The sun still shone high in the sky when we reached the well. The caravan stretched out over a thousand paces and it would take until nightfall to water the men and the beasts. We were on our last reserves of water. In our wagon, we only had half a goatskin left to share between my father, my mother, my sister, my two brothers and myself.

            “Chuckles! Rusty! Take ten goatskins and send them to the back, now!” the caravan master called out. 

            “To the back?’ the merchant woman groaned from her wagon, which stood behind our own, draped in fine silks. ‘Can’t these people wait their turn?”

            “They have infants and sick people down there,” my mother replied sternly. “And a woman gave birth last night. They had to use up their reserves. Remember the Laws of the Road!’

            “Yes, you never fail to remind me of them… Master Prudent should never have taken this band of beggars with us. They slow us down and bring nothing but trouble!”

            My mother did not answer. She knew better than anyone what she could say when she was deprived of sleep. She went back inside our wagon, slipped underneath the blankets, and fell back asleep, since she was the one who had been up all night with the woman in labor.

            Behind the merchant’s wagon stood the princess’s, adorned with banners and gilded posts. A real princess, even if she was nothing more than the youngest daughter of one of the kinglets of the Western Hills. She was going to the Holy City to marry the last son of the King-Priest to form a loose alliance. I thought she was breathtakingly beautiful, so delicate and elegant. She played the lute, sang like a nightingale, her needlework was fine and intricate, and she had taught my sister and me how to play chess. Her wagon was filled with books and she had lent me a fair few. I decided to climb up and ask her if I could leaf through one of her storybooks.

            It was then I heard the voice for the first time. Its sound was distorted, like a distant call carried along by the wind, and I could not understand what it was saying. After a few minutes it stopped, and I thought nothing more of it. It was not the first time that I had heard voices, of course. Only my family knew my secret: for as long as I could remember, I heard the talk of the Spirits. My mother had strictly forbidden me to answer them, but I had not always fully obeyed her. Some of them made me laugh and playing with them was very exciting. There was Little Spark who set off fireworks in the forge at night, and Brother Wind who pushed my sled to crazy speeds through the snow, and many others too. But I had not heard them since we had left the village.

            We had set off in early spring and did not expect to reach the sea before autumn. It had been three years since it had last rained. The streams had almost all run dry, and the crops were failing. The farmers, our neighbors, were all deep in debt just to keep themselves fed. There were whispers that elsewhere things were even worse. The desert crept closer each day. At twelve summers, I did not really understand what that meant, of course, but I imagined it was something terrible. To the East, people had already left behind their villages, fleeing the droughts. Our neighbors had not wanted to leave. To go where? They had always lived there, as far back as the earliest memories of the Ancients.  But one day, as the sun was setting once more in a cloudless sky, my parents had announced their decision: we were leaving for the City by the Sea. We had to leave while there was still time, while we still had enough food to eat and money to cover the journey. My father, a blacksmith, had been an apprentice there and still had some friends there who could help him. It was going to be a hard journey. But it was better than dying of hunger and of thirst, bit by bit.

            Our caravan started at Crossroad City. It was headed by Master Prudent, a merchant-venturer renowned for his knowledge of the road. Every year, he travelled the treacherous route across the Plains and through the Holy City and the Temple of Ten Thousand Gods. We had paid dearly to join his convoy, but it was the safest way. With us, there were a lot of merchants and pilgrims, but also some families who wanted to settle somewhere far away, just like us. At the back, there was an entire tribe from the Iron Mountains fleeing the war in their homeland.

#

Eventually, everyone had his fill of water, and all the stores were replenished. The next watering place was two days away. Even though the scouts had found nothing to arouse suspicion, the caravan master did not allow us to unhitch the animals. He made us arrange the wagons in three close circles and doubled the number of watchers on duty. Watering places were a favored ambush spot for bandits. 

            When my mother awoke and began busying herself, my father asked in a low voice:

            “Who’s cooking dinner tonight?”

            “Me and the girls,” she said, smiling.

            “Phew! The merchant’s cooking last night really didn’t agree with me. How does her husband ever stomach it?”

            “But she never prepares the meals at home, my dear. She has a cook.”

