Miko:
I had given up on getting better. A version of my life where my body operated the same as my brother’s, as a normal person should, had been eviscerated for a couple of years. Hope is dangerous; even a sliver of it can destroy a person, but today, today it feels different. Something in this map and in those formless words is calling me. They feel peculiar. Everything we have tried has had different levels of reason or logic in how it could affect me positively, but this isn’t logical; it involves things that defy natural reason. There’s an unknown variable that makes it hard to predict and understand, which simultaneously scares me and excites me at the same time.
Even still, it’s hard to determine if how I feel is for Maleki, or for me. Of course, I want to get better, but I only want to do so because Maleki serves as a constant reminder of what I am capable of. I’ve started to be comfortable with my limitations. I don’t think I could keep up with my older brother even if my limbs worked right; I mean, He’s been taller than me at every age. How am I supposed to even try to keep up? I hate being weak, but what I hate more is keeping Maleki restricted. He shouldn’t have to chase these dead ends with me; I’m just holding him back.
But my stupid brother won’t give up, won’t let me give up, that is. He always has to be the older brother, and he says it’s his “duty,” as if he owes me. I can’t understand it. I don’t deserve this, but I also don’t not deserve this. Life is random; someone has to draw the short straws, and I know someone somewhere has it worse off than me.
I have a place to sleep, food, and family. I have this damned illness, but I don’t need for much, nor want for that matter. Everything I’ve wanted has been given to me, minus the use of my limbs occasionally. I can still move, and some days are worse than others, but it’s usually one or the other. That’s what Maleki, the incredulous optimist, wants me to focus on — just the positives.
We didn’t talk much on the way back to the house. Maleki is always on high alert when we walk through the woods like this, but I didn’t need to hear his thoughts to know their contents. He was thinking about everything to come, preparing himself mentally so he could have the upper hand. His brain was probably calculating every intersection of the upcoming conversation with our grandparents and how he would explain why a twelve-year-old and ten-year-old need to venture off into the world. He does this often, just drifting off into space with his thoughts as if no one is around him. I used to think he wasn’t aware in that state of thought, but any movement in the trees or in front of him will catch his eyes. I think our father is largely responsible for embedding that alertness in him, but I guess it doesn’t hurt to have a healthy sense of paranoia.
First dark started to consume the green-orange sky as we approached the house. Our grandparents were likely taking their nap, so Maleki and I would need to wait until after dinner, which would be a couple of hours after second light. Despite my desire to sleep as long as possible, I’ve never been able to sleep during the five-hour span between first dark and second light. I prefer to spend the time alone in Grandpa’s study, where his mounds of books sit collecting dust. I don’t usually have a goal in mind when looking for something to read; I just grab the first interesting thing that I can find. Today, however, is different. Unlike Maleki, I don’t want to imagine what comes next. I want to see it — and luckily for me, I remember seeing a map of Quavoris in one of these old books that might be able to help us understand what we are getting into.
Flipping through books is quite frustrating when you have fingers that are about as useful as gluing sausage links to yourself, but years of practice and the determination not to be reliant on others have forced me to find new ways to operate things on my own. In this case, I’ve actually become proficient in using my toes and feet to flip the pages and open the spine. Of course, it feels about as stupid as it looks, but it’s better than bothering Maleki to open every page for me. Thankfully, the parchment paper on most of these books is super thick, making it easier to manipulate, though it would be much easier to do if my toes had joints like my fingers. Why couldn’t I have been born with some kind of weird but useful illness like that — instead, I’m stuck with this stupid one.
The piles of books were large and covered an extensive amount of topics and fields of interest, but a majority of them had to do with the family trade, such as ‘Arms and Armours’ and ‘Metallic Craftsmanship.’ Most of these were pretty in-depth and useless since we weren’t interested in smithing like Grandpa. Some books talked about weather patterns, kingdoms, and livestock. I had read most of them already, but I was sure I had read a few that mentioned Quavoris specifically.
The bookshelves beside the piles were crudely sorted, so I had to pick through them until I found the correct title. After searching for a few minutes, I found a few interesting diagrams before getting to what I was looking for. One chart was in a book about weather, showing the torrential patterns that bombarded the coasts, and theorized that the Astral Ring above our world might affect it. Another book had a map of the claimed land and showed the six kingdoms and their territories. After this, I found what I was looking for — Quavoris in all its glory. Quavoris isn’t the most minor kingdom, but its land is the most significant economic factor. The book showed trade routes in and out of the kingdom, but we were looking for the path that intersected with the inner territory.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Grandpa was a landholder in the outer zone of the innermost kingdom, presumably gained from his efforts during the war. Maleki and I like to theorize if this was the case or what he did, but it’s not uncommon around here. According to our parents, most of the families around us had relatives or parents who retired from service to the king and his armies.
