The next day was much more calm. Kylara woke cup feeling completely refreshed, better than she had for many months. It was like yesterday had not even happened.
Today was also Wrestday, which meant that her usual routine was flipped. On Wrestday, brunch was a village affair. Which meant that there were a lot of chores to do. Kylara was no exception to helping, which meant that her interviews were pushed to the evening. She preferred it that way. It also meant that she would have more time to herself in the morning.
She had several things she wanted to sort out. The first was to talk to her grandad again. He had been the first one to tell her about Malyun’s plans, and Kylara wanted to hear more about it them before she mentioned it to Yalmay. She also wanted to talk to him about Dhaligir, find out what happened to him.
The second thing was find out more about the magsman. She had been suspicious about him since he had summoned butterflies in the Nest, but after the chaos yesterday evening in the field, Kylara was almost sure there was something up with him.
She still wasn’t sure what she thought about that. She had been so tired the day before she had not had time to process the chain of events that had occurred. A stray ball had knocked someone down, which felled a tree bough, which knocked down a sign and a lamp, disturbing a gwiyala, who startled a draft bird, crashing a cart which rolled down a hill to put out a fire the knocked over lamp had started?She was still half convinced she imagined the whole thing.
She was trying to go into that conversation with an open mind. Today would be a new, fresh perspective. That meant not theorising about what had happened.
Sucking in a breath, she focused on her current task.
She was currently cleaning the fire pit, a task that seemed to take forever. It involved removing all the debris from the pit and manually scrubbing the sides with a stiff-bristled brush. You needed to do it occasionally or the soot, dirt, and ashes would build up. It was hard work.
People around her were cooking, and the air smelt good. Wrestday meals were always the biggest meal of the week and a lot of work. Almost everyone in Kookaburra Creek was involved.
She was keeping an eye out for her the magsman or Malyun, but had not spotted either of them yet. If she did, her plan was to confront the magsman and inconspicuously ignore Malyun. Her grandad she would see later. He was out with the fishing crew until noon.
It took her until they came back to finish the fire pit. They returned walking into town with their catches strung over their shoulders. Bream, flatties, mulloway, and perch. It was a good catch–more than enough to feed several dozen people with full meals. The bounty would be divided up, added to stews and salads to go further. Kookaburra Creek was several hundred strong but that way there would be almost enough to give everyone a little taste of fish.
The hunting crew returned later, about a half hour after the sun had reached its peak. They had been less successful than the fishing crew, only hanging a few small carcasses on the trees. Kylara didn’t think they would have time to skin, clean, and cook them today. Most of it, she assumed, would end up dried and preserved. They had enough food anyway–it had been several months since the fire and supplies were plentiful. There was a small shortage of bread, but that was because of the thieves in Saltsbury and not their own doing.
Kylara helped skin the fish, not letting her mind wandering as she worked. She knew she needed to tell Yalmay what Malyun was planning, but she didn’t want to think about it now. After she talked to her grandad and they theorised a plan, then they could bring Yalmay into it.
Gutting the fish helped. Kylara wasn’t a good cook, but she was used to the more tedious tasks and even enjoyed some of them. She was especially proud of her fish gutting skills. She could gut and descale fish faster than anyone and tried to focus on that.
For the most part, she was successful.
Food came quickly and eventually, everything was prepared. There were two kinds of meat and four types of fish in total. There were grilled vegetables of various kinds, cooked with butter and lemon myrtle. There were fruits too, all seasonal to this type of year, many imported from Saltsbury. There was smoked cheese and emu eggs that had been done two ways, one fried and one scrambled with herbs.
One person couldn’t possibly try it all.
Kylara walked through the tables with Yalmay.
“Drinks?” Yalmay asked.
“Sure, hold this for me.” Kylara handed her sister the plate and poured herself a glass of gadju. Then they switched, and Yalmay poured herself a glass of wine.
Wrestdays was the only day of the week that alcohol was allowed in Kookaburra Creek, and Yalmay always took advantage of it.
Kylara wished she could have some. She was curious what it tasted like. She had asked a few times, and Yalmay described the taste as akin to bitter fruit and vinegar, which admittedly didn’t sound very appealing. Joontah, meanwhile, refused to say anything more helpful than wine being “warm” and “good.”
Apparently it was the taste and not the temperature that was warm, which was confusing. She sighed. One day, hopefully not far off, she’d be allowed to try it. She was looking forward to it.
Yalmay noticed her staring. “What?” she asked.
“Wine,” Kylara said simply. She eyed the glass.
Yalmay looked down at the glass she was holding, as if seeing it for the first time. “You’re right,” she said, “with how today’s going, I need more. Meet you at the table.” She went back to pour herself another glass.
