ONE

“He came in gray morning,
passing the gate,
magic in hand,
a specter of fate.”

                                      —Song of the Stranger

Black and coiled like nesting dragons, the thick limbs of the thorn forest choked out the weak light of morning.  Since the thorny branches arched high overhead—clawing at the ever-present storm clouds—the pebbled path floored a woven tunnel. 

Arcadia almost ran, swishing her legs in her gray dress to the timing of a tune she hummed; a song in her thoughts that was wholly hers, not one of those approved by the teachers for the children to sing.  Most of the priests would have frowned hearing such effortless joy. 

She would put away such freedom once she reached Knob Village.  For now, she enjoyed the soaring notes.  They distracted her from the rocks poking her feet through the thin soles of her sandals.

A cool wind brushed her bare neck, exposed with her hair up, a braided crown around her head.  Her mother had done her hair, saying even a wood-cutter’s daughter could look like a princess.  She carried a small bag with the lunch her mother had given her and a cup to drink from the fountain, as if her hands couldn’t cup water perfectly fine.

Arcadia paused where an opening to the side of the path appeared.  She’d heard the chopping in the night and knew this might happen.  Word among the chopper families was that a mighty man with a monstrous ax had appeared and he was turning back the thorns to baptize the common folk in sunlight. 

The Priests of the Storm and Thorn were irritated.  She’d heard them at bell-call; teaching that Man’s wicked heart had broken the world and brought thorns and storm-cloud as divine punishment and that only by enduring piety could one be made worthy of better. 

To fight the thorns was seen as defiance of Heaven.  It was only with need and the dispensation of the priests that cutting the thorn was even allowed.  A blessing for which they collected a fee, as if the poor needed to be made poorer.  The priests seemed always hungry for coin.

She’d heard her father talk of the Great Chopper a number of times: “This is a good man.  Awash in warm golden light, he brings us a taste of Heaven.  How can it be wrong?”

Momma had hushed him, turning to Arcadia.  “Such things aren’t to be spoken of in the village.  We don’t need the priests singling us out for correction.”

Her father hmphed at that then fell silent.  If the priests were to ban them from the village, he’d earn no coins for his wood.  And thorn was many things but not tasty.  Only the screamers—like souls in pain—prowling the high branches enjoyed eating the thorn.  These outer lands were the homes of common animals and the very common poor, mostly hunter and chopper families.  Though it was said; in the thickest darkness, unnatural beasts waited to devour the unwary, for it was a cursed land.

Arcadia stared into the new clearing, a vast expanse of stumps.  And a great fire burning, turning thorn to ash.  It was said that those who went to the Great Chopper, who felt the golden warmth, were smudged on their heads with ash, a sign of a better world on the way.  Such ideas stirred her dreams. 

What would such a world look like? 

Her stare caught on two men in the clearing, standing on a great stump where the blade of a resting ax had bitten deep and the handle slanted up to the sky.  The ax looked larger than any man should be able to handle.  She thought it would take her father and two neighbors just to carry around. 

Her father had said that the golden light gave the Great Chopper the strength to wield such a thing.  She recognized the Great Chopper by his fur wrap and long, black beard, a nearly bestial figure.  He was tall, and twice as wide as any man she’d ever seen.  His hair was long and his bare arms were massive, like carved stone.  They seemed far too big for the rest of him.  And he wore leather gloves to protect his hands from bleeding with the ax work. 

Next to him, staring up in the golden warmth, was a stranger.  As she watched, it seemed a great golden explosion of wings surrounded the man, as if some spirit of sky had come at his calling.  Even as such a whimsy occurred to her, the blur of wings vanished as if it were never there.

The Stranger settled a friendly hand on the mighty shoulder of the Great Chopper and turned in her direction. 

Suddenly shy, she skipped back and around some thorn, wary of the blood-hungry tips. 

The Stranger came out of the great clearing and passed her, carrying a sack over one of his shoulders.  He turned toward the village, passing without a word to her. 

She let him get ahead and then followed.  Soon, they both left the tunnel in the thorn forest, entering the clearing where a great knob of stone made a massive hill.  The village was planted on the knob and mortared to its side.  Towers, temple, the great houses, and the lesser, all surrounded by a high wall, a perch for crows who saw everything with little, red beady eyes. 

