Young Adult / Secret Speakers: Chapter One (Analysis)
One Final Note Before I Open the Eternal Book of Time:
Through the expanse of space, Thelras and Cael saw me nestle into Tharin’s throat just before she woke up. I heard them say:
“Perhaps we should have chosen her brother for the task, Cael. Tharin is so wide-eyed and unsuspecting.”
“Yes, but her dog will be a help to her. And it couldn’t be helped about her brother. It was not our place to interfere, nor has it ever been, nor will be.”
“Of course, but as a mother . . .”
“I know, dear. I know.”
The year was 797 F.E . I recorded every sound. I recorded every word spoken. I recorded every event that seemed important to the story. When the Great Deliverance was accomplished, I returned to Airen Or. Thelras placed me into a hollow area, carved into the thick, gold cover of the Eternal Book of Time. The story I held within me melted into its pages, never to be erased, never to be forgotten.
That was long, long ago. The time has now come to open the pages of this story for the first time. It has lain untold for ages. For reasons unknown to me, the gods of Airen Or have chosen to make it known to you now. Perhaps you will come to understand the reason by story’s end. Perhaps not. The pages are opening. You are almost there.
[NEW PAGE]
THE ETERNAL BOOK OF TIME:
The Great Deliverance
as told by Era-born Secret Speaker 538.336
otherwise known as Liver
Color: Blood red with orange glow.
Filled with yellow threads of light.
Year: 797 F.E.
Page 7,429
This is the story of a compassionate heart.
[NEW PAGE]
Chapter One:
RELEASED
Tharin Zothiker lay completely still inside a closed wooden box, dark, shallow and wide.
For all intents and purposes, she had been dead for nine years. Other than that, she’d had a wonderful childhood. The only sign of life within the coffin-like space was the sound of her humming a little tune to herself. Very quietly.
Tharin was in the back of her mother’s wagon and had been there all night. It was early morning and still dark. She waited like a butterfly in its cocoon for dawn to come. She had dreamt of this moment, for she was officially, as of that morning, thirteen. She was headed for Lambs Tavern to receive her apron of maidenhood. After this day, all would know that she was officially of age, a maiden. No more darkness. No more hiding. No more cold.
Tharin was sandwiched uncomfortably between a wooden floor beneath her, (which her head found to be particularly hard) and a false wooden floor above her (which her nose felt to be painfully close.) This was a necessary discomfort, you see. The reason was simple: the space she lay between needed to be as shallow as possible so no one would suspect it wasn’t an ordinary old wagon pulled by a horse and driver. To make the journey more tolerable, her mother had spread out a thin, wool blanket to soften the bumps and keep Tharin from getting splinters.
Her dog, Sauveren, lay among sacks full of old, fragrant apples on the false floor in the back of the wagon, inches above Tharin’s prostrate body. She could smell his damp muskiness waft down through the cracks, along with the smell of apples. She took a deep breath in. His warmth seeped through the planks and surrounded her in familiar comfort. He had been there all night. Just in case. Inches away.
Tharin whispered: “Are you still there, Sauveren?” even though she knew he was. She heard him whimper and sniff through the cracks. She put her fingers up to the spot where she heard him sniffing and whispered: “It won’t be much longer.” She heard his whimpering stop.
Her mother stood next to the wagon in the fading moonlight. Her name was Lariel. Their neighbor sat in the wagon seat. He was called Gibber Will. He held the reigns. He had built the false floor for the wagon, which lifted up like a door on hinges if you knew where to pull up on which edge.
Tharin heard him say: “The light’s changin’. Folks are startin’ to head for Osden Shorn. Better be off.”
“This is as good a time as any,” said her mother.
Tharin realized she could faintly hear the sound of wagon wheels and horse hooves on dirt in the distance. Good. We’ll be lost in the crowd. She felt a bump and her nose almost touched the rough wood above. Her head came down on the thin blanket beneath. Ouch.
Lariel walked alongside the wagon. She looked straight ahead and whispered as loudly as she dared: “Remember, Tharin. Keep silent. Please. You’ve come too far to ruin it now.” She paused: “I’m sorry I won’t be there to see you. You know, to see you in daylight.” She kept looking straight ahead while she spoke, and it looked as though she were simply muttering to herself.
“I know,” Tharin whispered reassuringly. She knew why her mother had to stay at home. I’ll tell you the reason later, but not now.
“You’ll come back to me, Tharin?”
“You don’t need to worry, mother.”
“But I do. The trees, they’re moaning.” In my humble opinion, the trees were humming a song of welcome. Personally, I just think she felt moany inside, so everything else seemed that way.
Gibber Will ignored Lariel’s last comment: “She’s right Lariel. No need to worry.” Lariel shook off a small laugh.