Kylara nodded to her sister and went to find a place to sit. On Wrestdays, if the weather was good, people sat outside. There weren’t enough benches in the square for everyone so chairs were brought out from inside. Still, it was always difficult to find a spot. Occasionally, people sat on blankets or hammocks if they couldn’t find one.
Eventually, Kylara found a place near the big gum tree, away from the crowd. It was a table for two. Usually they sat at a table for three or four, but Joontah wasn’t eating with them today. After the mess with Billy, he had decided to eat with his family. Kylara had felt bad about that, as it was mostly her fault, but Yalmay had spent some time this morning reassuring her it wasn’t anything to worry about.
Janeyca was still asleep, as was usual for her. Kylara didn’t bother saving a spot for her anymore.
Kylara put her plate on the table and sat down, checking the view from the table. She wanted to make sure it faced the centre of the square. The magsman was sitting with the village elders and Kylara wanted a good view of what he was doing.
She watched as he left a plate next to Wawiriya and returned to the food tables without sitting down.
She had been keeping a close eye on the magsman since she had spotted him, although she was trying to stay subtle about it. So far, she thought she had been successful at the staying unnoticed part. She was less successful at the other part–actually gaining information. Other than being remarkably spry and chatty for a man his age, the magsman hadn’t done anything suspicious and had barely summoned any butterflies.
Kylara watched him for several minutes.
Curiously, he did not return to his seat. Instead, he was chatting with people in front of the appetiser table.
After leaving his room at the Nest last in the morning, he had spent the rest of the arvo helping with cooking chores, which was unusually generous for a visitor.
He had made a soup. At the moment, he was handing it out in a big pot, smiling like a happy child every time someone took some. It was some foreign recipe, but it seemed popular. The flavour must’ve been good. That, or he was guilting everyone to take some. He practically chased down anyone who walked past him.
She wondered what it tasted like. She’d skipped on the soup herself.
“Got you some more food,” Yalmay said, walking up to the table. She pulled out the chair and put a plate down in front of Kylara. “Warm wattleseed bread with macadamia oil, fresh veggie salad dressed with some oil and red wine vinaigrette, and some fish.”
“I already have fish.”
“More fish then. And you’re welcome. Oh, and there’s this.” Yalmay held out a bowl of soup–a clear broth with green leaves. “You’ve got to try it. It’s absolutely heavenly.”
The magsman’s soup, Kylara thought, taking the bowl.
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“That good, huh?” she said.
“Try it.”
Tentatively, she took a sip. Then another. It wasn’t like anything she’d had before. The herbs, spices, vegetables, and broth were all blended perfectly to create an exquisite taste. She tried not to let her surprise show on her face as she took another spoonful. “It’s not hot,” she said.
“I know,” Yalmay said, “Multhamurra said that makes it better. Cold soup is perfect for the heat this time of year.”
Multhamurra?
Kylara paused and looked up. Her sister’s eyes were beaming. Just how charming was this guy? It wasn’t like Yalmay to use someone’s first name after just one conversation.
Going up to up to strangers and chatting–Yalmay had no problem with that. Despite her anxiety, Yalmay was naturally outgoing. But chatting with them and then acting as if they were an old friend? That was unusual.
“It’s a recipe he brought from Warrung,” Yalmay continued. “Actually, your whole plate is very Warrung. The macadamia oil, the dressing, the fish…”
Yalmay nodded and looked at the plate. Then her eyes widened. “Oh no,” she said, “the dressing.”
“What about it?”
“It’s made with red wine. Can you have that?”
“‘Course I can,” Kylara said.
Yalmay should have known this. She had seen her eat salad before. Many times.
Kylara took a bite of it before explaining. “I made a promise to not drink alcohol. First of, this isn’t alcoholic.” She paused, chewing. “And second–I’m eating it, not drinking it. Really, the whole thing is silly. The only reason they have warders promise to not drink is to stop them from getting drunk.”
“Why?”
“Wards are as good as your word,” Kylara repeated the old adage. She took another bite. “Drunks have loose lips,” she said. “The number of warder’s lineages that have been permanently lost because some idiot got drunk and started saying nonsense… They say there used to be thousands of warders in the world. Now there’s a fraction of that number. But salad dressing is not one of the reasons.”
“And wine is,” Yalmay said, sitting back. “I guess that makes sense. Speaking of–we should have a wine night after we get a new warder. It’ll be fun. I want to know so badly if you’re a sappy drunk.”
Kylara smiled and raised a glass. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“Cheers,” Yalmay said, clanking her glass against Kylara’s.
