Endlessly the two moons of Prithvi chase each other across the sky, or draw
apart until one moon rises while the other descends to her rest. Once
in a year the crescent moons align and glide together like sisters
across the night sky. Once in ten years, the twin sisters rise full
and molten together, to dominate the setting sun in a resplendent
display of light. Yet never in the memory of humans, nor in the far
longer memory of the Leiralai folk, have the sisters come close enough
to merge one with the other, although our legends tell of such an
occurrence in times of yore.
- From the Astrological Chronicles of Prithvi.
It
was early autumn and the setting sun withdrew his golden light from
the world, so that the shadows of dusk filled the open spaces and
the sky deepened into shades of violet. Opposite the departing sun,
the sister moons rose, looming huge and orange over the dark ocean.
As they ascended, they grew smaller and brighter, dimming the stars
in the night sky.
Their
silvery light danced on the waves, casting two long parallel beams—two
fingers that stretched like a lover’s touch towards the solitary beaches.
The
twin beacon travelled on, to reveal fields and forests, valleys and
mountains, and rivers that glimmered like milky snakes.
As
the moons rose higher, they drew closer together until their edges
joined and their halos merged into a single radiant globe.
And then, at their zenith, the two moons were one.
The single beacon shone over the woods and vineyards surrounding the small town
of Adyam in the Kingdom of Tansaan. Perched on a hill, the houses
huddled together precariously and leaned one way and another like
a cluster of mushrooms on a tree stump. Moonlight streamed
along the cobblestone paths, and sparkled on the fountain in the central
square.
Suddenly,
the silence of the night was broken by a long cry.
In
one of the poorer houses on the outskirts of town, a woman in labour
cried one last time, and then the sound was replaced by a baby’s wail.
“It’s
a girl!” The midwife smiled, lifting the newborn into the moonlight
that streamed in through the window. Like a fairy’s kiss, one silver
ray twinkled on the child’s forehead and for a moment the moons seemed
to shine more brightly.
The
midwife laid the infant in Annya’s arms, and contented suckling sounds
soon filled the room. In the flickering light of a single candle,
the young mother’s weather-beaten face softened to a rosy hue.
There
was a knock on the bedroom door, and three children came in, giggling.
“Quiet!” shushed the midwife. “Your mum’s resting. Look but don’t
talk, and don’t touch.”
Jorn,
their father, walked in behind the children, a thin man with thickset
eyebrows that met over a bulbous nose. Tomi, Rodri and Alisya stared
curiously at their new sister.
“What’s
her name?” Alisya asked.
“Avaishya,”
said her mother. “It means ‘coming together,’ as the two full moons
came together on the night of her birth.”
And so it was that Avaishya came into the world, in the first month of autumn. She
appeared to be a normal enough baby, though quieter than most.
***
Time
passed, and Avaishya was almost four. She was small for her age, with
a shock of chestnut hair that would obey no comb or brush, much to
her mother’s chagrin. Olive skinned and slight, her eyes were dreamy
and over-large for her tiny face.
It
was a blistering summer’s evening. Her mother was busy cooking dinner.
The smell made Avaishya hungry, as she watched the sunset from the
yard in front of her house. A hot westerly breeze arose, blowing over
the tawny grasses. After months of drought, the land was parched,
and the water in the wells was running low.
The
small yard was quiet this evening. A solitary fig tree spread a haven
of shade over a bed of lettuces and tomatoes. A selection of common
herbs, leaves drooping at the end of a hot day, formed a border along
the front the house.
Rodri
and Alisya were out in the fields, playing hide-and-seek in the haystacks.
Avaishya was still too little to join in their games, and anyway she
loved to watch the setting sun; it made such pretty colours in the
sky. There were a few wispy clouds, and they were all golden and orange.
Moordy, the neighbour’s cat, came and rubbed his head against her. His fur was
long and silky, and deep black, but his chest and paws were immaculate
white. She tickled his chin. A contented feeling emanated from him.
She could hear him think: more, just around the back of this ear. She scratched him for a while,
and then stood up.
Moordy rolled over onto his back in the dust. You’ll get your coat all grey, she thought to him.
That’s okay. He gazed up at her with his paws in the air, kneading.