The trade route closest to us that would take us right to Quavoris was around a two-day journey. The path would take us through the southwest side of Quavoris’ land, so the trip should be smooth south of their famous woods.
Their standings were always neutral with the other kingdoms, even during war, so their borders were always open for travelers. The book showed some of their important exports, but most of it was strong hide and materials only found in their woods.
Surprisingly, Quavoris was inset from the sea by a much more considerable distance than I had expected. After reading some of the entries further, it appeared that the storms that come in from the sea are much more dangerous than the other coasts and restrict most travel by sea.
By the time I had finished reading through most of the descriptions in the book, I began to hear movement throughout the house as everyone started to prepare for the second sun. Our grandparents had retired before we were born to farm this plot of land, so most of the harvest was small and only intended to be food on their plates, but there was still a small amount of upkeep required to make sure the harvests were healthy and consistent.
Maleki returned to the fields to finish where he left off, and I followed Grandmother Kecila to her garden, where she would prune the leaves and stems of her flowers and perform a light plucking of the fruit and vegetables for our meal tonight. Her garden was a small plot next to the house that was easy to maneuver through, and only a few taller vines grew on arched trellis throughout, so everything was within reach for us. With my arms being limp today, I was fairly useless, though I had learned to pick the weeds from the garden using my big toe and curling with a tensed twist of my foot. More than that, I enjoyed talking to our grandmother and listening to her stories. Today, I sat next to her on blackened soil that was equal parts ash and mulch. Her grayish-brown hair was cut low and didn’t even reach her shoulders. Every movement seemed slow at first glance, but I knew that wasn’t the case. She moved with precision and steadiness. Her nimble hands moved between the leaves of her favourite rose bush, trimming away the weight that formed as it grew.
“Grandmother, why do you have to prune these obsidian roses? None of these other plants need this level of care, and they actually bear fruit.”
Her hands returned out of the bush, and she answered me with the same care and precision that she had with her favoured roses. “You see, Miko, the obsidian roses do not grow properly without my intervention. They do not bloom this way in the wild. The intervention of our species with theirs has caused these plants to require us in order to grow properly, else they will be crushed under their own weight and will block the very light they need for the flowers to bloom.”
“So, we changed this plant to suit our needs?”
“Yes, it is rather selfish, I suppose. They do not grow so beautifully without us, nor do they require it. They possess no awareness to know any better, and these petals are not required to bloom in order for the plant to produce seedlings. In fact, it’s quite the opposite; now that I’ve let the buds flower, the plant will no longer grow properly or produce new additional buds.”
“So, how did you get this one? Was it wild?”
“No, this one was from my home in the capital. I brought it here and regrew it by plucking all the blooms and retrieving their seeds. This is common for women to do when they marry. These obsidian roses were a gift from my mother. When I was your age, I helped her prune the leaves and stems. Many families pick a plant when they first marry and see the health of the plant as a mirror for the health of the family. Taking care of these obsidian roses is my duty to your grandfather and represents my commitment to the nurturing of our family as a whole. My role is to guide the flowers in the right direction so that they may bloom brightly and beautifully. You boys are my obsidian roses.”
She pinched my cheeks with both hands and gave me a kiss on the forehead. Her fingertips muddied my cheeks slightly, but I didn’t have the arms to sweep away the flecks of dirt or her gristly attack. Her soft footsteps left the edge of the garden, and I sat digesting her words. All of her obsidian roses’ buds bloomed so beautifully, except one. The petals grew misshapen and off-coloured, as if the plant’s stem was infected. I had seen her cut away at it before, hoping it would regrow properly, but it never did. I’ve tried telling her it’s not her fault and that the corrupted bud is just a coincidence, but my comfort never soothes her sadness. Instead, my words seem to have the opposite effect. She sees my comfort as a burden that a child should not bear and our maturity as a failure of her own. I don’t understand why she fears us becoming too adult-like, as if we sacrificed our childhood and she was personally responsible for it. Are there any children more coddled and loved than my brother and me? Surely not.