“Are you sure it was them?”
Siunqi whispers his question to me as we walk, arm in arm, through the field and back to the palace. Occasionally, I look over my shoulder to ensure we’re not being followed nor overheard, seeing nobody of consequence from my brief glances to check. We’re in the middle of the swarm of Tapeu nobles in their eccentric and tight-fitting outfits, all moving together to follow the path into Chalaqta like a school of fish. Though the uli-poqmatch was long, the midday sun has only just begun its descent into the horizon, its warmth still caressing my face.
“I’m certain,” I say, leaning his direction while matching his lowered tone. “Both Aluxeqwel and Teqotlo departed during the calamity at the match, and when I followed them to the tent where they met, one of the people present dropped the coin.” Instinctively, I clutch the gold coin, etched with the flaming eye symbol, as it rests inside my satchel.
“They were searching for it when I left,” I say, “so they’ll be aware it’s missing and possibly misplaced.”
“Then we’ll have to make sure they don’t know that you have it,” father says, “so we can preserve this evidence for presenting to Iatuq if the matter arises.”
“Do you think presenting it to her will be enough?” I ask.
“Most certainly not,” he says, sounding a bit disappointed. “We can’t prove any of them possessed the coin, nor that the conversation took place, as well as not knowing which other nobles are involved. We’ll need to find out more, then weigh our options when the waters get clearer.”
I anticipated this would be the case, but I’m still dismayed nonetheless. Whoever they are working with has connections with influential people inside the capital and could leverage a lot of authority to advance their agenda.
“To make matters worse,” I say, almost as a continuation of my internal train of thought, “knowing they may use Pahua as part of their schemes complicates things greatly.”
“The child already has an issue with authority,” Siunqi says, “so not only do I expect he will be easily enticed to support them, but hearing from me to stand down while we sort out what’s happening is likely to encourage his rebellious nature. We’ll need to handle him delicately, so he doesn’t react irrationally and with malicious intent.”
“So what do we do?” I ask, gravely concerned that, if we mishandle this situation, we could endanger not only the warriors we’ve brought to the mainland, but our Sanqo people on the island.
The streets of Chalaqta grow more crowded while people hurry about, the colorful nobility clashing with the plain, neutral tones of the citizenry. The air is buzzing with shouts and laughter, the typical bustle of a busy city. By now, most of the attendees from the uli-poq match have interwoven themselves with the other townsfolk, the disjointed procession leading to the palace.
“It will be a multi-pronged approach,” Siunqi says, raising his voice slightly so as to be heard over the traffic. “We’ll have to seek out additional information to verify the connection between Aluxeqwel and Teqotlo with the insurgency. Find out the others with whom they were speaking, and determine what their agenda actually is.
“Along with that, we need to analyze just how great a threat these ‘flame eyes people’ are. What are their intentions, what are their capabilities, what is the potential impact should their agenda succeed.
“I will consult with Iatuq, see if she knows of anything and how Tapeu plans to proceed. But any discussions with her will have to be generalized and vague. We can’t give her the impression we’re on the side of the insurgency—not, of course, unless there’s a legitimate reason to join them; we’ve fought one group of tyrants, and we can do it again.”
“And regarding Pahua?” I ask, hoping he has a plan for my rash and unpredictable brother.
“There’s a strong possibility he joins the cause of the flame eyes,” father says, “but we can use that to our advantage. We can watch who he speaks to and gather information on who else is in this network. He might be misguided, but he can still guide us to who these people are, intentionally or otherwise.”
“I’ll continue to help monitor the situation,” I say, “check to see if there are any valuable sources that can assist us in discreetly discovering more. Tonatli seems pretty aloof and tactless in social situations, so he may reveal their plans and intentions to me unawares.”
“Look at you!” Siunqi remarks, grabbing my shoulder with a tiny squeeze and a shake. “To think I doubted you could handle the cloak-and-dagger of politics!”
Father says this while swelling with pride, though I’m not certain if it should be a compliment. I never intended to deceive anyone, hoping I could conduct myself honestly and nobly. Tonatli may be aloof, but he also seems genuinely kind, and I would hate to use him and abuse his trust. Is this really what it takes to be successful in politics and an accomplished ruler? If so, I’m not sure this is the path for me after all.
We approach the sharply-angled palace and its large walls, the sun reflecting off the bright stones that cause me to shield my eyes. Just inside the opening of the palace gates, a few men are gathered, wearing the Sanqo colors of deep ocean blue and bronze. My concern washes away once I see them talking and laughing, relieved that there’s no urgency in their mannerism.
“Ah, I see Atoyaqtli,” father says stoutly. “I must speak to him of what you’ve informed me, get the men prepared for possible scenarios.”
Siunqi takes a step or two before stopping to turn to me, saying, “you did excellent work, Walumaq.” His face beams with warmth and delight, giving me one final nod before hurrying off toward our trusted lieutenant and the Sanqo warriors.
Not eager to return to the palace, I decide to stroll the marketplace, not just to relish the rare moment of being alone, but to seize the opportunity of being without any Sanqo guards to monitor my activities. This way, I can finally attempt to track down the elderly woman from a day or two ago and get her to explain herself. Last time we interacted, she seemed distressed about possibly upsetting me, so I’d have to be mindful of my approach, not confident in her emotional stability.
