Her shadow was so long in front of her in that desert, and her smell so indistinguishable, the wolves thought her a mirage, and sensed nothing but sheepskin and hooves. Her cloak dragged behind her, its jagged ends weighed down at the hem to wipe away her tracks. The wolves would want to strike at nightfall, so she would make the fire quickly, but she would run the sheep hard into the night, and make the wolves desperate. The sand stretched on behind her even to the horizon, where mountains rose like dog teeth, and the sun dipped low into their maw.

The sheep ran in front of her, their horns as long as canes, and their wool, full of dust and sand, made them huge, and soft, and hid their eyes, and shook at the pound of their hooves.

They ran for miles into the night, as the moon rose high above them, and more slowly, the stars, and when they did stop, they shouted and rammed their heads together and into the ground.

The woman dropped to her knees and pulled wood from her bag. She took a hatchet from her hip and split the wood into thin strips, all the same width, and took a small bundle of wires from her bag. In a few moments, fire danced shyly over the wires, and crept onto the sticks, which she lay down carefully in a ring-shaped pile.

She blew gently into the center of the pile, and the flames wheezed and then leapt to devour the thin sticks around them.

The sheep could smell the wolves now, and the wolves always came from down wind, so they were close. The woman knelt, and bowed low down next to the fire, so her face was level with the kindling. She blew fiercely, and the flames roared. She shuffled through her bag and pulled a bottle from the depths. Uncorking it with her teeth she rubbed the fluid on her hatchet, and rubbed the residue off her fingers with a handful of sand.

The sheep huddled close around the fire, and jumped and started, bucking and ramming their horns at the thin air, closing tighter and tighter around the fire. The wind slowed for a moment, and in the still air, a low growl reached her ears.

She plunged hatchet into the fire, and flames roared up around the blade, flashing over the oil. She leapt up onto the sheep, and found her footing on the writhing, wooly mass, drew her hand back and hurled the flaming hatchet into the dark. It turned, end over end, like a wheel of fire, and then the flames shrank for a moment, and terrible howl filled the night. The flames grew larger, and spilled onto the fur and flesh where the hatchet found its mark. The wolf sand, and danced in the fire, and slowly sank to the ground.

She sheep did not sleep easily, but no wolves bothered them that night.

It was her first full moon in the desert, and the first clear night. In the dim light, her sheep were nothing but their wool, billowing and piled together, like all the clouds alighted on the sand to rest after weeks in the hot, dry air, and pressed their bellies to the cool, night sand.

When the last of them fell into an uneasy sleep, she drew them, pictures of them, on sheepskin, with a pen her grandfather made, and she dreamed that tonight these wooly clouds would sweat until their rainfall formed into pools. A ring of clouds, with no eyes, asleep on the oasis they made. She drew them as she saw them on that night, her eyes glued to the page, her hood down. Her ears swung with gauges the size of her fist.

They reached home a week later, and she packed her sheep into the pen outside her tent, and Dog Boy came running to see her, hugged the sheep and rubbed his cheek on the wool while a crowd of other children ran past and through the crowd of sheep, their thick hair bobbing above the sea of thicker wool. “Miss Thorn,” said Dog Boy, signing respect on his forehead, “The pattagon thought you were dead.”

She stretched her jaw a moment, and then breathed in through her nose. “I haven’t spoken in weeks. Tell him come to me tomorrow. Bring me some water when you’ve done.”

Thorn ducked under the flap into her tent and fell limply into her bed, closed her eyes, and let the sounds of home wash over her. Faulk’s hammer, the wind in the thin fabric of her tent and all the other tents, the sheep gulping water in their pen. The steady thud of the butcher’s knife, and the cries of children as they ran among their mothers and their fathers, with the desert air and setting sun.

That night, she soaked her ankles in oil, and washed the sand from her hair. The desert made foul work some months, but she always made it home, wherever the tents happened to be.

The butcher came that night, and worked with her sheep, one by one. She was quick with her blade, and so the sheep never smelled like fear when they were with her, and the incense she left burning on the fence gate made so not one could smell the blood.

