The arrangement was that, in two weeks, when the World Speaker visited Ikfael Glen, Ghitha would come with her in order to collect the bodies of his Family. We were staying in town for my initiation into the Hunter’s Lodge and then a week for training, which meant I had a week to get the job done.

I wasn’t looking forward to carrying the bodies out of the cave--it’d be a long and arduous haul--but a week should be more than enough time. Besides, I felt like I owed it to Woldec and his crew for the gifts they’d left for me.

After Ghitha left, the kids and I toured the rest of the village and brought our shopping list with us.

On it were:

Maple sugar Whatever we could find in the way of flour Yeast Salt, to restock our supply Any other herbs and spices available Seeds to start our own garden Clothes for all of us Tools, including a wood axe, saw, plane, shovel, hammer, and nails

I planned to talk to Biheila at lunch about the clothing and seeds, but for the rest, we’d have to search. To pay for it all, we had fifteen taak, two eltaak, two sets of chliapp lion razors, a bishkawi hide (and the promise of more back at the glen), and a small pouch of eilesheile powder that the ueikisheile had treated to make safe.

That last item was the one I had the most hope for and the one I was most uneasy about. If the eilesheile was worth Woldec facing the kahilichi bear, it was worth stealing from a bunch of kids. And it was clear to me that Ghitha was angling to learn more about the cave during our conversation. Odds were that he knew about Woldec’s map to the Red Room, where the eilesheile grew.

I was originally planning to bring the powder out to get a sense of its value, but that was put on hold for now. Better to wait till I found a trusted business partner, and maybe arrange for secret deliveries. That way, people couldn’t track the supply back to us.

Voorhei was a decent-sized village with a population of about eight hundred, but it seemed like Families didn’t depend on anyone else for their basic needs. There were no merchants or general stores. For specialized goods, there were a smith and a potter in town, a mill and a tannery outside the walls, and a sugar shack in the woods. Once a week, a peddler came through to supply things that were hard to get or make at home. That was it.

The Smiths weren’t around when we stopped by, but their son (Ellwaa, Human, Metal Wise) listed the prices of the tools on our shopping list:

Shovel: 2 taak Wood axe: 5 taak Hammer: 6 taak Nails: 4 taak per hundred Saw: 8 taak Plane: 10 taak

The cost was thirty-five taak for everything, which would wipe out our coinage. Ellwaa didn’t think his parents would be interested in the bishkawi hide, but the chliapp lion razors might intrigue them. He told us to stop by again in the afternoon.

From the miller (Inglei, Human, Meticulous, Constant), we learned that the villagers primarily ground corn, but they also collected wild acorns to grind for flour. More rare, yet still present, was something that sounded a lot like yucca. She said that folks also sometimes dried potatoes. As for other cereals, there was barley grown to the north, while wheat came from across the ocean. The only place she’d seen it for sale was the market in Albei.

The good news was that she was willing to trade some of her yeast and salt. It cost us one taak for a half-brick of yeast cake and a pint of salt. Woohoo! Two items got!

Could I make donuts from ground corn or acorn flour? Maybe a fritter? I thought about it while we took a break along the stream’s bank.

The kids were happy to watch the mill’s water wheel turn and chat about everything they’d seen in the village. The clear blue sky, the burbling stream, the creak and groan of the water wheel--it wasn’t a bad place to be. Hot and humid, not as comfortable as the glen, but not bad.

The heat eventually drove the kids into the water, but I had them move downstream from the water wheel first. I was comfortable free-ranging the children, but there was no reason to be stupid about taking chances. I kept an eye on the surroundings, while they played.

Eventually, hunger drove us back into Voorhei and towards Biheila’s lodge. We found her coming back just as we arrived; dirty and sweaty from being out in the fields. Her throat bobbed as she drank and drank from the water jug, before ladling water onto her head, face, and hands.

“Hot today,” I said, the epitome of a conversationalist.

