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No one knew who he had been before coming to Purqoic. No one knew what he had been. But to his people, it didn't matter. Because Tuvin was The Way. And right now, he was dying.
Writhing on a mat of woven reeds, his eyes closed in a feverish sleep, Tuvin The-Way looked like death warmed over. His handsome face was gaunt and stricken. His deep, dark skin was cracked and dry. Dry! In the Bayou Garramarisma, someone with dry skin was like a dragon, or a sane wizard. Sure, everyone talked like they were real, but c'mon. Had you ever seen one before?
Tuvin's young wife held his head in her lap, singing a song without words, dabbing his face with a wet cloth over and over again. Poor Remi Jane hadn't moved from that spot for 4 days, now.
Gathered around her, and their Chief's prone figure, was an assorted cast of villagers. Traders, beggars, warriors, orphans. Did it matter who they were? What they were called outside that quiet house? Purqoic was their home, and so Tuvin was their way. The proud fought back tears and dried the eyes of the not-so-proud, whose damp faces gleamed in the lamplight. The only ones not represented were the healers and shamans. They were all home, fiendishly searching for something, anything, that they hadn't already tried twice.
In the back, hunched near the door as if ready to make his escape, was Watwo, the village drunkard, whose eyes flitted nervously about the Chief's home. Although he had some measure of authority, (official village drunkard was a uniquely prestigious title in Purqoic,) the greasy little Komodo worried that this time he'd crossed a line. He tugged insistently at his companion's tunic. "Eh, out-sida. We go now, eh?"
Desmonthenes ignored the drunk's nagging, gazing hard at the sick chief, waiting for the onlookers to shift and give him a glimpse of..... there. The strange gray marks appeared to start at Tuvin's fingers, creeping near halfway up his left forearm.
When Dez addressed his guide, he didn't look away from those markings. "Tell me again. From the beginning."
Watwo huffed in annoyance. Bringing this stranger into the chief's home had been a mistake. The boy obviously didn't realize that he shouldn't be here. Annoyed, he rushed through the tale.
"Da little ones, dey wanda too fa, dey brought back laid up wit dis.... ail-mont. Tuvin, he count each child who live 'ere as 'is own, and he go out to find who or what responsible. Da warriors bring 'im back like dis, same as da young ones; it make no sense. No juju eva harm da young chief before. Fo sure, we do no more good stayin' 'ere. You've seen 'im. Now ees time to go." And with that, he went.
With a final look at the sad vigil, Dez followed Watwo into the warm night. Eyes straining in the dark, he found purchase on the rickety ladder just outside the door, and started down. "You said Tuvin's been like this for four days. The children I saw, how long for them?"
Watwo, already standing below in the soft sand, hummed to himself. "Ah, six day? Seven? You saw how much worse dey be. And no gristune or healing song has done a thing to help dem. You got to go, out-sida!"
"Right-" Dez grunted, landing in the sand beside the Komodo, "I have to go kill the witch doctor in the swamp who put the bad juju on the Chief and the kids."
Watwo did not appreciate his simplification. "Kill a Weetch Dacta? Are you mad? What good Dacta eva hurt anybody? No, brotha, you got to find da Jube Makatu and take her Athamay. To fight da bad majik, you need da majik dat isn't majik. You hear me, mon?"
Sighing, a hand went to the bridge of Dez's nose. "Yeah, of course. Just get that magic knife that isn't magic." Looking about him, sparse torchlight and a pair of partial moons painted a dim picture of Village Purqoic for the young man. Modest homes on stilts stood in a jumbled crowd, ropes and ladders reaching down from each porch or door. The quiet and stillness would have been ordinary anywhere else at this time of night. In Purqoic, it was haunting. Night was when it was cool, when work was done, when dancing and singing were everywhere, and the muggy heat just a memory. Only hunters, who could not venture into the swamp at night, slept while it was dark. But now there was no great fire, no drums and drinks and laughter. A grieving shroud hung over the village.
His thoughts were interrupted by a thump in the sand. Watwo had fallen to one knee. "Please, Dezmond. Tuvin, he was kind to ya. Our people been kind to ya. Woncha help us?"
Dez shook his head at the theatrics. "C'mon, Wat. You know I want to help. But face it. You won't come with me. No one from Purqoic will. You only need me because I'm an 'out-sida'. I might not hold all your beliefs, but you're not talking me into striking off into that swamp alone to fight a Pesta."
Watwo, still on one knee, looked up in confusion. "You're afraid to fight noodles in da swamp, mon?"
"Oh, for the love of- not pasta Wat, Pesta! A hag, a crone, that.... Juju Maku, or whatever." His patience running thin, Desmonthenes started into the village, Wat standing quickly to follow. "Look, we'll go to the inn. Maybe I'm not the only stranger in town. If I can find somebody; either tonight or in the morning- who'll help me, then I'll do all I can."
Wat sounded distressed. "Brotha, I already tried to talk sense into da ones at da inn, mon. Dey no wanna help us an dey not answa my plea! It be a waste'a time, fo sure!"
Dez allowed himself a wry smile. "Difference is Wat, I'm neither Komodi nor from the Bayou. But you've got two accents to wrangle with. If you were speaking Trade, odds are they just couldn't understand a word you said."
