Recreance (The Aeternum Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  “Dad?” Oren asked.

  It took him a moment to respond, “Yes Oren?”

  “When will things go back to normal?”

  His father took a deep breath, set down the broom, and came over to sit next to him. “I’m not sure, son. Are you doing okay?” His eyes were tired.

  “I guess. I mean, I just don’t understand why all of this is happening.”

  “Your mother and I—I know we haven’t really been able to be there for you through all of this. I’m sorry for that.”

  “It’s okay, I get it,” Oren said quietly, looking down. “But…but why did he have to…” Oren swallowed hard, fighting back tears. “Maybe…maybe I was too rough with him—”

  “Oren listen,” his father said seriously, “you can’t think like that. There’s nothing anyone could have done. It’s just…one of those things. It’s easy to forget that life is fragile, and sometimes…it just doesn’t hold.”

  Oren looked down at his lap. His father took another deep breath. “When my mother passed away, your grandfather told me something.”

  Oren looked up at him.

  “He said, ‘Son, I know your heart is broken, because mine is too. But I also know that you loved your mother fiercely. When someone you care about that much passes away, that love is like a suit of armor. At first, it’s heavy and painful, threatening to drag you down…but after some time passes, it gives you the strength to keep going. Later on in life, it will protect you through even the most challenging times.’

  “And he was right. I carried that armor with me every day since your grandma passed, and I wouldn’t be here now if not for it.”

  Oren nodded. He thought he understood what his dad was saying, but it still didn’t feel like things were going to be okay again any time soon.

  “Thanks, Dad,” he said. His father hugged him, and went back to sweeping. Oren continued to watch the rain fall.

  Bright red light shone through Oren’s eyelids. They opened, revealing the familiar pattern of slender, dried white logs overhead. One of the small gaps was directly over his face, and a shaft of light glared into his squinting eyes. His head was throbbing, and his mind worked hard to remember how he got there.

  The absence of his parents hit him once again and he struggled to deal with the wave of pain. When it receded, the memories of what followed came flooding back. He looked down at his hand, half hoping it was all a bad dream, but the four fingers resting on his chest proved otherwise. “How am I still alive?” he asked himself aloud. Footsteps scratched at the hardpan. They were coming toward him. He sat up painfully, and turned to face the opening of his small shelter. Two legs in tan trousers appeared. They crouched down, and the stranger was there before him, eye to eye.

  He wore a black head scarf that wrapped around from behind, covering the lower half of his face and neck. He pulled it down from his mouth, so that it hung below his chin. Creases extended from the corners of his dark brown eyes. Oren could tell just by looking that this man was had seen many hard years.

  “You broke my lean-to,” he said.

  Oren looked at him blankly.

  “When you fell from the rock,” he nodded up toward the outcropping, “you fell onto my shelter and destroyed it.”

  “Oh,” Oren said. “I, uh…sorry.”

  “Ah, so you can speak.” He smiled. “I was beginning to wonder if I had rescued a samat sabbi.” His accent was foreign to Oren. The words sounded clipped and rhythmic. “It is okay. You can make it up to me. First, drink this.” He threw a canteen to Oren, who caught it with his left hand, paused a moment, then pulled out the cork with his teeth and drank deeply.

  “Good, come.” The stranger stood, and walked away. Oren crawled awkwardly out of the small shelter and into the hot sunlight, taking care not to put too much weight on his injured hand. His leg throbbed and his head ached dully.

  “Sit,” the man beckoned to Oren from several feet away, where he was seated on one of two large rocks beside the fire pit. Oren stood carefully, testing his hurt leg. He looked down and saw a bandage beneath the tear in his trousers, and his hand was expertly wrapped. He touched his head, and found another bandage there. Despite his injuries, he felt steady for the most part, and walked slowly over to the stone, sitting down next to the stranger.

  “Because the Maker wills it,” the stranger said.

  Oren looked at him, confused.

  “You asked how you are still alive. You live because the Maker wills it to be so.”

  “Oh. How long was I…” he looked over at the shelter.