I last saw her at the marketplace with the intricate stone floor, before losing her in the crowd after she was chased off by Siunqi’s guards. Unfortunately, I didn’t see where she ran, so I can’t trace her steps and possibly find where she lives. How on Pachil am I to find her now?
I return into the bustling marketplace with the stonework crafted in the herringbone pattern, retracing my path to the very stall that caught my eye during my previous visit. The merchant, standing cooly amidst the chaotic activity of the square, a stark contrast to the bellowing peddlers vying for attention. He grants me the freedom to explore, refraining from thrusting his wares upon me.
Having not had a good look at him before, I study him now, taking in his unassuming presence. An unembellished beige tunic drapes loosely over his frame, while his most distinguishing features rest upon his face: A patchy brown beard and a shaggy cascade of brown hair, setting himself apart from a sea of clean-shaven and well-dressed vendors. Before him rests a cart brimming with vivid red fruit no larger than my fist, each unfurling with green petals, and some are halved to reveal magenta flesh, speckled with delicate black seeds.
“What are these?” I ask, curious about the strange fruit. “I’ve never seen such an item before.”
“Ah, that’s because it’s traveled far, from the arid region of Tapeu near the Qiapu border,” he says proudly. He holds up the two halves of the fruit, letting the bright pinkish-red glimmer in the sunlight like a jewel.
“It’s called pitaya,” he says, “or dragonfruit, if you want to be creative or extravagant. Very sour, but very sweet. The skins and juice from what I don’t sell goes to dyers for fabrics. Versatile fruit, this pitaya.”
“The color is beautiful,” I say, admiring the brilliant red hue.
“Give it a try,” he says, offering me a half. I try to politely decline, not wanting to inconvenience the man, but he persists, only hoisting the fruit higher and closer to me until I accept. He’s right: After one bite, the fruit tastes tart, but sweet, and the seeds are crunchy and pop as I chew them. I’m confident it was all part of his plan, as I find it far too delicious for me to deny having another, and I immediately purchase a whole fruit, reaching into my satchel for a few coppers to hand to him for payment. He nods graciously and smiles, likely relishing in knowing that his tried and true tactic had worked.
“I have a very unrelated question to ask of you, if you don’t mind,” I say after chewing and finishing the delectable bite. “This might be a stretch, but… a day or two ago, I encountered an elderly woman, hunched over and…”
I try to recall any characteristics about her which could help describe the woman. It didn’t seem so long ago, yet so much has happened in the time since I came across her that much of her appearance becomes muddled in with so many others with whom I’ve interacted. I search my memory for something, anything, and after another bite of pitaya, a wave of details flood my mind.
“Oh! When I met her, she was wearing a dark brown cloak with a hood. Silver hair… right! With a braid down her right cheek! And she has these milky white eyes…”
“Ah, yes,” he says, “Xasiq. She’s…”
He hesitates for a moment, fidgeting with some of the fruit and casting his gaze downward as he considers what to say. Whatever it is, I anticipate it won’t be kind.
“Why do you seek her out?” he asks, a tinge of skepticism in his tone. “What do you want with her?”
I don’t want to reveal my true intentions, not just from mistrusting a stranger, but also from fear of sounding mentally unwell. She told me that I and the people whom I unite are responsible for either ending the world or saving it. No concerning matter. I try to think of any excuse that could make sense, but nothing comes to me right away, and I begin to panic that I’m only making him more suspicious.
“I… have something of hers that she accidentally left with me,” is the answer I eventually land on. “She’s so absent minded, you know?” I keep it vague, hoping he won’t inquire further, but ready to rebuff his attempts if he tries. It sounded good in my head, but does he believe me?
“Hmm,” he utters, “calling her ‘absent minded’ is putting it nicely.” He continues rearranging the pitaya, repositioning the fruit into neat pyramids. A woman approaches the stand, gazing at the fruits and weaving her head to and fro as if seeing different angles of the fruit will better enable her ability to judge their quality. Eventually, she decides the items on display are not for her, and she moves onto another stall. This only motivates the vendor to more attentively reorganize the dragonfruit, as though placing them in the correct manner will successfully bring the customers.
“She comes to the market on occasion,” he says, focused on maneuvering the red orbs into place. “Never buys anything, not that I see. Probably stealing from other carts. If you see something–“
“Do you know if she lives nearby?” I ask, cutting him off to avoid the distracted conversation. “I’d like to deliver this to her as soon as I’m able.” I place my hand inside my satchel as if I’m clutching something of value, to emphasize my point.
“She’s not too far from here,” he says. “Don’t know her exact location… Usually approaches from that way,” he points toward the south of the marketplace, “but she walks slowly, so she must live close.”
Not from what I’ve seen, I think to myself. When she was being chased by the guards, she hurried away faster than a marlin. He may be correct, however, in that I don’t believe her home is far. The direction he indicated matches what I recall when she ran off. It’s a reasonable start, albeit it’s still pursuing a single fish in the vastness of the sea.
