Chapter XVIII
The River Alluvia, fount of all things good for the Rufoux, showed her cruel side as well in Medialia. At her mouth she arbitrarily flowed south toward the sea and left only dry sands to her north, the unforgiving lands of the Bedoua.
To this forbidding territory embarked a small company of travelers, but not before thoughtful preparation by Theodoric.
“Pepin, I need you back to the village. You must send Franken out to the river’s mouth to meet us there — he’ll know why. Send with him Mienrade; four feet travel just as fast and twice as friendly. Then return here with woodsmen. A stockade remains to be built here, I believe, and our axes will be of much use. You must oversee that task.”
Artur chose Osewold and half a dozen other Rufoux to make the journey, but Theodoric cut him short.
“Best only one Rufoux. Your legends tell tales of Rufoux raids on Bedoua tents, and so do theirs. Less trouble will arise if they see only one Rufoux, and that the chief.”
Artur wavered, but by now he knew he should trust Theodoric’s judgment, on the off times he could understand it, and sent his fellows away. He took Wyllem aside to solemnly charge him with the clan.
“You always counsel me, so now you must stand for me as leader of the clan until I return. Let the Melics have their way with the logging; they know what they do. You make sure the storehouse is secure. Fight off the Aoten with all your power, if such arises. If you have questions, direct them to Father.” And then to Geoffrey, “As much as his questions might make you want to kill yourself, I expect to see you alive when I get back.”
“Aachen will accompany us,” Theodoric informed Artur. “He must describe the girl’s sickness. Picta will go as well. She has somewhat in common with you, and can keep you company. Besides, one must have reeds, barkstrings and hollows to play well.”
With knapsacks slung over their shoulders, lightly packed with supplies, Artur with extra weapons and the Melics with their instruments, the four struck out to follow the River Alluvia’s path into Bedoua territory. Along they trudged at the river’s bank, occasionally slipping on the mud, often fording small streams. The journey would take some days on foot. Flooding time would come very soon, when the swollen river would swallow up the very ground they trod upon. For Artur the trip north would have been much faster upon Brute, but once the floods came, a return trip through the wetlands would be nearly impossible for the hippus; besides, the Melics couldn’t ride.
Artur walked silently most of the time, listening and watching his feet. To pass the time, Theodoric and Aachen shared their philosophies on every gust of breeze, it seemed to him. Picta continued in silence as well, willing to break neither the men’s conversation nor the ice with Artur. But her attitude changed when Theodoric and Aachen slipped up into the trees.
“Now that we draw near to Aoten territory,” Theodoric told Artur. “Aachen and I will walk the branches for a time to keep a look out.” And immediately they vanished.
Artur looked at Picta awkwardly. “I’m not much good at conversation,” he said. “Usually I just answer Wyllem.”
“Just as well,” replied Picta. “I listen to my people talk and talk, but I don’t try to join in much. I’m not included very often anyway.”
“Oh?”
“They say I’m too ugly.”
“You don’t sound like you care.”
“Oh, I care that I’m ugly. Wouldn’t you? But I’m used to it.”
“You wouldn’t be considered ugly by Rufoux.”
“Thank you, for Rufoux women boast all the beauty of a hippus’ ass. What do the Rufoux know about it?”
Her belligerence caught Artur off-guard. “What? You would not be called ugly by Rufoux,” he tried to explain.
“But I do not belong to the Rufoux,” she returned, this time more angry. “I am Melic. I may be pink in the flesh and lack my people’s lines, but I am Melic! I am an ugly Melic!” She crossed her arms and hid her hands underneath.
“Better an ugly Melic than Rufoux!” she said, her eyes filling. She flipped a hand at Artur in disdain, then hid it again.
Artur did not know what to make of this behavior. Though he had three companions, he yet considered himself to be alone. Even by himself, he did not fear confrontation; but he did not relish argument and did not care to enter one with a Melic woman, so he chose to walk the path in silence again. Picta gently sobbed as they walked along. Artur thought of Andreia, and Geoffrey, and the mother he never knew.