            They rigidly enforced The Laws of the Road in our caravan: every able traveler had to help with the daily chores, search for fuel, care for the animals, prepare meals, and this was regardless of rank or wealth. Everyone ate the same thing, from the same pot, and when attacked, we all ran the same risks. The caravan was divided up into fires. At ours, there were a few rich merchants going to the Holy City on pilgrimage, the princess and her retinue, a mage going back to his native land with his students, a knight priest from the Holy City returning home, and an old shaman of the Plains whom the nomads treated with the utmost respect. As for the guards and the camel drivers, they took their meals apart from the rest, at their own fires, and they would sing, dance, and tell colorful stories by the firelight. They were the kings of the open road; this was their world. A world which fascinated us, children. Almost half of them came from nomadic tribes that had lived in the Plains since time immemorial.

#

As we finished our meal, discussion inevitably returned to the topic on everyone’s minds. “I’ve been away travelling these past three years” said the knight priest. ‘And ever since my return, I have heard nothing but talk of droughts. Is it as bad as they say? It must be if people are leaving their villages.”

            My father nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. We haven’t had a decent harvest in three years. The irrigations systems have all dried up. All my neighbors are now heavily in debt, I don’t even know how they will eat in the coming year. Then there’s me, a blacksmith with no clients anymore…”

            “Do you think it will be easy for you to resettle in the City by the Sea?”

            “No, it won’t be easy. I must learn a few things again—no one will order ploughshares in a big city. It’ll be more like little things, like keys.”

            “Do you know how to forge weapons?” the mage asked.

            “Arrow-heads maybe…”

            “Weapons and armor are extremely popular. The City-States will use any excuse to declare war on each other. Equipment for ships is also in high demand.”

            “It feels so good to talk to someone who knows a little about what takes place over there,” said the princess. “News is scarce, we have little contact with the Coast. And the journey is so difficult.”

            “It has not always been this way,” the shaman sighed. “In my youth, the Plains were a maze of crisscrossing roads and tracks. Hundreds of caravans would travel along them in all directions. Dried fish, algae and spices were not rare commodities worth a fortune… But there were more watering places around back then. Here where we have set up camp tonight, there was a small stream, and I used to water my cattle there.” 

            The knight priest cast her a look of surprise but said nothing.

            “There are rumors that the nomads are moving away,” my mother said in a low voice. “Is that true?”

            The old woman nodded. “Yes, and look around at all these pilgrims. They have come from every corner on the Continent. Almost all of them will pray to their respective Gods to bring back the water to their lands. They do not realize that it is disappearing everywhere. From North to South, from East to West, the desert creeps closer.”

            Everyone went silent for a while. Then the caravan master came to sit at our fire, having finished his daily round of inspections. He was a very young man, constantly busy, always running about and sleeping little. Before he had simply been the last caravan master’s assistant, but when his predecessor had died during a trip, he had taken his place. The girls, my sister, the princess, and her attendants all made much of him, since he was quite handsome and soft-spoken, but to their immense disappointment, he was much too busy to take any notice.

            “The next watering place is Gem River, isn’t it?” asked my father.

            “Yes. If all goes well, we’ll reach it in two days. However, we need to hold on to our reserves, because it can dry up at this time of year, and then it’s a further two days without water until we reach the Standing Stone Well.”

            “Gem River can dry up, you say?” the shaman asked. “When I was a child, it was still a solid body of water, I almost drowned in it!”

            “Yes, Mother. Only a mouse could drown in it these days.”

She looked upon the landscape of stone, sand, and shriveled grass beneath the setting sun, dotted with the odd spot of green from the few remaining shrubs.

            “Things have changed much, and not for the better.”

I noticed that the knight priest looked surprised once more. The shaman fell silent for a moment, then continued. “Before, the Plains were lush, with many lakes and rivers. There were many towns and villages too. But one day, a sorceress from the Lost Continent came here with her cohort. She was carrying a terrible device which had destroyed her homeland, and she had chosen the Plains to hide it. She erected the Holy City of Ten Thousand Gods, with its great unassailable walls, and became its Queen-Priestess. The most powerful talismans lay hidden within its crypts, the most extraordinary books filled its libraries. In the center of the City rose the most beautiful temple ever built to the glory of the Gods, with its inner confines guarded by magic and spells. To offer further protection for the cursed object, the sorceress decided to drive the men out from the Plains. She captured the Water Spirit and locked it inside a mountain, sealing it within with a talisman. Then all the rivers ran dry until only a few streams remained. The rain stopped. Most men were forced to leave. Those who were once one people forgot that they have been kin. The people of the Iron Mountains, the Western Hills, and the nomads all went their separate ways. But now, it seems the talisman’s evil power has taken hold once more. Everywhere, the waters recede, while the desert creeps forward… This is why I am going to the Holy City. I will talk to the King-Priest and beseech him to free the Water Spirit. If he does not, his own city will die of thirst, hunger, and loneliness.”

