The pageantry of the celebration is underway, with a rainbow of colored tunics and dresses worn by attendees donning their finest jewelry made from gold, silver, and bronze, inset with precious stones of pink and blue opal, turquoise, and jade, and I am so bored.
Walking around the grounds of the palace—the only clearing in the dense jungle around Chopaqte—the array of colors stand out from the tapestry of green that encompasses the city, yet the spectacle feels as dull as the jarring gray stone walls rigidly containing the wooden structures within. Clans from all over Achope have gathered to wish safe travels to the representative from the continental capital of Qapauma, offering their cooked meals to nourish the traveler, the aromas of the various spices and ingredients filling the air with scents of fish, cilantro, and chilis. To me, however, it all seems like showmanship shamelessly attempting to curry favor.
The rhythmic drums bang out a fast, thunderous beat while dancers decked in long draping sheets of a colorful array of feathers—mostly the blue and yellow of the macaw, but also feathers of the black and oily green-blue Muscovy duck and white egret interspersed—intricately woven in shapes and patterns. The colors blend together in a blur as the dancers spin, leap, and swirl vigorously, yipping and yelling in time with the drums as they move. Flutes and pan pipes, decorated with long, dark condor feathers, whistle a joyful, upbeat tune to coincide with the jubilant mood.
There are countless cheers while the songs and dances seemingly never pause, and the guests clap along while drinking plenty (perhaps too much) of chicha. Every attempt I make to plant against the walls of the perimeter, I’m chased down by some suitor eager to have a dance with me. I make excuses—I am parched and need a drink, my stomach is too full from the feast, is that my parents calling me?—and I flee to fleeting safety. I suppose I’m worth their desperate efforts to court me; I have a petite figure to match my below average height, with long, black hair that I comb regularly to keep it relatively straight amidst the unrelenting humidity, and my brown, upturned eyes are a shade lighter than most everyone’s in Achope. I’m also of childbearing age, though I shudder at the thought of having an infant. I also made the mistake of wearing a formal outfit for the event: A long dress which is one of my absolute favorites, just stopping at my calves and decorated with scarlet red and yellow feathers, and a bronze necklace adorned with turquoise stones that once belonged to my mother. All of this certainly draws attention to me like a solitary star in the sea of the black night sky. Although if I hadn’t dressed for the occasion, my father would have chided me and never let me out of my room. Come to think of it, perhaps that’s where I went wrong, since I’d much rather be there and avoid all of this.
The raucous laughter snaps my attention back to the festivities, but from the start this has all a bit too much for me. I slip away from the masses to seek out peace and quiet. The sun begins setting to the west, and sparkles of light glisten in the large nearby river, Maiu Hatun. The voices slowly fade and become drowned out by the water flowing past the docks and out to sea. To my right, and following the river in the direction it flows toward the sea, the nearby markets are beginning to close for the day, with the numerous merchants packing away their wares. Most are relatively flamboyantly dressed, though nowhere near to the level of outfits I just left behind at the gathering of nobilities. It has always humored me to see what each merchant wears, since it’s done to showcase their wealth and how successful they are at business. “Ooo, look at me and how great I am!” Apparently not great enough to be invited to the celebration. No matter where I go around here, it seems I can’t escape that mentality of showing off.
Nearby, one of the servants is struggling with a gourd as he retrieves water from the river. He is older, bald with wrinkles lining multiple places on his weathered, gaunt face, and his thin arms and legs are dotted with countless age spots. His garments are falling to pieces with an assortment of rips and tears throughout. He has distinctions of being from the Atima peoples to the north—well, what used to be those peoples before most of them perished, I suppose—with narrow and slender eyes and much shorter in stature, even compared to me. My understanding is that their neighbors, the Qantua, absorbed them into their populace, so I’m curious how he ended up this far south, especially since it requires traversing the waters of the vast sea, the Haqu Minsa. Or, more treacherously, through the jungle lands of the barbaric and archaic Tuatiu. Now that the war is over, I’m relieved both parties can keep their distance from one another, and I’m certain people from both sides would agree with me.
I go over to assist him, bending my knees and lifting until the gourd is planted securely on his right shoulder. When he finally notices me, his face is overcome with shock and embarrassment. He starts to utter something, but I nod and raise a hand to encourage him that everything is okay.
“My lady, Haesan,” he says, bowing his head slightly. “Th-thank you! Please, don’t tell anyone I–“
“It’s okay,” I chuckle, with a wink. “This will remain between us, you can be assured.”
