Allan COLE: Wizard of the winds

All those things, which might seem trivial and even dull to city dwellers, were of prime importance to Safar and his people. They made up their talk, their dreams and all the rhythms of life.

In his own waythe way of KyraniaSafar was royally born. He was the son of a potter and in Kyrania such men as his father were second only to the village priest in importance. His father's father had been a potter as well, and his father before him. It had always been so for the Timura clan and many generations of Kyranian women had balanced Timura water jugs on their heads as they made the hip-swaying journey to the lake and back. All food in the village was cooked in Timura pots or stored in Timura jars, which were sealed with clay and buried in the ground for winter. Spirits were fermented in Timura jugs, bottled in Timura vessels and it was said all drink tasted best when sipped from Timura cups and bowls. When the caravans arrived Timura pottery was more sought after than even the few fresh camels and llamas the villagers kept to resupply the merchant masters.

When the troubles came Safar was being trained to succeed his father as a practitioner of that once most sacred of all the arts. To accomplish this was Safar's sole ambition. But as a wise one once said"If you want the make the gods laugh… tell them your plans."

The day that marked the end of those youthful ambitions began well before first light, as did all days in Kyrania. It was early spring and the mornings were still cold and one of his sisters had to bang on his sleeping platform with a broom handle to rouse him from his warm feather mattress.

He grumbled as he broke away from a dream of swimming in warm lake waters with nubile maidens. He was just seventeen summersan age when such dreams are remarkably vivid and nearly as frequent as the grumblings at the unfairness of life.

Then he heard Naya, the family's best milking goat, complaining in the stable below. She was the sweetest of animals and he hated to think of her suffering. Safar leaped from the platform onto the polished planks that made the floor of the main living area. He dragged out the trunk where he kept his belongings and hastily pulled on clothesbaggy leather trousers, pullover shirt and heavy work boots. His mother was already at the hearth stirring handfuls of dried apple into the savory barley porridge that would make his breakfast.

She clucked her tongue to chide him for being tardy, but then smiled and gave him a hunk of bread spread with pear jam to tide him over until the milking was done. Safar was the middle child but the only boy of his parents six children, so he was lovingly and deliberately spoiled by his mother and sisters.

"You'd better hurry, Safar, his mother warned. Your father will be back for his breakfast soon."

Safar knew his father would be in the adjoining shop inspecting the results of the previous day's firing. The elder Timura, whose name was Khadji, preferred to have the family together at mealtimes. It would be especially important to him this morning. There had been a late-night meeting of the Council of Elders and Khadji would be anxious to report the news.

Mind buzzing with curiosity, mouth full of bread and jam, Safar thundered down the ladder and lit the fat lamps. He got out several pots made of his father's purest clay and glazed a dazzling white. As usual he tended Naya first. Her milk was delicious and his mother frequently accused him of squirting more into his mouth than in the pot.

"Why am I always to blame when something goes wrong around here? he'd protest.

"Because you've got some on your chin, my little thief, she'd say.

Safar was always taken in, giving his chin a reflexive wipe and making the whole family howl at his embarrassment.

"Don't ever decide to become a bandit, Safar, his father would joke. The master of the first caravan you rob is certain to catch you. Then the only thing we'd have left of our son would be his head on a post."

Naya seemed more anxious that morning than an overly full udder should warrant. When Safar removed the canvas bag kept tied about her teats for cleanliness sake he saw several angry sores. He checked the bag and saw it was frayed on one side. The rough area had rubbed against her udder all night. The sores would fester quickly in the damp spring.

"Don't fret, little mother, he murmured. Safar will fix you up."

He looked about to make certain there were no witnesses. His sisters had gone to fetch water from the lake so besides the goats and other animals the stable area was empty. Safar scratched his head, thinking.

His eyes fell on the lamp beside the stool. He dipped up thick, warm fat with his fingers and rubbed it gently on Naya's udder. Then he made up a little spell and whispered it as he dipped up more oil and coaxed it gently over the sores.

Rest easy, Little mother; Safar is here. There is no pain, No wound to trouble you. Rest easy Little mother; Safar is here.

He looked down and the sores were gone. There was only a little pink area on her udder and that was quickly fading.

Then he heard his mother say, Who are you talking to, Safar?"

He flushed, then answered: I wasn't talking to anyone, mother. I was just… singing a song. In those days Safar felt compelled to hide his magical talents from others.

Satisfied, his mother said nothing more. Safar quickly finished the milking and his other chores and by the time he was done his father and sisters were sitting down to breakfast. There was one absent place at the tablethe spot where Safar's oldest sister, Quetera had held forth all his life. Safar saw his mother give the seat a sad glance. His sister lived with her husband now and was pregnant with their first child. It had been a difficult pregnancy and the family was worried.

His mother swiped at her eye, forced a smile, and began to pass the food around. There was porridge and bread toasted over the fire, with big slabs of cheese from the crusted round Safar's mother always kept sitting near the embers. They washed their breakfast down with milk still warm from the goats.

"You were late coming home last night, Khadji, his mother said as she gave his father another slice of buttered toast. There must've been much business for the council to discuss. Not bad news, I hope."

Khadji frowned. It wasn't exactly bad news, Myrna, he said. But it certainly was troublesome."

Myrna was alarmed. Nothing to do with the caravan, I hope? she said.

Caravan season was just beginning and the village had received word the first group of traders was making its way to Kyrania. It had been a long winter and the money and goods the caravan would bring were sorely needed.

"No, nothing to do with the caravan, Safar's father said. It's not expected for a few weeks, yet."

Myrna snorted, impatient. If you don't want a second bowl of porridge served on your head, Khadji Timura, she said, you'll tell us right now what this is all about!"

Usually, Khadji would have laughed, but instead Safar saw his frown deepen.

"We agreed to accept a boy into the village, Khadji said. He was presented to us by an elder of the Babor clan, who begged us to give him sanctuary."

The Babors were the leading family of a large and fierce clan of people who lived on the distant plains.

Myrna dropped a serving spoon, shocked. I don't like that! she said. Why, they're practically barbarians. I'm not sure I like having one of their young ruffians among us."

Khadji shrugged. What could we do? Barbarians or not, the Babors have kinship claims on us. It wouldn't be right to say no to our cousins."

Myrna sniffed. Pretty distant cousins, for all that."

"He seems a likely enough lad, Khadji said in the stranger's defense. His family is related to the Babor headman's wife. They live somewhere in the south. People of influence, from the cut of the boy. He's a handsome fellow about your age, Safar. And tallabout your size, as well. Very mannered. Good clothing. And well spoken. Seems the sort who's used to having servants to order about."