Jean Lorrah - Wulfston's odyssey

“I cannot be certain,” she replied. “I have never been here before. Although it is said that there is little violence on Freedom Island, you may be certain that should we encounter trouble, we can expect no help from the inhabitants.”

Zanos gave her a confident smile. “I think we have enough strengths and talents among us to handle any trouble.”

His wife nodded her agreement, but asked Chulaika, “Just what is it you fear? Surely Z’Nelia’s influence could not reach so far.”

“Couldn’t it?” the African woman countered. “She has spies everywhere on the continent. Why not here?”

The handful of black people on the dock proved less than friendly, though not openly hostile to the strangers. To test whether he would be understood, Wulfston asked to have the letter he had prepared sent back on the next ship to the Aventine peninsula. He handed over coins, hoping the missive would reach its destination. Then they went on to the marketplace.

The half-mile walk was on a well-worn road lined with squalid huts. Children played in the dirt, while their mothers clustered nearby in the shade of a tall tree. It was of a type Wulfston did not recognize, and sitting in its branches were multicolored birds singing unfamiliar songs. More than just another land , he reflected. It’s almost like entering, another world .

The group of native women stopped talking as they passed, staring at the strangers-no, staring directly at him.

“Astra,” Wulfston murmured in the savage language, “why are those women looking at me that way?”

The Reader followed his gaze and concentrated. “They’re low-level Readers, my lord. My impression is that they are intrigued with your appearance, and are wondering who you- Oh, Hesta!” she muttered, and turned away, blushing.

“What’s wrong?”

Zanos, who had apparently been “listening in” on his wife’s scan of the women, choked back laughter.

“Uh… they’re Reading through your clothes, Lord Wulfston.”

Fighting the reflex to cover himself with his hands, Wulfston gasped, “What!” then forced himself to walk tall, shooting an angry glare at the women that would have sent any citizen of his own land scurrying away in terror. The result on the group of women, however, was an explosion of laughter.

“They’re breaking the Reader’s Code!” he protested to Astra.

“They would be in the Savage Empire,” she agreed, “but who knows whether in this part of the world Readers have even developed a code?”

They switched back to Chulaika’s native language, and Astra asked her about it. “Each order of Seers has its own rules,” the African woman explained. “I’m sure those women belong to no order, but even if they did, I doubt that our Seers and Movers could ever agree on a single set of rules.

We are too many different tribes and peoples, as you will soon see.”

The marketplace was a sprawling arena of bustling activity, its perimeters defined by merchants’ huts, tents, and open-air booths. Although it was not as crowded as a busy market day at home, the travelers found it difficult to navigate the crosscurrents of people.

Everyone seemed to travel in groups, as if being alone were unacceptable here. Or dangerous.

Wulfston noticed that the business being conducted did not involve the exchange of coins, only barter. Of course, refugees would not have silver or gold. Coins marked merchants, always under suspicion of trading in human flesh.

Wulfston touched the money pouch at his belt, and suddenly felt more an intruder on this island than a visitor. He felt even less certain that his letter would reach Aradia.

Zanos said, “The market seems to be divided into territories.” Wulfston saw what he meant: tall, thin men sold their wares in the northern part; short, almost childlike people on the east-

But it was a small booth on the southern perimeter that drew Wulfston’s attention. A young couple were selling wooden utensils. The man was beardless, but still he. closely resembled the Lord Adept in build and skin color.

He reminds me of my father , Wulfston realized. His natural father. No, on closer examination this man didn’t really look like his father as Wulfston remembered him, but there was family-tribal? — resemblance enough to give him the irrational feeling that if he walked over to that booth he would be welcomed with open arms.

Knowing his perception was clouded by memory, Wulfston remained where he was, letting his eyes move over to the man’s wife, who was light-skinned and very pretty. She was painting animal figures on the outer edge of a large bowl, just as Wulfston’s mother had done at his family’s pottery stand. Over to the side a little girl was watching her young brother, a boy no more than three years old-

The same age I was when it all happened. It’s like looking at my own past!

The young woman glanced in his direction, and her eyes widened. She edged over to the man and whispered something, then went to bend over her children.

A hand touched Wulfston’s shoulder. He turned reflex-ively, staring into Chulaika’s eyes, but he could not seem to hear what she was saying. His mind was still on the family that looked so much like his own.

When he turned to look again, they were gone. The booth was empty.

“Lord Wulfston,” Chulaika said, “Zanos claimed he saw some ‘Madurans’ over there”-she gestured toward the western side of the square-“and ran off. His wife followed him. She seems concerned.

These ‘Madurans’-they are his tribe?”

Wulfston nodded. “It never occurred to me that enslaved Madurans could end up this far south.”

“That is the essence of the slave business,” Chulaika said quietly. “People are sold in lands far from their homes, places where their features are considered unusual. They don’t know the language, they stand out in a crowd, so there is little chance of escape.”

Suddenly she looked around. “Chaiku? Chaiku!” Her eyes were suddenly wide with panic.

“He’s just wandered off,” Wulfston said, trying to see through the river of people flowing around them.

“Chaiku!” she called, her voice quickly approaching hysteria. “Chaiku!”

“Don’t worry,” he said firmly. “We 11 find him. He can’t have gone far.”

But Chulaika continued to call her son, pushing her way through the crowd. Wulfston followed her, certain the little boy would wander back to where he had started.

“KANA LA SABENU Z’NELIA! KANA LA SABENU Z’NELIA!”

The shouts cut through every other sound in the square.

The world went silent for a moment, everyone looking in every direction at once. Then a woman yelled something and people scurried away from the center of the marketplace.

It was as though curtains parted, revealing little Chaiku- index finger in mouth, cheeks stained with tears-looking around bewilderedly for his mother.

And then the crowds parted further to reveal the screaming man, several yards beyond the child and lurching toward him with a drunken stagger.

He was brandishing a knife!

“KANA LA SABENU Z’NELIA!”

By now, Chulaika had reached her son and was scooping him up in her arms. Wulfston ran toward them, shouting for her to get out of the way as the man increased speed and raised the dagger.

Chulaika stood frozen, staring at her oncoming death.

The Lord Adept jumped to his right to see his target clearly, and threw enough Adept force to knock the knife out of the man’s hand.

It was as though the attacker had been thrown against a stone wall-bones snapped loudly, the knife went flying behind him, and his shouts became a groaning gurgle as he dropped to his knees. He fell forward, to land at Chulaika’s feet.