The Firefarer

Part Three/Chapter Three: Simone

Disoriented, Muna woke from half-remembered dreams. There had been a beach, waves breaking on its shore. Someone had been running towards her. And then...the dream slid from her grasp, like sand slipping between her fingers, and she was back in the cramped little cottage, the morning sunlight pouring in through deep-set windows and spilling in pools on the stone floor. Pushing herself upright with both hands, she observed her brother sleeping on the bench beside her. Ranzo still snored in his chair, slumped forward with his arms folded on the table. There was no sign of Hieronimo.

She forced herself to stand, her limbs stiff and cold. The room still carried the residual scents of roasted meat and ale, evoking memories of the previous night: her strange conversation with the cartographer, his talk of magic and art, his maps, and his final warning to her of secrets and betrayal. Shivering, she pushed his words to a distant corner of her mind. He must have been mistaken. She bore no secrets. She was protecting Hori ˗ nothing more.

Tiptoeing across the room, she pushed open the door and slid outside, sniffing the fresh morning air. What she had taken for a small village was in fact no more than a hamlet comprised of perhaps three or four cottages and a wooden barn. A few chickens scratched at the dust of the track which twisted away into woodland, trees lining the slopes of the steep-sided valleys ahead. Far beyond, she made out the dim shapes of a mountain range, their peaks so high that they appeared as one with the clouds: The Harars, perhaps, of which Hieronimo had spoken the previous night, home to an exiled people. The world was so much greater, stranger and wilder than she had ever imagined.

An old woman bustled about with a bucket swinging from one hand. A tired old dress and apron enveloped her plumpness, while her worn features were locked into a scowl. Muna flinched, edging for the safety of the cottage. The villager paid her no heed, but launched the contents of her bucket across the road before traipsing back inside her own house.

With a squeal and bump of cartwheels, Hieronimo appeared from amongst the trees, guiding the old horse by its bridle, the wagon grinding and rolling along behind.

"You're awake." He stopped in front of her, a clay pipe dangling from the corner of his mouth.

"I couldn't sleep."

"Well, best wake the others. The sooner we move the better. Your people may well be scouring these roads for you already. We'll head for the Harars. As I told you last night, the Ruach may well offer you some kind of protection."

He handed her a sealed leather tube dangling on a strap. "Here, the map. Take it."

She hesitated, but he lowered it into her hands. Its art briefly flared with a burst of energy, its heat searing across her palms and then cooling as its magic waned and she slipped the strap over her shoulder.

"It won't hurt you, Muna," Hieronimo said. "It may save your life. Wake the others. We should move on."

Ranzo had already stirred and was now chewing on the cold remains of the hare, washing down his breakfast with a mouthful of ale. He grinned at her as she entered, his lips peeling away to reveal his toothless gums. She smiled back and then leant over Hori, shaking him gently until he woke. Hori struggled to his feet, rubbing at his eyes. The old fisherman handed him a sliver of meat and he took it, the two of them chewing away together almost, Muna thought, like an aging grandfather and his grandson. That perception shot her through with sorrow and she wandered back outside to hide her tears. It ought to have been their father with whom Hori shared his morning meat, not some old Pagese fisherman.

Hieronimo had his back to her as he finished preparing the cart. She drew her hands across her face, wiping away stray tears, furious with herself for such a moment of weakness, of primitive sentiment. Such feelings would serve them ill upon the journey ahead.