I thank the merchant for his time, waving the pitaya and bowing my head before I take off in search of Xasiq, the elderly woman. I pull the blue and red feather from my satchel and pin it to my hair, hoping it will help the woman identify me once again, as if my blue eyes and scar won’t be enough clues. I swim through the crowded marketplace, dodging and weaving around people strolling by the stands and chatting to one another. With everyone absorbed in their own activities, I’m relieved that no one gives any consideration to me and my loosely flowing blue and bronze dress, fabric trailing behind me.
The streets become compact as I leave the marketplace, homes densely packed along either side. I’ve realized that all of Chalaqta is beige, from the materials that construct their houses to their simplistic clothing. The buildings are small, cramming many families into a small amount of space, with some homes consisting of only a single room. The residents perform a variety of tasks and chores: Washing and hanging clothing, sweeping the area inside and surrounding their house, weaving either a blanket or an item of clothing, sharpening knives on a stone, cooking quinoa or corn or root vegetables out in the open air, patching up weathered areas of their homes with mud. Children play on the narrow streets, darting around pedestrians and attacking with sticks as if they were swords, or racing from one end of the street to the other.
Something within me stops at one of the homes in the middle of the street, and although I’m initially hesitant to disrupt her, I’m compelled to talk to a woman seated outside the entrance. Her basic, beige dress is speckled with dirt and a few rips, tied at her waist with a plain hemp rope. Using a dark, smooth stone, she’s milling in a stone bowl, forcefully grinding grain into a fluffy flour, her face scrunched together in deep concentration.
“I beg your pardon,” I say, almost in a delicate whisper, “but you wouldn’t happen to know where Xasiq lives?”
She doesn’t pause her work, continuing to work the grain, but takes a moment to consider me, looking me up and down as if judging whether or not I’m worth an answer.
“What do you want with her?” she asks, confused. Well, she knows of whom I speak, at least, but it appears Xasiq is notorious for something around this neighborhood. Something for me to consider when—if—I get the moment to speak to her.
I determine the excuse I used with the vendor worked the first time, so I’d give it a try with this woman. I tell her plainly, waiting for a reaction and trying to maintain my composure. Her milling slows for a moment as she reflects upon my response, then nods and returns to her fervent pace.
“One street over,” she says. “You can’t miss the house. It’s the one that looks as though it’s about to fall apart at any moment, cluttered with useless items. I’d be surprised if she realized she was missing the item of hers you possess.”
I chuckle politely, continuing my attempt to sell the lie, for some reason. Perhaps it’s because of everyone’s reaction that I feel the need to do so, becoming suddenly self-aware that my brightly colored outfit, in contrast to the neutral colors of the citizenry, must raise countless questions about how Xasiq and I could possibly have met. I’m not certain why I haven’t realized this sooner, and I make a mental note to be more conscious of such things.
After thanking the woman for her time, I navigate the paths and alleys to the next street. It lacks any distinguishing aspects from the one I had left and is just as congested. The sun barely illuminates the road, a constant cloud of kicked up dust and dirt hoovers above the ground, shrouding the figures walking about.
Just as the woman described, one home stands out among the rest: the building looks as though it’s barely holding itself together, as if one gust of wind could knock it over. The stones used for its construction are darker than those of its neighbors, and it’s bespeckled with green moss. While the street is dimly lit, the interior of the home is practically shrouded entirely in darkness.
Entering the home, I trip over something laying on the ground, though I can’t quite see what it is while my eyes adjust. A chair? A table? I call out a greeting while I reach out into the darkness, trying to feel my way around the room.
“Yes?” a tired, raspy voice responds. “Is that you?” The tumbling of items and shuffling feet sound from the back of the dark room.
“I beg your pardon,” I say, curious as to what she means by ‘you’. “Who do you believe I am?”
“Why, Walumaq, of course!” she says, as if her meaning is obvious. “I had hoped I hadn’t scared you away, but I knew! I had hoped, but I knew you’d return to me!”
Her intonation is the same as when we first met, almost manic in the swings of her mood as she goes from cautious and nervous to extreme optimism and joy. A hunched over figure comes into view, hobbling along and inadvertently kicking about the belongings she completely disregards as she approaches me.
“And you’ve worn the feather!” she says giddily, as her eyes, barely visible in the sea of darkness, grow large like two moons in the night sky. “You didn’t have to do that, child! I would recognize you anywhere! Come, sit! Sit!”
I can’t see a chair nor bench, yet Xasiq conjures two small stools from seemingly nowhere and sets them in the only two empty spaces on the floor. The outline of her face and body barely show that she wears the same outfit from when we met, and the scent of unwashed clothing, body odor, and cultured milk suddenly strikes my senses.
“So, where shall we start?” she asks, her hands clap as the stool groans when she leans back. This is a great question: I don’t know where to begin. Do we first discuss how she knows of me? Who I’m supposed to unite? Why the world is either going to end or be rescued by my hand? Who’s going to destroy the continent?