            “Will he listen?” the merchant asked in a skeptical tone. There was no shortage of eccentrics among the pilgrims of the caravan.

            “I don’t know. They are a sophisticated people, they do not content themselves with praying to the Spirits as we do—they have dozens and dozens of Gods, each more complicated than the next. But what reasonable man would fail to understand a drought? I will just have to find the right words.”

            “In any case, we are still far from our destination,” said the caravan master. “Everyone must stay alert; bandits always flock to watering places.”

            “We have nothing to fear with you to protect us,” said the princess with her sweetly lilting voice. But I was dead on my feet, so I turned my attention away from their chat, slipped into bed, and fell asleep.

#

That night, I heard noises again at the front of our wagon, the sound of anxious voices, and my father woke my mother with a gentle shake.

            “Wake up, my love. Another woman is in labor, at the back.”

            My mother grumbled that these people were so ignorant that even famine couldn’t stop them from making more babies. But she got out of bed. It was my turn to help, so my sister offered little more than a sympathizing grimace before falling back to sleep. I gathered up the potions, the dressings, and the instruments, making sure not to forget anything: at night, irritating my mother was as dangerous as poking a hibernating she-bear.

The travelers from the back parted to make way for our arrival. They were poor and uneducated people, fleeing the constant tribal wars tearing apart their villages. They could barely speak the common tongue and did it with an accent as thick as a block of butter. They also had a deep-set fear of outsiders. They considered them to be impure and bearers of the evil eye. Travelling in a caravan full of strangers was torture to them. I cared little for them either. Their children had lice, and I had no desire of catching any.

The baby was born before my mother was even properly set up. It was the fifth addition to the family, but the woman started to bleed. A little at first, then more and more heavily. My mother sent me to fetch the shaman.

“Mother, she’s bleeding out, and there’s nothing I can do!” My mother cried as soon as she saw her.

The old woman stifled a yawn. “I think the merchant woman had a vial of blood clotting powder.”

“She would never give it away!”

“Come now, she is not a wicked woman. I am certain that she will be willing to help this poor girl.”

“What? Go talk to her yourself. If I go, she’ll refuse at once. And I won’t be polite about it.”

“Of course. Come with me, child,” she said, taking me by the hand. “My eyesight isn’t too good, and I need you to be my guide.”

            A few moments later, we were in front of the merchants’ wagon, and the shaman unflinchingly banged on the wooden frame.

            “Who’s there?” a sleep-ridden voice called out from behind the curtains.

            “Good evening! I apologies for calling at such a late hour, but we urgently need blood clotting powder. This is a great opportunity for you to attract the good favor of the Gods.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “You are on a pilgrimage to conceive a child, are you not?”

            There was no answer. Then the plump figure of the merchant woman appeared before the light of my lantern.

            “What exactly are you saying?”

            “You know as well as I do that helping a woman in labor will earn you the benevolence of the Goddess of Fertility. On the other hand, it would be difficult to gain Her blessing after having refused to offer your help in such circumstance as these.”

            The merchant stood frozen for a moment. Stirring was heard from the neighboring wagons. How could she argue with that? Moreover, the old woman had always frightened her a little. The curse of a shaman was not something to be taken lightly. She went back inside her wagon and re-emerged shortly after with a small wooden box, which she held out to the shaman.

The old woman took it from her with a smile. “Thank you. You should come talk to me about your problems, but with a cool head perhaps… Good night.”

“You are a great sorceress, Grandmother!” I whispered.

I did not yet realize just how true that was.

            The woman stopped bleeding within half an hour but was still very weak. My mother got her to drink as much water as she could, then bid her drink a rust elixir. I was reunited with my bed just before the break of dawn.

#

A strong lurch of the wagon, woke me up towards the beginning of the afternoon.  I poked my head through the curtains. The terrain was becoming increasingly rugged. We were nearing the Three Mountains, a small range which broke up the monotony of the Plains. The dark outlines of the first, the Black Mountain, appeared on the horizon. It had the strange shape of a step pyramid, and it towered over the Red Mountain and the Pointed Mountain by several dozen cubits. A solitary vulture circled overhead awhile. We passed the dried-up bed of a river, then the ruins of a hamlet. I could not help but shiver. Was this the fate that awaited my village?

My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the warrior. She came over on her horse and slowed close to the wagon.

