Morgan Rice - A Land of Fire

“My lady!” Steffen called out in alarm, rushing forward to his side.

Gwen smiled as she turned and calmly looked back at him.

“I’m alive,” she said. “There is nothing more to fear.”

All around her, Gwen’s people began to rise, getting to their feet, bleary-eyed. One by one, they looked at her in awe, then made their way over to her.

“The waters are safe!” Gwen called out.

The people cried out with relief, and as one they all rushed to the edge of the rail, leaned over and examined the sea in wonder. It was just a normal ocean, like it had always been.

Gwendolyn was struck with a hunger pang, and she thought of their dwindling rations and wondered when her people had last eaten. She herself had abstained two meals a day, to save more for her people, and she was starting to feel the hunger. She was almost afraid to ask what remained.

She turned to her admiral, who stood beside her, and she could see from the grim look on his face that it was not good.

“The rations?” she asked, hesitant.

He shook his head gravely.

“I am sorry, my lady,” he reported. “There is nothing left.”

“The people clamor for food,” Aberthol added, beside her. “They are growing desperate. They rowed throughout the night, and now they have nothing. I do not know how much longer we shall be able to appease them.”

“Or how much longer we will be able to survive,” Brandt added, grimly.

Gwendolyn took in the news, feeling the weight of it. She turned to Kendrick, who stood beside her.

“And what do you propose we do?” Gwendolyn asked.

He shook his head.

“If we do not find provisions soon,” he said, “if we do not find land soon, this ship shall become a floating grave.”

Gwendolyn turned to Sandara, standing beside him.

“How much farther until we reach your land?” she asked Sandara.

Sandara shook her head and looked out and studied the horizon.

“It is hard to say, my lady,” she said. “It depends on the currents. It could be a day—or it could be a month.”

Gwen’s stomach tightened at her words. A month. Her people would not survive. They would all die here, waste away, an awful death in the midst of the ocean. Worse, they would surely turn on each other, revolt, and kill one another. Hunger could make people desperate.

Gwendolyn nodded, resigned.

“Let us pray for land,” she said.

Darius walked quickly through his village as the sun began to set, more nervous than he’d ever been, repeatedly wiping the sweat from his palms. He could not understand why he was so anxious as he weaved his way, heading toward the river, to meet Loti at her cottage. He had faced brothers in combat, had labored under taskmasters, had even been engaged in the most dangerous of toil in the mines, and yet he had never felt nervous like this before.

Yet as Darius headed to meet Loti, he felt his mind buzzing, his heart pounding, and he could not keep his throat from going dry. He could not understand how she had this effect over him, what it was about her. He barely even knew her, had only laid eyes upon her twice, and yet now, as he headed to meet her, he could think of little else.

Darius thought back to their encounter, and he turned over her words in his mind again and again. He tried to remember exactly what she had said; he was starting to doubt himself, starting to wonder if she really liked him, if she felt the same way about him as he did her, or perhaps whether she just wanted to see him in a casual way, or was just curious to know more about him. Perhaps she was dating someone else; perhaps she would stand him up and not even meet him at all.

Darius’s heart beat faster as he considered all the scenarios. He had dressed himself in his best clothes: a white cotton tunic and black pants of fine wool, clothes his father had once worn. They were the best clothes his family owned, and his father had paid dearly for them. Still, as Darius examined them, he felt self-conscious about them, seeing how stained and torn they were in places, still the dress of a slave, even if slightly elevated. They were not the clothes of the Empire, not the clothes of a free man. Yet no one in his village had the clothes of a free man.

Darius finally emerged from the busy, winding village streets as he came to the western end of the village, a sprawling complex of small cottages built nearly on top of one another. As he searched the dwellings, he tried to remember what she had said: a cottage with a door stained red.

Darius went from house to house, looking everywhere, and just when he was about to give up, suddenly, his eyes settled on it. There it was, standing apart from the others, slightly smaller than the rest, looking exactly like the others except for the faded red stain on the door.

Darius gulped. He looked down and checked the flowers in his hand, wildflowers he had plucked from the side of the river bank, yellow, with long thin stems. He was sorry now that they weren’t of a better quality; he should have picked the wild roses on the far side of the meadow, but he hadn’t had time for that.

Next time , he told himself. That is, if she even wants to see me again.

Darius stepped up and knocked, and he could barely even take in what was happening, his heart slamming in his chest, drowning out all thoughts but its pounding. He could barely even hear the screams of the children, and all the villagers running chaotically about him, all drowned out as he knocked on the door.

Darius stood, waiting, and began to doubt whether it would ever open, or whether he was ever even truly invited here. Had he been mistaken? Had he imagined the whole thing?

Darius stood there so long that, finally, he turned to go—when the door suddenly opened. There appeared the face of an older woman, staring back at him suspiciously. She opened the door wide and stepped out, hands on her hips, and looked him up and down as if he were an insect. Her eyes fell on the flowers he held, and her face fell in disappointment.

“ You’re the one who’s come to see my daughter?” she asked.

He stared back, silent, not knowing how to respond.

“And those are what you brought her?” she added, staring at the flowers.

Darius looked down at the flowers, panic welling up inside him.

“I…um…I am sorry—”

The woman was suddenly bumped aside as Loti appeared beside her, a broad smile on her face. She stepped up, took the flowers from Darius’s hands and she examined them, delighted.

As she did, all of Darius’s fears began to melt away. Loti looked more beautiful than he’d even remembered, freshly bathed, wearing beautiful white linen from head to toe, and he had never seen her smile—not like that.

“Oh, Mother, stop being so hard on him,” Loti said. “These flowers are perfectly beautiful.”

She fixed her eyes on Darius, and his heart beat faster.

“Well, are you coming in?” she asked, giggling, stepping forward and linking arms with him, and then leading him into her cottage, squeezing past her mother.

Darius entered the small, dark cottage, and she led him to a seat, against the far wall, hardly ten feet from the entrance. They sat side by side on a small clay bench, and her mother closed the door and came back inside, and sat across from them on a stool.

Her mother kept her eyes locked on Darius, examining him, and Darius felt claustrophobic in the small, dim cottage. He shifted in his chair. He realized it was the tradition of all the women in the village to interrogate him before allowing him to take her daughter anywhere. Out of respect for her parents, Darius wanted to make sure he did nothing to offend them. He was determined to make a good impression.