The Tome of Law Collection

Chapter 1-2

If there was any evidence that Venla was past the sixty seasons she claimed, Zya could find no evidence of it on her face. To all outward appearances, the caravan mistress appeared a beautiful middle-aged woman with only a few laughter lines marring her ageless face. Her dark hair hung in the traditional traveller fashion – three small braids, braided together – and her green eyes sparkled as if they were full of mischief, even when she was angry. It was no wonder she had respect from all who travelled with her. Now these eyes were fixed on Zya.

“And I believe you had a couple of chores before we set off too, child.” Knowing her immediate fate was sealed to the joys of the seamstress, Zya nodded with a quick, “Yes, Mother,” and headed towards another of the wagons. Tarim approached a figure bent almost double around the front of one of the wagons. The figure was trying to lift a wheel onto a supported axle, by himself, and almost killing himself in the process. If not for this fact, Tarim would have laughed.

“Layric, tell me when you are finished killing yourself so we can get this done and enjoy the morning.”

The figure grunted once more, let the wheel drop, and then stood up. Layric grinned. “Well if some of us were not off gallivanting with their pretty daughters enjoying the meadows and the streams we might have got this task finished!” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Though you found a mighty fine place and time to do it,” he added thoughtfully, gazing at the young horizon with the contrast of gold on deep blue.

“Well, what say you?” asked Tarim. “Shall we finish the job before they find us?”

“Aye, lad,” replied the older man.

The two men worked on lifting the wheel into place. It had taken several of them to lift it off the night before so that the axle could be propped up, but now two men were sufficient. Tall, lean Tarim S"Vedai lifted the wheel, while the broader Layric Chemani guided it on.

Layric was a man who had enjoyed the fruits of his wives" cooking through the years, but despite his appearance was very fit and strong, the legacy of years of outdoor experience. He was of a similar age to his wife, but like her did not show it. If one could see past the sheer contentment with life in his eyes, only then would one see the age that rested there. He was determined not to become a "revered" elder for many seasons yet. He looked the part though. He wore a beard – most uncommon in the active travellers, though much less so with the elders. For this reason, he was often the butt of a joke including the word "elder". He showed nothing of his "elder" side now though. Guiding the wheel onto the axle with Tarim"s help, Layric soon had it firmly in place, the wide wooden spokes and broad iron treading looking like they had always been a part of the wagon, never apart from it.

“There, lad,” said Layric with more than a hint of satisfaction. “We got that job sorted easily enough. Why don"t you go and check on the horses while I finish up here?”

Breathing heavily, Tarim moved off to where the horses were picketed. “We!” he thought, “Next time he can take the weight.”

heZya frowned, concentrating on the stitching in front of her. Anita, generally acknowledged as the seamstress of the caravan, had been teaching her, and the others her age, the arts of stitching for a few years now. Erilee and Mavra, although younger, had picked up the art as if it were in their blood, whereas Zya needed to concentrate a bit more. The current stitch they were learning was so complex and yet subtle that it could not be seen once completed, even on a tear across fabric. Although not a natural like the younger girls – Erilee was only sixteen seasons – Zya stuck to the task with a dogged determination, and was nearly as successful.

Anita turned over a piece of fabric. “You see?” she held up the cloth to the girls. A while back she had torn it in half but now it seemed whole again, appearing completely repaired. “This is the one that they like the most. No villager has any idea of how we stitch it; well no villager I know of anyway.”

“Isn"t it just a case of unravelling the stitching to see how it is done?” asked Mavra.

“Absolutely not,” replied the seamstress.

“If they unravel the stitching at any point it will all come apart. The secret is in how we stitch in the first place. Always remember, knowledge comes from creation, not destruction. It is not the natural way to learn by tearing things apart.”

howAs usual, Zya kept quiet during these conversations. The small plump old lady had a lot to teach people, and many of her standards had been set by what she had learnt from Anita. She did not have her heart in her work today. Her early sojourn had left her with the feeling that a day like today was special One that should not be missed by chores inside.

It seemed to Zya that fortune had smiled upon her when her father poked his head inside the bright drapes that served as a door on such a warm day. “Honourable seamstress, may I have permission to take your girls out into the glorious morning to assist them with the chores of horse saddling?”

Tarim grinned, an infectious grin that had had everybody smiling back for nearly twenty years.

“It is nearly time to be moving, and the girls will have plenty of time to learn as we move today” Anita replied with a resigned look on her face. It seemed Tarim had won again, for now.

