Chapter 43: Near Hit
...Chapter begins a couple of pages earlier
Once on the Second Level, waves of competing aromas assaulted Jonathan’s senses: Pungent spices, culinary delicacies, fragrant flowers, human perspiration, rotting fruits and vegetables, and unrefrigerated meats. At least the warmer temperatures were more amicable than the chilling drafts of the stairwells. Putting the back of his hand to his nose, he hesitated, surveying the haphazard layout through watery eyes.
A projectile whizzed past his ears. Ducking, his gaze followed several lanky youths who joined a crowd of teenagers bouncing straws balls on their knees and flipping them up with the insides of their ankles, knees pointed outward. One globe found a nose. Pretending grave injury, the victim dramatized a fall. His friends exploded with laughter, doubling over and falling backward, pointing in hilarious delight. Rebounding, they continued their feverish competition, oblivious to all else.
A couple of bright-eyed girls recognized the Honored Guest of State and ran toward him. Open-mouthed, they stopped inches away, staring in awe. Jonathan patted their heads, and they darted away, squealing with joy. Others replaced them, grabbing his hands, jumping, and shouting in delight. Before he knew what was happening, thirty or forty children swarmed him, throwing questions, beaming like the sun. Necks chained together by arms of friendship, they waited, expectant.
“Shoo,” Herlan barked, flinging his arms to chase them away from his angry scowl.
Elbows and arms flew as they scattered, their gleeful squeals adding to the commotion of the marketplace.
“Children are such a nuisance!” the sage wrinkled his nose.
“I don’t know—I thought it was kind of nice.” Jonathan’s patronizing hand found Herlan’s shoulder, as if calming a kid who had just had a tantrum. The sage brushed it off.
As they progressed deeper into the hall, Jonathan watched people amble around disorganized stalls, seemingly aimless, constantly moving. The hall was as extensive as the Conclave, though its lower ceiling made for poor air circulation, trapping the market’s ambient mixture of pleasant aromas and foul odors.
The further they waded into the crowd, the more Jonathan felt its press. On several occasions, he lost sight of his companions, triggering brief shots of fear. But the happy faces helped him relax, and soon he was flowing with the fast-paced rhythm of the Second Level marketplace.
Children, sporting maroon shorts and soiled-white shirts, gamboled past them at play, chasing one another, and scuttling between adults.
“Many are truants,” the sage complained, dodging a near collision. His face soured even further. “Others are merely squeezing merriment into their lunch hour. To the rest of us, this frolicking is a terribhle nuisance.”
“Considering how few children I’ve met, this is refreshing,” Jonathan grinned, his eyes happily following more youths zigzagging through the crowd.
The section they were crossing was indeed a playground. Its carnival-like atmosphere offered entertainment and delectable treats: Concession stands tempted passers-by with pastries and bright candies, outgoing salespeople exchanged giggles with youngsters and proffered colorful balloons, game booths crowded with pre-teen boys resounded with more laughter, and running through the crowd were comics grabbing hats and shoes, tossing the articles between them, tantalizing their victims. All this evoked squeals of glee from those untouched, but tears from the children visiting the market for the first time. In fact, so much noise filled the cavern that Jonathan and Herlan resorted to sign language for directions.
Herlan pointed toward an amphitheater, explaining that a team of mime actors regularly performed there—a form of baby-sitting so adults could pursue errands unencumbered by the market commotion. Generally, the solution was successful, because children flocked to the theater benches during shows. But adults partook in the enjoyment, too. Jonathan asked to sit along the theater’s outer edge.
As he seated himself, Parlan on the left, Herlan on the right, and Ametano behind, he grinned, watching. Everywhere, people moved about. Some, recognizing friends at a distance, shouted greetings and rushed to embrace one another in happy reunion. The feeling of wholesomeness flooded Jonathan’s soul: Everyone seemed so content, so innocent, so thankful for the gift of life. Yes, he knew Pulawa’s security was an illusion, but he comforted himself in knowing that fear, treachery, and evil hadn’t found a home in them.
Nothing has spoiled the soul of these people—at least, not yet. Nor should it, he resolved.
“The show should start in a few minutes,” Herlan whispered in Jonathan’s ear.