“Is… Is everything alright at the ceremony?” he asks. “It appeared everyone is thrilled about the visitor from Qapauma.”
I sigh and, lifting my chin up, try my best to brave a smile. “I just wanted to catch a quick glimpse of the sunset, is all. We have the best sights in the entire continent, and I always feel regret when I miss it even once. I’ll return shortly.”
A little confused, he nods and starts on his way back toward the palace. I watch him trod along, occasionally stumbling as he leaves the riverbed. From the corner of my eye, I see a figure approaching, a mix of royal purple and gold patterns mashed together on their tunic. It’s a towering silhouette, one with broad shoulders and an upright posture, jutting their chest out while taking proud steps, not making an effort to be stealthy or undetected.
“Did you get lost, Haesan?” the baritone voice asks. “The gathering is that way, opposite of the river and toward the palace, you know.”
“Just getting a little fresh air. It can be a bit stuffy over there, even outdoors.” I’m not sure he can see my rolling eyes, but I’m certain it comes across in my voice. There’s a brief pause in the conversation, which is filled in by the clanking and clattering of his metallic jewelry as he steps closer to me. An extravagant headdress made of yellow and blue feathers casts a large shadow over my face, interfering with my view of the sunset.
“What do you want, father,” I say, unenthused, and more as a statement rather than a question. Without moving my body, I turn my head slightly in his direction to look at him. His rectangular face is stoney and solemn, his lips pressed tightly together. He takes a moment, lets out a brief breath, and rests a hand on my left shoulder.
“Your absence will be noticed,” he says with a tone that is a forced attempt to be somewhat paternal. “You hold a prominent position now. It’s important that you mingle and form partnerships and relationships. It is now your duty to-“
“I don’t care about my ‘duty’, father!” I shout. His hand now grips my shoulder tightly, and his eyes grow larger, attempting to signal to me that I should be more discreet and keep my voice down. Everything is about appearances to him, even if there’s no one around—he assumes eyes are on him and our family at all times. Not relenting, I continue, “This isn’t even a position I want in the first place.”
“You know full well that we have been blessed by Achpula,” he says, with the sternness of his words being wielded like a weapon, “and the responsibilities to lead our people and maintain our greatness has been bestowed upon us! The Arbiter has honored us by delegating us to head the rebuild. How naïve and immature to cast aside such a privilege entrusted to you!” I’ve seen the glare he is giving me before. There have been countless reprimands and admonishments in my time, and this is no different.
“You already have a son,” I say. “Why do you speak to me as if you expect more from me than him? Shouldn’t he be put in charge?” I know the answer to this without him needing to respond, though that wasn’t the point. Sure, it was a childish shot at him, but part of the sport is making him squirm and reminding him that, even though the firstborn male is supposed to be the one in charge, I’m the one who is actually responsible. He wouldn’t be treating me so harshly if my brother, Anaimi, wasn’t such a mistake-prone disappointment. And I know that, deep down, it pains him that his most responsible child is a girl.
“Anaimi still has much development to go,” he says, “and he is young enough that he has plenty of time to grow into the position and responsibility.”
“Perhaps if Anaimi could bear children, you would treat him the same way you treat me,” I say.
“Anaimi is on a different journey, and he is growing into his leadership role. However, you should know better. The fact that you still don’t is quite frankly an embarrassment to the family.” He says this in such a dry and matter of fact manner that one could be forgiven for thinking he was reciting a speech. It isn’t the first time he’s said this about me, and I’m sure it won’t be the last, but with each instance it’s spoken, the less harmful its damage—being honest, this was far from his best work, and his defense of Anaimi is more of a stretch than usual. To me, the insults get lost in the babbling waters or rustling of leaves from the jungle breeze.
Sparing me from more of this verbal assault, and perhaps preventing me from retorting with more snark that would dig my hole deeper, a servant cautiously approaches us, hesitant to interrupt the conversation of a noble. He is perhaps around my age, jet black hair juts out of his ill-fitting cloth headpiece, and he swims in an oversized, plain tunic that he is clearly borrowing from a burlier servant. His eyes dart between my father, me, and the ground, not wanting to be caught making direct eye contact with either of us, yet attempting to calculate when he can interject.
“Suntu, sir,” the servant says trepidatiously. “Lord Qatinu is about to say his prepared remarks for the visitor from Qapauma. I was asked by madam Polan to return you to the gathering.”
The servant winces after completing his statement, and with a humph, my father snorts and scowls before turning to the boy with eyes narrowed.
