Don Bassingthwaite - The Grieving Tree

Natrac sighed. “That’s a night’s story. Bava, we need your help-”

Bava reached up and pressed a thick-fingered hand across Natrac’s lips. “Natrac, every time I see you, you need my help!” She turned her head sharply and called to the half-orc boy, “Diad, take care of Noori. Mine, Ose, clear your brothers and sisters out of the dining room. Our guests are here-finally.”

“Bava, it’s not our fault!”

Diad slouched away, the baby cradled with surprising gentleness in his arm. The little girls darted off. Singe could hear them shouting as they ran-throughout the house, the voices of children died away for a moment, then resumed in an excited buzz. Bava paid them no attention, but just shook her head at Natrac’s protests. She stepped away from him and hooked her arms around Geth’s and Orshok’s arms, pulling them through the door. “You look like men who enjoy a good meal,” she said. “I’m surprised you’d let Natrac dawdle when dinner’s waiting.” She glanced back over her shoulder to call to the Singe and the others. “Come on! Come inside!”

Natrac stared after Bava with a look of mingled frustration and fascination on his face. Singe and Dandra glanced at each other, then Dandra asked delicately, “Natrac, how is it you know Bava?”

The half-orc bared his tusks at her and stomped off into the house. Singe, Dandra, and Ashi followed him through the door-Singe pulled it closed behind them. Inside, the house was cool and dim. The walls and floor were worn with age and the abuse inflicted by many active children. From a flight of stairs that rose up to the house’s second floor, a series of young faces peered down. Their features varied widely, but all of them were young half-orcs. Ashi stared back at them and growled fiercely. The children darted back.

Dandra stared around at the house as they followed the sounds of Natrac’s footsteps and Bava’s laughter. “This isn’t quite what I expected from a historian. Even a would-be historian.”

“Me neither,” Singe agreed. He frowned. “I feel like I should know Bava’s name. I’ve heard it somewhere before.”

“It’s a clan name of the Shadow Marches,” said Ashi. “Bibahronaz -the Howling Rabbit clan. I think they’re from the southwest.”

“That’s not where I would have heard it. The Bonetree is the only Marcher clan I know.” Singe searched his memory for the reason Bava’s name seemed familiar. “I feel like I’ve known it for a long time.”

The hall ended in a dining room with a huge battered table and mismatched chairs. Mine, Ose, and two other half-orc girls waited in a corner, staring at their guests. Natrac, seeming a little less surly now, had taken a chair and Bava was seating Geth and Orshok on either side of what was presumably her place at the head of the table. Singe’s gaze, however, was drawn to a large painting that hung on a long wall of the dining room. In strong colors and bold strokes, it depicted a feast: humans, orcs, and half-orcs in both savage and civilized clothing, all sharing a table set amid the abundant wild plant life of the Shadow Marches. The style, especially the depictions of the plants of the Marches, was distinct and instantly recognizable. He dropped into the nearest chair, still staring at the painting.

“You’re Bava Bahron,” he said in awe.

“Bibahronaz,” Bava corrected him. “No one ever got it right.”

“I had a lecturer at Wynarn University who called you the greatest artist ever to come out of the Shadow Marches.” Bava waved the comment away, but Singe pressed her. “I’ve seen some of your paintings. They’re beautiful. Wynarn has your Golden Asp and the Royal Collection of Aundair has your Union of Tharashk . I remember staring at Wild Grapes in Ruins for hours.”

“One of my first works,” said Bava with a nod. “Not my best, but I liked it.” She cocked her head. “I’m curious: where did you see it? It’s been in the private collection of an Aundairian family named Bayard for twenty years.”

A nasty smile flashed across Geth’s face. Singe held back a grimace and kept his voice level. “Casual friends,” he said. “I saw it as a boy.”

“You see?” said Natrac. “I told you that you underestimated Zarash’ak. With people like Bava, the City of Stilts can stand as high as Fairhaven or-”

Bava smacked him in the back of the head as she walked behind the table. “Hush!” she said with a smile. She gathered Mine, Ose, and the other two girls, sweeping them before her through a door at the other end of the room.

Dandra leaned across the table to Natrac. “How many children are there in this house?” she asked, a trace of amazement in her voice.

“Usually around a dozen.”

“Are they all hers?” the shifter asked bluntly.

“No,” said Bava with a chuckle, stepping back through the door. There was a platter of meat in each hand and she held the door open with a foot so that the little girls could follow her through, each of them carrying a bowl or a few plates. Through the open door, Singe caught a glimpse of a large kitchen-and the same faces he had seen peering down from the stairs before. Bava let the door swing shut after the girls and turned to the table herself. “Not all of them, anyway. Mothers don’t always want half-orc children, even in Zarash’ak. I give them a place where they are wanted.”

“There’s an orc legend of the Ghaash’nena , a spirit that protects lost children,” said Natrac. “Bava is the Ghaash’nena of Zarash’ak.”

The elbow of the guardian spirit dipped as she passed and clipped him sharply on the ear. As Natrac cursed and rubbed his abused head, she smiled down at him. “Maybe instead of repeating silly stories, you could make yourself useful,” she said. “You know where the wine is. Bring some out.”

Natrac held up his knife-hand. “One hand,” he reminded her.

“I’ll help,” said Ose eagerly.

“Me, too!” Mine added.

Natrac hung his head in mock resignation and pushed away from the table, following the two chattering girls back into the kitchen. Geth laughed and grinned at Bava. “How long have you known Natrac?” he asked.

“Almost too long to remember,” the large woman said. “It will have been twenty years soon.”

“Impossible,” Singe said. “You couldn’t have been born then.”

Bava wagged a finger at him. “Don’t flirt with me, Aundairian,” she said. “You’re too skinny.” But a smile spread across her face and as she turned back to setting plates out on the table, she added, “We met in Sharn. I’d been there for five years, but I found out later that Natrac had only been in the city for two.”

“You left your clan’s territory for a city?” asked Ashi.

The large woman looked up at her. “If you’re from the deep marshes, sheid , it must sound like a terrible thing, but I’d visited Zarash’ak many times. I knew that if I wanted to do more than paint huts and draw tattoos, I had to leave the Marches. So I went to Sharn. It was a hard decision. I think Natrac had an easier time of it when he left Graywall. Not that he had much choice in the matter-”

“Graywall in Droaam?” Singe said. “Natrac isn’t from Zarash’ak?”

“You didn’t know?” Bava’s face turned red. “Host. I should have thought …” She clenched her teeth. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Don’t tell Natrac.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone.” She set down the last plate and reached for a bowl of leafy green vegetables.

Geth, however, sat forward. “Can you answer one thing, though?” he asked. “What did Natrac do before he came to Zarash’ak? Was he a gladiator?”