  “Two days. You were very lucky. The creature that attacked you is one of the Miralaja’s most deadly.”

  “Mira…?”

  “Miralaja. The desert you find yourself in.”

  “Oh,” Oren said, trying to organize his thoughts. His head still felt thick and soupy.

  “The creature is called an arbeterix, or arbex for short. They hunt during the shaking, when prey is most likely to be injured and disoriented.”

  Oren recalled the throaty noise it made before snapping toward his head, and shuddered.

  “Where are my manners? I know your name, but you do not know mine.” He took a drink from his canteen. “I am called Khalil. And you, are Tifl.”

  “Actually…my name is Oren.”

  “I think not,” he said shaking his head. “Perhaps one day you will have another name, but not today. Today, you are Tifl.”

  Oren scratched his head, and Khalil smiled.

  Remembering his own manners, Oren said, “Thank you. For…what you did.” He held up his bandaged hand.

  “You are welcome.”

  It dawned on Oren that despite the trauma of losing a finger, his hand felt almost normal. “Not that I’m complaining, but shouldn’t this hurt more?”

  “The Miralaja is a killer, but she can also heal. I have treated your wounds with a black-root salve. It will reduce the pain for a time, and speed the healing process.”

  Oren nodded with wonder. “What happened? I mean, after I fell?”

  “Well, that arbex wanted to have you for an afternoon snack, I convinced her not to.”

  “You…convinced her?”

  “Listen Tifl—”

  “My name is Oren.”

  “Listen, Tifl, you should know that survival in the Miralaja is not something that comes easily. In New Arcadia, the normal state of being is one of complacency and languor. Out here, a disposition such as this will kill you faster than you can die of thirst, which happens in three days for most.”

  Oren suddenly felt very nervous. “Why am I here?” he asked. “I mean, why are you doing all of this? Why not just leave me back…” he trailed off.

  “I think maybe you have many questions, but now is not the time for questions. Now is the time for healing, and learning. How is your head? Are you able to move around?”

  “I…I think so.”

  “Good. Out here, your first priority must be survival. You may be thinking, ‘but Khalil, my first priority is to gain wisdom,’ and your intentions would be very admirable, but your body would be very dead. Everything is secondary to surviving. It must be at the forefront of your mind at all times. Do you understand?

  “Yeah, surviving, super important. I get it.”

  Khalil raised an eyebrow, then continued, “Air is the most important thing for a human being to live. Fortunately for you, the Miralaja has an abundance of it!” Khalil grinned. When Oren didn’t respond, he continued, “The next most important thing is water.” He held up his canteen. “Without water, you will last two, maybe three days if you are lucky. This is your first lesson.”

  Khalil tossed him a gray scarf. “Wrap this around your head. It will keep the sun from your face and neck. Oren did his best to cover his head. One of his ears stuck out despite his efforts.

  “Ya wati,” Khalil muttered under his breath. “Come Tifl, I will show you.”

  Oren unwrapped the scarf from his head, and Khalil did the
same. Khalil placed the scarf behind his head, wrapped it around his mouth, up over his head, then back around behind. He tied it on the side and said, “Now you.”

  Oren copied the motions as best he could – which apparently wasn’t half bad. Khalil nodded in approval.

  “Approximately two miles west from here,” he pointed, “there is a small plant with a crimson flower. The plant is low to the ground, so you must look carefully to find it. Once you do find it, dig it up. The flower is attached to a large root – bring it back here to me.

  “But didn’t you just say this place will try to kill me? Now you want me to go out there alone for some root?”

  “The bird must leave the nest if he is to learn to hunt for himself. Go on, little bird.”

  Oren looked at Khalil. He seemed serious, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. Oren weighed his options. He was stuck out in this desert with a madman, deadly creatures all around, and no clue of how to find even the most basic necessities.

  “Take me back,” he said.

  Khalil looked at him, one eyebrow raised.

  “Take me back to New Arcadia. At least there I can get food and water, and I won’t be eaten by some oversized chicken.”