“We’re not finished, you and me,” he says to me, no longer looking in my direction, nor turning his head to make his statement. He marches off in long, purposeful strides back toward the palace, with the servant trailing frantically behind him, requiring nearly double the amount of steps to keep up.
Reluctant to return to the gathering and deal with the cold stares coming from my father, I take a walk along the perimeter of the grounds. I can still hear the occasional eruptions of laughter and applause, causing me to involuntarily groan and roll my eyes. I’ll have to walk further away next time if I want to avoid the theatrics of nobility.
Just outside the palace entrance, I see not one, but many palanquins being prepared by a group of attendants. The long, black hair of the men falls neatly onto their muscular shoulders, and though they wear no elaborate jewelry or headwear, they wear orange and red tunics with purple trim and tassels—an indication they’re Tapeu and from the capital, although they’re not tall like most Tapeu I’ve met. They scurry around the mechanisms like ants, packing them with supplies and garments, and checking the security of the bindings. Each one is burly and fit, and I get glimpses of the distinctive calluses on the palms of their large hands as they work on tightening the straps. Small beads of sweat trickle down their foreheads, and I deduce the intensity in which they work, compounded by the jungle’s thick humidity, must be exhausting. Yet they press on and fight through the exhaustion, grunting as the heave the heavy equipment into position.
I’m curious as to why there are so many being prepared, but I don’t want to interrupt their work. One of the men notices me cautiously approaching them and stops what he is working on to look up at me. His dark brown eyes stare inquisitively, awaiting instruction.
“May I help you with something, my lady?” he asks in a surprisingly soft and warm tone that catches me off guard. Maybe I shouldn’t be shocked that he would speak to me in a genteel manner, since I am wearing the outfit and jewelry of a noblewoman, but nonetheless I am.
“I, uh–” why is it so difficult to speak to this man? “I want to know why so many palanquins are being prepared for the visitor’s journey. Wasn’t it just the two visitors from the capital? Or is a separate trip being prepared?”
“I am just doing as I was instructed, my lady,” he says, and he bows his head somberly. “Our directions came from Suntu himself, and he only said to prepare the three palanquins. I apologize that I cannot give you a more informative answer.”
I dig around in my memory and only recall the visitor traveling alone. Well, not exactly ‘alone’—there was a legion of guards numbering in the dozens to travel as escorts, and an elderly woman who regularly trailed behind from a significantly far distance, as if the main guest forgot she was around. When I inspect the mechanisms, I notice that two of them are being provided by us, identified by the numerous markings of our sigil of the quetzal carved into the supports and embellished in royal purple and gold, our people’s colors. Is my father planning to travel to the capital? Maybe I should’ve been at the gathering after all so that I could find out what is going on.
Laughter and jovial conversation swells in volume as a group of men, draped in fine linens and jewelry, approach where I and the servants are. There is a large crowd surrounding them as they walk through the entrance of the palace walls, and suddenly residents of the town, wearing clothing covered in dirt and heaven knows what else, begin to swarm their location. The guards use wooden poles and shields to fight them back, and periodically swing their cudgels to do so literally. I wince when I hear the occasional thump of a blunt object colliding with flesh and bone. I shout for the guards to ease off, but my weak voice is drowned out by the mixture of hollers—the citizens calling out to the nobles, the guards yelling for them to get back. Many of the locals extend arms around the weaponry to reach out for the idolized aristocrats and beg, for either their favor or fortune.
Between the heads and bodies of the crowd, I see my father chatting with someone wearing the orange and red of Tapeu as a cape. Their long, straight, black hair shines almost as brightly as the intertwined gold and silver jewelry that drapes over much of the piece. To my surprise, it’s… a woman. I’m stunned as I see her exotic, almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones, and I have to stop myself from gawking at her regal beauty. Her blue and white dress fits her shape tightly, unabashedly displaying her slight athletic build within a tight frame. Her narrow chin is raised upward as she walks with an air of pride like a peacock, and a subtle look of disdain appears fixed to her face while the Achope nobles let out bellowing laughs. She doesn’t acknowledge any of the commotion, whether it comes from the citizenry or the nobility.
Far behind my father, the Tapeu woman, and the flock of nobles is my mother, Polan. She wears a long, white dress with purple shapes interspersed, and around her waist, the dress is decorated with purple and gold. Draped around her shoulders is a purple cape, and around her neck and wrists are bands of gold jewelry, along with a simple golden headband. She looks concerned, not making eye contact with anyone, as though her mind is at some far away place.
