The smell of freshly plucked grain and sliced fruit greets me as I step into the last stop on my messenger trail in Fahee, a farmer’s market the locals call “Barric’s” after the original owner. I’ve had a long journey delivering mail to and from Polaris, nine twelfth-years to be exact, and I can’t wait to get back home. Nonpa, my home village, is near the edge of the Whispering Woods, just over two days away. I stay there with my mom and older sister Linette for the winter. Just one last letter. I’m almost there.
The woven walls of the shop manage to block the bite of the Late-Fall winds but do little for the overall temperature. Luckily, my layers of cloth-wraps shield me from the cold that even the relatively moderate climate of the Protected Fields can’t avoid. My traveling gear is used to much worse when I pass over the Snow Covered Lake. The cloth doubles as protection from the harsh sub-zero gusts carrying chunks of ice and also from dragons, durable enough to withstand a moderate scratch, the thrash of a tail, or even the graze of a tooth. But if a traveler is dumb or unlucky enough to get so near the mouth of a dragon to fully get bit, not even the strongest armor is enough to save that poor soul. Even I had a close call on this trip. You’d be surprised at how the sleek ice dragons’ sheer white scales can blur against a blizzard.
Looking around the familiar farmer’s market for the round shape of the current shop owner, Barley, I’m reminded of the last time I was here three years ago. Though I was glued to my dad’s side, as I was at every stop on the messenger’s trail he was teaching me, I marveled at the rows of produce stands, overflowing with mounds of tan, gray, and green made up of millions of pebble-sized grains. Next to them were stacks of plump, bumpy, magenta fruits alongside veggies stuffed with tufts of what looked like cotton held together by intricate layers of thick green thorns. My dad taught me these are called byompi and xallips and that they can only grow under the careful safe-keeping of the magical fireshield that makes the Protected Fields protected from the dragons. I’m relieved to see that the stands now are just as abundant as they were during that last visit with my dad. And I’m strangely comforted by the fact that nothing seems to have changed.
A sharp grunt sounds from the other side of the shop, and I turn to see Barley with an expression of momentary fright shown through his heavy beard, which quickly gives way to an eruption of laughter.
“Lyle, my boy, you scared me half to death,” he wheezes. The rims of the shopkeeper’s worn hat flop atop his sandy-brown hair as he continues to chuckle. “You’re wrapped up like a mummy or some kind of ghost.”
“Sorry, Barley,” I reply in common speak. I’m starting to miss Nonpa’s native language, even though I grew up speaking both. I reach toward the back of my neck to unpin the head wrap that covers all but my gray eyes. “I completely forgot how my traveling gear appears to others.”
Once the long strand of sand-colored cloth is rolled up and placed in my handy cross-shoulder bag, I shake loose some of the natural waves in my blonde hair, grimacing at how short it has to be cut for my trek through Rhim over the warmer seasons between each Frost. Don’t let the word “warmer” fool you, though. The Snow Covered Lake and the Ice Desert, though more bearable, stay dark and frozen year-round despite being in the middle of Rhim. No one really knows why, but some of the elders in Nonpa, the ones more in tune with the ancient magic, say it has to do with the movements of rocks that weave between the clouds and moon.
Barley sits down at a corner near the back of the shop, flipping through some pages of tallies and crude glyphs. “So, what brings you in today?”
“Letter for Baylen,” I state, pulling the neatly folded parchment from its spot next to where I tucked my head wrap. Baylen is Barley’s nephew. Even though he’s only a couple years older than me, fifteen as compared to my thirteen, he’s still in charge of managing the entirety of his family’s farm while Barley runs the shop. Baylen and I briefly met the last time I stopped by, though the interaction was mostly just my dad conversing with his uncle about us while we awkwardly smiled at each other from a distance. Baylen did give me some candied xallip skins, but I was too shy to even say thank you.
“You’re in luck! Bay’s in the back looking over some records.”
“What great timing!” I say, stepping over to hand the letter to Barley.
“Nonsense,” he protests, pushing the letter back toward me. “Come in and get warm. Bay’s just back that way in the gathering room.” Barley is pointing through a hallway behind the shop that leads to his house.
“But…”
“I won’t hear it, my boy. You must come in and at least have some byompi to fuel the rest of your journey.”