            “Hello there, my child, want to go for a ride with me? I have to teach you how to ride a horse before we arrive at the Holy City.”

            This woman was taller than most men. Yet she was graceful, strapped into her leather tunic. She served as the princess’s bodyguard. That way, she had explained, the princess was always protected, even in places to which men had no access.

            She hoisted me up onto her mount, getting me to take the reins, then dismounted, leaving me alone in the saddle while she walked alongside me. She got me to do a tour of the caravan before returning to the princess’s wagon. She was deep in conversation with a young camel driver. The warrior woman frowned. The camel driver caught sight of her and hastily took his leave. She was no doubt on the verge of calling after him to scold him when a scream exploded inside my head. A cry of despair and rage, like I had never heard before. Then, just as abruptly, it was gone. I swayed in my saddle.

            “What’s wrong, my child? You’ve gone all pale!”

            “I think there’s a spirit shouting in my head…”

            Had I not been in shock, I would have kept my mouth shut. Any other woman, like those from my village, would have thought I was joking, or that I was crazy, or worse, bewitched. The warrior just asked:

            “A spirit? What’s it saying?”

            “I don’t know!”

            “Tell it to calm down. That works sometimes, it seems. Let’s go see the shaman.”

We found her about fifty wagons back. She was unhurriedly making her way back to the front of the convoy, having paid a visit to the woman who had given birth the night before. My mother and the mage were walking by her side. They were having a heated discussion on some obscure aspect of the theory of humors. The warrior put me back onto the ground and said simply:

“There was a spirit screaming in her head.”

“What?” my mother bellowed.

“Calm down, it is nothing serious,” said the shaman softly. “And what does it say, child?”

“I don’t know!” I repeated, bursting into tears.

            My mother took me into her arms.

            “The next time you hear it, tell it to calm itself and to speak clearly, if it wants you to help it,” the old woman continued. “Spirits are much like children, that is why they prefer to talk to them, rather than to adults. And just like children, they sometimes need to be called to order.”

            My mother and I had barely got our emotions back in check when the mage murmured:

            “Your daughter possesses some very interesting gifts… almost the gifts of a shaman, I dare say.”

            My mother stiffened again. “And I’m keen to make sure they stay that way, just gifts, nothing more.”

            “Come now, Healer, you are a wise woman. Do you think that shamans can truly suppress their nature? I run a school where they are taught to harness their powers. Several families have already entrusted me with their children.”

            “And what do you do to them?’

            “Teach them the science that lies behind their magic… restore to them their true powers, the powers of the mages of the Lost Continent.”

            “What an ambition! They destroyed their own continent, then laid waste to the Plains, and you want to make more of them?”

            “No, I will prevent them from making the same mistakes. They will be good, wise, and disciplined.”

            “I’m only a village healer, but even I know that the High Knowledge is dangerous… not just for the body, but for the soul! I don’t want my daughter learning magic, in any shape or form.”

“But ignorance does not protect us from evil! That’s the Third Law of Magic!”

            “That’s enough!” My mother said, striding off and dragging me along with her. Once we were in the wagon, she made me drink some theriac which put me to sleep until sundown.

#

That evening, with the effects of the potion still lingering, I went to tidy the merchant woman’s wagon, since it was my turn to do so. She had promised my sister and me a half copper ronal if we kept it in order during the trip. It was chock full of pretty things. Mirrors, perfumes, boxes, richly embroidered fabrics, bells… She wore more jewelry than the princess, and she was always wearing fresh make-up. Everywhere she went, she was followed by a trail of sweet perfume. But she would do nothing but complain. Behind her back, the women would whisper. They would say, smirking, that at night she would leave her wagon in search of the guards and the camel drivers. My mother would just shrug and say that this woman was just doing whatever she could to have a child. Her husband was no better. He would spend his time bad-mouthing those around him, and I had caught him alone, knocking back brandy from a flask he always carried around with him. One of the mage’s students even told me that he had seen him sneaking off and smoking black hemp leaves.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

            I was about to lift the cloth that closed off the entrance to the wagon when I heard voices from within.

            “I’ve tried everything! Potions, amulets, prayers, even other men.”

            “You are unhappy… It’s difficult to conceive in such a state.”

            ‘It’s true, and I don’t even know why! I have everything I’ve ever dreamt of—wealth, perfumes, jewelry, and yet I’m still wretchedly unhappy.”

            “And what does your husband think?’