The group stops after clearing the walls of the palace grounds entirely, and the guards disperse the crowds to allow the nobles to surround the palanquins. The servants who were preparing them hurriedly move about to where three line up on one side, and another three swiftly move to the other side and mirror their position, and they do this for all of the travel mechanisms without ever casting their eyes upon the nobility, looking straight ahead once they assume their posts.
“Quraqa Haesan,” I hear a velvety voice say with a hint of amusement. Despite all the chatter taking place around us, I can hear the Tapeu woman speaking to me clearly. “your father has told me a lot about you.”
Flustered and uncertain what I should be doing, I bow to her and can’t think of how to respond. I’m so taken aback by her demeanor and dignified presence that all formalities have left with the wind. Is this who my father wishes I would be like? I understand, in a way, yet I doubt I could ever strive to carry myself in such a manner.
“I certainly hope she will be more talkative during our journey, Quraqa Suntu,” she says, the left side of her mouth curls slightly more to harmonize with her vulpine grin. A few of the noblemen chuckle and turn to my father, who remains stoic during the entirety of the exchange.
“It may benefit you more if she remains silent, Lady Anqatil,” he says, never meeting my eyes once. “However, she will be a sufficient delegate for Achutli’s needs.” The woman—Anqatil, supposedly—laughs politely, her head flinging back a bit exaggeratedly to expose her bright white teeth, and she daintily places a hand on father’s shoulder.
As if I wasn’t thunderstruck before, my father’s statement completely throws me. Did he really just declare that I will be traveling to the capital? Without speaking to me about it first? I open my mouth to protest, but no sounds leave my lips. Before I can collect myself to object to his comment, Lady Anqatil disarms me with an enchanting look.
“I have no doubt she will be an excellent traveling companion,” she says about me, as if I’m not present.
“Mother,” I shout. I look for Polan and call to her, wanting to ask her what is happening, but she continues to look at the ground as tears form in her eyes.
“Mother!” I shout once more, trying desperately to get her attention. Polan holds a hand to her mouth and hurriedly rushes off back to the palace. Is she not going to talk to me about this?
Lady Anqatil climbs into the seat of a palanquin, and the men lift her up with ease. She can’t weigh more than a feather, despite her build, and I imagine the servants entrusted to carry her must be relieved to have been assigned to her transport services and not a heavier set man. She looks out to inspect the crowd, waving politely with sophistication in her every gesture. Realizing she hasn’t moved yet, she turns her head ever so slightly toward me.
“Any time you are ready to begin our journey,” she says, still smiling and through her luminescent teeth, “I suggest you take your seat, Quraqa Haesan.”
“Are…” I find it difficult to muster up enough words to form a sentence. “Are we traveling now? It’s already evening, and I don’t know about traveling at night.”
“There will be exchange points along the way, and new servants are awaiting our arrival to take over the travel duties. The sooner we begin our journey, the sooner we can be in a comfortable bed in the capital.” Her eyes never cease scanning the crowd, and she continuously waves as if to greet every single citizen of Chopaqte.
My head is still spinning at the sudden instructions given to me by my father, but, in a fog, I eventually take my seat in the adjacent palanquin. Despite so much of this feeling wrong, or as if I’m in a bad dream, I’m unsure why I sit down, and I’m too confused to think of what to say. The elderly woman takes the third mechanism, wearing only royal purple to indicate she must be from somewhere in our lands, and her graying hair is tightly braided and pinned up at the back of her head. Was she wearing such colors when she arrived to Chopaqte? The outfit isn’t as elaborate as Lady Anqatil’s, with only a few decorative gold feathers sown into the sleeves to imitate wings. Unfortunately, they are so sparse that it gives me the impression more of a flightless bird, or one that has had its wings clipped and is purely for show. Much like my father, she is stone-faced and doesn’t say much, if anything.
Once the servants lift me, I turn to look at my father. He only looks at Lady Anqatil and bows his head slightly, touching his forehead to her delicately presented left hand, as a sign of respect and farewell. It’s quite the gesture, having just met her so recently, but either she has left a tremendous impression upon him, or something deeper took place when I chose not to pay attention. I scold myself for being so oblivious, and I internally declare that I’ll have to be more alert during our travels and my time in Qapauma.
She returns the nod, then commands the men to commence with the travels. As our palanquins are lifted up, the cheering crowds wish us a safe journey to Qapauma. Through the whoops and shouts, and conveniently after Anqatil is out of earshot, I finally hear my father speak to me. He looks directly into my eyes while my palanquin starts to follow hers and depart toward the dense jungle, the setting sun to our backs, to where all I can see of him is a featureless silhouette.
“Now,” my father exerts, “our conversation is finished.”