She smiled and said: “You’re a fine one, neighbor, the way you’re shivering and shaking.”
“Can’t help it,” Gibber Will sniffed. “She’s just like one of my lammies. Precious, like. And now she’s grown up. Feel like I’m losin’ her.” He dabbed at his forehead with a wad of cloth pulled from his pocket. He had known Tharin since she was a baby. In recent years he had felt very protective of her. You’ll come to understand the reason shortly.
“I’ll be fine!” Tharin whispered. She felt giddy. “Goodbye, mother.”
Lariel looked around nervously, in case there were unseen ears listening nearby. She said a little more loudly, and rather stiffly: “Thank you for taking in my old apples, Gibber Will. It’s all I have to give this time.” She swatted the horse on the rump and the horse quickened its pace.
“Glad to be of service,” he said, and tipped his cap. His hand shook as he tipped it. He noticed this and took a deep breath in. He looked at the dark morning sky and blew a gust of air out with billowed cheeks. I can do this, he told himself.
“Hyap!” he ordered, giving the reins a jiggle.
Tharin felt the wagon lurch with life and she knew she was on her way. She gently bit the end of her tongue, keeping it squished between her teeth for the rest of the bumpy ride, just in case she had the urge to speak. She hadn’t lived a life of darkness, damp and cold only to ruin her chance to see daylight now.
Gibber Will gave a cough and looked both ways before passing out of the red gate onto Loreagh Road. Loreagh Road followed the curve of the lake. He was one of a long line of wagons headed for Osden Shorn.
Just so you can picture it in your mind, I’ll tell you that most cottages were situated in between the road and the lake. The hillsides on the up side of the road were dotted with sheep. The road was edged on both sides with old stone walls, waist high, covered on top and in every crack with thick cushions of moss.
As they rode along, the blackish light in the space around Tharin changed into dim gray fuzz. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw a crack of light in between the wooden planks. Daylight. Freedom. Walking the roads as she pleased.
The smell of grass wafted into the space around her. She fought the urge to hum. Today is my becoming day, she smiled to herself. I am no longer a wee hoomin. Tharin smoothed her hands along her dress. Her first dress of color. Contrary to the law, her mother had not turned everything she made over to Harrold King. She kept one length of pale, red-orange cloth and painstakingly sewed it into a dress for this very day. Tharin wondered what her apron would look like. She had never seen one on a girl. She hadn’t seen a girl, or boy for that matter, for nine years.
The wagon bumped along Loreagh Road for a long while. Tharin could hear the thud of the water jug against the side of the wagon. Gibber Will had fashioned it out of leather, soaked in water and oak bark. He pounded it for an entire day then stitched it into the shape of a pot with a handle on top and two spouts at each end. Once it dried, it was as hard as rock.
Tharin licked her dry lips and swallowed. I’m so thirsty. The water’s so close I can hear it sloshing, she thought. Tharin wouldn’t be able to have a drink until she was safe within the walls of Lambs Tavern. She hadn’t had a drink since the afternoon before, a precaution against having to empty herself while in her coffin-like box of liberation. This was an enormous sacrifice for Tharin, for, you see, she was always thirsty.
The ride seemed to go on forever, bump, bump, bump. Ouch, ouch, ouch. Tharin was accustomed to darkness and waiting. She began to content herself, as usual, with the thoughts in her head. Memories of light. Memories of a happy family. A father. A brother. Memories from before the day her mother moved Tharin down into the cellar and closed the door as lovingly as she could. Thud. Before her eyes grew as round as moons to see through the darkness. Before she learned to gather light. You’ll learn more about that later.
There were always two words that popped into her mind when the daydreams started: “Little Sparrow.” They always came with a luminous face: Her fathers face, framed with dark hair, gentle and kind. Remembering the shape of his mouth as he said those words and pulled her close. They always came with a feeling: Warmth and being surrounded, his large warm hand wrapped around her small and slender one as they walked to the barn. They always came with a smell: a smell she couldn’t quite remember, but it was right there, just beyond the end of her nose. Warm. Teasing her. Little Sparrow.
After some time, Gibber Will relaxed and began to talk to his horse: “Click, click,” went his tongue and cheek. “Atta girl. Won’t be long now.” He looked as though he had good reason to go into town. The wagon was filled with sacks of last seasons’ apples. Anyone would assume he was headed for Osden Shorn with the rest of the hoomin folk.
It was the day of rendering, when all the folks in Mead Loreagh were required to bring all that they had grown, milked, raised, plucked or weaved to law-making Harrold King. He then filled his own belly with it or let it go to rot for pig fodder. Osden Shorn used to be a temple before Harrold King took over the rule of Mead Loreagh. Now it could be smelled long before you got to it. No one knew what he did with anything that wasn’t edible.
