Keeping the Fire: The Lost Hours

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The picket had been set close that first week on the Barrow. The hava kept shifts all night and their watches were close; their fires small. The Djaught had given her much freedom of movement and most of his attention he gave to his own scouts, who sought signs of the men that had disappeared from the Barrow, or to the Curator who had an endless series rituals he would need to perform for each of the tomb's twenty six rooms. Luminary Polena was left to her own devices but her small travel tent did not feel quiet for the closeness of the others, the sound of their presence was everywhere. She was aware of the position of the guards, indeed, even who was on guard, from the shifting of their watches. Some kept their spears at ready the whole time and she could hear the shifting from hand to hand; others, the young ones, talked quietly; one whittled and she grew familiar with the clack of his knife near the First hour. She knew whenever the Curator started or ended a ceremony, for there was the crash of a gong to mark them. His rituals themselves echoed out of the pit into the Barrow, but their words were ancient and religious speech which she was unfamiliar with. That, combined with the distance made them seem a drone to her, but the murmuring, for it's trace unfamiliarity, could not help but hold a sinister quality to her ear.

Polena had been concerned that she would not have the resources needed to translate any words found in the tomb, but that soon proved unnecessary. Modern poets had tried, with great care, to keep the old words intact. The bigger problem proved the ruin of the place. Though remarkably preserved, the clay tablets had broken or been filled with mud over the years. She had to tease out words from the ruin. Some times this felt like drawing a splinter from her hand in poor light; others it was like plucking feathers from a dead goose. One word had taken her the whole of that day to understand, and she had given over the day to it because of it's importance. The Djaught had looked in on her twice that day, but as he had not addressed her, she had not addressed him. The third time he came he said:

“You have had the same books open for three of the nine hours. Are you trapped Luminary?”

“Not entrapped. Focused. I do have something to show for the work, but I am not quite happy with it,” she had given up on the formal speech and he had as well. Perhaps it was because the Djaught felt he was afield and thus far from noble kindness, though Polena felt that it was more out of frustration. She showed him the word she had been working on.

“It is a Poem Word,” he said, “Djasho made none of these.”

“Well, they were more common to other poets, but Djasho did make a few of them. This one is like most, in that it can have several readings. I haven't finished the poem yet, but this is the refrain, and I think that it means: “Embraced by the roots,” but I could be wrong. It would be a fitting refrain for a funeral poem.” The Djaught only stared at her and she realized that was what made him seem cold. Like the sound of the picket outside or the distant murmur of the Curator's ritual, there was a familiarity in sound that rendered it's meaning unnecessary. Had Mehethe said, “quite so,” or “yes,” or even something cruel it would have been a comfort. Even a distracted or insincere word would have helped. But the silence disarmed her. That was much of his strength. After a breath had passed between them he said:

“If this careless student might ask a fool's question, are you certain that you are safe reading such works as these?” in full noble address.

“Forgive this child, but she knows not the honored Djaught's intent,” Polena responded in kind, “you say 'not safe' what do you mean by that?”

“I need only look at you to see that you have not slept last night. There is hardly any light in this room and you have not left it the whole of this day. I mean to ask, Luminary, if you are certain your People's Luck protects you from the spirits of the dead that have been awakened here.”

Ordinarily Polena would have been annoyed by the assertion. They had been here three days without any incident save the superstitious fears of the hava: their fears at a murder of crows, at a strange beast call in the night, at a clack of falling rock, still unexplained, echoing from the tomb. But in the Djaught's concern she had only now realized that she had not left the tent, not even to stretch her legs. It must have been plain on her face, for the Djaught spoke again before she could.

“Luminary Polena, my Curator can offer you a ration of Luck from the Goddess to keep you safe. He can evict spirits from you should one be riding you. He can even put you into slumber with herbs so that we can take you safely to the Fortress where greater talents can be found. He can do none of these things if you do not warn us of misgivings. He cannot even cleanse this tomb if the spirit is not hiding in it, but instead, is hiding within a person,” and he stepped closer to her, his hand on his rod of office rather than his blade, “or should the spirit that killed my men be hiding within the words written there.” Polena did not draw away from him, but straightened herself up.

“Thank you for your concern Mehethe,” she said, unaware at first she had used his personal name rather than his title, “but you need not have it. I have been concerned with these words, yes, but not overly so. I take my duty seriously. Even if I oppose your nation, even if I could sink it's claim by stating that this tomb is unimportant, I would only be delaying things. If I do poorly, someone else will come back. I would rather not be remembered as a charlatan or a fool by my grandchildren. But anyway, if this is Djasho's tomb, as you say it is, you should have little to fear. She was always a kind soul.”

“The world changes men,” Mehethe replied, “it warps People like the stream twists tree roots on its banks. Tell me if you have warning Luminary.”

“I will Djaught. If, um, you would leave me a moment. I think I will dress and step out a moment.”

“Of course,” he said, but quieting his voice added “you said the poem word had another meaning besides “Embraced by roots,” were you able to learn it?”

“Oh, yes,” Polena said, distracted by discomfort. She had not realized how sore she had become, how hungry she was.

“The other reading is: “I will not let go,” again, the roots I think. Mehethe said nothing, neither with his words nor his expression, but as he left the tent his hand went from resting on his rod to the haft of his blade. When she came out of the tent, a few minutes later, Polena was surprised to see that it was dusk. She had started her work at dawn that morning. She could scarcely account for the hours in between.

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