The pageantry of the celebration is underway, with a rainbow of colored tunics and dresses worn by attendees donning their finest jewelry made from gold, silver, and bronze, inset with precious stones of pink and blue opal, turquoise, and jade, and I am so bored.
Walking around the grounds of the palace—the only clearing in the dense jungle around Chopaqte—the array of colors stand out from the tapestry of green that encompasses the city, yet the spectacle feels as dull as the jarring gray stone walls rigidly containing the wooden structures within. Clans from all over Achope have gathered to wish safe travels to the representative from the continental capital of Qapauma, offering their cooked meals to nourish the traveler, the aromas of the various spices and ingredients filling the air with scents of fish, cilantro, and chilis. To me, however, it all seems like showmanship shamelessly attempting to curry favor.
The rhythmic drums bang out a fast, thunderous beat while dancers decked in long draping sheets of a colorful array of feathers—mostly the blue and yellow of the macaw, but also feathers of the black and oily green-blue Muscovy duck and white egret interspersed—intricately woven in shapes and patterns. The colors blend together in a blur as the dancers spin, leap, and swirl vigorously, yipping and yelling in time with the drums as they move. Flutes and pan pipes, decorated with long, dark condor feathers, whistle a joyful, upbeat tune to coincide with the jubilant mood.
There are countless cheers while the songs and dances seemingly never pause, and the guests clap along while drinking plenty (perhaps too much) of chicha. Every attempt I make to plant against the walls of the perimeter, I’m chased down by some suitor eager to have a dance with me. I make excuses—I am parched and need a drink, my stomach is too full from the feast, is that my parents calling me?—and I flee to fleeting safety. I suppose I’m worth their desperate efforts to court me; I have a petite figure to match my below average height, with long, black hair that I comb regularly to keep it relatively straight amidst the unrelenting humidity, and my brown, upturned eyes are a shade lighter than most everyone’s in Achope. I’m also of childbearing age, though I shudder at the thought of having an infant. I also made the mistake of wearing a formal outfit for the event: A long dress which is one of my absolute favorites, just stopping at my calves and decorated with scarlet red and yellow feathers, and a bronze necklace adorned with turquoise stones that once belonged to my mother. All of this certainly draws attention to me like a solitary star in the sea of the black night sky. Although if I hadn’t dressed for the occasion, my father would have chided me and never let me out of my room. Come to think of it, perhaps that’s where I went wrong, since I’d much rather be there and avoid all of this.
The raucous laughter snaps my attention back to the festivities, but from the start this has all a bit too much for me. I slip away from the masses to seek out peace and quiet. The sun begins setting to the west, and sparkles of light glisten in the large nearby river, Maiu Hatun. The voices slowly fade and become drowned out by the water flowing past the docks and out to sea. To my right, and following the river in the direction it flows toward the sea, the nearby markets are beginning to close for the day, with the numerous merchants packing away their wares. Most are relatively flamboyantly dressed, though nowhere near to the level of outfits I just left behind at the gathering of nobilities. It has always humored me to see what each merchant wears, since it’s done to showcase their wealth and how successful they are at business. “Ooo, look at me and how great I am!” Apparently not great enough to be invited to the celebration. No matter where I go around here, it seems I can’t escape that mentality of showing off.
Nearby, one of the servants is struggling with a gourd as he retrieves water from the river. He is older, bald with wrinkles lining multiple places on his weathered, gaunt face, and his thin arms and legs are dotted with countless age spots. His garments are falling to pieces with an assortment of rips and tears throughout. He has distinctions of being from the Atima peoples to the north—well, what used to be those peoples before most of them perished, I suppose—with narrow and slender eyes and much shorter in stature, even compared to me. My understanding is that their neighbors, the Qantua, absorbed them into their populace, so I’m curious how he ended up this far south, especially since it requires traversing the waters of the vast sea, the Haqu Minsa. Or, more treacherously, through the jungle lands of the barbaric and archaic Tuatiu. Now that the war is over, I’m relieved both parties can keep their distance from one another, and I’m certain people from both sides would agree with me.
I go over to assist him, bending my knees and lifting until the gourd is planted securely on his right shoulder. When he finally notices me, his face is overcome with shock and embarrassment. He starts to utter something, but I nod and raise a hand to encourage him that everything is okay.
“My lady, Haesan,” he says, bowing his head slightly. “Th-thank you! Please, don’t tell anyone I–“
“It’s okay,” I chuckle, with a wink. “This will remain between us, you can be assured.”