“Yes,” Biheila said. Her smile was fleeting. “Big hot, but it is good for the cotton.”

Well, that was as good an opening as any, and I asked her about cloth and clothing. After all, she had the Natural Weaver Talent and a loom sat in the corner of the longhouse. She should know a thing or two about where to get good clothes.

With a nod, Biheila walked me over to a wooden trunk. Inside were three separate sections, two of which were full of cotton and woolen cloth. The cloth in the first section was brightly colored. “This, my husband’s work.” The colors in the next section were more muted. “This, my wife’s.” The last section was empty. “Mine, all traded.”

Biheila carefully made sure the sheets were folded correctly and closed the trunk’s lid. Her hands trembled as she opened the lid to another trunk. The weave of the cloth inside this one wasn’t as even. The dyes weren’t as consistent.

“My children,” she whispered, gently stroking the material. “So beautiful, they were.” A tear ran down her face.

There was no way she’d be willing to sell us this cloth. Each sheet was a memento of her loved ones. Maybe we could commission some new pieces? Ones without the weight of memory woven into the fabric?

###

After lunch, Biheila raised the issue of our tattered clothing herself. She examined the weave, tugged on the seams, and put her fingers through the holes. Her entire hand fit through the one in my jacket and shirt where Kaad had stabbed me.

Her lips pressed tight, I saw a fire build behind her eyes. She steeled herself to open yet one more trunk, this one full of finished clothes. Like an archeologist, she dug her way through the layers until she found shirts, pants, kilts, and tunics in our sizes. They were all used, but surprisingly well made. One batch tended towards pale blues and yellows, while another leaned towards ochre and rust.

Without a word, Biheila tugged the tunics off of Billisha and Aluali and started dressing them in the old clothes. Tears leaked down her face, but her hands wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

The clothes were a little big, but they looked good on the kids. Aluali preferred the lighter colors, while Billisha liked the more somber ones. Biheila grabbed a length of cord and took the kids’ measurements.

When she reached for me, I grabbed her hands to stop her. With a smile, I gently said, “I change clothes myself.”

Flustered, Biheila said, “I am sorry. I forgot myself. You are guests.” She looked down at her hands, embarrassed.

I gave them a squeeze. “A person who cares so big for children--they are a friend to me. We are friends now, so no sorry is needed.”

Biheila looked up in surprise. The idea of being friends with an eight year old must be strange, and she examined my face to see my intent.

It was just as I said. Even though we’d just met, I was certain Biheila would throw herself in front of a kahilichi bear to protect me and the kids from harm. She was that much in pain. She was that hungry to love children. I’d be a cretin to treat her poorly in response.

“Friends,” she said, testing the word. Then with more confidence: “Friends. Yes, friends. Now, I will help my friend.” With a mischievous grin, she tugged on the ties to my armor.

###

Biheila was torn--I saw it in her eyes. She wanted to give us the clothes, but her situation didn’t allow it.

New, each piece would’ve cost between ten to fifteen taak, slightly more for the tunics. We haggled and arrived at a price of five to seven taak each. That was for the pieces made from cotton. Wool was more expensive, but we had time till it was necessary.

All in all, I handed her all our coins--thirty-five taak--for clothes for the three of us. Yes, I could’ve driven for a harder bargain. Yes, I was a sucker. But I wasn’t going to take advantage of Biheila’s desperation. It was more important to nurture our budding friendship. Besides, the clothes were worth it, even used.

I didn’t wear my new clothes right away though. There was work to be done outside the village--a trek a couple of miles northwest of Voorhei. There was a sugar shack out that way.

Apparently, the kids and I weren’t the only ones mad enough to live in the woods, and Biheila wasn’t the only villager who’d lost her entire Family during a winter solstice. The same thing had happened to a maple sugar-making Family three years ago.

The survivor--a man named Bindesei--refused to enter the village afterward. He lived on his own at the shack. In the winter, when the maple sap was flowing, he’d make two or three trips to Voorhei’s border prior to the solstice to trade his syrup and sugar. Then, after that, he’d disappear for the rest of the year and wouldn’t come back till the maple sap started to run again.