Climbing the hill, approaching the main gate, she saw it standing open.  The Keeper interrogated the stranger. 

Her song died in her throat as she considered the visitor.  Such were rare in the Valley of Thorns.  Even the great Chopper had been born here.  The traveler had a worn, canvas cloak, long and dusty.  Oddly, his feet were bare, as if he didn’t mind the bruising of the road.  His pack bulged with unknown mysteries.

Whatever could be in there!

The Keeper worried over the stranger.  “What do you mean you have no name?”

“I have too many, in fact.”  The stranger’s voice was a smooth flowing river, deep and sweet.  “And none of them fit quite right. I’m hoping to find the perfect name here.”

“Well then,” the Keeper said, “what is your business?  You’re not one of those beggars that sits in the streets, shaming folks out of their good coins, are you?”

“I have coins enough and begging is not my way.  I do not lack for provisions.”  His hand swung up, displaying a gold ring.  The metal blushed a rosy hue.  The golden stone in the setting contained a star; a stone from legends.  She actually remembered a figure painted on an inner temple wall, a man wearing such a ring.  Arcadia didn’t think even Mayor Thorn had such a fine ring.

The Stranger was more than a traveling peddler.  But What?  The mystery teased her mind.

“Well, I suppose you’re all right.  Come on in, Stranger.”  The Keeper swung the gate open a little more, stepping to the side so the Stranger could enter. 

Before he did, he turned and gave Arcadia a piercing stare.  His look was too open and accepting to be rude, but was certainly startling.  As surprising as his eyes: gold with a rosy blush just like the band of his ring.  Like red-gold pools, they beckoned you to come and plunge into an alien sea. 

She shivered.

He smiled and turned back toward the gate.  A few steps and he was gone. 

She hurried to follow, calling a greeting to the Keeper who kept them all safe.  “Good morning, sir.”

He blinked at her.  “Oh, you’re here already.  Come in, girl.  Don’t drag your feet.”

“Yes, sir.”  She passed him with scarcely a glance for his ancient armor and great gray, drooping mustache.  The dangling lengths were braided as prescribed in the ancient Book of Propriety from which the Shrine-keeper read on holy days.  Hurrying, she looked to see where the Stranger had gone.  She saw him ahead in the Village Square, splashing cold water from the fountain’s basin into his face, cleaning off dust.

She slowed as she approached.  Curious, but restrained by his strangeness.  She stopped behind him as he straightened.  He spoke to her without turning around.

“What do you seek?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then how will you know if it passes you on the road?”

“I…don’t know.”

He laughed quietly to himself.  “An honest answer at least.  You do not know how rare those are in this world.”  He turned and sat on the rim of the basin. 

She didn’t think it was quite proper, but knew of no exact rule against it.  Beneath his heavy coat, he wore a tunic of creamy blue, belted with braids of white leather.  Oddly, his face was shaved clean of stubble.  He had no beard to weave.  He slipped his pack off his back and settled it at his feet.

She couldn’t help but stare at his bare feet.  “Are you going to buy shoes?”

“Why would I need shoes?”

“To protect your feet from thorns and rocks.”

“But then I’d miss the soft caress of the grass and the refreshment of streams.”

“You could always take your shoes off when needed.”

“I suppose I could, but some have said my feet are my best feature.  Certainly, my face is plain.”

She studied his face: smooth of lines, lacking cares, timeless like a statue, with nothing remarkable to distinguish it.  “I suppose that is right.”

He laughed again.  “Another honest answer.  Is that your gift; plain speaking?”

“Can such a thing be a gift?” she asked.    

He shrugged. “There are blessings that become curses, and curses that becoming blessings.  It’s all in the flipping.”

“Do you have a gift?” she asked.

“I have every gift in my bag.”  He nudged the pack with his foot.  “Would you like one?”

“I have no coins.  My family is very poor.”

“I asked for no coins.”  He bent and opened his bag, lifting it and holding it out toward her.  “Why don’t you reach in and see what your hand finds?”