“Is… Is everything alright at the ceremony?” he asks. “It appeared everyone is thrilled about the visitor from Qapauma.”
I sigh and, lifting my chin up, try my best to brave a smile. “I just wanted to catch a quick glimpse of the sunset, is all. We have the best sights in the entire continent, and I always feel regret when I miss it even once. I’ll return shortly.”
A little confused, he nods and starts on his way back toward the palace. I watch him trod along, occasionally stumbling as he leaves the riverbed. From the corner of my eye, I see a figure approaching, a mix of royal purple and gold patterns mashed together on their tunic. It’s a towering silhouette, one with broad shoulders and an upright posture, jutting their chest out while taking proud steps, not making an effort to be stealthy or undetected.
“Did you get lost, Haesan?” the baritone voice asks. “The gathering is that way, opposite of the river and toward the palace, you know.”
“Just getting a little fresh air. It can be a bit stuffy over there, even outdoors.” I’m not sure he can see my rolling eyes, but I’m certain it comes across in my voice. There’s a brief pause in the conversation, which is filled in by the clanking and clattering of his metallic jewelry as he steps closer to me. An extravagant headdress made of yellow and blue feathers casts a large shadow over my face, interfering with my view of the sunset.
“What do you want, father,” I say, unenthused, and more as a statement rather than a question. Without moving my body, I turn my head slightly in his direction to look at him. His rectangular face is stoney and solemn, his lips pressed tightly together. He takes a moment, lets out a brief breath, and rests a hand on my left shoulder.
“Your absence will be noticed,” he says with a tone that is a forced attempt to be somewhat paternal. “You hold a prominent position now. It’s important that you mingle and form partnerships and relationships. It is now your duty to-“
“I don’t care about my ‘duty’, father!” I shout. His hand now grips my shoulder tightly, and his eyes grow larger, attempting to signal to me that I should be more discreet and keep my voice down. Everything is about appearances to him, even if there’s no one around—he assumes eyes are on him and our family at all times. Not relenting, I continue, “This isn’t even a position I want in the first place.”
“You know full well that we have been blessed by Achpula,” he says, with the sternness of his words being wielded like a weapon, “and the responsibilities to lead our people and maintain our greatness has been bestowed upon us! The Arbiter has honored us by delegating us to head the rebuild. How naïve and immature to cast aside such a privilege entrusted to you!” I’ve seen the glare he is giving me before. There have been countless reprimands and admonishments in my time, and this is no different.
“You already have a son,” I say. “Why do you speak to me as if you expect more from me than him? Shouldn’t he be put in charge?” I know the answer to this without him needing to respond, though that wasn’t the point. Sure, it was a childish shot at him, but part of the sport is making him squirm and reminding him that, even though the firstborn male is supposed to be the one in charge, I’m the one who is actually responsible. He wouldn’t be treating me so harshly if my brother, Anaimi, wasn’t such a mistake-prone disappointment. And I know that, deep down, it pains him that his most responsible child is a girl.
“Anaimi still has much development to go,” he says, “and he is young enough that he has plenty of time to grow into the position and responsibility.”
“Perhaps if Anaimi could bear children, you would treat him the same way you treat me,” I say.
“Anaimi is on a different journey, and he is growing into his leadership role. However, you should know better. The fact that you still don’t is quite frankly an embarrassment to the family.” He says this in such a dry and matter of fact manner that one could be forgiven for thinking he was reciting a speech. It isn’t the first time he’s said this about me, and I’m sure it won’t be the last, but with each instance it’s spoken, the less harmful its damage—being honest, this was far from his best work, and his defense of Anaimi is more of a stretch than usual. To me, the insults get lost in the babbling waters or rustling of leaves from the jungle breeze.
Sparing me from more of this verbal assault, and perhaps preventing me from retorting with more snark that would dig my hole deeper, a servant cautiously approaches us, hesitant to interrupt the conversation of a noble. He is perhaps around my age, jet black hair juts out of his ill-fitting cloth headpiece, and he swims in an oversized, plain tunic that he is clearly borrowing from a burlier servant. His eyes dart between my father, me, and the ground, not wanting to be caught making direct eye contact with either of us, yet attempting to calculate when he can interject.
“Suntu, sir,” the servant says trepidatiously. “Lord Qatinu is about to say his prepared remarks for the visitor from Qapauma. I was asked by madam Polan to return you to the gathering.”
The servant winces after completing his statement, and with a humph, my father snorts and scowls before turning to the boy with eyes narrowed.
