Brave Story (65 page)

The lustrous, silky white cloth used in the refining process was also spun locally. It was woven from threads made from the fiber of a peculiar grass called huhulune, and was quite valuable. Everyone who worked on the tears had to wear clothes made entirely of this indigenous grass. Clothes made from huhulane were very expensive—one outfit, for example, would cost an entire year’s salary in a place like Nacht.

When she had been working, Satami was a weaver in one of the workshops. Weaving the fibrous turf was a taxing chore, requiring great focus of mind. More than half of the weavers were women. These days, when Sara was not by her mother’s bed, she would be in the workshop, where some of her mother’s friends took care of her. Wataru would wave and say hello whenever he saw her, but she would shyly run away, or hide behind a nearby adult. She never warmed up to him no matter how much he tried.

There were few children in Tearsheaven. Most of the residents had come alone, and many of them went for weeks without having contact with the outside world.

“It makes sense, if you think about it,” Bhuto had said. “The people here…their family and friends couldn’t cure what ailed them. Or, even worse, they’re here because they lost family and friends in the first place. They come to us with two burdens: sadness and loneliness.”

Bhuto had been born in Nacht. A drifter by profession, he was a hired hand in the direct employ of Mayor Mag.

“It was about five years ago, I guess. Ran into somebody at a gatehouse wanting to go to Tearsheaven, and too afraid to make the journey alone. So I helped him along the way.” He had ended up staying in the town. “There are lots of women here, so most of the men are busy doing strong-work, like carrying water. They needed more people for guard duty. The mayor asked me to stay.”

He seemed like a nice enough person, but Wataru had no doubt that when push came to shove, Bhuto could shove pretty hard.

“I’ve been a drifter since as long as I can remember, so it doesn’t bother me too much being alone. Funny, isn’t it? Loneliness isn’t such a bad thing, but mix in a little anger and sadness, and it can become the worst punishment in the world.”

It was a little after noon. Bhuto was puffing on a cigarette, while Wataru dangled his feet from atop a town gate.

“Not that being a watchman is all that demanding a job. If you see someone on the road, you ask if they’re a visitor to Tearsheaven. If they are, you open the gate. If they’re not, you wave them along. That’s about it. It’s just an excuse to sit out in the sun.”

Shortly, an individual riding an udai approached the gate.

“Ooy!” Bhuto called out. “Have you business in Tearsheaven?”

The rider took one hand off the reins and waved, calling out, “I’m a traveling merchant! Have you business with me?”

“You got tobacco?”

“All kinds, my friend. All kinds.”

The traveling merchant was an ankha man, and his goods included cakes and toys as well as cigarettes. A carved wooden figurine caught Wataru’s eye. It was a simple doll, but he thought the smiling face was cute.

“Can I buy this?” he asked. “For Sara,” he explained to Bhuto.

Bhuto smiled. “You’d make a good brother!”

The traveling merchant dismounted. Between cigarette puffs, he proceeded to make small talk. There had been a strange occurrence over in the woods north of Lyris, he said. Apparently, a curious silvery cyclone had appeared out of nowhere and took a good chunk of forest with it.

Bhuto listened to the story intently, his face blank, but never once betraying the fact that he had heard of the cyclone before—and that it had carried the boy sitting next to him all the way to Tearsheaven. The watchman of the town of sorrows knew the value of tight lips.

“By the by,” the traveler said, finishing his cigarette and mounting his udai. “Have you heard the rumors of folks selling counterfeit tears?”

Bhuto leaned forward, his expression suddenly intense. “What?”

“Just something I heard in Arikita, haven’t seen it myself. Someone out there is selling tears made in a place that’s not Tearsheaven, and for a fine price. Of course, any price would be too high—I hear that these false tears have claimed a few lives already.”

“Something’s got to be done about that,” Bhuto said severely.

“Someone is out there selling counterfeit tears…” Wataru said, thinking aloud. “Is there any way of distinguishing them from the real thing?”