A group of young adults approached from behind, one humming cheerfully while others were chatting about the marketplace. Pivoting in his seat, Jonathan’s eyes froze on one face: The young Jupami who had attacked him in the Reception Chamber. The lad’s humming stopped, as did conversation among the others.
Jonathan grabbed for an obora.
None.
Muscles tensed, and he readied to bolt. The two kalethar arose, arms outstretched toward the newcomers.
“It’s okay,” Yenlara broke the awkward tension, flashing her Jimber insignia. “Do you still remember me, Jonathan?”
“Thank goodness!” Jonathan heaved a sigh of relief on recognizing the sage and her other friends.
Rows of white teeth glistened as Satia, Aldantas, and Finturan clasped hands in enthusiastic greeting. Kobemi held back.
Parlan asked to examine the Jupami, who willingly submitted to the process. Satia, who had been learning Kobemi’s dialect over the past several days, translated for his new friend.
“Kobemi wishes to apologize for his aggression several days ago,” the Awari began as all crowded around. Herlan’s ears twitched. “He also wants to make restitution.”
To Jonathan, the Jupami’s eyes appeared bright and untroubled—unlike when they first met. Even more puzzling, they radiated the same innocent sparkle he first noticed in Aldantas and Finturan.
“Why isn’t he saying it in Pulawan himself?” Jonathan’s eyebrows went flat.
Satia shook his head in confusion.
“He paithed away from the Lower Entrance. The original chama was performed by a sage, all of whom must speak Pulawan,” Jonathan snapped at Kobemi. “You understand everything we’re saying, don’t you?”
Kobemi’s eyebrows sagged as he nodded hesitantly.
“I’m af-afraid to speak it,” he stuttered. “I mustn’t surpass my elders. They’ll judge me as arrogant. Already, they think I show off too much.”
Sighing, Jonathan offered a trembling hand of truce, his throat tightening as memories of the Jupami’s choke-hold flashed before his eyes. Kobemi’s eager smile, however, softened the knots in his stomach, if only a little. The youths gathered around Jonathan, elbows falling to knees as they nestled shoulder to shoulder, leaning forward to hear over the noisy crowd.
. . . . . the chapter will continue in The Hold . . . . .
...Chapter begins a couple of pages earlier
Once on the Second Level, waves of competing aromas assaulted Jonathan’s senses: Pungent spices, culinary delicacies, fragrant flowers, human perspiration, rotting fruits and vegetables, and unrefrigerated meats. At least the warmer temperatures were more amicable than the chilling drafts of the stairwells. Putting the back of his hand to his nose, he hesitated, surveying the haphazard layout through watery eyes.
A projectile whizzed past his ears. Ducking, his gaze followed several lanky youths who joined a crowd of teenagers bouncing straws balls on their knees and flipping them up with the insides of their ankles, knees pointed outward. One globe found a nose. Pretending grave injury, the victim dramatized a fall. His friends exploded with laughter, doubling over and falling backward, pointing in hilarious delight. Rebounding, they continued their feverish competition, oblivious to all else.
A couple of bright-eyed girls recognized the Honored Guest of State and ran toward him. Open-mouthed, they stopped inches away, staring in awe. Jonathan patted their heads, and they darted away, squealing with joy. Others replaced them, grabbing his hands, jumping, and shouting in delight. Before he knew what was happening, thirty or forty children swarmed him, throwing questions, beaming like the sun. Necks chained together by arms of friendship, they waited, expectant.
“Shoo,” Herlan barked, flinging his arms to chase them away from his angry scowl.
Elbows and arms flew as they scattered, their gleeful squeals adding to the commotion of the marketplace.
“Children are such a nuisance!” the sage wrinkled his nose.
“I don’t know—I thought it was kind of nice.” Jonathan’s patronizing hand found Herlan’s shoulder, as if calming a kid who had just had a tantrum. The sage brushed it off.
As they progressed deeper into the hall, Jonathan watched people amble around disorganized stalls, seemingly aimless, constantly moving. The hall was as extensive as the Conclave, though its lower ceiling made for poor air circulation, trapping the market’s ambient mixture of pleasant aromas and foul odors.
The further they waded into the crowd, the more Jonathan felt its press. On several occasions, he lost sight of his companions, triggering brief shots of fear. But the happy faces helped him relax, and soon he was flowing with the fast-paced rhythm of the Second Level marketplace.
