Wars of the Aoten Page 11

  Chapter XI

  The thick foliage high over the land of Medialia made a fast and comfortable avenue for Theodoric and Pepin, like stepping stones in a stream. Their bare feet leapt quick and sure from branch to branch, and their arms and hands instinctively knew to keep their balance and brace their bodies. Melics ran through the dense treetops as gracefully as seabirds hang in the air.

  “Your muscle seems to have taken a cramp, and in the water yet,” Pepin said.

  “Strength grows only with the testing of pain,” replied Theodoric.

  “True, that,” said Pepin.

  The Melics had grown into a philosophical people, a gift of their god Drueed and the result of having endless hours to sit in the sky and think. The great sages from the clan’s history numbered in the thousands, though only those who died violently won grandest honors. The Melic way of life rose above the toils of the ground, separated them from the dangers of animals, totally gave the clansmen over to the sylvan span of the trees. Deep in the forested areas lay Melic territory, their towering abode so safe that among all the clans, they alone dared live close to the scaled ones.

  Theodoric and Pepin arrived in the elevated community of the Melics, hundreds upon hundreds of wooden platforms built among the branches, all at different levels, all connected by short stretches of rope-ladders and catwalks. A roof of tightly knit branches, still attached to their trees and growing thicker and more entangled by the day, covered each area of flooring. Every home, for each platform was a home, also served as a thoroughfare as Melic men and women moved from one end of the community to another. The village appeared like a city of bridges upon which the inhabitants passed back and forth in a scattered stream.

  Every one of them wore the clothes of woven vines and went about unshod. The wear and tear on their feet made them so tough that shoes offered them no advantage, and calluses made their grip on the bark confident. They preferred the treetops, without a doubt, but Melics were not averse to walking upon the ground as well, and if need be they could scale a tree as easily as walking across a room. Not surprisingly, considering they shared a neighborhood, Melics imitated birds with uncanny results. Although not a warlike society, they did occasionally wear light breastplates made of wooden rods, and simple helmets. Their historians could not remember the last war the clan had fought, much less started, and their axes served as their only real weapons, chipped from volcanic glass, which they used most effectively against trees. They much preferred the bucolic life of meditation and debate over physical adventure.

  The foresters of Medialia, Melics gave and took their lives completely from the trees. Their dining consisted mostly of fruits and lichens, but many of the Melics had become skilled honey-hunters. One of the most glorious of their champions was Lombard, the legendary finder of beehives, stung to death at a young age on his last fateful quest. The novelty of a Melic not dying of sickness had done much to enlarge his legacy.

  Of all the clans, Melics had the shortest life spans, although to look at them one might think they had aged several centuries. In reality their lives were better measured in decades. They all shared Theodoric’s grayish hue, except one, and their pale eyes and long, drab hair added to the appearance of death itself. They made up a sickly clan, many given to chronic coughing and wheezing, many with teeth missing, and each Melic baby for generations had been born with their smallest two fingers fused together, except for one. Because their years were fleeting, the Melics gave their days to new discovery, but tended not to remember much from generation to generation.

  They did excel at music, producing the haunting tones that floated through the wooded lands through the night. Their choirs produced rich and delicate harmonies, and the instruments they fashioned from wood included reeds, hollows and barkstrings. Almost every Melic carried an instrument at all times, just as Theodoric had carried his reed upon his belt.

  Theodoric ruled as their king, descended from a line of kings that went back further than any could remember, though he didn’t much stand on ceremony. Unmarried and with no children, he had put the royal line in danger, but that did not concern him. He spent many hours alone contemplating marriage and what it meant in the Melic world, and he chose to let others think about who would be king next. What did he care? He would be dead.

  High priest to his people as well, Theodoric mediated for the clan before Drueed, a philosopher god with whom one could reason if only one could be still and listen. Quiet and distant, Drueed endowed the Melics with great power in their minds if not their arms and legs.

  The Melic king indeed had one ear missing, just as Artur suspected, the consequence of an accident with another woodchopper. As a result he had to wear a helmet too small for him, which caused tremendous headaches at times. Theodoric often slipped into long and deep periods of silence, which his people assigned to his deep philosophy, but more than just the course of his ideas troubled his spirit. He felt deeply the morass of guilt within his culture and could not escape the thought that this unsuspecting people would one day pay a price; he feared that the Aoten might have arrived to collect the debt.

  As he and Pepin moved through the various levels of the Melic community, they ran upon Pepin’s wife Carolingia. She greeted him with a deep kiss, and as they turned to part from Theodoric, she gazed at her king knowingly over her shoulder. Theodoric only frowned.

  Pepin had become Theodoric’s closest advisor, always ready to stubbornly contend for his opinions. He often could be heard spending hours in argument with Drueed, taking up both sides of the debate. Many times Drueed had spoken in return, but only in dreams, when Pepin would see things that later came about. But he suffered bitterly under Carolingia, who browbeat him mercilessly. From his travails with his wife, he had developed a habit of sighing frequently.

  “What have you been doing?” she demanded of Pepin.

  “You know. Theodoric and I observed the Aoten and Rufoux.”

  “Your silly dreams again, is it? Foresee anything rightly this time?”

  “I did not see it end well, in my dream nor today.”

  “If you know how it is to happen, then why don’t you stay with me during the day? Why waste your time watching something you’ve already seen?”

  “Do you want me to stay?”

  “Yes,” she lied. “I could use some help tending the mushrooms and lichens.”

  “Next time then. My king ordered me today, though.”

  “Next time! How often I’ve heard that! I know all about your next time! Do you love me or do you love that king?”

  “Yes, beloved,” Pepin said, and sighed.

  Theodoric proceeded to the station of Franken, the woodworking master. Franken had cut and carved the wood for so long, his right arm had developed to twice the size of his left. His speech even followed the rhythmic beating of the axe he had listened to all his life, a habit gained from grunting each word he spoke as his blade hit wood. The helmet he wore had a large dent in it, the result of not noticing a falling tree quite soon enough one time. Franken’s art surpassed all others of the clan, and he made the finest of their musical instruments.

  “Franken,” began Theodoric, “I have an assignment for you.”

  “Yes, sire?” Franken looked up from his work, his lap and the platform around him covered with wood shavings.

  “I want the Melics to join with the Rufoux. We must find something in common that might prove our bond with them.”

  “The Rufoux? Do we dare make a pact with the brutes?” asked Franken in cadence.

  “I believe we must. Are we not all of Medialia? Without the flower the bee dies, without the bee the flower dies, without the bee and flower the Melics die. I have made contact with their leader, but at the moment we seem to have nothing in common. At least nothing he cares about.”

  “Then why should we care about them?”

  “Because of the Aoten. The Rufoux are the strongest and fiercest of Medialia’s clans, and three times now I have seen them unab
le to defeat the Aoten. If the oak can’t stand to the wind, what hope has the willow?”

  “Is the king so concerned of Aoten attack?”

  “Yes,” Theodoric answered flatly.

  “What would you have me to do, Melic king?” asked Franken. His speech followed this pattern without him having to think about it.

  “I thought perhaps you could make something — an instrument, perhaps, or a clever apparatus? Something that might serve as a gift, an offering to the Rufoux. Something to show our common need, and common cause.”

  “I will consider, my king, what you ask me,” replied Franken. “If you’re sure of the need of the Melics.”

  “I am sure, Franken. I have considered our situation well, and weighed it carefully before Drueed. Drueed is wise, and sometimes his wisdom is hidden, but of this I am quite sure.”