As far as he knew, tears looked just like water. Put them in a bottle with a convincing label, and no one would be able to tell the difference.

“Of course there is,” Bhuto answered. “It’s simple. Fish can’t live in real tears. A guppy in a bowl of tears would die by the time you counted to ten. Not that it’s poison, mind you. It’s too pure for them, you see. Our buyers always use the fish test to prove what they’re getting is the real deal.”

“Then these counterfeit tears are even worse!” Wataru exclaimed, standing up. “They must be adding something to kill fish.”

“Yet that’s not the case,” the traveling merchant said, shaking his head. “The Highlanders in Arikita are a tough bunch, and not ones to be easily taken in. The moment they heard that a patient had died in an unusual manner, they confiscated the remaining tears, and had a look. They found no poison in it at all. The only thing they discovered was a bit of medicine used for their brew.”

Bhuto snorted in response. “If the branch in Arikita is on the move, then this is no passing affair.”

They rushed to tell Mayor Mag. He greeted the news with wide, rolling eyes, burbling, “If this is all true, then the future of the whole town is at stake!”

Wataru left the mayor’s office with a heavy heart. Out on the street, he caught sight of Sara. She was running as fast as her legs would carry her from the workshop toward the town gate.

“What’s wrong?” Wataru called out, running after her. The little girl didn’t look around, but continued straight for the gate.

“Oy there, Sara! What’s the matter?” Bhuto called down from his perch.

“Where’s the udai?” she asked, breathlessly. “I heard an udai came to the gate.”

“Ah, that was a traveling merchant, my girl. He’s left already.”

Sara’s head drooped. She looked so forlorn that Wataru merely stopped and looked at her, lacking the right words to say.

Bhuto leaned out from atop the gate and called down to her gently. “Don’t worry, if your father’s udai came back, I would shout the news so loud you’d be able to hear me no matter where you were.”

So she was hoping it was her father…
Wataru felt an ache in his chest. “Now, Sara,” Bhuto said, pointing to Wataru. “This gentleman here has something for you. I wonder what it is?”

Wataru hurriedly fished the wooden doll out of his pocket. Kneeling so his eyes were on a level with Sara’s, he handed it to her. “Here.”

For a while Sara stood, arms behind her back, staring at the tiny doll. “That’s for me?” she said, looking at Wataru’s face at last.

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“Its face reminded me of yours.”

Hesitantly, the little girl reached out her fingers and touched the doll. Wataru gently pressed it into her palm.

“Thank you,” she said in a small voice. “What’s his name?”

Wataru blinked. “Uh…I don’t know.”

“He wants you to give the doll a name,” Bhuto suggested to Sara.

“Tochee,” Sara said, patting the doll on her head with a finger.

“Tochee? That’s a nice name.”

“It’s my sister’s.”

Sara’s younger sister. The one who died of the plague.

“Mom says that Tochee became a star, and she’s never coming home. But Dad will come home. He will, won’t he?”

“Just you stay happy and healthy, and I’m sure he will,” Bhuto assured her. Wataru stood with his hands clenched into fists, watching the little girl run back to the workshop.

It was two days later that the word came: Yacom had been spotted near the Swamp of Grief.

Wataru prepared to leave for the swamp immediately. His leg was almost healed, and Mayor Mag lent him a swift udai. He also gave him a set of what looked like paddles. The udai could wear them on its hooves like snowshoes for crossing wet terrain.

“Put these on, and your udai will never get snared in the swamp.”

Wataru had no script for what he would say when he met Yacom. He only knew how much Sara missed her father, and how much pain she felt. If he could only get that across, things would work out. They had to.

As he passed through the woods and approached Lili Yannu’s hut, he noticed that the windows were boarded and no smoke came from the chimney. Wataru knocked on the door and the windows, but he got no response.