My initiation into the Hunter’s Lodge was scheduled for sunset, about 8:30 in the evening, so I had plenty of time to hike out and back before the ceremony started. I left the kids with Biheila and headed out.

It was weird to be back in the forest after the bustle and noise of the village. There’d been a lot that was new, and it was a relief to be on my own. I couldn’t let my mind wander--not if I wanted to return safely--but the chance to focus on one thing and one thing only was welcome. Being at one with the land gave my busy mind a respite.

I’d been calling it a sugar shack, because that was what they were called back on my old world. That translation brought to mind all kinds of misconceptions, which were then totally blown away by the reality. Instead of a lonesome building in the woods, the “shack” was more a small fort. A ten foot high wall ran around a main house, a barn, and a building for rendering down maple sap into syrup. Or at least--that’s how it was in the past. Now, the buildings were ruined. It wasn’t that long ago either from the state of things. Maybe half a year?

Blackened stumps were all that remained of the gate. The inner circumference of the defense wall was similarly scorched. It was like someone lit a bonfire, and the defense wall was the ring around it.

The buildings and their interiors were ravaged by the fire. The iron work survived all right--enough to be salvageable--but everything made of wood or cloth had long ago turned to ash.

I found Bindesei laying in a corner of the main house. He looked as if he was sleeping on the ground, his bed having burned with everything else. None of his flesh remained, only char and bones. There was no sign of a core, so at least I didn’t have to worry about him rising as a zombie.

The feeling around the place was weird. As dirty and blackened as the buildings were, they felt strangely empty. Even Bindesei’s skeleton felt unreal, like it was made of plastic and ready to be hung up in a biology classroom.

I gently touched the skull. “My apologies. I don’t mean to intrude, but my curiosity is a thing.”

The material was bone all right, but its memories were long gone. I wasn’t like mi abuela--I couldn’t read a creature’s life from its bones, but there was almost always some sense of it having lived.

Now that I looked, I found the same to be true for everywhere the fire burned. I felt like I was on set, and the remaining walls were props. Only the grass and the vines that sprung up in the fire’s aftermath felt real. Otherwise, the qi was strangely tasteless.

I made a ball of spirit mana, just to see what it would do. At first, it hovered above my palm, and then, as if a slight breeze blew, it drifted out of the house, out the gate, and into the woods surrounding Fort Sugar Shack.

I became one with the land and opened my senses, carefully trailing behind, through the trees and the underbrush, under the singing birds and past the rustling small creatures. Under the sky and above the earth.

The spirit ball drifted, and I followed it to a gap between the trees. Laying there, unsettled, were the bones of another skeleton. Instead of being scarred by fire though, this one had been picked over by scavengers. And unlike the other, this skeleton felt more real, like it belonged to a person.

From the breadth of the shoulders and the narrowness of the hips, it looked like a man died here. Was it Bindesei? And the other skeleton was some sort of decoy? Why would he do that? My mind started to spin out movie plot lines, but that’s all they were--scenarios. I didn’t know the man, just the bones of his story. There wasn’t enough information for conjecture. Not really.

I whispered a prayer for the dead, and the hairs on the back of my neck rose. The spirit ball trembled as if it was touched. I debated with myself about retreating, but the feeling wasn’t hostile. At least, not to me.

“Excuse me,” I said to the air, “I’m just going to put you in order, and then I’ll leave you in peace.”

I started to straighten the skeleton. I didn’t like the feeling of being watched though and had to fight the urge not to rush. Mi abuela wouldn’t approve of rushing. Respect was important at moments like this.

The bones were chewed up and broken, so that the scavengers could get to the marrow. It took time and attention to get them all in order, which was how I found the notches in the ribs and the spine. The bones had been scored, not by claws or teeth, but by a knife. Someone had stabbed this man in the back.