On they went until night fell. Now safely distant from the Aoten camp, Theodoric and Aachen descended out of the trees, bringing with them each a load of dead wood, which they laid before Artur. Artur produced his flints and quickly sparked a fire. A little river water, and they had produced a fine stew of roots and grain, the last drops sopped up with Rufoux bread.
The Melics produced their instruments and played into the night stars. Theodoric’s reed whistled a mournful melody to Aachen’s low barkstring, and Picta kept tempo upon her small hollow as she sang along. She never looked up from her hands even once, and Artur looked deeply into her sad countenance as her haunting voice floated through the air and the trees and into the heavens. He sat mesmerized at the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.
Artur almost didn’t notice that they’d stopped. When he regained his attention, all the Melics had come to their feet.
“Sorry, Artur,” said Theodoric. “But it just wouldn’t do for Melics to spend the night on the ground. A perch loves the water, and a Melic loves his perch.” And with that all three disappeared into the leaves and the blackness.
Artur spread out the rumidont hide he carried and lay down beside the fire. Alone once again, it suited him well, and he reviewed in his mind the events of the last several days. Soon his eyes grew heavy and his mind dark.
He awoke to dappled light tickling his eyelids and the psychotic singing of a particularly loud bird. No, not a bird — the whistling drew Artur’s eyes to Theodoric, playing with the night’s embers, trying to coax a blaze. Artur blinked and tried to gather his bearings, when Picta’s face appeared overhead.
“Heard you snoring last night,” she said; apparently her mood had lifted. “You made even the trees shake. No wonder you sleep alone.”
Artur could only grunt in reply, and then she tripped away anyway, so he made a mental note to get back at her later. He busied himself building the fire for Theodoric, and soon a hot breakfast sizzled over the blaze.
The trip proceeded in this manner for days as the travelers wound along the Alluvia’s course. As each day passed, Artur could tell the river’s level was rising; before long the flooding time would be fully upon them. He knew the high water would likely bring trouble into the Rufoux village.
Finally they reached the spring where the river bubbled out of the ground, surrounded by a small area of pasture. This land marked the boundaries of the Bedoua, but the four knew that at whatever time outlying shepherds had spotted them, the entire clan certainly would have retreated into the desert still to the north. And thus did the Bedoua defend their lives and homeland.
As they approached the pasture, Aachen stopped and carefully held his head cocked. Just as suddenly he turned to Theodoric and said, “They’re almost here.”
“Good,” replied Theodoric. “We’ll wait.”
Artur stood there expectantly for a few minutes but then ran out of patience. He nearly had time to ask what they were waiting for when two Melics suddenly dropped out of the trees on vines behind him. He jumped a little in surprise, and Picta snickered under her breath.
“Mienrade, Franken, just in time,” said Theodoric. “Meet Artur of the Rufoux.”
Mienrade bowed deeply, and Artur could see he had an instrument like Theodoric’s, only much bigger and ornately inlaid. Franken stepped forward and held an object out to Artur.
“Artur of the Rufoux, I gain much pleasure for myself and the Melics to offer you this token of our great regard,” Theodoric announced.<
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Artur stared blankly as Franken held the object out stiffly. It was carved of wood, Artur could see, and it looked like a hippus with a rider, but he wasn’t sure what to do about it.
“Looks like wood,” he said, with some disdain.
“It’s a hippus, and a rider,” Franken hesitated as he explained. He didn’t want to insult Artur’s intelligence, but at the same time he didn’t know why Artur didn’t take the gift. “It is made for you, Artur of Rufoux.”
“What for?” Artur asked, truly not knowing what to do. Picta rolled her eyes.
“Well, I made it,” said Franken, not knowing what point he should make. “Push the tail and reins move up — figure flips like Rufoux riding.”
“Oh, well, that’s good. I have seen Rufoux riding,” said Artur, and he turned his back to address Theodoric. “Shouldn’t we be going?”
“Yes, surely,” said Theodoric in embarrassment, and as they left he shrugged at the dismayed Franken, still holding his work of art outstretched. The Rufoux had no idea of diplomacy, knew nothing of tact, and Artur in particular had no interest in clever trinkets. Franken let his arms drop and forlornly followed the rest, the little hippus tucked under his arm.