When thorn woke the next morning, the sheep were replaced with skins, stretching on wooden frames, suspend with leather cord. The butcher took the sheep and left the skins. It was their arrangement, and the butcher would leave mutton the next morning, right on schedule.

Thorn had dinner, the next day, with the pattagon, and he told her that the last of her mothers had died, and she would have to go soon, to pay them respects. They ate lamb, cooked in the open air, at the edge of a small crowd. All the children lay on their bellies or backs and stretched, and maybe shivered a little. A thin wail came softly on the wind, and the pattagon choked on his drink. Soft bells rang in north-most borders of camp, and the slow gentle murmur turned to silence. Everyone leapt to their feet and the tents collapsed like playing card, the whole camp folding into nothing, like pop up book, closed. The fires were put out with cloth, so no smoke could escape, and sand was poured over that cloth. Even the children were silent. Thorn was last onto the wagon, she and the pattagon. Everyone huddled low.

The horses padded on soft shoes, and the well oiled wheels of each wagon made only the softest whine. In the dim light of the rising moon, little shapes appeared in the distance, quiet horn calls came from one side, then the other, but thankfully, all behind the train of wagons, and all slowly, moving away.

After some time, the Pattagon drifted off to sleep, and Thorn lay awake and alone except for the driver. The wagon rocked gently beneath her.  Her eyes were heavy, but her mind raced on and on, and after glancing around, Thorn fished through her bag, and pulled out one of the new skins. It was still warm. From the sun, Thorn told herself. She took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. With her hands, she could still feel the veins, and the tiniest texture of fuzz, and she winced, because she recognized the wool.

The veins moved under her hands like mountain ranges on a map, and she followed them each to their end. It was exactly like a map, and as the moon rose high and passed its peak, she became familiar, more and more, and she began to draw. The sheep, but as clouds, as she saw them that night, in the desert, alone with wolves and fire, the cloud sheep in a ring, and smoke rising up from their center, from the eye of the storm, and the eyes of the wolves, outside the firelight, hungry, starving, terrified by what they saw. Thorns eyes blinked open and shut, and far away behind the train of wagons, she dreamed a cloud of fire erupted on the sand, and winked away like a ghost or a cloud in a lighting storm. As they rode on through the night, thin trees appeared around them, and the desert turned to scrubland.

The bandits caught them by surprise. They came just after sunrise, and there were no horn calls, no warnings. They rose out of the desert like wraiths, and they came from both sides. Her people scrambled for arrows and spears, but the bandits were already riding away. They carried leather bags, like great bladders, which they slashed and threw to the ground. For half a moment, the caravan froze, the bandits’ horses galloping away, the leather bags, which could hold a weeks worth of water of grain deflated, and a smell like bitter smoke set Thorns eyes watering.

A single arrow flew, its tip dipped in tar, sparking with red fire, up and then down into the sand, and from the place where it hit the ground, fire erupted from the ground and grew in a cloud of billowing, red heat, and filled the air around.

Thorn slid from her wagon and dove to the ground, curling into a falls, covering her face, tucking her hands into her sleeves as the cloud of flame billowed over her, enveloped the wagon in fire. In a flash, the cloud faded, and Thorn tore her cloak off, its fabric smoking, and ran through the ashy haze, half blinded by the smoke, stumbling her way toward cover.

She ducked behind a path of smoking shrubbery. A pair of horses galloped past her, riderless. A dog followed, Faulk’s dog, and Thorn dove from her place behind the bush. The dog leapt but she pinned it down and stroked its sides and murmured its name until it calmed down. With one hand, she wrestled her bag from her shoulder and looped the straps around Dingo. The bag was scorched, but the skins seemed alright.

The bandits hollered nearby, and Thorn grimaced, crouched low, and took her sketchbook from the pockets of her cloak. She slipped it into the bag, and motioned for Dingo to go. The dog paused, and she pushed it away. “Please” she hissed. “Go!”

Thorn was alone when the bandits found her, and they took her with ease.