            “He’s become quarrelsome of late. He’s taken to drink. Ever since we set off on this journey, he has wanted nothing to do with me. I… I struggle to respect him now. But he is rich… He allowed me to escape poverty. I should be grateful. But I feel like he is not truly a worthy man…”

            “So, go find a man who is.”

            “Such a man would never want me.”

            “Yes, he would, if you become a worthy woman.”

            “But how? Though I am beautiful, and I am always perfectly well-dressed, genuinely interesting men never give me a second glance. I’ve already been lucky enough to marry my current husband and…”

            “It’s up to you to keep searching… And you must play fair. The long trip you have embarked upon will push your soul and your marriage to their very limits. It will teach you more about yourself than all the Oracles of the Holy City combined.”

            I left them to it, silently sliding down to the bottom of the wagon. I came back half an hour later. 

#

Dinner that night was delicious. The princess and her attendants made a stew simmered with the spices of their homeland. They were duly showered with praise. After we had finished eating, she showed us a little cactus which was no bigger than her index finger. A potent perfume filled the air around the fire.

            “Look! A cactus-cense! And so fragrant! I have heard that they are very rare. A camel driver gave it to me this afternoon. He found it somewhere along the way… They are all so kind, though I have been told nothing but terrible things about them.”

            “I fear you are mistaken, my princess,” her bodyguard replied. “They well deserve their reputation. They are all captivated by your beauty, that’s all. In fact, all the young men in the caravan are.”

            The princess blushed and lowered her eyes. “Really? I hadn’t realized.”

            “The boy gave you that cactus?” exclaimed the merchant woman. “At the markets of the Holy City, they’ll fetch at least ten pieces of silver! That’s an entire season’s worth of their salary.”

            The warrior sighed. “Perhaps I spoke too ill of the boy. It seems you are quite right; this camel driver is kinder than the others.”

            “The caravan master is interesting too,” the merchant woman continued with a grin. “A comely young man, well-experienced despite his age, and well-mannered. It is a shame he’s always so busy. But it looks as if you managed to get his attention yesterday.”

            The princess shook her head. “It would be unseemly for me to let myself be wooed by a man when I’m on my way to get married… Though I have never met my betrothed, not even by letter.”

            “It is a shame indeed,” my mother said.

            Everyone fell silent.

            “And yet,” the princess lowered her voice. “My father told me I was lucky in my misfortune: at first, I was promised to a prince of the Iron Mountains. They say that over there, a woman must prove her maidenhood on her wedding night by spilling torrents of blood, and that as part of the wedding rituals, her husband must beat her for three days.”

            “I have heard of that,” said the merchant woman. “A bladder full of chicken blood does the trick for the gran show of maidenhood. But these women are kept in such ignorance that a conversation with one of them will bore you to death. I once met a merchant’s wife there who boasted about having been outside under the sun only once in her entire life, on the day of her wedding. She had never even seen a wagon.”

            The women shook their heads on hearing such strange customs.

            “Maybe I should’ve married one!” the merchant man suddenly groaned, his voice faltering. His liquor consumption was beginning to show. “At least then, I wouldn’t be ridiculed by my wife every single day!”

            “Now, my dear, then you would be utterly penniless. Who would do your accounts for you? Who would run your shop while you’re off on your trips?”

            “Do tell, Wise One,’ my father hastily interrupted, turning to the knight priest. “What places have you visited these past three years? You must have seen some interesting things on your travels.”

            “Well, I was sent on a mission to the Land of Two Dawns…”

            “But that’s so very far away! I don’t even know if half the things they say about that place are actually true.”

            “Some of them are. There, winter is nothing but an endless night. In the summer, it’s so cold that the snow and the ice never melt.”

            “If I’m not to indiscreet, may I know what your mission was there?”

            “Well… A hundred years ago, there was a brazen relic thief who got hold of one of the Temple’s talismans, called the Key. He fled to the coast and set sail for the Red Isle. The ship never made it to the shore, and nobody heard anything more about it until an intrepid traveler said he had seen a ship, similar to the first in every respect, trapped in the ice on the shores of the Land of Two Dawns. A storm had most likely dragged it there. The King-Priest sent me to examine it. I eventually reached it, after facing countless difficulties. Within, I found the frozen corpses of the ship's crew. Among them was the body of the transgressor. He still carried the talisman and now I am bringing it back.”

            “And what can it be used for?” the princess asked. “I suppose if the King-Priest saw fit you travel so far and brave so many perils, it must have been something important!”

