. T’would expect to meet a sentry of a sort before we reach it.”
Sure enough, not long after a distant voice hailed them, “That’s far enough then!” To Ch’Byartha’s ears, it echoed not just off the surrounding hills but off a nagging, horribly mangled memory. Mowosa brought his team up, “Ho there, Bezzie. Ho there Blue,” and the cart stopped. Noises settled similarly to dust, Ch’Byartha thought. It took them a moment to clear but eventually there was a silence of sorts. Since going blind, Ch’Byartha never ceased to be amazed at how many sounds he had never even noticed when sighted. The silence stretched out. Then, “Who goes there?” a new voice, “State your intent.”
“That you, Glynn? It’s Mowosa Beka! Bringing wares and provisions and passengers from the capital.”
“Hey Mo! What kind of passengers?”
“Those seeking an audience with the Saree.”
“Someone is sneaking up behind us,” Ch’Byartha told them.
“Your ears have grown sharp, Mr. Din Allorowro.”
“Or your steps have grown clumsy with age and fatness. Amis! I embarrass and shame my vocabulary and wit with my inability to express to you how painfully delightful it is to hear your voice again! Why aren’t you dead? Or are we dead? Was this cart more than just metaphor for the passage into the bosom of the Almighty? Mowosa, you scoundrel! Are you Charon? Why didn’t you tell us you were the ferryman of Styx?” Ch’Byartha held his weak hands in the air, where massive, powerful ones gripped them with honest affection.
“You are not dead, O garrulous one,” the deep rumble of Amisbhake’s voice chuckled, “and that surprises me as much as my presence does you, rumors and gossip are all I’ve had of you since we parted and they alone curl my tail and lay my ears flat.”
“Seems then there are tales to tell but that is thirsty work and best done over a hearty meal and something warm to drink! What are we standing around in the road for like a rafter of turkeys gobbling and gabbling? Take us to Chofa! Let’s the reunion begin in earnest!”
“Peace, Kurga, or is it Ch’Byartha now? There is much to speak of, true, but there is also much to do and I’m afraid the reunion will have to wait.”
“One very much desires to see the Primary,” Ch’loi finally spoke.
“And he very much desires to see you as well, your highness, but he is not here. As I said, there is much work to be done and he is off about it. As we shall soon be. But come, there is time for food.”
“Thank Yah for that!” Ch’Byartha exclaimed. “Oh, Amis, this is Ch’loi, Ch’loi, this is Amisbhake, he’s the loyal servant and bodyguard you traded for a worthless, zombie people-sucker and then left to die, you might remember.”
Silence.
Amis broke it just before Ch’Byartha exploded in real anger, “And who is this rare desert flower?” Ch’Byartha, so intent upon his rage and hurt, mentally stumbled over Amis’ question. Then he finally remember the child.
“Oh! Oh, my gram would have my knuckles for my rudeness! Dear child, please forgive me,” he couldn’t yet help emphasizing every word, please, forgive, me! As if he could teach them to Ch’loi. “This is the High Counselor of the Court of Chofa the Wise and Benevolent, former master of the Western Pastures, Amisbhake the Muscularity! Amis, while waiting many a moon on the meager streets of the doomed city of Aedlin for one unworthy friend, Yah gave me a far more charitable one. We found each other’s company more agreeable than our loneliness and it took much of the bitter edge off of my sojourn there. But alas and alack, what her dear, departed mother named her none can say, for she has survived by her wit and the grace of Yahweh since weaned.”
“You have no name, child?”
“Nossir.”
“What do people call you?”
“Lotta dings.”
“What do the people who care about you call you?”
“Who dey?”
Ch’Byartha had faced Monotooth, nearly died of fever, lived as a beggar on the streets for months, been tortured and in a coma for he knew not how long and nothing of that cut his soul deeper than this one honest question from the child. He let go of Amis and reached out and found the young orphan. Once again he said, “Child, please forgive me!”
This time he meant it.
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