They sat in silence after that, focusing on the food. Kylara ate slowly. She wasn’t too hungry. Plus, she wanted to save herself for the fish. Eating meat or fish before the summoning ceremony was forbidden, and none of the elders had made the announcement yet.
The bread was warm and crispy. The wattleseed gave it a nutty, slightly earthy flavour. The salad was small and simple–just leaves with a small amount of dressing–but it worked with the meal well enough. But by far the biggest standout was the soup. Slightly spicy, the flavours complemented each other so throughly she had trouble discerning what was actually in it. She frowned. She supposed this counted as another oddity for the magsman.
Maybe it was a clue. She picked up one of the leaves in the soup and held it up to the light, examining it. It was folded in on itself, almost like a dumpling. He must have put a lot of work into it, because it looked like each had been folded by hand.
She shook the broth off a leaf and tasted it. Saltbush, she thought, although there was something else there. It must have been cooked separately from the rest, in a pot with different flavours and spices. Next, Kylara pulled one leaf-dumpling apart. Inside was something savoury and jelly-like in consistency. “What is this?” she mumbled to herself.
Yalmay snorted. “Really, Kylara?” she said.
“What?” Kylara slowly lowered the spoon at what she hoped was a reasonable pace. Spacing out and staring intensely at her soup was admittedly not normal behaviour, but she didn’t want Yalmay to think she had caught her doing something weird. She didn’t want to give her sister the satisfaction. She’d never hear the end of it.
“Really?” Yalmay said. “You’re glaring at your soup like its some sort of enemy. Do all warders do this or is it just a you thing? I’ve always wondered.”
“I haven’t met many other warders,” Kylara said. If she didn’t count her mother, she’d had met zero. She looked back at the mystery soup. “So I suppose I wouldn’t know.”
“Well, in my opinion, you should stop picking apart your food and just eat it. You don’t need to know what everything is made of.”
“It’s sort of my job,” Kylara said. Up until recently anyway. “Warders need to know the names of all things.” It was a quote from the first page of Introduction to Warding Concepts and Definitions, volume 3.
“That includes knowing what things are made of,” she continued. She stirred her soup, then smiled “After all, no one wants a repeat of King Timaete the Second, right?”
“Who?” Yalmay said. “Wait, was he the bloke who was such a bad king he got thrown in the dungeon and executed by his own mum? What’s he got to do with anything?”
Kylara rubbed the side of her face, then sighed. It had been an offhand quip to lighten the mood, a reference to the history lessons they had had as children, but Yalmay clearly didn’t remember the context behind it. Her eyes begged to be let in on the joke.
“That’s Timaete the Second of Ngupuri,” Kylara explained. “I’m talking about here–Goorahan.” Yalmay blinked at her. “Different bloke,” she clarified. “Timaete the Second of Goorahan died because a wahmulga speared him through the heart.”
“Oh, right.” Yalmay nodded. “That guy. I think I’ve heard of him.”
“You have,” Kylara said. “Do you want to hear?”
“Yeah, have at it.”
Kylara nodded. She took a deep breath and moved her voice a little lower. She had four younger siblings. She knew how to tell stories. “It goes like this,” she said:
“One day, the king of Goorahan was out hunting with his court. Big, kingly hunt in the Fangforest, hundreds of courtiers, heaps of festivities–I’m sure you can picture it.” Yalmay nodded. “But the king was wild and restless, and with only a few companions, he left camp to go on a hunt alone.”
“Always a good way to start a story,” Yalmay said, “the king goes off alone.”
“Well,” Kylara said, “I suppose. It didn’t take long before he and his companions came across a wild wahmulga. A big, monstrous thing–not like the small ones you find around here. It taunted the king, and kings of Goorahan didn’t take insults lightly. Timaete ordered his guards to attack. But the beast was too powerful, and they were driven back.
“But Timaete was a proud king. He would not give up. Determined to take down the wahmulga himself, he consulted with his warder for a plan. They would drive the creature into a nearby valley and flush it out, driving it in the direction of the king. At sight of it, the king would charge, jumping onto a ward in the very last minute and spearing it from above.”
“That’s how you used to hunt, right?”
Kylara’s expression froze for just a moment, her eyes turned defensive, before continuing on as before. “It’s a very common technique,” she said. “It’s the easiest way to hunt if you have a warder. But I didn’t do it at the last moment. And I didn’t make it a spectacle like the king of Goorahan did.”
“Ah.”
“But anyway,” Kylara said, “as the wahmulga approached, the king could sense its fear. The creature was desperate. It was cornered, you see, and the valley walls were steep. There was no escape for it. The wahmulga knew this was its end. The king looked to his warder, who nodded. The ward had been prepared. King Timaete charged. As he got near, he cried out.” Kylara gestured up. “Stairs shimmered into existence before him. He jumped, leaping over the stairs in a burst of speed. He intended to jump over the wahmulga, piercing it in the back of the head.”
