A Bit of String

by Don Webb

It began with a wave of redness passing through the dreams of the young men and women. The world is moved by such waves; without them it would run down.

Jafel woke first; he looked out of his tiny bedroom where he expected to see the red sun rising. Somewhere he knew the world was afire, and he wanted to be there, there where the ice of boredom would melt. But he saw only darkness in the East. He dressed and decided to wait for the dawn. When day came he might be able to finally convince old Saraj his time had come.

Loaj woke from her dream of fighting and conquest. Her lovely red, red, red dream. She found that she knew that her father had lied. That he did know where the swords were cached. She could see them in her mind's eye hidden beneath a stone of the courtyard. Her palms were hot and the thought of metal to cool them was like love.

Cashrel was among his father's flock. The sheep were not disturbed, but Cashrel was. He hungered for he knew not what. But it was in the East. He thought of the fire of the forge, the shaping of red hot metal into weapons to take what you want. It was a pity that the village of Rosu lacked a Dwarven armorer.

Others woke, or turned and muttered in their sleep as their souls echoed the magics afar.

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Rosu was a small village on the burning plains. Life was hard here. It was a place of the blinding white sun and the cool whitewashed buildings, and there were more buildings than inhabitants. For a sad doom lay upon this village. It was a place fated to be the supplier of armies.

Small cities are ever thus. For as long as red blood pounds in the veins of men and women, they will always want more than the simple rhythms of the spinning wheel, or the mindless murmuring of the sheep. The young are like the white wool of the village–most of it goes far away to be dyed in the riotous colors of life. The white thread always longs to be part of the tapestry. From this simple desire is all of history woven.

# # #

Jafel had prepared breakfast for Saraj, his grandmother. She wasn't in a good mood this morning for she had dreamed of Riolot. She drank her tea, picked at her porridge.

"It's this land," she said. "The founders didn't get far enough away from the places of power. People living here are still drawn into those vortices of events that aren't their will. Why did we settle here? Because of greed. Greed for this."

She held out her hand and small glowing white and blue spheres appeared then rolled around. She tossed them up in the air where they circled in a complex pattern and disappeared by moving in that direction which hurt Jafel's brain.

"Your magic's saved the village from plague. I don't see why you are against it," said Jafel.

"It's not my magic. That's why I'm against it. If it were my own, it would be as transparent as the air. No, magic belongs to the land, and the land belongs to those who take it."

"We've taken this place," began Jafel.

"No, we don't own this land. Mana's so poor here, that no one wants to own it. But if we had gone to a place with no mana -- then we would be free."

"Free from what?"

"Free from the Makers of History, they call our young men and women to fight for them. They fill them with false dreams of glory. My Riolot had such dreams. He was going to make something of himself. He did. A corpse."

"Well at least he died in glory," said Jafel, who then regretted the words the instant they were spoken.

"Glory? He's dead because some planewalking god needed sword fodder. In the volcanic lands of the East, where the stone is as red as the blood spilled upon it, his whitening bones remain. His companions didn't manage to retrieve his corpse so that I could mourn properly–as if I had time to mourn with your father to raise. Of course your grandfather's bones have company since your father and mother left you with me the night that red mana flashed through a moonless sky. I dreamt of my husband last night as I often do on those rare nights when both moons are dark. A curse on dreams, they stir up the soul!"

Jafel tried to look downcast and convinced. But he would wait till later in the day. He would ask his grandmother how she had met his grandfather, how she had been a dancer-of-the-veils in the city of Teshub with its rich markets and terrible prisons. She could speak of the exotic market, of the smells of spices and the taste of succulent fruits, she could speak of the music hanging like silver wire in the night, and of the feel of satin sheets. She would remember, and with that memory could come longing–and with longing she might give him permission to go to Teshub. He would not tell her of his red dream.

Because, permission or not, he was going.

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