I can
shake it off, and cleaning myself gives me something worth doing.
Rolling is fun, why don’t you try it?
Later, Moordy. I want
my dinner, and rolling in the dirt will get me into trouble. Human adults were very boring, they just didn’t understand
about doing fun things, like rolling in the dirt. They started shouting
at you, or sending you to bed without dinner, or worse, even hitting
you. And they couldn’t talk properly, like Moordy did, they always
made those loud noises with their mouths. She knew they were displeased
with her because she still hadn’t chosen to speak as they did. They
thought she was stupid, she’d heard them think so often enough.
The
sun had disappeared, and one of the moons was rising. It was a full
moons night. There was a smell of smoke in the air. She walked over
to the big tree, and saw a fat ripe fig hanging from a branch high
up out of reach. She made a mind picture of the fig dropping from
the tree into her hand, and ran to catch it as it fell. It was delicious,
so sweet and juicy.
Avaishya
looked around for Moordy, but the cat had disappeared. The smell of
smoke was growing stronger, and a low black cloud was forming over
to the west, where the sun had just dipped over the horizon.
“Avaishya,”
called her mother.
In
the kitchen, Avaishya found her father already sitting at table. “Where
are those kids?” he grumbled, “still out after sundown, and it’s dinner
time. Let’s eat, Annya. Those who are late miss out.”
At
that moment, Tomi came tearing in, followed closely by Rodri and Alisya.
“The forest is on fire!” he yelled. “It’s coming towards our vineyard!”
Pandemonium
ensued while Avaishya sat in a corner, forgotten. The town bell started
to toll, neighbours were shouting: “FIRE FIRE! To the VINYARDS!” Farmers
ran down towards the forest, implements in hand. Avaishya’s father
grabbed a shovel and a few empty potato sacks to beat out the fire,
and raced down the hill followed by the rest of the family. The dinner
sat forgotten on the table.
Avaishya
spotted a loaf of oat bread on the edge of the table. She was really
hungry now, so she climbed onto a chair, reached for the loaf, broke
off a chunk, and walked out into the yard, munching.
The
breeze had turned into a searing wind. The cloud of smoke was now
huge. Tongues of flame appeared along the base of the cloud. It was
an awesome sight. The air filled with the acrid taste of smoke and
Avaishya’s eyes smarted. The roar of the fire and the wailing of burning
trees rent the night. She stared more intently. Her house was on the
outskirts of Adyam, high on the western side of the hill upon which
the small town was perched. From the yard she could see the vineyards,
stretching from the town down to the surrounding forest. Her family’s
plot of land was over to the west, near the edge of the woods.
She
strained to see better, focusing all her energy into her eyesight.
As she concentrated, a prickling sensation spread through her body.
Her head began to tingle, and an unknown sound arose in her mind:
“chak-shus.” Mentally she repeated the strange word, while she strained
to see. Suddenly her vision transformed, and she saw the forest a
half mile away as clearly as if she were standing there. The flames
were licking the vines and the cinders were leaping high in the smoke-filled
air. All the farmers and townspeople were trying desperately to arrest
the fire, beating it with farm implements and potato sacks. She honed
her sight even more, until she could see the scorched bark, and the
blades of dried grass that glowed red and were instantly consumed.
She
strengthened her concentration until the tingling in her head was
unbearable. She began to blow, as though she could generate a wind
to drive the fire away. She pictured a strong easterly breeze sweeping
down the vineyards and into the forest. Another sound came into her
mind, “pa-van….” She strained harder, her whole body lending strength
to her mental effort. A tiny breeze was born that wafted down the
hill from the town, straight into the fire. She puffed her cheeks
and blew harder.
And the flames stopped advancing. She relaxed her blowing, and watched the fire
as it receded into the blackened forest. The vines that had already
caught fire continued to burn. But the town would be safe.
The
full moons were now high in the sky. Her struggle with the fire had
taken half the night. A searing pain ran across her temples and burned
all the way to the back of her skull. Her head felt as if it had been
split with a hammer, and a dizzy feeling overwhelmed her senses. She
tried to walk, staggered, and fell, collapsing in a small heap on
the ground.