“We’re not finished, you and me,” he says to me, no longer looking in my direction, nor turning his head to make his statement. He marches off in long, purposeful strides back toward the palace, with the servant trailing frantically behind him, requiring nearly double the amount of steps to keep up.
Reluctant to return to the gathering and deal with the cold stares coming from my father, I take a walk along the perimeter of the grounds. I can still hear the occasional eruptions of laughter and applause, causing me to involuntarily groan and roll my eyes. I’ll have to walk further away next time if I want to avoid the theatrics of nobility.
Just outside the palace entrance, I see not one, but many palanquins being prepared by a group of attendants. The long, black hair of the men falls neatly onto their muscular shoulders, and though they wear no elaborate jewelry or headwear, they wear orange and red tunics with purple trim and tassels—an indication they’re Tapeu and from the capital, although they’re not tall like most Tapeu I’ve met. They scurry around the mechanisms like ants, packing them with supplies and garments, and checking the security of the bindings. Each one is burly and fit, and I get glimpses of the distinctive calluses on the palms of their large hands as they work on tightening the straps. Small beads of sweat trickle down their foreheads, and I deduce the intensity in which they work, compounded by the jungle’s thick humidity, must be exhausting. Yet they press on and fight through the exhaustion, grunting as the heave the heavy equipment into position.
I’m curious as to why there are so many being prepared, but I don’t want to interrupt their work. One of the men notices me cautiously approaching them and stops what he is working on to look up at me. His dark brown eyes stare inquisitively, awaiting instruction.
“May I help you with something, my lady?” he asks in a surprisingly soft and warm tone that catches me off guard. Maybe I shouldn’t be shocked that he would speak to me in a genteel manner, since I am wearing the outfit and jewelry of a noblewoman, but nonetheless I am.
“I, uh–” why is it so difficult to speak to this man? “I want to know why so many palanquins are being prepared for the visitor’s journey. Wasn’t it just the two visitors from the capital? Or is a separate trip being prepared?”
“I am just doing as I was instructed, my lady,” he says, and he bows his head somberly. “Our directions came from Suntu himself, and he only said to prepare the three palanquins. I apologize that I cannot give you a more informative answer.”
I dig around in my memory and only recall the visitor traveling alone. Well, not exactly ‘alone’—there was a legion of guards numbering in the dozens to travel as escorts, and an elderly woman who regularly trailed behind from a significantly far distance, as if the main guest forgot she was around. When I inspect the mechanisms, I notice that two of them are being provided by us, identified by the numerous markings of our sigil of the quetzal carved into the supports and embellished in royal purple and gold, our people’s colors. Is my father planning to travel to the capital? Maybe I should’ve been at the gathering after all so that I could find out what is going on.
Laughter and jovial conversation swells in volume as a group of men, draped in fine linens and jewelry, approach where I and the servants are. There is a large crowd surrounding them as they walk through the entrance of the palace walls, and suddenly residents of the town, wearing clothing covered in dirt and heaven knows what else, begin to swarm their location. The guards use wooden poles and shields to fight them back, and periodically swing their cudgels to do so literally. I wince when I hear the occasional thump of a blunt object colliding with flesh and bone. I shout for the guards to ease off, but my weak voice is drowned out by the mixture of hollers—the citizens calling out to the nobles, the guards yelling for them to get back. Many of the locals extend arms around the weaponry to reach out for the idolized aristocrats and beg, for either their favor or fortune.
Between the heads and bodies of the crowd, I see my father chatting with someone wearing the orange and red of Tapeu as a cape. Their long, straight, black hair shines almost as brightly as the intertwined gold and silver jewelry that drapes over much of the piece. To my surprise, it’s… a woman. I’m stunned as I see her exotic, almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones, and I have to stop myself from gawking at her regal beauty. Her blue and white dress fits her shape tightly, unabashedly displaying her slight athletic build within a tight frame. Her narrow chin is raised upward as she walks with an air of pride like a peacock, and a subtle look of disdain appears fixed to her face while the Achope nobles let out bellowing laughs. She doesn’t acknowledge any of the commotion, whether it comes from the citizenry or the nobility.
Far behind my father, the Tapeu woman, and the flock of nobles is my mother, Polan. She wears a long, white dress with purple shapes interspersed, and around her waist, the dress is decorated with purple and gold. Draped around her shoulders is a purple cape, and around her neck and wrists are bands of gold jewelry, along with a simple golden headband. She looks concerned, not making eye contact with anyone, as though her mind is at some far away place.