Figuring it would take less time to agree and visit than debate any further, I thank the insistently hospitable man, tuck the letter away, and duck into the hallway. Instantly, the promise of a nearby fire envelops me in warmth, prompting me to briefly set down both my bag and my bulky backpack to unwrap my upper body as well. I’m left in the more breathable white cotton underneath and drag my packs the rest of the way.
A few more steps and I find the gathering room where Baylen sits on a green couch, hovering over scattered sheets of paper, some with the familiar writing of Rhim and Oniva’s common language and others with the same marks as the pages Barley was examining out front. Another almost buried piece of parchment peeks out from under the rest, one containing an ancient-looking script I can’t read. I drop my bags and step forward.
“What language is that?” I ask before I can think not to. This seems to startle Baylen out of his focus, and he looks up, brushing aside hair somewhere between the color of ash and almonds to reveal eyes a shade of blue, which I know to be rare for this area of Rhim. But they match the faded farmer’s tunic that falls across his lean shoulders and over his tan pants stained with brown, green, and magenta on the knees.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m…”
“Lyle, right?” Baylen interjects, shifting on the cushion. Seeing my nod, he keeps going, “I remember you. You’re Mo’s boy, the messenger’s son. Is your dad here, too?”
I drop my gaze and shake my head. “We think he passed away Early-Winter, almost two years ago.”
“Oh…my condolences.”
“Thank you.”
This isn’t the first time this has happened this trip, and most times I leave it at that. But for some reason, I feel more details start to rise and spill out, “He was delivering an emergency message to Polaris.” I look up to see Baylen’s eyebrows are furrowed in sympathy and his coral lips are pressed thin. I look away again.
“The Frost was late that year.” I continue. “He thought he could make it. We didn’t know until…we couldn’t know until…” I have to stop. Tears were pressing against the skin below my eyes, threatening to jump up and out if I didn’t stop, and so help me, I will not cry in some stranger’s house about my dead dad, about how my mom, sister, and I didn’t know until he didn’t come back.
I want to bolt, get home to my mom’s root cake. I’ll even listen to Linette rant about her mage training with the elders, even though she forgets not all of us know how focuses and runes work.
“You were asking about Meerian?”
“What?” I stammer, looking up. Baylen is holding up the paper with the ancient script. “Oh, yes, the language.”
Baylen gives me a small smile, lips still pressed together, and then slides over to make a space for me on the couch. Grateful for the distraction, I accept his invite by taking the seat, trying to quietly keep calm by breathing through my mouth.
“This is Meerian, an ancient language native to Rhim,” Baylen starts explaining. “Many dispersed tribes still speak versions of this language, though the descending languages have changed so much, the ancestor is barely recognizable.” Baylen stops for a moment, focusing once again on the words.
While wondering if Nonpa’s language is among them, I notice the byompi Barley was talking about is neatly sliced and placed on the table next to the rest of Baylen’s papers. Taking a slice of magenta fruit, I first peel off the bumpy skin, dip it into the bowl containing some sort of nut butter, and then dip it into the syrupy liquid in the other bowl. When I take a bite, I realize the second dip is honey. The seeds burst and the flavors blend on my tongue. I understand now why this dish is so popular and why the people in Fahee are so adamant about travelers trying it.
“Oh, here’s a good spot,” Baylen chimes. I follow to where his finger points on the page. “See this letter? It looks similar to our ‘oh’ and makes that same sound, too. But this one over here includes a phoneme that our language doesn’t have, a ‘thv’.”
“‘Th’?” I voice, trying to not get too caught up on what a ‘phoneme’ is.
Baylen chuckles a bit. His laugh isn’t deep and bellowing like his uncle’s, but it’s still bright and warming. “Not quite. But it’s really hard to get, so don’t feel too bad. It took me almost a year to completely learn this alphabet, to be able to read, write, and pronounce it. My mom was patient, but I feared she’d refuse to keep teaching me after that.”
His mom. My dad told me her name was Marina and she was married to Barley’s younger brother, Bentley. Baylen lost both of his parents four years ago to the plague in 1230. He was eleven years old. And despite being the one to care for them the whole time they were sick, he never got so much as a runny nose, or at least that’s what my dad told me on our return trip the last time we passed through Fahee. Eleven. And here I am, thirteen, almost crying about my dad when Baylen had to witness the slow and brutal deaths of both his parents at age eleven, wondering with each fever break or swelled-down boil if their lives were spared only to witness their last, shaky breaths.