After hesitating a moment, she did.  Her hand went in, then her whole arm.  She leaned on one foot, as if the sack had no bottom and she could well fall in.  But something slapped into her hand.  Her fingers curled around something long and smooth.  She pulled it out and stared.  Arcadia held a tube of wood with holed in top and a small block tied on with a length of leather.  One end had a small hole.  The opposite end was fully open.  Red and gold grains added a natural beauty.

“What is it?” she asked.

He set his bag down and took the wooden length from her hand.  His fingertips covered the holes on top.  He blew into the small hole on the end.  A slightly sad run of notes filled the space between them until he stopped blowing.  “It is a Spirit-voice flute.”

“It sounds sad.”

“Perhaps I am a little sad today.”  He handed it back to her. 

“Oh, no!  It is too fine a gift.  Surely, you could sell that for money and have warm bread and stew for many meals.”

“I don’t sell my gifts.  I give them away.  It is really the only way to keep anything.  Speaking of which…”  He held out a long bag with a drawstring mouth on top.  “Something to carry you flute in, for protection.  Treasures draw attention.  Not all attention is good.”

She took the tube of bright green cloth and slipped the flute inside, then cinched the mouth of the bag shut.  The bag was a little large.  Several flutes could have slipped inside.  She held the bag tightly in both hands.  “Thank you!”

He shrugged.  “I may be back this way one day and I like to think I’ll find a welcoming song riding the winds and at least one heart that remembers me.”

“I will remember,” she promised.

“You’d better go,” he said.  “It looks like your school is opening over there where the children have gathered.”

She turned to look.  “Oh!  yes.  I don’t want to be late.”  She offered him a last smile and ran from the fountain square.

Arcadia filed in with the rest of the students and took her seat at her regular desk.  It was scaled down to fit her.  All the children’s desks were alike.  She put her lunch and the bag with the flute inside.  Only the teacher’s desk was larger, with actual drawers, made of polished thornwood so it glowed a rich, deep blue that was almost black, like the heart of a storm. 

Behind the desk, held in a board frame, were four tall strips of quarried slate donated by the village Mason.  He owned one of the finest homes in the village and sold slate shingles to others for their roofs.  The village shrine had also benefitted from the Mason’s generosity.  The school’s slate was a soothing green color and was currently clean of chalk.  A bucket of water with a brush sat on the floor, to be used end of day when the lessons were done.

Next to her, Husk and Leah talked in mute voices.  They were villagers from devout families.  Leah was actually the Mayor’s daughter.  They didn’t normally talk to Arcadia.  She was just a chopper’s daughter.  She didn’t mind.  Much. 

“They say you can hear it in the night when the forest settles down and the screamers sleep,” Husk said.  “Thunk!  Thunk!  Ka-chunk!  And whoomph!”  He deepened his voice on the last word.

“I haven’t heard it,” Leah said.

“Well you live in that big stone monstrosity on the back of the hill.  If I lived there, I wouldn’t even hear the temple bells.”

“We hear the bells just fine,” Leah slanted Arcadia a judging glance.  “And we make all the services.  Momma makes sure.”

Silence fell as Teacher Scrivens entered, coat in hand.  His ruffled white shirt stiff with starch, undaunted despite the tight vest he wore.  Tall, impossibly thin, he hung his coat on the back of his chair and stared out over the class, square-lensed spectacles perched on his nose, connected to a crimson loop of ribbon that circled his throat like a line of blood.

“I assume we have all emptied our heads of dreams and are prepared to learn?”

“Yes, sir,” the class chorused.

He gave them a small, stiff smile in reward for their timely response.  “Today, we will work on math and then our reading while studying the history of the Valley.”  He went to the slate-rock and took a piece of chalk from a basket stand.  Writing swiftly, he placed multiple problems on the board.   “Calver, Vann, Sharee; to the board.”

Sharee moved fastest and got first pick at the problem that seemed easiest.  To Arcadia, the problems all looked rather undemanding; she didn’t know why the others dreaded math so much.  Just looking at the board, she solved the figures in moments.

It took forever, but eventually the three called up chalked in their answers and looked to the teacher for permission to return to their seats.  He looked over their work, no expression on his face.  He turned to the class.  “How many of you agree that these problems are solved?”