When
she regained consciousness, it was almost dawn. The easterly breeze
was still blowing, and a few trees continued to smoulder in the blackened
forest. The sun rose, a golden blaze that dimmed the light of the
cinders. An eerie silence filled that morning, empty of the usual
birdsong.
Shortly
after sunrise, her parents returned, with Tomi, Rodri and Alisya.
They were black with soot and exhausted. When her mother picked her
up, Avaishya saw she was crying.
They
sat down to eat last night’s dinner. There was little talk. Avaishya
looked at her family’s mind pictures. She saw the devastation, their
vineyard totally burned. Images of poverty and despair filled her
parents’ minds. She learned that other vineyards had also suffered
from the fire. But theirs was completely destroyed.
***
That
winter was cold, and the food was scanty. Her mother was out working
all day and did not have time to cook. Their staple food was boiled
potatoes and onions, which were cheap, together with stale, leftover
bread that the baker sold off for a few pennies. Avaishya longed for
fruit and greens, and the delicious pasties and cakes that her mother
used to make.
The life of hired labourers in Adyam was hard. After the harvest, her mother
found cleaning work with a wealthy family in town. Her father repaired
casks, decanted wine and did odd jobs for the larger farmsteads. Tomi
was apprenticed to a farm some eight hours walk away from Adyam. Rodri
and Alisya stayed at school all day, and were fed there, as charity
children of the King’s Palace School. They came home in the evening, shortly before sunset.
So, Avaishya was alone in the house most of the time. Her mother left her a rag
doll to play with, and some food for lunch—yet never quite enough
to fill the hole in her belly.
However,
she did have a friend. Moordy, the neighbour’s cat, often came to
visit her. One afternoon, she mind spoke to him about being hungry.
After that, he appeared every day with whatever food he could steal
for her. She enjoyed the almond cookies that Moordy’s owner sometimes
baked. Once he even brought her a tiny, rather dusty cheese and mushroom
pasty. She blew on it, and pictured it clean. The dust vanished. It
was cold, but delicious and satisfying.
Then during two lonely weeks in mid-winter, Moordy was unable to visit. His
owner had somewhere picked up the idea that, “the poor cat might freeze
to death in this weather.” So she had taken to locking him inside,
much to Moordy’s disgust. What does she think I have a fur coat for? he thought to Avaishya, on one of the days when
he managed to escape.
His owner was a large, overweight woman. When she could catch hold of Moordy,
she had the habit of hugging and squeezing him so tight that, as he
told Avaishya, it’s a miracle
I haven’t been suffocated yet.
When
the coldest days were over, Moordy returned. They played “cat and
mouse,” and other make-believe games. Moordy taught her how to stalk,
and how to walk without making a sound. He taught her to be always
alert, and ready to jump at a moment’s notice.
Often
Moordy told her stories. He loved talking of far away lands, and enchanted
forests, and tall castles, much larger than the one in Adyam. He told
her of Leiralaan, the Kingdom of the Leiralai folk. It lay beyond
the Blue Mountains, and was said to be fairer than any other land
on Prithvi. He also told her stories about magicians and their ‘familiars.’
What’s
a familiar? she asked one day.
Moordy
showed her a mind picture of a wizened old man sitting by a fire,
with a sleek black cat rolled up on his lap. Suddenly a monstrous
looking daemon appeared within the flames, gnashing its teeth. The
cat leapt up, and grew in size until he was bigger than a horse. He
plunged into the flames and caught the daemon in his teeth, shaking
it as if it were a very large mouse.
There… Moordy thought to her smugly. That’s what a familiar can do.
One day he told her about Bimahir the Wise, the god who protects animals. He travels
through the forests playing on his pipes. Around him no beast will
harm another beast. Squirrels, wolves, cats and even mice all dance
together to his pipe music.
Ooh wow… have you ever seen him?
Humph, well, not really... But I did dream of him once. His ears were pointing
up like a cat’s, his back legs were hoofed like a deer’s, and his
hair was like a lion’s mane.
So who protects little girls?
Ah… well…
there is a goddess, Taysra the Gentle… She protects children, and
brings good fortune.
Oh! What does she look like?
She is tall, and slender, and treads so lightly that her feet barely touch the
ground. Her hair is the colour of the sun, and her eyes are green.
If you ever are in great need, remember to call on her...