            The priest smiled. “I fear that its purpose has long been forgotten. Over twelve thousand knights have sworn to serve the Gods with devotion and humility. The life of one is of little importance.”

            “I do hope They will reward your efforts,” my father muttered.

#

On the following day, the wind fell, and we continued our journey dripping with sweat and gasping for breath beneath the blazing sun. Towards the beginning of the afternoon, we stopped at the entrance of the valley between the Black Mountain and the Pointed Mountain, and we waited to hear from the scouts.

            They returned with reassuring news. We hit the road again for half an hour before setting up camp on the first of the steps carved into the mountainside, around fifty feet above a brook that ran through the bottom of the valley. It was nothing but a thin strand of water, trickling downhill like a whisper before forming a larger stream below.

            “That’s all that remains of the river?” the shaman murmured, shaking her head. “I haven’t been here since I was a child. Back then, the waters reached this white rock overhead.”

            “Is that so?” the knight priest asked, casting her another look of surprise. “Hmm… I remember reading that over a century ago, the waters reached that height. Also, you can see where it has left streaks on the stone. Soon, the river will have completely disappeared.”

            “Soon, all the water will have disappeared.”

A few camel drivers dismounted to rummage through the stones. The mage bent down too to have a look.

            “We’re bound to find some interesting things here. Gold, perhaps, or maybe even diamonds from the bowels of the Earth.”

            The shaman raised her eyes towards the mountain. “According to the legends of the Ancestors, there is an even bigger treasure here. It is somewhere in this area, inside the Black Mountain, where the sorceress of the Lost Continent imprisoned the Water Spirit. She drove it down into the nether realms of the Lord of the Underworld and sealed it inside with a talisman. Only this talisman can free the Water Spirit… Have you heard of it? It has to be one of the Holy City’s most precious treasures.”

            “I must admit that I have never heard of it. It must have been forgotten, like so many others. Within the crypts of the Temple there are thousands of ancient talismans, amulets and relics, their purposes passed into oblivion over the centuries.”

            “Grandmother, who is the Lord of the Underworld?” I asked.

            “He reigns over the nether world,’ she whispered. ‘Everything that lies below the earth belongs to him. That is why us nomads, we burn our dead instead of burying them, and we do not eat roots.”

            “Gold and gems miners both worship and fear him,” added the knight priest. “They claim the gate to his realm lies at the mountain’s summit. They often come to leave offerings here, but none dare to climb to its peak.”

            “Of course, to cross the threshold into the realm of the Underworld, you must pay its Lord a terrible toll.”

#

            Though small, the stream was a welcome sight. It was nice to see a bit of freshness and a bit of greenery. The beasts relished the tufts of grass scattered around it. When we had all drunk our fill, the women set to washing the clothes and we, the children, went to splash around a bit in the water. We amused ourselves with hunting for gems in the riverbed, enthralled by the idea of striking gold. A boy from the back found a small garnet which he proudly showed to everyone in the camp. The guards tracked a herd of wild goats, and for the first time in weeks, we tasted a bit of fresh meat.

Early the following morning, I went down to the riverbank, determined to find a precious stone for myself. The knight priest was performing his ritual ablutions of the New Moon, while the warrior woman had let down her long, braided hair to wash it in the river. The air was deliciously fresh, and the water’s soft murmur accompanied the chiming sound of the animal’s bells. I rummaged around in the stones underfoot. Some of them were unusual in shape and in color, and I pocketed them to show the mage. Suddenly, I heard a sweet, melodic sound, like the plucking of a harp string. The priest jumped on me and tackled me to the ground. A volley of arrows flew over his head. He dragged me away and shoved me under one of the wagons. The warrior woman cried out the alarm call. Cries of surprise rang out within the camp. A dozen shouting men sprang out from behind the rocks on the other side of the river. They were rag-clad and brandished a wide range of weapons. They seemed enormous to me. The guards seized their bows and their spears. The horses whinnied, the cattle bellowed, and would have fled had they not been securely tied. The travelers screamed, and the children wept, and, in my head, the voice started screaming:

“Help me, save me, free me, take the key, take the key! Help me, help me!” It was chaos in the caravan and chaos in my mind. I buried my head between my knees and put my hands over my ears, but to no avail. The voice kept going, shouting, until by some miracle I recalled the old woman’s advice, and cried:

            “Be quiet!”

            And my mind fell silent again.

