24 years ago

Ling watched Charcot returning from the trip to the Red Cities. He meant to be here a month ago. As much as she hated to admit it, his appearance warmed something in her. No there! Ling was married now. Munateh was five years younger than her but she liked that. At least he’d age slower than her.

He popped his head out of the large chief’s tent. He had unusually light hair and bright skin. A delicious man she caught. Her sister Ile was disgruntled by the match approved by their father. Munateh was a son of a prominent hunter, Fuselah. They’ve often hunted together, bringing home tasty meat. It was what Ile was really after. Good food.

“Ling,” he said with softness. “Your father calls your name again.”

He was doing it more often. Always Ling’s name. Couldn’t he see that it hurt Ile?

“I’ll be with him in a moment.”

Munateh nodded then he noticed Charcot’s approach. It was rather hard to miss, children adored the healer. Even that stubborn kid saved from Soto’s massacre six years ago started breaking the mental wall he’d built around himself. Charcot had a way with people. A dangerous trait to have.

“He’s back.”

“Yes,” Ling admitted, feeling the uncomfortable familiarity of the moment. Many years ago, Charcot came to her village and saved her life. What kind of miracle was he going to deliver today? Of course, there was more to this man than that. Skills he possessed, secrets he carried around, and motives he claimed to follow. Nothing added up when Charcot was involved.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Munateh said and dived back into the tent. Munateh and Charcot weren’t awfully close. They were not rivals at least. Charcot has shown once and for all his feelings about the opposite sex, he was completely indifferent to women.

“Ling. I am back.”

“I see that.”

Their eyes locked and that distant hardness returned to Charcot’s gaze. He was a man sculpted by the deserts of the Fourth Region. In all the years, he’s spent in Cape Town, they’ve argued and fought over this, over his past, his secrets. Ling despised not knowing the truth and Charcot seemed unperturbed by her ire.

“You’re late,” Ling’s voice edged toward anger. With age, she was becoming more temperamental than ever.

“I detoured to visit Moor City.”

*

She needed strong alcohol to wrap her thoughts around. If he’d gone to Moor City it meant the only one thing – there might be new letters from a madman. She knew she’d promised Munateh to be with him and her father in a moment, but it was no longer possible.

“Tell me…”

“Not just yet,” Charcot replied sensing her raging desires. Ling’s eyes narrowed and she wanted that alcohol more than ever. A cup usi was a must now. Did she already forget how infuriating Charcot was?

“I need usi.”

“Fine. We can discuss this tomorrow…”

“No. You’ll make me some usi and tell everything.”

To Charcot’s credit, he faced her words a stone face. She gave him no way out of this though. He was likely searching for an excuse to get back to his place, lock himself up and pretend to be busy. She knew from old Ragial that Charcot’s efficiency afforded him a lot of spare time. She wouldn’t buy his cheap pretexes… As if evoked by her thoughts, Charcot’s raised an index finger and cast his eyes down in a sly fashion.

“I believe there is something I must attend first.”

Ignoring Charcot’s comment, she was walking toward his workshop. Unlike all other Cape Towners, Charcot asked for a building made out of wood. Those who followed the Way of the Forest found this scandalous. Somehow, Charcot came out on top of the mess he’d created with his wooden house.

“Hurry up, I need a strong drink now.”

And just like that, his façade began falling apart. Where Charcot didn’t care, Ling cared even less and pushed forward against all odds. They reached Charcot’s workshop. It was nothing special in truth, a large rectangular block with divided space inside. Charcot needed a tiny place to sleep and everything else was dedicated to a treatment room and a well-secured storage hideout. Ling claimed one of the two chairs in the treatment room and slapped her hand against the table.

“Serve me a drink, Charcot. I know from many sources that you produce your own moon.”

Charcot straightened up, hardening his face. A futile attempt at asserting control. He lost this battle. After a moment, Charcot’s sighed, shaking his head and muttering something in a language Ling had never heard. A minute later, a bottle of sweetly-scented alcohol landed on the table. Ling poured some into a cup and tasted the edge with her tongue. This was something new and forest gods, it tasted good.

“This is amazing.”

He waved her comment away, not even looking in her direction.

“I am serious.”

“This is nothing, Ling. Any larger town and city has alcohol as this and better.”

This reminded her of how little of the world she had seen. Things the merchants had told her about, her dreams… she almost forgot about them. Without a warning, her face hardened, and her eyes became razor-sharp. It was time to talk business.

“The Red Cities.”

“Failure.”

She emptied the first cup, then cursed as the heat of the alcohol hit her. It tasted vaguely of … of what? Many notes and hints spread across her tongue but nothing obvious came to her mind. How can cities produce anything better than this?

In the last years, Charcot has come up with revolutionary medicine that saved hundreds in Cape Town and surrounded villages. They were selling some of that to Tucan even. But it wasn’t exactly what Ling searched for. Profits were equivalent to those fishermen and hunters made. One night, it’d struck Ling. They should acquire a customer in the Red Cities. Although, the famous agglomeration of cities was weeks of traveling from Cape Town, the dirt road between her village and the Red Cities was one of the easiest, safest and fastest. There were other coastal cities in the south, but they were hard to reach and significantly poorer even than a single Red City. It’d taken two weeks to convince Charcot of her plan. Even her father agreed. All for nothing…

“Don’t they need medication?!” she snapped.

“It’s not that. They need medicine but the logistic doesn’t make sense. It’s too far away. There is no profit to be made.”

She emptied a second cup but strangely Charcot wasn’t finished. A gleam appeared in his eye, something she’d never seen there. She pierced him with her glare and waited.

“But,” he whispered. “I met a man during many of my meetings with potential buyers. While he said, no medicine short of an elixir of youth—which doesn’t exist—won’t cut it, there is something he may consider.”

Ling perked up, “And what’s that?”

“I am not an expert in this field, and he named many substances, but there was a single denominator to them. They were making people high.”

Ling’s face turned pale and she felt aghast.