 Leah was first to lift her hand.  Following her lead, the rest of the class lifted hands in agreement.  Only Arcadia’s hand stayed down.

Scriven’s eyes stared out, shifting, only to stop on Arcadia.  “Arcadia, you disagree?”

Leah slanted her a look of contempt for her stupidity.

“The middle answer is wrong, teacher.”

He smiled.  “So it is.  What’s the answer then?”

She got up and went to the board.  Using a damp cloth, she corrected the sum.  Standing next to her, Sharee growled low in her throat.

“Correct,” the teacher said.  “And you didn’t even have to count on your fingers.  All of you may sit down.”

Arcadia returned to her seat and watched the teacher put an addition symbol between the sums, followed by an equal sign.  He turned to face the class.  “Anyone want to solve this for me?”

Arcadia stayed silent.  She’d seen copper poles used at houses to pull storm-fire safely aside from the structures.  Such rods were even used at the temple.  The stares of the other children were hurtful, like lightning.  Arcadia decided not to be a lightning rod.

But no one offered to solve the problem.

“No one has any confidence in themselves?” the teacher asked.  He sighed.  “Arcadia, if you please…”

She didn’t bother to go up.  She simply called out the answer: “Twenty-one, teacher.”

He smiled at her.  Then frowned at the class.  “Take out your history books.  Perhaps your reading skills are better; thinking isn’t for everybody.”

There was a sudden bustling as the students complied.  Arcadia had to remove the cloth bag with her flute to get her book out.  She noticed when she did that both Husk and Leah were watching with the sharp, inquisitive eyes of hungry rats.  She set her book on her desk and returned the flute to the hollow under her desk.

“What is that?” Husk whispered.

It was class time.  Arcadia knew better than to whisper.  Scriven’s ears were keen.

The teacher’s voice rolled out.  “Husk, you’re volunteering to read for us?  Thank you so much.  It saves me making the choice.”  The smile on the teacher’s face was not quite pleasant.

Husk flushed red all the way to his jutting ears.  Picking up his book, he faced the teacher.  “Where should I start, sir?”

“The beginning, of course.  You can red until I tire of your voice and call on someone else.”

“Yes, sir.”  Husk shot her an angry glare as if his having to read were her fault and not his own.

She sighed very, very quietly, knowing there would be trouble later when the teacher wasn’t around.

He began to read haltingly—at times painfully—grinding on like a great millstone.  “History of the Valley.  In a time before the thorn-caught cloud, before the coming of the storm-crows, there was a great king that ruled the land—the Giver of Peace.  And it chanced that travelers through the valley came to him and asked to settle and build homes, planting fruit trees, and tending their animals for the earth was blessed and the thorn did not grow here.

“And the Giver of Peace granted them their desire, saying, ‘Build your villages, your homes, tend the earth, and live in my valley.  And each year, after harvest, I will send my servants to gather a portion you shall set aside for me.’”

“Enough, Husk,” the teacher called.  You may sit down.  My ears are bleeding.”

Acadia looked but saw no blood.

Teacher Scrivens used his slim, pointing stick to single out Leah.  “You, pick up where Husk left off.”

Leah read with slightly more skill and much more pleasing tone of voice.  “And it came to pass that the great king departed to far lands and left servants that his yearly portion might be gathered.  And the Mayor of the Knob, the most prominent village, rose up before the people and said, ‘Why do we pay this wander with food he did not labor over.  What we grow is ours.  We use the land, so it is ours.  We built all that is here.  Why give anything to the Giver of Peace when we keep the peace ourselves?’”

“Enough,” the teacher said.  “Arcadia.”

She stood with her book and read.  “And word spread.  The other villages agreed.  And when the time of harvest came, the king’s servants arrived with wagons to gather their lord’s portion.  And they were beaten badly and sent off on foot as their wagons burned.” 

Arcadia was vaguely aware that many eyes were watching her as she read fluidly, with enthusiasm, pulling drama from the old writing.  A quick glance at the teacher showed his often-sour expression relaxing into something almost pleasant. 