            I could not say the same of the camp. To my left, I could see the feet of the guards and the travelers. They had hastily gathered their forces and met the approaching bandits with a shower of arrows. But some still succeeded. I saw the boots of one climb over the edge of the wagon above my head. I cowered back between the two rear wheels. I heard a struggle above. The wagon lurched to the side and then his body fell to the ground inside the camp, the hilt of a cutlass protruding from his belly. His face contorted in pain before he fell still. I heard a horse rear up before crashing to the ground, taking a pile of cauldrons down with it. A guard collapsed close to the wheels of the wagon, an arrow in his neck.

            After a while, the bandits fell back as quickly as they had rushed in. They had not expected to meet such a well-equipped caravan and fled towards the innermost part of the valley, leaving a few dead in their wake. The waters of the river ran red.

            Chaos had broken loose within the camp. My mother got me out of my hiding place and held me tight against her chest, but only for a short while. Four guards had been killed and twenty or so people had been injured and brought to the center of the campsite. One of them had a stream of blood gushing out from the top of his arm. My mother, acting as she usually would when she was very busy, grabbed the first hand she could find and pressed it on top of the open wound.

            “Press as hard as you can. That will stem the blood flow for a while, and I’ll be able to see what’s going on.” She said without even realizing who she was addressing.

            I caught the terrified gaze of the merchant woman. But she did not dare remove her hand.

            Master Prudent, the owner of the caravan, came with the caravan master and we all made a circle around them.

            “We won!” a few camel drivers shouted in triumph. “You’re the best, Prudent!”

            The merchant raised his hand to ask for silence.

            “Listen, everyone! We have indeed driven them back. But they will wait for us further down within the valley, at a passage called the Stone Corridor. Once inside, it will be easy for them to block us in and to riddle us with arrows. We are lucky they didn’t have the patience to bide their time and that they attacked us this morning.”

            An uproar of voices broke out, as everyone realized that their troubles were far from over. Questions flew thick and fast:

            “Is there not another path we can take?’

            “Can we not bypass these mountains?’

            “The next watering place would be a twelve-day’s journey away if we took another route. If we left behind anything unnecessary, we might make it… But the bandits could always follow us and attack once we’ve been weakened by the lack of water.”

            A dismayed silence fell upon us this time.

            “They didn’t look like they were particularly well-fed and seemed reluctant to wage a major battle.” The merchant continued. ‘We could send a group of guards ahead to flush them out… But that too would be risky. Otherwise, we might try paying them off.”

            “But how can we trust them?”

            “We’ve already spent a fortune to be on this caravan. We don’t have any spare money left!”

            “I will speak with them tomorrow and find out what they want.”

            “You cannot go Master Prudent,” protested the caravan master. “They’ll be only too glad to kill you or hold you hostage! I will go.”

            “No, my son. Someone needs to watch over the caravan. Moreover, as our friend said, people have paid dearly for this trip. It is only fair that I should be the one to expose myself to a little danger.”

            Then, one of the mage’s students pulled on my mother’s sleeve. “Can you come and have a look at something?”

            We followed, bracing ourselves for another problem.

It was the knight priest. He was lying down beneath a blanket, aside from the rest of the wounded. He was drenched in sweat, as pale as death. The mage was bent over him, bewildered.

            “I don’t know what’s wrong with him… he doesn’t seem to have any wound. But he’s got a fever, diarrhea, he won’t stop vomiting… he’s losing water every which way! He’s going to end up being as dry as a dead twig.”

            “A poisoned arrowhead?”

            “I examined him from head to toe; there’s not a single fresh cut on him.”

            My mother scratched her head. “A disease? Could it be contagious? Maybe they poisoned the river?”

            “In that case, we would all be sick. No, it has to be something else.”

            Master Prudent came over to join us. The priest peered at them through half-open eyes.

            “What ails you, my friend? They have told me you are very sick.”

            “I am dying, Master Prudent… I fear I am cursed. Perhaps I unwittingly offended one of the Gods. I shall humbly beg His forgiveness when I reach the other world.’ He caught his breath and continued in a voice that was barely audible. ‘Master Prudent, when I die, take the purse from around my neck and ensure it reaches the King-Priest. It was the object of my quest and my only concern.’

            “Do not fret, I will do it… if I can make it there alive myself.”

            My mother and the mage tried to get him to drink all sorts of potions, but he could not keep anything down. So, they called over the shaman and left him in her care.