Marco Aurelio was not afraid of wolves. He beat his chest and breathed in deep through his nose, and howled silently from his mat inside the abbey, howled until his jaw pinched and he rubbed it with his hand. They should just try to chase him. He’d show those wolves in a heartbeat what kind of man he was. Ten years he’d survived in this desert, or maybe ten thousand. No one had beat him yet, and no one ever would.

He slept by the bird cages, with a few other boys, with the chickens right next to the hawks, to keep the hawks hungry, of course, and to keep the chickens from getting too slow, and they were all mostly quiet at night, which was good; Sister Albano slept next door. He didn’t mind bruises, but she still made him nervous. He settled down for a bit, and watched the storm clouds outside, billowing over the abbey.

Around midnight, the storm clouds broke, and the nuns sent him out into the rain to close the gate, which had blown open in the wind. Marco heaved open the abbey’s thick, wooden door, and picked his way down the dark, wet cobblestone, his lantern swinging in his hand. The grass was quickly turning muddy in the yard. He rounded a corner and the gate house loomed in front of him, tons of stone bricks, stacked so high you could see miles from the top. The door was indeed flung open, and Marco dashed under the arch. He gripped the gold, hard wood with his hands and made to pull it back in place, but in the sand, something caught his eye, a shape in the rain, bobbing and weaving slowly toward him. A howl reached his ears, and he froze, his eyes fixed on the shape. It stumbled closer, and lightning flashed above the clouds. Not a wolf. It was a dog. It stumbled to him and barked at him; its teeth glittered in the bright flashes of lighting. Marco could see the creature’s ribs, and a bag hung from its side, tied with leather straps. The boy knelt and unknotted the bag, pulled it from the dog, who was too weak to resist. He slung the bag over his shoulder, and picked up the dog in his arms, where it hung limp. He turned to go back inside the wall, but he paused, and looked over his shoulder. The desert stretched on, empty, and dark again.

A teacher comes to the abbey the next day, as they often did, and a few of the boys and girls left with him. The nuns packed whatever belonged to the children into a small cart, and murmured quiet goodbyes. Marco watched them go, and one of the girls waved to him. He wished he knew her name, but they only saw one another at the shrine. The one time they had dared to speak, she told him she thought he was beautiful. He had blushed when she said that. One of the nuns slapped his hand. He glared at her and got back to scrubbing crumbs off the table in the courtyard. The children were out of sight.

“You should’t be jealous, you know,” the nun said. “You wouldn’t like school.”

“I’m not jealous,” said Marco.

“You wouldn’t do well, either. And you used to be so smart. I don’t know what happened to you.”

“I don’t even want to go.”

“What do you mean you don’t want to go.” The nun slapped his wrist again. “School is the greatest opportunity of your life. Imagine all the things you could learn.”

“Do you think they’d teach me patience?”

“All the philosophy, and the holy works, the book of kings.”

“Sister Albano. I’m not jealous.”

“Well you should be. They’re going somewhere very nice, and they’re going to learn a great deal, and your still here learning your letters.”
“I’m not still learning my letters.”

“Then write me the letter E” she searched her pockets for a pen. “No. Don’t. Don’t lie to me. You couldn’t learn to write if you tried. I know you can’t read.”

“I can write” Marco ground his teeth.

“If you could, you’d be going to school.” The nun slapped his wrist and walked away.

“I can write.” Marco blinked and scrunched his eyes. “Stupid sun, stupid table, stupid nuns.” He threw his cloth into the bucket at his feet and scrubbed the table with his fist. Finally, the crumb came loose, and he went to go feed the cattle.

Marco went to bed furious, every day, because he prayed before he slept, with the rest of the kids at the abbey, and when he prayed he prayed like the god of thunder. The nuns snickered about his face, how serious he looked, but he didn’t care. It felt good when he was angry, and he knew they couldn’t tell what he was praying. That was best of all.

After the nuns went to sleep, Marco let the dog in, and it curled up next to him.

“Would you fight the wolves with me?” He pet the dog on its head, and wrinkled his nose. “I wish you’d bite the nuns. You just ran away today. I was trying to signal you. I’ll show them. Now I have a question for you. What were you doing with that bag? Did you know what was in there? Do you know what these are?” Marco shook the drawings in front of the dog. “I bet you don’t. But I do. I’ve never seen them before, but I know what they are. And the nuns have no idea.” Marco fished in the bag, and he held a pen in front of the dog. “I can’t teach you this trick, but I’ll let you watch.”