{A trek across the bayou in need of one or two others. A tracker would be nice. I can't promise there won't be alligators.}
Writhing on a mat of woven reeds, his eyes closed in a feverish sleep, Tuvin The-Way looked like death warmed over. His handsome face was gaunt and stricken. His deep, dark skin was cracked and dry. Dry! In the Bayou Garramarisma, someone with dry skin was like a dragon, or a sane wizard. Sure, everyone talked like they were real, but c'mon. Had you ever seen one before?
Tuvin's young wife held his head in her lap, singing a song without words, dabbing his face with a wet cloth over and over again. Poor Remi Jane hadn't moved from that spot for 4 days, now.
Gathered around her, and their Chief's prone figure, was an assorted cast of villagers. Traders, beggars, warriors, orphans. Did it matter who they were? What they were called outside that quiet house? Purqoic was their home, and so Tuvin was their way. The proud fought back tears and dried the eyes of the not-so-proud, whose damp faces gleamed in the lamplight. The only ones not represented were the healers and shamans. They were all home, fiendishly searching for something, anything, that they hadn't already tried twice.
In the back, hunched near the door as if ready to make his escape, was Watwo, the village drunkard, whose eyes flitted nervously about the Chief's home. Although he had some measure of authority, (official village drunkard was a uniquely prestigious title in Purqoic,) the greasy little Komodo worried that this time he'd crossed a line. He tugged insistently at his companion's tunic. "Eh, out-sida. We go now, eh?"
Desmonthenes ignored the drunk's nagging, gazing hard at the sick chief, waiting for the onlookers to shift and give him a glimpse of..... there. The strange gray marks appeared to start at Tuvin's fingers, creeping near halfway up his left forearm.
When Dez addressed his guide, he didn't look away from those markings. "Tell me again. From the beginning."
Watwo huffed in annoyance. Bringing this stranger into the chief's home had been a mistake. The boy obviously didn't realize that he shouldn't be here. Annoyed, he rushed through the tale.
"Da little ones, dey wanda too fa, dey brought back laid up wit dis.... ail-mont. Tuvin, he count each child who live 'ere as 'is own, and he go out to find who or what responsible. Da warriors bring 'im back like dis, same as da young ones; it make no sense. No juju eva harm da young chief before. Fo sure, we do no more good stayin' 'ere. You've seen 'im. Now ees time to go." And with that, he went.
With a final look at the sad vigil, Dez followed Watwo into the warm night. Eyes straining in the dark, he found purchase on the rickety ladder just outside the door, and started down. "You said Tuvin's been like this for four days. The children I saw, how long for them?"
Watwo, already standing below in the soft sand, hummed to himself. "Ah, six day? Seven? You saw how much worse dey be. And no gristune or healing song has done a thing to help dem. You got to go, out-sida!"
"Right-" Dez grunted, landing in the sand beside the Komodo, "I have to go kill the witch doctor in the swamp who put the bad juju on the Chief and the kids."
Watwo did not appreciate his simplification. "Kill a Weetch Dacta? Are you mad? What good Dacta eva hurt anybody? No, brotha, you got to find da Jube Makatu and take her Athamay. To fight da bad majik, you need da majik dat isn't majik. You hear me, mon?"
Sighing, a hand went to the bridge of Dez's nose. "Yeah, of course. Just get that magic knife that isn't magic." Looking about him, sparse torchlight and a pair of partial moons painted a dim picture of Village Purqoic for the young man. Modest homes on stilts stood in a jumbled crowd, ropes and ladders reaching down from each porch or door. The quiet and stillness would have been ordinary anywhere else at this time of night. In Purqoic, it was haunting. Night was when it was cool, when work was done, when dancing and singing were everywhere, and the muggy heat just a memory. Only hunters, who could not venture into the swamp at night, slept while it was dark. But now there was no great fire, no drums and drinks and laughter. A grieving shroud hung over the village.
His thoughts were interrupted by a thump in the sand. Watwo had fallen to one knee. "Please, Dezmond. Tuvin, he was kind to ya. Our people been kind to ya. Woncha help us?"
Dez shook his head at the theatrics. "C'mon, Wat. You know I want to help. But face it. You won't come with me. No one from Purqoic will. You only need me because I'm an 'out-sida'. I might not hold all your beliefs, but you're not talking me into striking off into that swamp alone to fight a Pesta."
Watwo, still on one knee, looked up in confusion. "You're afraid to fight noodles in da swamp, mon?"
"Oh, for the love of- not pasta Wat, Pesta! A hag, a crone, that.... Juju Maku, or whatever." His patience running thin, Desmonthenes started into the village, Wat standing quickly to follow. "Look, we'll go to the inn. Maybe I'm not the only stranger in town. If I can find somebody; either tonight or in the morning- who'll help me, then I'll do all I can."
Wat sounded distressed. "Brotha, I already tried to talk sense into da ones at da inn, mon. Dey no wanna help us an dey not answa my plea! It be a waste'a time, fo sure!"
Dez allowed himself a wry smile. "Difference is Wat, I'm neither Komodi nor from the Bayou. But you've got two accents to wrangle with. If you were speaking Trade, odds are they just couldn't understand a word you said."
{A trek across the bayou in need of one or two others. A tracker would be nice. I can't promise there won't be alligators.}
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