  Khalil frowned. “Tifl—”

  “My name is Oren,” he said with frustration.

  Khalil looked at him for a moment, then said, “If we returned now, it would be even more dangerous than the Miralaja. The creatures that destroyed your—”

  Oren winced at memory of his parents.

  Khalil’s voice softened, “If we return now, the Ministry will hunt you down, torture, and kill you. I’ve seen them do it, and believe me when I say that the talons of an arbex are a mercy compared to that.”

  Oren sat for a moment, racking his brain for a solution that didn’t involve remaining in this unforgiving desert. He couldn’t find one. He sighed and stood up, wincing as he did, then took another drink from his canteen and tied it to his belt.

  The sun was five hand-spans from the horizon. There should be enough time to make it back before dark. He looked back at Khalil, who nodded. Oren took a deep breath and began walking west.

  “One more thing, Tifl.”

  Oren stopped and looked at him questioningly.

  “Watch where you step, and do so loudly. The snakes in the Miralaja are most deadly. Oh, and if you see what appears to be a puddle of water, give it a wide berth.”

  “Great,” he said, and continued walking.

  The hard ground crunched beneath his feet. He caught a glimpse of a fat, fist sized scorpion skittering over a rock, and shuddered. The hot sun blazed in the blue sky above, and the ground ahead wavered with the heat rising from it. He continued on, scanning the sky for danger. The walk was grueling, but not altogether unpleasant. There was a quiet here that he had never experienced in New Arcadia. The common bustle of the city was replaced by the occasional sound of a breeze stirring the sand, and not much else.

  After what felt like hours, Oren judged he had walked close to two miles. He began searching for the small crimson flower Khalil had mentioned, and eventually spotted a tuft of tan foliage with a small red flower in the center. He jogged over and crouched down to inspect it more closely. It looked dry, like everything else here. The small flower, however, was a rare sign of vibrant life in this dead place. He felt regret at having to dig it up. It was then Oren realized he had nothing to dig it up with, so he stood and scanned for something to use. He did a double take at a rocky part of terrain in the distance – did the sand just move? He focused intently, but it looked exactly the same as everywhere else. Must be the heat. Not far away, a dried stick lay on the ground. He walked over and kicked it just to be sure it wouldn’t try to kill him. It didn’t, so he picked it up, walked back to the flower, and began digging.

  The dry, packed soil proved harder to dig into than it looked, and his head was beginning to ache. By the time he had carved away enough dirt to grip the top of the root, sweat was streaming down his face, and his injured leg felt wet and achy. He wiggled the root and yanked hard, pulling it free. Oren smiled at his success. The root was thick and white, about the size of his forearm. He shook it, and heard sloshing inside.

  Oren stood up and turned to head back to camp. He froze. Something was different, but he couldn’t pinpoint what. He turned slowly in a circle, peering out at the landscape. Nothing appeared different. Just the same blasted desert in all di—

  His thought was interrupted by the sound of scraping metal, followed by a wet squelch.

  Oren spun around and his eyes grew wide. No more than a few feet away, Khalil crouched on top of a massive, spiked, lizard.

  “How…where did you come from?” Oren stammered in surprise.

  “I came from the camp, same as you,” Khalil answered.

  “What is that thing?”

  “This?” He pulled out the sword from its head with a slurp.

  The beast was covered in spines, and easily sixteen feet from its broad snake-like head to its tail. Two wicked horns extended back from above each of its black eyes, and others protruded from the bends in its legs. Oren’s brain did a somersault. It looked like Khalil was floating in mid-air. He shook his head and looked again. The dead creature slid back into view. Its ability to blend into the landscape was uncanny, even at just a few feet away.

  “This, is dinner.” Khalil grinned, and jumped off its back. Oren stared at his sword. He had never seen one in person. It had an onyx hilt, with an elaborate bronze dragonhead pommel. The small round guard was also bronze, and another dragon was engraved on the long, slightly curved steel blade. It gleamed like a silver mirror with waves of dark steel rippling along the surface.