Children, sporting maroon shorts and soiled-white shirts, gamboled past them at play, chasing one another, and scuttling between adults.
“Many are truants,” the sage complained, dodging a near collision. His face soured even further. “Others are merely squeezing merriment into their lunch hour. To the rest of us, this frolicking is a terribhle nuisance.”
“Considering how few children I’ve met, this is refreshing,” Jonathan grinned, his eyes happily following more youths zigzagging through the crowd.
The section they were crossing was indeed a playground. Its carnival-like atmosphere offered entertainment and delectable treats: Concession stands tempted passers-by with pastries and bright candies, outgoing salespeople exchanged giggles with youngsters and proffered colorful balloons, game booths crowded with pre-teen boys resounded with more laughter, and running through the crowd were comics grabbing hats and shoes, tossing the articles between them, tantalizing their victims. All this evoked squeals of glee from those untouched, but tears from the children visiting the market for the first time. In fact, so much noise filled the cavern that Jonathan and Herlan resorted to sign language for directions.
Herlan pointed toward an amphitheater, explaining that a team of mime actors regularly performed there—a form of baby-sitting so adults could pursue errands unencumbered by the market commotion. Generally, the solution was successful, because children flocked to the theater benches during shows. But adults partook in the enjoyment, too. Jonathan asked to sit along the theater’s outer edge.
As he seated himself, Parlan on the left, Herlan on the right, and Ametano behind, he grinned, watching. Everywhere, people moved about. Some, recognizing friends at a distance, shouted greetings and rushed to embrace one another in happy reunion. The feeling of wholesomeness flooded Jonathan’s soul: Everyone seemed so content, so innocent, so thankful for the gift of life. Yes, he knew Pulawa’s security was an illusion, but he comforted himself in knowing that fear, treachery, and evil hadn’t found a home in them.
Nothing has spoiled the soul of these people—at least, not yet. Nor should it, he resolved.
“The show should start in a few minutes,” Herlan whispered in Jonathan’s ear.
A group of young adults approached from behind, one humming cheerfully while others were chatting about the marketplace. Pivoting in his seat, Jonathan’s eyes froze on one face: The young Jupami who had attacked him in the Reception Chamber. The lad’s humming stopped, as did conversation among the others.
Jonathan grabbed for an obora.
None.
Muscles tensed, and he readied to bolt. The two kalethar arose, arms outstretched toward the newcomers.
“It’s okay,” Yenlara broke the awkward tension, flashing her Jimber insignia. “Do you still remember me, Jonathan?”
“Thank goodness!” Jonathan heaved a sigh of relief on recognizing the sage and her other friends.
Rows of white teeth glistened as Satia, Aldantas, and Finturan clasped hands in enthusiastic greeting. Kobemi held back.
Parlan asked to examine the Jupami, who willingly submitted to the process. Satia, who had been learning Kobemi’s dialect over the past several days, translated for his new friend.
“Kobemi wishes to apologize for his aggression several days ago,” the Awari began as all crowded around. Herlan’s ears twitched. “He also wants to make restitution.”
To Jonathan, the Jupami’s eyes appeared bright and untroubled—unlike when they first met. Even more puzzling, they radiated the same innocent sparkle he first noticed in Aldantas and Finturan.
“Why isn’t he saying it in Pulawan himself?” Jonathan’s eyebrows went flat.
Satia shook his head in confusion.
“He paithed away from the Lower Entrance. The original chama was performed by a sage, all of whom must speak Pulawan,” Jonathan snapped at Kobemi. “You understand everything we’re saying, don’t you?”
Kobemi’s eyebrows sagged as he nodded hesitantly.
“I’m af-afraid to speak it,” he stuttered. “I mustn’t surpass my elders. They’ll judge me as arrogant. Already, they think I show off too much.”
Sighing, Jonathan offered a trembling hand of truce, his throat tightening as memories of the Jupami’s choke-hold flashed before his eyes. Kobemi’s eager smile, however, softened the knots in his stomach, if only a little. The youths gathered around Jonathan, elbows falling to knees as they nestled shoulder to shoulder, leaning forward to hear over the noisy crowd.
. . . . . the chapter will continue in The Hold . . . . .