Maybe they had left together? He tried waiting around, but no one came. Wataru mounted his udai again, and set off toward the lake. He couldn’t imagine anyone going there voluntarily, but who knows? If you make your living in the swamp, perhaps a trip to the lake is a requirement.

The swamp water was jet black, even under the midday sun. Not a single ripple marred its dull matte surface. Knowing that all the impurities from the town’s rainwater had been dumped here, Wataru couldn’t help but feel something horribly unclean lurked beneath the surface. It was as if the water itself was a giant living thing, like an amoeba, silently waiting. If anyone approached, thought Wataru, the creature would lash out with a giant tentacle like a pseudopod. Once it had devoured its prey, it would settle back, perfectly still, pretending to be a great black lake once again.

Even evil and filth needs to sustain itself with energy from somewhere.

Wataru chided himself.
Why do I make these things up? Is it just to scare myself?
He gave himself a rap on the head with his knuckles, and urged his steed to hurry forward toward the deserted shore.

Just then he heard a faint sound coming from the underbrush at the edge of the lake.

—Kee…

Wataru stopped his udai and listened. Had he been hearing things? Had it been a bird or an animal of some kind? But nothing lived here in this swamp.

—Kee keee, kuh kuh kuh.

It was definitely some sort of animal. It sounded weak. Wataru looked around. Then he heard it again, close.

A clump of reeds just ahead of him rustled suspiciously. For the briefest of moments he caught a glimpse of something that looked like a red wing.

Wataru got off his udai, and drawing his Brave’s Sword, he slowly approached the clump. Brushing aside the reeds with his empty hand, he found the red wing immediately. To his surprise, it wasn’t a bird. Instead of down and feathers, he saw scales—deep crimson scales. And at the tip of the wing, there was a claw as big as Wataru’s own hand.

It’s a dragon.

Wataru was so startled he forgot to breathe. A dragon was lying on its side, half submerged in the water of the Swamp of Grief. Its wings and forelimbs moved weakly. It seemed to be in pain.

The dragon’s dark eyes blinked, and its long mouth snapped open. Fangs glowed white like pearls in its maw.

“Oh? A man-child!” the dragon said, raising its voice. “Yer a good manchild, aren’tcha? Help a dragon out?”

Wataru was stunned. Here was this magnificent, fantastical beast—albeit lying on its side half submerged in mud—and it spoke in a voice that was plain, almost childish.

“What’s the matter?” Wataru asked, stepping closer to the dragon, careful not to step in any puddles. The dragon lashed out a long, forked tongue and made a short barking sound. Wataru froze.

“Touch the water and you’ll regret it!” the dragon warned.

“It’s fine, I’m wearing boots. As long as I don’t lose my footing…”

The dragon assessed the youngster in front of him. “I see. Good manchild, you’ll put that sword away won’t you? Promise not to bite.”

Wataru sheathed his sword and took another step closer. Gingerly, he reached out a hand, and touched the dragon near the neck. The scales were dry and warm to the touch.
A bit like Kee Keema’s shoulder.

“Are you wounded?”

The dragon lowered its eyes mournfully. “I was doin’ a few loop-de-loops and kinda got carried away, see. Lost my balance…and ended up like this.”

Now that’s funny. So dragons make mistakes too.

“So you fell? Well, you’re lucky that the ground you landed on was so soft…”

“Lucky?!” the dragon cut him off. “This swamp water is like some kind of numbing potion! As soon as I landed in it, I felt my body freeze up. And now I can’t move, ’cept for the front half of my body. My neck, these two hands—the smallest ones I’ve got. And this mud is too wet for me to dig in my claws! See?” he said, groping futilely at the mud. “What’s a dragon to do?”

It became obvious to Wataru that this dragon was young—just a kid. Still, he was over six feet long. How was he going to drag this creature out of the water? Then he had an idea.

“If you could somehow get a foothold, do you think you could drag yourself out of the water?”

“Sure,” the dragon said, nodding. “And if I can dry my wings, I’d be able to fly out.”