“My thanks, pretty,” Tarim added. With a flush creeping around her neck, the seamstress shooed them all out into the brilliant sunshine of the morning.

The three young women followed Tarim to where the horses were picketed. Zya was relieved to once again be out in the open where she felt that she belonged. She glanced at the other two. Both Mavra and Erilee were travellers to the bone. They preferred to ride in the wagons, but the mistress had insisted that they learn the skills Tarim could teach them. It was the skill of riding that Zya excelled in. For years now, she and her father had ridden alongside the wagons on horses they received in payment for their work. The two horses, both roan stallions, were not suitable as draught horses, and so Tarim had taught his daughter how to ride.

The reluctance for this task showed on both their faces and Zya felt regret for them. Through their reluctance they were missing a wonderful opportunity. The freedom of riding was a release of the spirit, making her one with the horse. The problem was a horse could sense its riders" unease. Zya"s other regret was that because the horse could feel how they felt; they would never really benefit from learning how to ride. They would never know what it was truly like. Still, as she did with the sewing, they both kept to their chores. Zya had heard Mavra comment once that if Zya could do anything they could, then the reverse must also be true. A snide comment, but one Zya appreciated as it showed she was learning well.

The picketed horses were away from the fire, in a meadow that had plenty of food. As Zya had noticed earlier, the horses were very spirited.

“They seem full of energy this morning,” Tarim commented, stopping to pat the glossy shoulder of Aroham, the largest of the draft horses, who was normally placid. Tossing his mane, Aroham snorted, his powerful muscles rippling under his shaggy coat. “Well there"s little use in standing admiring the morning. Let"s get them brushed through, saddled and hooked up.”

“My father,” thought Zya with a smile, “Ever the man to do a chore when a chore needs doing.”

In truth, the saddling and attaching of the draft horses to the wagons was not that big a chore and the sun had only risen a hand"s width higher by the time all was ready to go. The younger girls, if not confident riders, had at least developed an affinity with the draft horses and cared deeply for them; a legacy of many generations depending on these solid, dependable horses to pull their wagons.

Out of respect for the earth, the camp was cleaned to the point that it looked like nobody had ever been there; the only signs of habitation being where the horses had eaten the meadow-grass during their stay. The procession moved slowly out; four brightly coloured wagons proclaiming the tinkers trundled slowly along the dried earth track that followed the distant stream. Venla, the mistress, always being at the head of the procession, drove the first wagon with her husband. The seamstress Anita and her husband Gwyn followed them. The third wagon was driven by Gren the cook. He was a quiet man, unassuming and private. But he could tell a story to captivate the listener, and bawdy jokes to leave any ears present flaming with embarrassment. He was useful in more ways than one, as many times they had been weeks between villages, and his stories and jokes kept the spirit high and the mind interested. Jani D"Voss drove the final wagon. He was the pot mender, the worker of metal. Between him and his wife Ramaji there was not a pan that couldn"t be mended. They were the parents of Erilee and Mavra, and had the largest wagon; pulled by two draft horses as opposed to the other wagons that only used one.

twoTarim and Zya would roam around on their horses, and Cahal and Jaden would take it in turns riding point and rearguard. The self-sufficient community was completed by the presence of Layric"s three hounds. They were big, with red/brown long hair. They might look docile enough riding along in the back of a wagon, but if on guard they were more than a match for many a sneak thief. Cahal especially enjoyed the presence of the hounds, as they shared a common interest – keeping the caravan safe.

The morning had a profound effect upon all in the caravan. Instead of the usual banter and conversation, all were silent. Only the calls of birds and the sprinkling rush of the stream accompanied the creak of the wagons and the noises made by the horses. The morning was too special to waste with idle talk. As the morning wore on and the sun made the day grow warmer, Erilee and Mavra tired of riding double on the stallions. Pleading the need to freshen up, they retired to their parents" wagon, though it did not take long for them to appear alongside Gren in the cook"s wagon. Gren was a gnarled old man, with fingers knotted by the stiffening disease, and a face that looked like it could be too. However, his disposition reflected the morning. He was a light-hearted man by nature and his small tales were often a source of distraction for the girls. Dressed in their finest blouses of pristine white and their brown traveller"s skirts, they looked appealing to a younger man, Gren reasoned. But they were only after one thing with him.

“Gren” Mavra asked slowly, lowering her eyelids in his direction, “Would you tell us a tale, one to pass the time while we travel?”