  Khalil walked to the front of the massive dead lizard. He raised the sword with both hands and brought it down, separating the head from the body. He then walked to the rear and did the same with the tail.

  “This part is yours to carry,” he said nodding toward the tail.

  “I found the root,” Oren said, holding up the fat white tuber.

  “Yes, you did well, for a dead man.”

  Oren frowned.

  “If you wish to survive the ‘laja, you must remain keenly aware of your surroundings using all five of your senses. This agaza,” he pointed to the decapitated lizard with his sword, “is nearly invisible to the eye. Close your eyes and take a deep breath.”

  Oren did as he was asked.

  “Do you smell it?”

  Oren concentrated – he couldn’t smell anything. He took another breath and detected a hint of something…musky. He opened his eyes. “I do. It smells like the basement.” The memory of his home returned like a heavy weight on his chest. There was no basement. Not anymore. There was nothing but here and now.

  “Had you opened yourself to all of your senses, you would have noticed that something had changed. Perhaps if you were lucky, you may have seen it as well.”

  “Easy to say when you know what you’re looking for,” Oren complained.

  “Ah, you see? I knew you’d find value in this lesson!” Khalil said with an enigmatic half-smile. “Come, we should get back to the encampment before nightfall. To do otherwise would mean certain death,” he grinned openly.

  “You’re completely insane.”

  “In an insane world, only the insane are truly sane,” he quipped.

  Oren scratched his head and went to pick up the tail, avoiding the spines. It was heavier than it looked. Khalil gripped the two rear legs of the agaza behind him and began dragging it back toward their camp.

  Once they arrived, Oren was exhausted. He sat down to drink some water, and a gentle evening breeze cooled his moist skin. Khalil immediately went to work on the agaza, dressing, skinning it, and removing the bones. He cut the meat into strips and laid them out on a rack made of thin, dried sticks. He then took two pieces and placed them into a makeshift stone smoking oven on a waist-high rock nearby.

  “Collect any nearby grass and sticks you can fi
nd, but do not wander far,” he said. Oren did as he was asked. When he returned, Khalil had the fire started, and smoke rose lazily from the oven. Khalil placed two tall stones on either side of the flames, and a long, flat, thin one across them.

  They sat there in silence. Oren’s stomach growled loudly. When had he last eaten? He had trouble remembering, but it felt like ages. As if reading his mind, Khalil walked over, grabbed a thick strip of meat and tossed it onto the stone over the fire. The meat sizzled loudly, and a gentle breeze carried the intoxicating aroma to Oren.

  “Go retrieve the root you collected today,” Khalil said.

  Oren stood up and walked over to his shelter. He had placed it in the shade, as instructed. The liquid inside sloshed when he picked it up.

  “Cut off the top.” Khalil held out a small knife, hilt first.

  Oren walked back over, took the knife, and cut open the root.

  “Now, drink.”

  There were about three ounces of clear liquid inside. It didn’t have much of a smell, but inhaling it left Oren feeling refreshed and alert. He tipped the hollow root back and gulped it down. Within seconds a cool feeling spread from his stomach to his limbs and eventually his head. He shivered, and realized that the pain in his head and leg, pain he had grown accustomed to, was relenting. It was replaced by a cool sensation. He felt almost peaceful.

  Khalil looked him over, “Good, now come sit down. Dinner is nearly ready.”

  Oren made his way to the flat sitting stone near Khalil and sat down. The meat was done moments later, and he gorged himself on the white, tender flesh. It tasted extraordinary…though that may have been the starvation talking. Oren ate until he couldn’t stomach another bite. Khalil pushed his sitting stone back from the fire and sat on the ground, leaning against it. He pulled a small wooden pipe from his shirt pocket, stuffed it with a brown leaf, and lit it with a stick from the fire. The night was cool and quiet, and a swathe of stars painted the night sky once the last of the daylight had fled. This was as near to content as Oren had been since leaving New Arcadia, though it didn’t come close to filling the emptiness within him. He decided to make conversation rather than be alone with his thoughts.