She continued to read.  “And so, the entire valley refused to pay for inhabiting the land.  For a few more harvests, riders came, entreating the people to honor their bargain.  And each time, the great king’s servants were abused and chased off.”

“Good job, Arcadia.  You may sit.”  The teacher came around his desk and perched on its edge, looking across the class.  He waited a few moments, letting the silence build, then spoke.  “For a long time, no one has heard of the king.  Some think he died in a foreign land.”  Scrivens widened his stare and went to a hushed voice.  “Some say he is raising an army to return and take back the valley that is his.”

There was a stirring and several small gasps at this announcement. 

Leah lifted a hand. 

The teacher nodded. 

She said, “The Priests say that before the king comes in fury, he will send his Heir.  So, we needn’t worry until then.”

Scrivens nodded.  “You are correct.  Before the Time of Flames, the Curse-Breaker will come.”

Husk lifted a tentative hand.

“Yes, Husk?” the teacher asked.

“Who is cursed?”

The teacher smiled as if encountering his favorite question.  “The priests say words have power to bless and curse and must be used with care.  Each lie steals a little life.  A word thrown in anger can bounce back and cause illness.  They say—when the valley settlers trampled their broken promises into the ground—that the thorn grew to punish the villagers.  It is the thorns that have caught the storm clouds, keeping them over the valley.”  He stood.  “A person is known by their words.  If their words are dead seed, trust and peace will not grow.  All are cursed, but some more than others; for secret thoughts are words as well.”

Husk lifted a hand.

“Yes, Husk?” the teacher asked.

“So, did the Mayor cursed us all, or did we curse ourselves.”

Leah slanted him a look of pity for his denseness.

Arcadia rolled her eyes at both of them.

The teacher said, “Not the current Mayor, of course.  An ancestor of his led the way.  This is why new ideas, change itself, must be feared.  Caution is life.”  The teacher smiled crookedly.  “Other virtues we try to impress upon you are charity, honesty, and piety.  This last is supposedly most important.  These are the foundation of character.  A strong house can be built on such rock. 

An older youth came into the classroom, wearing the black smock of a priest in training.  He walked to the teacher and handed him a note. 

The teacher read it and nodded. 

The youth hurried away.

“Speaking of piety,” Scrivens said, “I am loaning you to the temple for the rest of the morning.”

Leah lifted a hand, a smile brightening her face. 

“Yes, Leah?” Scrivens asked.

“For religious instruction?”

“For cleaning.  Mostly, the priests are infirm elders with long beards and crooked backs.  You will help them by cleaning the temple and other rooms which only they normally see.  I know I don’t have to tell you to be diligent and on your best behavior.  What you do reflects on me.  I take bad behavior personally.”

“Yes, Teacher,” the class echoed.  There were sliding sounds as books were returned to the desks.

He shooed them.  “Well then, off with you.  The priests will provide scrub brushes and water buckets for you, and feather-tipped poles for vanquishing cobwebs.  I expect to see you immediately after the lunch hour.”

The class walked with perfect decorum, leaving the room, then the building, only to burst into complaint once outside.  Leah’s face looked stormy.  Arcadia couldn’t help but ask, “What’s wrong?”

“Wrong!  Servants clean.  I thought we’d get to hear from the ancient writings, from the time before the valley.”

“Was there ever anything before the valley?” Husk asked.  “How do we know the books are true ?”

“Because the priests say so!” Leah said.  “Don’t be a hairy tick.  The storm-crows are sent out to get their eyes.  Watch out, Husk or that will be you!”

Husk grumbled at the rebuke, but not too loudly.  On holy days, they’d all seen the blind beggars at the gate, their tin cups extended for a token of mercy.

“That’s heretic, not hairy tick,” Arcadia muttered.  She turned her mind inward as they passed the fountain, noting that the Stranger was gone.  Her thoughts moved on to the Great Chopper, standing in golden light on a stump in the new clearing.  Many of those who lived in the wilds went to him, listening late into the night, taking the ash-mark on their foreheads. 

She wondered if the priests were going to send the crows out after him.  The thought made her heart thump a little louder. 

From somewhere close by, a crow cawed.

A shiver went down her spine.