“Unfortunately, we don’t have much time,” Xasiq says glumly. “I’m afraid your father will be searching for you if you don’t return before dinner is served. And he won’t be pleased, won’t be pleased, to find you speaking to me. It’s a shame, since he’s a good man. A good man, yes. But, so much to discuss, so little time!”
“How do you know these things?” I ask. “About me and my father, that is.”
“I’ve seen many things, many things,” Xasiq says enigmatically. “I try to tell them, but nobody listens. Nobody listens.” She looks downward and shakes her head with a tsk tsk tsk.
“No, that’s not true,” she interrupts herself. “There was the Twelve, of course. They listened.”
“The Twelve?” I ask. “Don’t you mean ‘the Eleven’?”
“No, no, silly child! There were twelve! Twelve! Twelve!” She repeats herself emphatically to drive home the number, as if I should understand.
“But you’re aware that everyone on the continent refers to the heroes as ‘the Eleven’, correct? What happened to the twelfth person?”
“They’re wrong,” she says with a childlike pout. “It was twelve. Twelve! Twelve!”
Okay, that topic is not going to go anywhere, I think to myself while she continues muttering “twelve” to herself, getting quieter and quieter as she calms down. I’ll have to find out more from someone else, but the idea she spoke to the heroes of Pachil is intriguing, to say the least.
“You told me that I’m the uniter, that I’m the one who’s promised. Who am I to unite? Who… promised… me?” I didn’t really know how to phrase it, but if she has no problem being vague, then I feel I shouldn’t, either.
“They’re people who have powers, just as you do,” she says.
“How do you know–“
“Do you really need to ask me that?” she says sardonically. “We don’t have time. No time. No time.”
“So, these people,” I say, disrupting the cyclical self-talk she falls into, “who and where are they?”
“To be fair,” she says, “they don’t have their powers yet. That’s where you come in. You will show them. Requires lots of travel around the continent, though. You’ll have to move quickly, since the destroyers are coming. They’re coming. They’re-”
“How will I be able to show them?” I ask, interrupting again to try to keep her focused. For someone who says we don’t have a lot of time, she seems to frequently fall into these roundabout ways of speaking.
“It’s part of your travels,” she says cheerfully. “It’s a part of you. The Atima warrior knows.”
“Atima?” I say. “Didn’t the Timuaq exterminate them all?”
“Not all, not all,” she says. “They’re spread out among the factions. Living among the factions. You’ll see! You’ll see!”
“You had said there are people coming to destroy the continent,” I begin my next line of questioning. “Are they the insurgents I saw and overheard?” I determine I don’t have to be specific or explain, since she must understand everything I’ve done without my need to describe it, considering she knew I traveled here from Sanqo and knows of my father.
“They’re coming, child,” she murmurs, her gaze lost in the haze of distant thoughts. “They’re coming. By next harvest, they’re coming.”
“Who’s coming?” I ask, prepared for another incomprehensible answer. And next harvest is only a few moon cycles away. What does this all amount to?
“He seeks what he feels he’s entitled to,” she says, once again, frustratingly, not directly answering my question.
“Who?” I ask again, frustration seeping in.
“Bah!” she exclaims, panicked. “You must go! There’s trouble… It begins! It begins!”
“What begins? Is something happening with the insurgents? The people threatening Pachil?”
“Get to the palace!” she shouts, then clasps both hands in front of her mouth.
“Get to the palace,” she now whispers. “It begins, but you have to get to the palace. Go! Go! Before the future is ruined!”
She shoos me away with both hands and begins pushing me out of her home.
“But I don’t know who’s coming or who I should be uniting!” I say exasperatedly. “You’ve only confused–“
“Start with Qiapu,” she says, pushing me with small, yet forceful shoves. “They will all come together, but you have to start there, in Pichaqta. He has the scar. The scar. But avoid Qapauma. Avoid it! For now, at least. You’ll be there in due time, in due time. Now, go!”
Many questions remain as I make my way back to the palace in the dwindling sun, and I’m truly uncertain if any got answered. How do I convince my father to let me go to Qiapu for something that makes no sense? Who is coming to destroy the continent? Then again, how would the future be ruined if I didn’t return for dinner? I start to question the sanity of this woman, fearing I have wasted much time when there’s a possible insurgency on the government.
Before I reach the palace, shouts cry out as swaths of people run about in a panic. A nearby building erupts, flames leaping onto the street, illuminating the nearby structures as brightly as though it were day. Figures shrouded in shadow, their faces obscured by a red cloth, charge at various other buildings, torches in hand, and setting them ablaze. One of the buildings begins to collapse, crumbling to the ground with a thunderous whoomp.
In the midst of the mayhem, one figure stands out to me. He watches from a few buildings over, peeking out from the dark alleyway until his upper body is barely lit. I sneak over, trying not to draw attention to myself while hoping to get a better look at the person suspiciously monitoring the scene. I locate a cart abandoned by its owner near the man, hurrying over to it while keeping low and out of sight as best I can, and slowly draw my head out from behind. He looks away from me, so I can only see the back of his head, at first. In the midst of noise from more destruction, someone shouts at the figure, causing the person to react and look to identify the source. It is then that I see the man, immediately recognizing him to be Pahua.