All of a sudden Tharin heard Gibber Will say: “Woah.” The wagon lurched to a stop. She slid forwards like a corpse, feet first. She resisted the urge to ask what was happening. She continued to bite her tongue, which had begun to throb. Tharin’s wide eyes blinked and searched through the muddy air. “Am I safe?” they asked. “What’s going on?”
A voice said: “Have you eaten today, Gibber Will?”
“Yes, thank you. Have you eaten?”
“That I have. But I don’t believe you, hoomin. You look weak. You’re shaking.”
“It’s nothin. . .”
Inquiring after someone’s health in Mead Loreagh never consisted of “How are you?” but more importantly, whether you had eaten or not that day. I won’t go into further explanation at this point, since we are more concerned with Tharin right now. All you need to know is that the hoomin folk of Mead Loreagh were usually hungry.
Tharin heard the voice say, “Just wanted to let you know . . .” there was a pause while the voice looked up and down the road and into the woods, “. . .that the Harrold had himself a dream last night. Dreamt someone was sitting on his throne and it weren’t him.”
“Again? Ach, his dreams don’t mean nothing. Pray there won’t be another whisking.”
Tharin’s heart caught in her throat: The whisking. Where did he take my brother? Her only memory, nine years old and faded, was of a four year-old wee hoomin with a head full of golden curls. A freckle on his neck in the shape of a sword, long and dark. A swipe of brown. Her twin brother. He was taken because he couldn’t reach over his head and touch the ear on the opposite side. She could, so the Protectors assumed she was too old.
“Nah,” said the voice. “It weren’t a wee hoomin like that other dream. Says this time he’ll know who it is when he sees ‘em. He ain’t telling how. He’s posted a law on the Cries Unia to have everyone come to Clock Tower Square. Have a look see.”
Gibber Will looked at the trees that lined Loreagh Road, and spotted a tree trunk with a plaque hanging from it. He read: “All hoomin shall come to Clock Tower Square at Midden Meal. After the clock finishes striking twelve, all latecomers will be laughed at on the platform of punishment. By order of his royal eminency and majesty, Harrold King.”
Gibber Will sounded disgusted: “Him an his dreams. Ach. It ain’t even the Harrold’s throne. You and I both know who’s supposed to be sittin on it.”
“Tell him that!”
Tharin heard the two men laugh.
“Oh, I almost forgot. Payment for passing,” said the voice.
“That’s right,” said Gibber Will. He teased: “My, but you’re a mean one!”
The voice laughed, “A Protector’s gotta do his job.” When Harrold King made himself ruler over Mead Loreagh many yarren earlier, he prompty surrounded himself with 400 hoomin to protect him, giving them the title of Protector. Some of them were local hoomin, others were called in from Low Loreagh. This one was nice.
Tharin heard the jingling of coins, and the wagon lurched again. Ouch. That’s alright. Every bump means I’m getting closer. Tharin wondered what Harrold King was going to do about his dream this time. Nine years earlier it had cost her the only brother she had. It had cost her a father who went into hiding. A father she no longer knew. It had cost her friends, sunshine and freedom.
Her mother told everyone Tharin was dead. She gave her daughter the protection of death to save her life. Tharin slept in the cold, damp cellar by day. She went out to play alone in the death of night when there was no moon to make shadows. Her mother taught her to read by moonlight near a window when the moon was full. No candles. Ever. Only darkness and moonlight. Tharin understood. She was waiting for this day.
After much water sloshing, the wagon started to take a turn here, a turn there. The wheels no longer ground into dirt and rocks. Just rock. Tharin bumped up and down so quickly that it made her teeth chatter. They were in the village, riding over cobblestones. She could hear the clatter of other wagon wheels and horse hooves, the sound of voices calling out, the sound of squawking chickens.
Tharin couldn’t hum, so she let her mind turn to the comfort of her daydreams. This time it was a feeling of cool, bumpy metal beneath her fingertips.
Her fingertips had become her eyes.
The dark shadow of an open doorway. The sound of words, the same words, leaving her lips, night after night, before she went to sleep, when dawn edged in through the windows. It was the one constant in her life: a brass plaque that hung by her front door.
It was family tradition – or so her mother told her – to kiss your finger tips before touching the plaque, then repeat the words written upon it. In fact, it was the last thing Tharin did before leaving her home to crawl into the wagon the night before. She kissed her fingers, reached blindly for the letters and let them trace their shape. She whispered: “Do what is right, let consequence follow. Follow your heart, come joy or come sorrow.”
Well, it was almost the last thing she did. She had traced her fingertips along her mothers forehead, eyes, and cheeks before giving her a kiss.
Suddenly her daydream ended. Something was different. No movement. Silence.