The group stops after clearing the walls of the palace grounds entirely, and the guards disperse the crowds to allow the nobles to surround the palanquins. The servants who were preparing them hurriedly move about to where three line up on one side, and another three swiftly move to the other side and mirror their position, and they do this for all of the travel mechanisms without ever casting their eyes upon the nobility, looking straight ahead once they assume their posts.
“Quraqa Haesan,” I hear a velvety voice say with a hint of amusement. Despite all the chatter taking place around us, I can hear the Tapeu woman speaking to me clearly. “your father has told me a lot about you.”
Flustered and uncertain what I should be doing, I bow to her and can’t think of how to respond. I’m so taken aback by her demeanor and dignified presence that all formalities have left with the wind. Is this who my father wishes I would be like? I understand, in a way, yet I doubt I could ever strive to carry myself in such a manner.
“I certainly hope she will be more talkative during our journey, Quraqa Suntu,” she says, the left side of her mouth curls slightly more to harmonize with her vulpine grin. A few of the noblemen chuckle and turn to my father, who remains stoic during the entirety of the exchange.
“It may benefit you more if she remains silent, Lady Anqatil,” he says, never meeting my eyes once. “However, she will be a sufficient delegate for Achutli’s needs.” The woman—Anqatil, supposedly—laughs politely, her head flinging back a bit exaggeratedly to expose her bright white teeth, and she daintily places a hand on father’s shoulder.
As if I wasn’t thunderstruck before, my father’s statement completely throws me. Did he really just declare that I will be traveling to the capital? Without speaking to me about it first? I open my mouth to protest, but no sounds leave my lips. Before I can collect myself to object to his comment, Lady Anqatil disarms me with an enchanting look.
“I have no doubt she will be an excellent traveling companion,” she says about me, as if I’m not present.
“Mother,” I shout. I look for Polan and call to her, wanting to ask her what is happening, but she continues to look at the ground as tears form in her eyes.
“Mother!” I shout once more, trying desperately to get her attention. Polan holds a hand to her mouth and hurriedly rushes off back to the palace. Is she not going to talk to me about this?
Lady Anqatil climbs into the seat of a palanquin, and the men lift her up with ease. She can’t weigh more than a feather, despite her build, and I imagine the servants entrusted to carry her must be relieved to have been assigned to her transport services and not a heavier set man. She looks out to inspect the crowd, waving politely with sophistication in her every gesture. Realizing she hasn’t moved yet, she turns her head ever so slightly toward me.
“Any time you are ready to begin our journey,” she says, still smiling and through her luminescent teeth, “I suggest you take your seat, Quraqa Haesan.”
“Are…” I find it difficult to muster up enough words to form a sentence. “Are we traveling now? It’s already evening, and I don’t know about traveling at night.”
“There will be exchange points along the way, and new servants are awaiting our arrival to take over the travel duties. The sooner we begin our journey, the sooner we can be in a comfortable bed in the capital.” Her eyes never cease scanning the crowd, and she continuously waves as if to greet every single citizen of Chopaqte.
My head is still spinning at the sudden instructions given to me by my father, but, in a fog, I eventually take my seat in the adjacent palanquin. Despite so much of this feeling wrong, or as if I’m in a bad dream, I’m unsure why I sit down, and I’m too confused to think of what to say. The elderly woman takes the third mechanism, wearing only royal purple to indicate she must be from somewhere in our lands, and her graying hair is tightly braided and pinned up at the back of her head. Was she wearing such colors when she arrived to Chopaqte? The outfit isn’t as elaborate as Lady Anqatil’s, with only a few decorative gold feathers sown into the sleeves to imitate wings. Unfortunately, they are so sparse that it gives me the impression more of a flightless bird, or one that has had its wings clipped and is purely for show. Much like my father, she is stone-faced and doesn’t say much, if anything.
Once the servants lift me, I turn to look at my father. He only looks at Lady Anqatil and bows his head slightly, touching his forehead to her delicately presented left hand, as a sign of respect and farewell. It’s quite the gesture, having just met her so recently, but either she has left a tremendous impression upon him, or something deeper took place when I chose not to pay attention. I scold myself for being so oblivious, and I internally declare that I’ll have to be more alert during our travels and my time in Qapauma.
She returns the nod, then commands the men to commence with the travels. As our palanquins are lifted up, the cheering crowds wish us a safe journey to Qapauma. Through the whoops and shouts, and conveniently after Anqatil is out of earshot, I finally hear my father speak to me. He looks directly into my eyes while my palanquin starts to follow hers and depart toward the dense jungle, the setting sun to our backs, to where all I can see of him is a featureless silhouette.
“Now,” my father exerts, “our conversation is finished.”