“Are you sure it was them?”
Siunqi whispers his question to me as we walk, arm in arm, through the field and back to the palace. Occasionally, I look over my shoulder to ensure we’re not being followed nor overheard, seeing nobody of consequence from my brief glances to check. We’re in the middle of the swarm of Tapeu nobles in their eccentric and tight-fitting outfits, all moving together to follow the path into Chalaqta like a school of fish. Though the uli-poqmatch was long, the midday sun has only just begun its descent into the horizon, its warmth still caressing my face.
“I’m certain,” I say, leaning his direction while matching his lowered tone. “Both Aluxeqwel and Teqotlo departed during the calamity at the match, and when I followed them to the tent where they met, one of the people present dropped the coin.” Instinctively, I clutch the gold coin, etched with the flaming eye symbol, as it rests inside my satchel.
“They were searching for it when I left,” I say, “so they’ll be aware it’s missing and possibly misplaced.”
“Then we’ll have to make sure they don’t know that you have it,” father says, “so we can preserve this evidence for presenting to Iatuq if the matter arises.”
“Do you think presenting it to her will be enough?” I ask.
“Most certainly not,” he says, sounding a bit disappointed. “We can’t prove any of them possessed the coin, nor that the conversation took place, as well as not knowing which other nobles are involved. We’ll need to find out more, then weigh our options when the waters get clearer.”
I anticipated this would be the case, but I’m still dismayed nonetheless. Whoever they are working with has connections with influential people inside the capital and could leverage a lot of authority to advance their agenda.
“To make matters worse,” I say, almost as a continuation of my internal train of thought, “knowing they may use Pahua as part of their schemes complicates things greatly.”
“The child already has an issue with authority,” Siunqi says, “so not only do I expect he will be easily enticed to support them, but hearing from me to stand down while we sort out what’s happening is likely to encourage his rebellious nature. We’ll need to handle him delicately, so he doesn’t react irrationally and with malicious intent.”
“So what do we do?” I ask, gravely concerned that, if we mishandle this situation, we could endanger not only the warriors we’ve brought to the mainland, but our Sanqo people on the island.
The streets of Chalaqta grow more crowded while people hurry about, the colorful nobility clashing with the plain, neutral tones of the citizenry. The air is buzzing with shouts and laughter, the typical bustle of a busy city. By now, most of the attendees from the uli-poq match have interwoven themselves with the other townsfolk, the disjointed procession leading to the palace.
“It will be a multi-pronged approach,” Siunqi says, raising his voice slightly so as to be heard over the traffic. “We’ll have to seek out additional information to verify the connection between Aluxeqwel and Teqotlo with the insurgency. Find out the others with whom they were speaking, and determine what their agenda actually is.
“Along with that, we need to analyze just how great a threat these ‘flame eyes people’ are. What are their intentions, what are their capabilities, what is the potential impact should their agenda succeed.
“I will consult with Iatuq, see if she knows of anything and how Tapeu plans to proceed. But any discussions with her will have to be generalized and vague. We can’t give her the impression we’re on the side of the insurgency—not, of course, unless there’s a legitimate reason to join them; we’ve fought one group of tyrants, and we can do it again.”
“And regarding Pahua?” I ask, hoping he has a plan for my rash and unpredictable brother.
“There’s a strong possibility he joins the cause of the flame eyes,” father says, “but we can use that to our advantage. We can watch who he speaks to and gather information on who else is in this network. He might be misguided, but he can still guide us to who these people are, intentionally or otherwise.”
“I’ll continue to help monitor the situation,” I say, “check to see if there are any valuable sources that can assist us in discreetly discovering more. Tonatli seems pretty aloof and tactless in social situations, so he may reveal their plans and intentions to me unawares.”
“Look at you!” Siunqi remarks, grabbing my shoulder with a tiny squeeze and a shake. “To think I doubted you could handle the cloak-and-dagger of politics!”
Father says this while swelling with pride, though I’m not certain if it should be a compliment. I never intended to deceive anyone, hoping I could conduct myself honestly and nobly. Tonatli may be aloof, but he also seems genuinely kind, and I would hate to use him and abuse his trust. Is this really what it takes to be successful in politics and an accomplished ruler? If so, I’m not sure this is the path for me after all.
We approach the sharply-angled palace and its large walls, the sun reflecting off the bright stones that cause me to shield my eyes. Just inside the opening of the palace gates, a few men are gathered, wearing the Sanqo colors of deep ocean blue and bronze. My concern washes away once I see them talking and laughing, relieved that there’s no urgency in their mannerism.
“Ah, I see Atoyaqtli,” father says stoutly. “I must speak to him of what you’ve informed me, get the men prepared for possible scenarios.”
Siunqi takes a step or two before stopping to turn to me, saying, “you did excellent work, Walumaq.” His face beams with warmth and delight, giving me one final nod before hurrying off toward our trusted lieutenant and the Sanqo warriors.
Not eager to return to the palace, I decide to stroll the marketplace, not just to relish the rare moment of being alone, but to seize the opportunity of being without any Sanqo guards to monitor my activities. This way, I can finally attempt to track down the elderly woman from a day or two ago and get her to explain herself. Last time we interacted, she seemed distressed about possibly upsetting me, so I’d have to be mindful of my approach, not confident in her emotional stability.