Outside, thunder rumbled, and storm clouds rolled over the abbey like tumbleweed. The birds rattled their cages, and the boy hunched over each page, and wrote as many words as he could fit. He knew they were simple, but he didn’t need big words. He wrote about what he saw on those pages, animals, and nightmares, and above him, the hawks tore their hoods off and let themselves out of their cages. Rain poured the the windows where there was no glass to stop them, and the birds spiraled up toward the clouds, where they vanished, and where some were struck by lightning.

When the bells rang in the morning, Marco put down his pen. The rain was gone, and the sun was up. His clothes were damp, and he realized he was shivering. He neatened the pages and tied them together with string, to show the nuns what he had done.

“They did not take it well.” Sister frowned. “You’re a very stupid boy.”

“They said I was caught by a devil.”

“Well what do you think that dog represents.”

“Well. I think it was a dog.”

“Don’t speak to me like that. Go wash your face. I’m taking you to court with me. The sisters decided it would do you good. You’ll spend the night in the temple, and if you’re lucky, you’ll forget all about that dog and about those pictures. Have you ever seen a snake with wings that was not in league with a devil? Go. Get your things, wash up.”

At court, the crowds were bustling, even before the sun came over the mountains. Sister Albano picked her way around the edges of the crowd, squeezing through alleyways and pressing against the walls of shops. She dragged the boy behind her, her fingers like a vice. He was a little piece of shit, but she wasn’t going to lose him.

The sister shaded her eyes and peered through the early morning haze. There at the end of the plaza stood the temple, so pale and worn by the sandy wind that it was hard to make out its edges. The gate was tall, and wide enough for three people, but no one blocked the way. Once they were out of the throng, the sister and Marco were alone.

They walked up the long set of steps that led into the temple, and under another gate. A few young boys in green robes bowed as they entered the chamber. Sister Albano spoke a blessing over each of them and they gave her a message from the king. She sent one back with them and yanked at Marco’s arm, who continually pulled away.

She turned on him, ready to speak, but he was not looking at her. His eyes were turned upward, and light poured down on his face. He must’ve never seen glass like that before.

The dome at the top of the chamber was built fifty years ago, by engineers who said they came from Babylon. The glass was in thirty different colors, and the seams between each carefully shaped plane were invisible from below. It was beautiful, and probably seemed impossible to the boy. Sister Albano eased her grip and watched the boy for a moment, as he murmured and stuttered under his breath. He was trying to find the words, she realized. She left him with one of the acolytes, and went to see the king.

“The king is very busy. Come back another time.”

“But he sent for me.” Sister Albano wanted to spit on the man.

“I’m sorry, good Sister. Would you like to leave your name?” The guards were sweating in the morning sun, and stretching their stiff calfs, but the doors remained closed.

“No. Thank you. He already knows who I am. Now would you please let me in. He told me it was urgent.”

“Sister, let me explain something to you. The king is very busy. If this were an emergency, or if we were supposed to let you in anyway, or something… we would know about it. They don’t give us orders for nothing.”

“Fine. Tell him Sister Albano came, and he’d better let me in next time. I’m a very busy woman, and I might not be free next time he needs me to proofread his stupid contracts. And all my best wishes, of course. Wealth and longevity. And my name is spelled with an “A” there.”

“Well. OK. We’ll make sure he gets this. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Three days. Sister Albano fumed. It took me three days to get here. And now, I’ll spend three more. It’s not like I’ve got work to do back home.

Back at the monastery, she checked on the boy, but he was asleep, probably tired from the trip. Apparently, he’d had an episode already, and had been seen howling at the dome, but the sister told the temple guards not to worry. She was sure he was on the mend, and the episodes wouldn’t last long. She told them not to interfere.

Back in her guest room, she fished through her bag and removed the manuscript the boy had found. He claimed to have written it, but he wasn’t more than ten years old, and the handwriting in the manuscript was gorgeous. It wasn’t a language she knew, but the ink was familiar to her. Whoever wrote it must have come from Calaban. She’d always wondered if the boy was from Calaban. Strange.