I hear Baylen draw in a sharp breath through his nose. From the look on his face, I’d guess he’s probably thinking about the same thing. Except for him, their deaths are actual memories, not just some story to listen to while passing through hill after hill of long, flowing grass, snacking on wild berries and whittling whistles out of sticks.
“Oh,” I remark, the memory of my dad reminding me. “I have a letter for you.” I lean over the side of the couch to fish for the message. “It’s from Polaris.”
“Uncle Reed?” Baylen guesses.
I peer at the writing at the top containing the standard information: for, to, from… “Mmhm.”
“Thanks,” he replies when I hand it to him.
“You don’t sound very happy about it,” I notice, reaching for another slice of fruit. Baylen does the same, but dips his only in the honey.
“Yeah, it’s just that every letter from him reminds me of what I gave up to stay in Fahee and take over the family farm.” I watch him take a bite of the fruit and realize I don’t know what he means. Seeing my puzzled look, he explains. “When I was a kid and started showing interest in languages, history, and philosophy, my uncle suggested that once I got older, I could move to Polaris and stay with him and the rest of my mom’s family to pursue the higher education only found in the big city.”
“What made you stay?”
“My dad,” Baylen shrugs, finishing off the slice. “I knew he wanted what was best for me and would still love me even if I left, but I also know he desperately wanted me to stay. He loved teaching me about the fields, and after they passed, I knew I couldn’t leave. Plus, farming helps me feel closer to him still.”
I nod. “I feel that way, too. Honestly, I’ve been trying to get home as fast as possible, but I guess I’m really just running from how much this journey reminds me of my dad because it makes me miss him so much. He had so much more to teach me and experience with me. It’s hard to witness each moment and think how much more it would mean if he was there, too.”
I meet Baylen’s eyes again to see he is giving me another thin-lipped, sympathetic-eyebrow smile. And I smile back, something comforting settling in me. I’m not sure even time will completely take away the longing, the grief, the pain, but it does help to know I’m not alone.
If someone were to walk in, they might take the pause as an awkward silence, but the silence feels right somehow, like it’s okay for us to just sit here. But I know this can’t last forever.
“Well,” I say, standing up. “Thank you for the fruit and for everything else. When I first got here, I was focused on just getting home, but this has been nice, to just be able to sit and reflect and learn new things. But I’m thinking I really should head out soon. My mom and sister are expecting me back any day now.”
“Sure.”
I leave Baylen, who’s staring blankly at the letter in his hand, and walk over to my bag. Pulling out my torso wrap, I pin the end in place before slowly bringing the cloth around and around.
“Would you like some rice and dried byompi for the journey?” Baylen asks, setting the unopened letter on the table and standing up. “As payment for the letter or just as a gift.”
“That would be great. Thank you.”
By the time Baylen comes back, I’m completely wrapped again. Like a mummy, I think with a smile.
Baylen hands me a surprisingly light sack roped off with a strong knot and a rectangular package tied with twine. Thanking him again, I tuck the goods into my backpack and pile my gear back on. He follows me out to the front of the shop where Barley is now chuckling away while conversing with a young couple about prices and trades and surprisingly also town gossip. Only Barley could turn a negotiation into actually enjoyable chit-chat. Before I know it, we’re at the door. And it’s time to say goodbye.
“Thank you again for having me,” I start.
“Thank you for stopping by,” Baylen replies, and he seems to truly mean it. “And please, stop by again, letter or no letter. And if I’m not here, and it’s not too far out of your way, you’re always welcome to stop by my place out in the fields by the barrier. I don’t talk to a lot of people around my age anymore and certainly don’t mull over phonetics as much as I loved learning about them as a kid. I’d love to pick your brain about dragons and your village, too, if you’d let me.”
“Absolutely,” I smile. If my mouth wasn’t covered by the wrap, my teeth would have been showing. “That’s certainly a stop worth adding to my trail.”
“I’ll see you in a bit, then.”
“Yes, see you then.”
With that, I head out the door and embark into a breeze that doesn’t feel nearly as cold anymore. For so long, I’ve just been Mo’s boy, the messenger’s son. But now, I’m at the end of my first solo trail, but I don’t feel so alone. I feel like this is the start of a strong friendship that will last a very long time. And that makes me feel like I’m finally making connections and friends just like my dad, but this time as a messenger myself.
Rebekah Cook
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