I last saw her at the marketplace with the intricate stone floor, before losing her in the crowd after she was chased off by Siunqi’s guards. Unfortunately, I didn’t see where she ran, so I can’t trace her steps and possibly find where she lives. How on Pachil am I to find her now?
I return into the bustling marketplace with the stonework crafted in the herringbone pattern, retracing my path to the very stall that caught my eye during my previous visit. The merchant, standing cooly amidst the chaotic activity of the square, a stark contrast to the bellowing peddlers vying for attention. He grants me the freedom to explore, refraining from thrusting his wares upon me.
Having not had a good look at him before, I study him now, taking in his unassuming presence. An unembellished beige tunic drapes loosely over his frame, while his most distinguishing features rest upon his face: A patchy brown beard and a shaggy cascade of brown hair, setting himself apart from a sea of clean-shaven and well-dressed vendors. Before him rests a cart brimming with vivid red fruit no larger than my fist, each unfurling with green petals, and some are halved to reveal magenta flesh, speckled with delicate black seeds.
“What are these?” I ask, curious about the strange fruit. “I’ve never seen such an item before.”
“Ah, that’s because it’s traveled far, from the arid region of Tapeu near the Qiapu border,” he says proudly. He holds up the two halves of the fruit, letting the bright pinkish-red glimmer in the sunlight like a jewel.
“It’s called pitaya,” he says, “or dragonfruit, if you want to be creative or extravagant. Very sour, but very sweet. The skins and juice from what I don’t sell goes to dyers for fabrics. Versatile fruit, this pitaya.”
“The color is beautiful,” I say, admiring the brilliant red hue.
“Give it a try,” he says, offering me a half. I try to politely decline, not wanting to inconvenience the man, but he persists, only hoisting the fruit higher and closer to me until I accept. He’s right: After one bite, the fruit tastes tart, but sweet, and the seeds are crunchy and pop as I chew them. I’m confident it was all part of his plan, as I find it far too delicious for me to deny having another, and I immediately purchase a whole fruit, reaching into my satchel for a few coppers to hand to him for payment. He nods graciously and smiles, likely relishing in knowing that his tried and true tactic had worked.
“I have a very unrelated question to ask of you, if you don’t mind,” I say after chewing and finishing the delectable bite. “This might be a stretch, but… a day or two ago, I encountered an elderly woman, hunched over and…”
I try to recall any characteristics about her which could help describe the woman. It didn’t seem so long ago, yet so much has happened in the time since I came across her that much of her appearance becomes muddled in with so many others with whom I’ve interacted. I search my memory for something, anything, and after another bite of pitaya, a wave of details flood my mind.
“Oh! When I met her, she was wearing a dark brown cloak with a hood. Silver hair… right! With a braid down her right cheek! And she has these milky white eyes…”
“Ah, yes,” he says, “Xasiq. She’s…”
He hesitates for a moment, fidgeting with some of the fruit and casting his gaze downward as he considers what to say. Whatever it is, I anticipate it won’t be kind.
“Why do you seek her out?” he asks, a tinge of skepticism in his tone. “What do you want with her?”
I don’t want to reveal my true intentions, not just from mistrusting a stranger, but also from fear of sounding mentally unwell. She told me that I and the people whom I unite are responsible for either ending the world or saving it. No concerning matter. I try to think of any excuse that could make sense, but nothing comes to me right away, and I begin to panic that I’m only making him more suspicious.
“I… have something of hers that she accidentally left with me,” is the answer I eventually land on. “She’s so absent minded, you know?” I keep it vague, hoping he won’t inquire further, but ready to rebuff his attempts if he tries. It sounded good in my head, but does he believe me?
“Hmm,” he utters, “calling her ‘absent minded’ is putting it nicely.” He continues rearranging the pitaya, repositioning the fruit into neat pyramids. A woman approaches the stand, gazing at the fruits and weaving her head to and fro as if seeing different angles of the fruit will better enable her ability to judge their quality. Eventually, she decides the items on display are not for her, and she moves onto another stall. This only motivates the vendor to more attentively reorganize the dragonfruit, as though placing them in the correct manner will successfully bring the customers.
“She comes to the market on occasion,” he says, focused on maneuvering the red orbs into place. “Never buys anything, not that I see. Probably stealing from other carts. If you see something–“
“Do you know if she lives nearby?” I ask, cutting him off to avoid the distracted conversation. “I’d like to deliver this to her as soon as I’m able.” I place my hand inside my satchel as if I’m clutching something of value, to emphasize my point.
“She’s not too far from here,” he says. “Don’t know her exact location… Usually approaches from that way,” he points toward the south of the marketplace, “but she walks slowly, so she must live close.”
Not from what I’ve seen, I think to myself. When she was being chased by the guards, she hurried away faster than a marlin. He may be correct, however, in that I don’t believe her home is far. The direction he indicated matches what I recall when she ran off. It’s a reasonable start, albeit it’s still pursuing a single fish in the vastness of the sea.