“Guessing he didn’t succeed?” Yalmay said.
“No,” Kylara said. “The ward never caught him. He fell through. The wahmulga’s tusk implanted into his chest, killing him instantly.” Kylara cleared her throat and brought her voice higher, done with the story. She shrugged. “They called it a tragedy, so I assume he was a good king.”
She looked at Yalmay, waiting for her to ask the obvious question, but it didn’t come. Instead, she was downing the last of her wine.
“It was the king’s shoes,” Kylara went on, “the ward was layered, keyed to the specific type of leather in his shoes, but the king was not wearing his usual shoes. He was wearing ones that he had been given from a neighbouring kingdom. The warder hadn’t known, so he hadn’t keyed it right. And, well, you can’t stand on a ward that’s keyed wrong. You fall through.”
“Oh! I remember this bit,” Yalmay said. “We blamed Nitida for it right? Something about switching the shoes last minute as part of an assassination attempt?”
“Right,” Kylara said. “But Goorahan and Nitida never went to war over it. Warrung stepped in and mediated a treaty.”
“Another point for me liking Warrung,” Yalmay said. “What a stupid reason to go to war. The king should’ve just told the warder he was wearing fancy new shoes. It’s not Nitida’s fault he was so careless.”
“True,” Kylara said, “although the warder should’ve noticed. It’s a warder’s responsibility to remember what shoes everyone is wearing, or sky wards won’t work. Really, you should remember what everything is made of. Shoes, clothes,” she paused, “…soup.” Yalmay laughed. “What?” Kylara crossed her arms. “I can’t help it, it’s how I was taught. Even if I can’t make real wards anymore, it’s a habit.”
“Sniffing your soup like its the enemy is a habit?”
Kylara shifted in her seat. “Well, yes,” she said.
She could remember multiple times when she’d used a ward to clean food slipped on a shirt or a favourite toy. You couldn’t do that without knowing what the soup was made of. Especially for the thicker soups–you needed to know the exact composition. For the thin ones, a ward against water would take care of most of it, but you’d still be left a bit sticky.
No, she decided, it was best to know what everything was made of.
“Will bad things like wahmulgas attack if you can’t figure out what’s in it?” Yalmay asked.
“That’s not what I–”
“Kylara you must be vigilant!” Yalmay suddenly shouted. She thrust her fist into the air. “You must protect us. For you never know when an emergency soup ward will be needed. Kookaburra Creek needs to be prepared. The evil soup may one day come, charging like a wild wahmulga.”
“Well, if someone spilled it–” Kylara started, but Yalmay ignored her.
“Remember the Great Soup Terror of the Mulligatawny? Or the Battle of Short and Long on the Fields of Bisque? These things are important, Kylara.”
It might have been the wine talking, but whatever Yalmay was trying to do was working. Kylara felt some of the tension lessen. It had been a long day, and some good natured teasing from her sister felt overdue.
She rolled her eyes.
“I do believe you made that up,” Kylara said.
“No no no.” Yalmay shushed her.
Okay, it was definitely the wine talking.
"It’s true. Soup await by the gates of our world. Only wards can stop it. It will come in through the cracks–seeping like some unholy stew. Shapeless, messy, made from leftovers and scraps. Only someone who has studied the soup can stop it. For it will be there, waiting when you are sick, hot and difficult to clean up if spilled–”
“It started fine, but I think this metaphor is getting away from you,” Kylara said.
“Shut up, I’m doing great,” Yalmay said. “Anyway, only you can defeat the wet one.”
“Ew.” Kylara made a face. “The wet one? You can do better.”
“Fine. Only you can defeat the dreaded bowl of doom.”
Kylara crossed her arms. “That’s just as bad,” she said.
“You’re right,” Yalmay slumped, “it needs to be simpler. Er, how about the soup-fiend? Oh! I got it! The soupermen.”
“I like it,” Kylara said. “Do I win?”
“Win?”
“Against the soupermen. Do I beat them?”
“Yeah, sure. You win.”
“Bit anticlimactic though.” She scrunched up her nose.
Yalmay sighed. “Fine, you win in a decisive but narrow victory. A hard-fought battle with your sister by your side. Then we feast on the enemy’s corpses.” Yalmay paused and smiled. “Get it? Because their corpses are made of soup, you can eat them.”
“I get it,” Kylara said. Then, “My story was better though.”
Yalmay looked about to protest that statement when a hush came over the square. One of the village elders stood up. Finally, Kylara thought, the summoning ceremony. What took them so long?