The wagon stopped this time without the sound of a “woah.” Tharin heard some muffled speech, the jangling of keys, the creak of a door. She heard Sauveren sniff at her through a crack in the planks, then shuffle off. She heard the word “alley way.” Then she heard the creak of another hinge.
Suddenly, Tharin was blinded by a bright light. She thrust her pale arms up to shield her eyes from the pain.
“Up you come, wee Tharin,” said Gibber Will.
She hesitantly pulled her lanky arms away from her face and blinked as though her eyes were full of sand. She said: “It hurts. I didn’t know light was so painful.”
“You’ll adjust real soon.”
After a moment of gritty blinking Tharin felt the pain ease up. She blinked and held her moon eyes open. I can’t. I can’t keep them open. She tried again. A little longer this time.
Like a dream, the gray shape of Gibber Will’s face swam into focus. Soon Tharin saw his eyes looking down on her. His mouth was in the shape of a smile. She could see it clearly. Flesh colored with a bit of red. She thought of her mother’s face, which she had only known as a shadow. No color, but she knew its contours perfectly. He held the floor open with one hand. His other hand reached for her.
‘Take my hand, now” he smiled. “But be quick like. I’ve got jelly for legs.”
After a bit of effort Tharin said: “I can hardly move. I’m so thirsty.”
In a flash, Gibber Will whipped the water flask off the side of the wagon, held her up and gave her a drink. She felt its coolness course through her body. He handed her an apple. She bit into it and chewed with relish. Its sweetness gave her strength. In a moment, Tharin sat up. She heard the sound of something knocking.
A voice spoke: “You gotta get going. A Protector is coming this way. I gotta move the wagon out and close up the doors.”
Tharin looked around and noticed two enormous doors. They shielded the wagon in front and back, and were attached to the sides of two gray stone buildings. It looked like the doors came together to close off the alley way. On the other side of one of the doors, a Protector ambled along in their direction, looking with mild curiosity at the door blocking his way. He was dressed in a burgundy wool jacket, kilt, black cap and high leather boots. His boots made a loud, knocking sound on the stone. He casually swung the bully stick in his hand.
Gibber Will’s friend stepped out onto the street and called: “Just making a delivery, sir. You’ll have to step around. Won’t be long.” He stepped back into the safe protection of the doors and looked intently at Tharin and Gibber Will. He swished his hands as if to say, “Get out of here!” Beads of perspiration popped onto his forehead.
In one swift motion, Gibber Will scooped Tharin up and out of the wagon with one arm. He let the floor down quietly with the other, then rearranged the apple sacks into the middle of the wagon since they had slid to one side. He realized he had better let his friend know what he was “delivering.” He whispered: “Apples.”
Then Tharin, her dog, and Gibber Will took off running down the alley.
Just in time.
The Protector asked: “What you got there?”
The hoomin poked his head out beyond the door: “Apples.”
The Protector cocked his head to one side and narrowed his eyes: “Apples? The season for apples isn’t until a long way off, hoomin.” He smacked the bully stick into his palm.
“They’re old to be sure, but Avran Lamb says he’s got a use for ‘em anyways.”
By now, Tharin, her dog, and Gibber Will were far down the alley. They turned the corner just as the Protector looked down the alley and saw that nothing seemed amiss.
He untied the twine at the top of one of the woven sacks and took a look inside. “If he likes mushy apples, I guess that’s his business. Why don’t you pull the wagon down the alley?”
“Too hard to back out. Just going to carry ‘em.”
“Alright then. I’m glad it’s you and not me doing all that hefting.”
Gibber Will knocked at the back door of Lamb’s Tavern. In a moment, a curtain was pushed aside. Tharin saw a nose and no more. Just shadows. Again, more shadows.
The door swung open and a big belly greeted her. There was a smile with rosy cheeks and a melodious voice boomed: “We’ve waited a long time for this day! Come on in, Tharin.” She felt a large hand on her wispy shoulder, and she was pulled in with what she could only describe as love.
Her throat filled with the smell of food. It was a warm smell. Yeasty. Meaty. Humid and soupy. Her mouth filled with saliva and she swallowed. She and Gibber Will were ushered down a hallway towards the sound of laughing, clinking, and chairs scraping on a wooden floor. Sauveren lumbered along behind them, like a big bear.
Tharin’s heart pounded. She felt on the verge of what she thought might be joy. I can’t believe it, she thought. I’m here. And it’s not night time.
When they turned and entered in through the doorway, she saw round tables surrounded with hoomin. She also saw what she assumed was a family. One of the wee hoomin looked about her age, a bit older maybe. The other was much younger. They were all laughing and talking with each other.
Tharin had waited for this day for nine years, full of anticipation. Yet, what she felt at that moment was something completely unexpected:
She had never
felt more
alone.
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