I thank the merchant for his time, waving the pitaya and bowing my head before I take off in search of Xasiq, the elderly woman. I pull the blue and red feather from my satchel and pin it to my hair, hoping it will help the woman identify me once again, as if my blue eyes and scar won’t be enough clues. I swim through the crowded marketplace, dodging and weaving around people strolling by the stands and chatting to one another. With everyone absorbed in their own activities, I’m relieved that no one gives any consideration to me and my loosely flowing blue and bronze dress, fabric trailing behind me.
The streets become compact as I leave the marketplace, homes densely packed along either side. I’ve realized that all of Chalaqta is beige, from the materials that construct their houses to their simplistic clothing. The buildings are small, cramming many families into a small amount of space, with some homes consisting of only a single room. The residents perform a variety of tasks and chores: Washing and hanging clothing, sweeping the area inside and surrounding their house, weaving either a blanket or an item of clothing, sharpening knives on a stone, cooking quinoa or corn or root vegetables out in the open air, patching up weathered areas of their homes with mud. Children play on the narrow streets, darting around pedestrians and attacking with sticks as if they were swords, or racing from one end of the street to the other.
Something within me stops at one of the homes in the middle of the street, and although I’m initially hesitant to disrupt her, I’m compelled to talk to a woman seated outside the entrance. Her basic, beige dress is speckled with dirt and a few rips, tied at her waist with a plain hemp rope. Using a dark, smooth stone, she’s milling in a stone bowl, forcefully grinding grain into a fluffy flour, her face scrunched together in deep concentration.
“I beg your pardon,” I say, almost in a delicate whisper, “but you wouldn’t happen to know where Xasiq lives?”
She doesn’t pause her work, continuing to work the grain, but takes a moment to consider me, looking me up and down as if judging whether or not I’m worth an answer.
“What do you want with her?” she asks, confused. Well, she knows of whom I speak, at least, but it appears Xasiq is notorious for something around this neighborhood. Something for me to consider when—if—I get the moment to speak to her.
I determine the excuse I used with the vendor worked the first time, so I’d give it a try with this woman. I tell her plainly, waiting for a reaction and trying to maintain my composure. Her milling slows for a moment as she reflects upon my response, then nods and returns to her fervent pace.
“One street over,” she says. “You can’t miss the house. It’s the one that looks as though it’s about to fall apart at any moment, cluttered with useless items. I’d be surprised if she realized she was missing the item of hers you possess.”
I chuckle politely, continuing my attempt to sell the lie, for some reason. Perhaps it’s because of everyone’s reaction that I feel the need to do so, becoming suddenly self-aware that my brightly colored outfit, in contrast to the neutral colors of the citizenry, must raise countless questions about how Xasiq and I could possibly have met. I’m not certain why I haven’t realized this sooner, and I make a mental note to be more conscious of such things.
After thanking the woman for her time, I navigate the paths and alleys to the next street. It lacks any distinguishing aspects from the one I had left and is just as congested. The sun barely illuminates the road, a constant cloud of kicked up dust and dirt hoovers above the ground, shrouding the figures walking about.
Just as the woman described, one home stands out among the rest: the building looks as though it’s barely holding itself together, as if one gust of wind could knock it over. The stones used for its construction are darker than those of its neighbors, and it’s bespeckled with green moss. While the street is dimly lit, the interior of the home is practically shrouded entirely in darkness.
Entering the home, I trip over something laying on the ground, though I can’t quite see what it is while my eyes adjust. A chair? A table? I call out a greeting while I reach out into the darkness, trying to feel my way around the room.
“Yes?” a tired, raspy voice responds. “Is that you?” The tumbling of items and shuffling feet sound from the back of the dark room.
“I beg your pardon,” I say, curious as to what she means by ‘you’. “Who do you believe I am?”
“Why, Walumaq, of course!” she says, as if her meaning is obvious. “I had hoped I hadn’t scared you away, but I knew! I had hoped, but I knew you’d return to me!”
Her intonation is the same as when we first met, almost manic in the swings of her mood as she goes from cautious and nervous to extreme optimism and joy. A hunched over figure comes into view, hobbling along and inadvertently kicking about the belongings she completely disregards as she approaches me.
“And you’ve worn the feather!” she says giddily, as her eyes, barely visible in the sea of darkness, grow large like two moons in the night sky. “You didn’t have to do that, child! I would recognize you anywhere! Come, sit! Sit!”
I can’t see a chair nor bench, yet Xasiq conjures two small stools from seemingly nowhere and sets them in the only two empty spaces on the floor. The outline of her face and body barely show that she wears the same outfit from when we met, and the scent of unwashed clothing, body odor, and cultured milk suddenly strikes my senses.
“So, where shall we start?” she asks, her hands clap as the stool groans when she leans back. This is a great question: I don’t know where to begin. Do we first discuss how she knows of me? Who I’m supposed to unite? Why the world is either going to end or be rescued by my hand? Who’s going to destroy the continent?
