Wandering Spark - Part 1
It was a quiet gray morning. Striking against the water, every drop of rain jumped up and down like ringing columns, as if wanting to return to the sky, and this made the sea seem puffy. A wide, almost square punt moved through the sea with help of two side wheels. Old Makey turned the pedals. Puffing and grunting of the postman scattered far above the water. The passenger idly sat on the stern.
"Po-ost!" shouted Makey solemnly, although there was no one on the pier, except Varan. "Kind people, take a nod from your loved ones and distant ones! Bless the Emperor for the kind news and for evil ones curse Shuu! Po-ost!"
The old man's voice was not that pleasant, but rather reverberating. Varan noticed how a stranger was hidden under the umbrella, obviously struggling with the desire to plug his ears. Maybe he thinks that old Mackey is showing off his throat.
Varan suddenly took offense at the old postman. Mackay did not bow to anyone, but he respected the order that was once established and combed his beard every day even when he had to hang out for weeks on the high seas.
The boat moored.
"Hello, uncle Makey."
"Hi, pal. It is, khe..."
Coughing unnaturally, Mackey turned to the passenger.
"We arrived, em, your highness"
The passenger folded his umbrella, smiled sourly, and, balancing on a shaky punt, rose on his feet.
The lord looked about eighteen years old. Colorless soft hair, incredibly long - up to the shoulders stuck out from under the lowered hood. Thin lips did not differ in color from pale cheeks. The brightest spot on the face of the newcomer was a nose - bright red, swollen from a cold, with nervously trembling nostrils.
"The guest for you," Makey glanced at Varan. "Or rather, it's not guest, but... it's a Gorni."
The postman seemed to have difficulties. The passenger was dressed and equipped as an important person, but looked like a chilled jerk and held himself without proper dignity, he climbed out onto the stone pier without waiting until the ladder was dropped... Again, if you really are a Gorni - why not to travel through mountains?
Once on land, the stranger slipped and nearly fell.
"Oh! Good afternoon, sir. I come to you with instructions from the Emperor."
It was said simply and casually.
"To me?" Varan whimpered.
"To your lord," the stranger again slipped on plain ground, clumsily waving his hands and trying to keep his balance. "There," and pointed vaguely to the webbed side of his umbrella.
Mackay threw two bags with the mail on the pier – for lower settlement and the upper one. He waved his hand to Varan, like "I did my job". He sat on the pedal, sharply turned back, so that the water at the pier began to boil. The boat moved away from the shore, leaving a distinct trail on the water.
"I, probably, should present the credential letters?" Asked the stranger and sneezed uncertainly.
Makey’s boat slowly went behind the cape – to the mines. Varan threw both bags on his shoulders; bags were light, on the eve of the season, people have more important occupations than opening seashells with a knife, but Varan bent under the burden and bawled with an effort. He wanted to let the stranger see that it is hard for him, so he used his both hands. And that there was no one to carry a wooden chest, lonely standing in the middle of the berth, except the owner.
The stranger, after a moment hesitation, took the chest with the leather handle. He lifted it easily; yes it is empty, Varan thought for some reason with irritation. Most likely he wears this wooden chest, only to show that he is an important bird. Or he going to sell it. Or even he stole it somewhere. And all his talks about the mission from the Emperor – lie or even heresy...
"Maybe I better show you the letters?" The stranger insisted.
"Come, Gorni," Varan said. "You need to present your letters the headman, not me."
And, without looking back, Varan jumping from stone to stone moved to the shore. The bags with the mail tinkled softly and tingled his back.
The stranger was slowly following. On the path under the tent, Varan had to wait for him, having discharged the bags to the ground. Envoy stumbled several times, flopping knee-deep into the water; he closed the umbrella and hid it under his arm. He understood at last: umbrella cannot help against insidious puddles... Or maybe, he does not have enough strength to cope with a chest and an umbrella simultaneously.
Varan was waiting for envoy’s snot and curses and was surprised a lot, seeing a smile on his face. However, the stranger sneezed endlessly, wiping his nose with a dehydrated lace handkerchief.
"It is very wet," said the stranger cheerfully. "Do you expect the season?"
"Hell yeah..."
"Where are the people? It's deserted somehow. There was no one on the pier, except you…"
Varan wanted to say that since the highness did not warn about the visit in advance, then the trumpeters and bagpipers were not invited in time. But he held his tongue.
"Our man sow... and repair boats... You say yourself, that we are waiting for the season, it soon will start."
Why I say so much, Varan thought with displeasure. Who am I to him - the headman, to give him record? And by the way, it's still a question whether the head of the village was on the spot. Maybe was working in his fields in the morning... Father said that he took all the best grids for his field, freak.
"It's ... good," said the envoy. He was out of breath.
"Why it is good?" Varan said not really respectfully. Now they walked along a dry terrace under a stone peak, Varan ahead and the guest - from behind. The terrace curled along the edge of the rock, spiraling, higher and higher. Bags pricked Varan’s back: what are they, parasites, puffed nothing into the begs?
"It's good... that the season... is so soon," said the invisible envoy behind the back. "I do not know... how you live here..."
Varan made a wild face, for which he often got kicks from his father. After all, no one sees him right now.
"We live well... eat reps and fish. Make frippery from seashells... Think and talk about the season, until the new one comes."
"Slow down," said the stranger. "It's hard to breathe."
Yes, he is truly Gorni, Varan thought. He does not pretend to be one. And he was born, as it seems, in the mountains... That's why it's too wet for him down here.
"We'll be there soon," Varan promised, softening his voice. "Do you see, the stone housetops?"
The village from afar seemed to have sat down on the ground in a cloud. There was smoke on the ground, and steam rose above the flat stone roofs. Dragging behind him like a tail, a weakening envoy, Varan walked directly to the elder's house.