Whoever wrote it, the book was useless to her, full of heathen idols, crammed with so much writing that the scribe must have been raving mad. The art was beautiful, to be sure. It was a shame that the scribe wrote over so much of each picture.

Sister Albano had no interest in the heathens. She packed the pages into her bag and found her way to the market. She pushed past peddlers and small flocks of osterlings until she pushed her to the Stays. The crowds here funneled between the thick, wooden frames that filled the plaza. The frames supported longboats, high above the heads of the merchants and artisans. In the shade of those boats, small carts sold bundles of mushrooms, and dark little bottles. Men and women called across the plaza from high windows. Wrapped in sheets, they smiled sweetly at the passersby, offered bottles of rum, if you’re into that sort of thing.

Sister Albano kept her head low, and picked her way carefully through the crowd, and down the length of the plaza. The found calamari there, and over a beer, she sold the manuscript. She was gone before the sun could set, her pockets laid with gold.

“I’m happy to see you.” The king smiled, and sipped a bit of wine.

“That’s, that’s very kind of you to say.” Sister Albano did her best to smile. “The pleasure is only mine.”

“Not if I can help it. Now. The contracts are spicy enough? Did you like the bit about nuns? I thought of you when I wrote it.”

Sister Albano grimaced at the thought of that. “Yes. They were quite good.”
“Quite good my lord, is what you meant to say, I believe. Why must you always mumble when you say it. Next time shout it. I know you’re proud of me.”

“Anything else, my lord?”

“Yes. I’ve acquired some nomads.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nomads,” the king gestured dismissively. “There in the courtyard. Shame you missed them. They look quite exotic to me, like birds, the way their fabrics billow in the wind.’

“Like birds, my lord?” Albano tried again to smile. The king was really making her work, here.

“They were overtaken by marauders, as I like to call them, and barely escaped with their lives. Isn’t that heroic? Exactly like birds, in my mind. So they came to me, and in my great mercy I pardoned them, for being nomads, that is, and said I’d send them home with you, so you can christen them, and so they can serve me like everyone else.”

“But that’s—”

“I know! I know. You mustn’t praise me so. I’m a humble man. Now I’ve kept you long enough. Why don’t you run along and teach those little barbarians how to behave. They’re a sight to see, I tell you, but I think I’ve had enough.”

Sister Albano bowed and turned to go, but a servant blocked the door.

“Oh, stay a moment, sister. This, you will want to see.”

The servant nodded to the sister and bowed before the king. She held a book wrapped in cloth in her arms and the king took it gingerly.

“I bought this yesterday. Quite a find. I’ve taken to reading, if you didn’t know.”

“My lord.” Sister Albano’s throat suddenly felt quite dry, and the words were hoarse. “A lovely find.”

“Don’t lie to me. I know your people despise this sort of thing. Books are meant for learning, and this one is full of pretend animals. You can tell just looking at the cover. No crosses, no latin. Instead… whatever this is. A lion’s skull. Look. You can even feel it.” The king ran his fingers gingerly over the cover, and down the spine. “Lovely, lovely work. I believe the artist was insane, just like you believe I’m insane—don’t pretend. I know how you feel about me. But I tell you, this art… is worth something. Do you remember when I conquered the Hilades? I didn’t do it for their gold. They burned alive, on the sea shore, if you didn’t know, the people who made those statues. Well I took their statues, every last one, and I could have melted them down and made them statues of myself—would be beautiful beyond belief—but they were beautiful already, and I can carve my face out of anything; carve it into the mountains, if I like. No. Their gold was worth more to me than it weighed. Just like this book. My grandchildren, and even my grandchildren’s grandchildren, will have it for their reading pleasure, and many other books, too. No one will make a book like this again. This was their last work; I made sure of that.  And that makes it priceless. Now go. I’ve seen enough of you. Be at peace with your learning. I hope your afterlife is half as rich as my life here on earth. But I don’t count on it.”

 

 

by Sam McGrath Holmquist