“Unfortunately, we don’t have much time,” Xasiq says glumly. “I’m afraid your father will be searching for you if you don’t return before dinner is served. And he won’t be pleased, won’t be pleased, to find you speaking to me. It’s a shame, since he’s a good man. A good man, yes. But, so much to discuss, so little time!”
“How do you know these things?” I ask. “About me and my father, that is.”
“I’ve seen many things, many things,” Xasiq says enigmatically. “I try to tell them, but nobody listens. Nobody listens.” She looks downward and shakes her head with a tsk tsk tsk.
“No, that’s not true,” she interrupts herself. “There was the Twelve, of course. They listened.”
“The Twelve?” I ask. “Don’t you mean ‘the Eleven’?”
“No, no, silly child! There were twelve! Twelve! Twelve!” She repeats herself emphatically to drive home the number, as if I should understand.
“But you’re aware that everyone on the continent refers to the heroes as ‘the Eleven’, correct? What happened to the twelfth person?”
“They’re wrong,” she says with a childlike pout. “It was twelve. Twelve! Twelve!”
Okay, that topic is not going to go anywhere, I think to myself while she continues muttering “twelve” to herself, getting quieter and quieter as she calms down. I’ll have to find out more from someone else, but the idea she spoke to the heroes of Pachil is intriguing, to say the least.
“You told me that I’m the uniter, that I’m the one who’s promised. Who am I to unite? Who… promised… me?” I didn’t really know how to phrase it, but if she has no problem being vague, then I feel I shouldn’t, either.
“They’re people who have powers, just as you do,” she says.
“How do you know–“
“Do you really need to ask me that?” she says sardonically. “We don’t have time. No time. No time.”
“So, these people,” I say, disrupting the cyclical self-talk she falls into, “who and where are they?”
“To be fair,” she says, “they don’t have their powers yet. That’s where you come in. You will show them. Requires lots of travel around the continent, though. You’ll have to move quickly, since the destroyers are coming. They’re coming. They’re-”
“How will I be able to show them?” I ask, interrupting again to try to keep her focused. For someone who says we don’t have a lot of time, she seems to frequently fall into these roundabout ways of speaking.
“It’s part of your travels,” she says cheerfully. “It’s a part of you. The Atima warrior knows.”
“Atima?” I say. “Didn’t the Timuaq exterminate them all?”
“Not all, not all,” she says. “They’re spread out among the factions. Living among the factions. You’ll see! You’ll see!”
“You had said there are people coming to destroy the continent,” I begin my next line of questioning. “Are they the insurgents I saw and overheard?” I determine I don’t have to be specific or explain, since she must understand everything I’ve done without my need to describe it, considering she knew I traveled here from Sanqo and knows of my father.
“They’re coming, child,” she murmurs, her gaze lost in the haze of distant thoughts. “They’re coming. By next harvest, they’re coming.”
“Who’s coming?” I ask, prepared for another incomprehensible answer. And next harvest is only a few moon cycles away. What does this all amount to?
“He seeks what he feels he’s entitled to,” she says, once again, frustratingly, not directly answering my question.
“Who?” I ask again, frustration seeping in.
“Bah!” she exclaims, panicked. “You must go! There’s trouble… It begins! It begins!”
“What begins? Is something happening with the insurgents? The people threatening Pachil?”
“Get to the palace!” she shouts, then clasps both hands in front of her mouth.
“Get to the palace,” she now whispers. “It begins, but you have to get to the palace. Go! Go! Before the future is ruined!”
She shoos me away with both hands and begins pushing me out of her home.
“But I don’t know who’s coming or who I should be uniting!” I say exasperatedly. “You’ve only confused–“
“Start with Qiapu,” she says, pushing me with small, yet forceful shoves. “They will all come together, but you have to start there, in Pichaqta. He has the scar. The scar. But avoid Qapauma. Avoid it! For now, at least. You’ll be there in due time, in due time. Now, go!”
Many questions remain as I make my way back to the palace in the dwindling sun, and I’m truly uncertain if any got answered. How do I convince my father to let me go to Qiapu for something that makes no sense? Who is coming to destroy the continent? Then again, how would the future be ruined if I didn’t return for dinner? I start to question the sanity of this woman, fearing I have wasted much time when there’s a possible insurgency on the government.
Before I reach the palace, shouts cry out as swaths of people run about in a panic. A nearby building erupts, flames leaping onto the street, illuminating the nearby structures as brightly as though it were day. Figures shrouded in shadow, their faces obscured by a red cloth, charge at various other buildings, torches in hand, and setting them ablaze. One of the buildings begins to collapse, crumbling to the ground with a thunderous whoomp.
In the midst of the mayhem, one figure stands out to me. He watches from a few buildings over, peeking out from the dark alleyway until his upper body is barely lit. I sneak over, trying not to draw attention to myself while hoping to get a better look at the person suspiciously monitoring the scene. I locate a cart abandoned by its owner near the man, hurrying over to it while keeping low and out of sight as best I can, and slowly draw my head out from behind. He looks away from me, so I can only see the back of his head, at first. In the midst of noise from more destruction, someone shouts at the figure, causing the person to react and look to identify the source. It is then that I see the man, immediately recognizing him to be Pahua.