            We spent the rest of the day tending to the wounded and getting the camp back in order. The attack had had a surprising effect our group. The warrior woman took care of the knight priest. I caught a glimpse of the princess behind a rock, huddled up against the young camel driver who had given her the cactus-cense. The merchant woman saw to the injured with my mother, and even cut up her fine linens to use as bandages, whereas when I went past her wagon, I saw her husband inside, dead drunk.

            We took our meal in silence that evening. My mother was exhausted. The caravan master was listening intently to Master Prudent’s instructions on how to act if his negotiations with the bandits turned sour.

            Then the voice came back inside my head, but this time it was gentle, cajoling and pleading all at once.

            “Little girl, I am begging you, listen to me… Help me, set me free… I will bring the Plains back to life, I will make the flowers blossom again, I will bring back the fruit and the birds, you just need to let me out. Help me… Take the key, take the key!”

            “But what key?” I asked aloud.

            My mother stared at me, growing very pale. She stood up without a word, took me by the hand and led me to the shaman. She was crouching over a small fire next to the knight priest. He was unconscious and barely breathing.

            “Mother, it’s that damned spirit again! How can we exorcise it?”

            “Calm down and be wary of offending it. What is it saying, my child?”

            “It wants me to help it… to set it free.”

            “Now that is interesting… I have spent all day invoking the Spirits and none have dared to come forward, as if another, more powerful Spirit was keeping them at bay… I would like to speak with it. Leave your daughter with me and go rest, healer. Do not fear, I won’t let anyone hurt her.”

            My mother hesitated, then obeyed grudgingly. Though she was a healer, she was powerless against the Spirits.

            The old woman got me to sit down next to her fire. She cast a powder onto the flames. Its smell made my head spin. Then she said:

            “Listen, O Spirit, it is I, the Shaman of all Shamans, the oldest of all the Shamans of the Plains. I have communed with the Earth and the Heavens for more than a hundred years. Why do you torment this child?”

            The Spirit began raving wildly inside my head, and I repeated its words as best I could.

            “Set me free, Shaman, I am the Water Spirit, set me free, set me free! It has been so long! Take the key this cursed man wears around his neck and let me out! Take the key, take the key…”

            “What key?” I said. “What man?”

            The old woman turned towards the lifeless body of the knight priest. She carefully removed the purse that he had shown Master Prudent and looked inside. It contained a flat polished stone about the size of my palm, shaped like an interlace of three whirlpools.

            “So, it is this, the Water Key,” she murmured. “The Spirit put a curse on the priest. All water seeps out of his body.”

            “That’s it! Bring it to me! Come! Come! Quick! Quick!” the voice cried within my head.

            The shaman must have heard it too this time. “Calm down. We are going to help you, but we cannot if you stop us from thinking straight with your incessant shouting. The way is perilous for mere mortals. And you were wrong to have cursed this man. He had nothing to do with your imprisonment. He does not even know what he is carrying.”

            The voice let out a prolonged sob and then fell silent. The old woman stood in silence, lost in her thoughts for a long moment. “Go to sleep for a while, my child. I will talk with the Ancestors, the Spirits, and the Gods. We will no doubt go on a journey.”

#

It was still night when she woke me. She was wearing a splendid white tunic embroidered with twisting patterns, and she held a staff topped with the head of a gazelle. Her long snow-white hair floated around her shoulders.

            “Let’s go to free the Water Spirit, my child.”

            “But Grandmother, what about the bandits?”

            “No bandit would dare follow us where we are going, and anyhow,” she brandished her staff. “I am ready to face the worst of scoundrels. No, we need fear no man up there.”

            “Up there?”

            “Yes. At the peak of this mountain.”

            “But…. You said that there was a toll.”

            She lowered her eyes for an instant.

            “Do not be afraid, I can afford to pay it. Let us leave now and pay careful attention to the path we follow, because you will have to take it again alone.”

            I was going to ask more questions, but something in her eyes made me check my tongue. She led me towards the rocks on the mountainside where there was a small track, barely visible beneath the lantern light.

            We walked for a long time. The path was steep, at times with steps carved into the rock. We had to stop on several occasions to let the old woman catch her breath.

            The track ended up being completely sunken into the rock, like a roofless corridor. I could see the stars overhead. Finally, the path came out on an esplanade on the second step on the side of this pyramid-like mountain. To the right, far below, the shaman pointed at a series of lights: the fires of the bandit’s camp. In front of us, a stone circle stood beneath the moonlight. On the far side of the esplanade, there was a towering stone table. It looked as if the path resumed beyond it. The shaman turned towards me. Her face had grown serious, almost solemn. She placed the talisman in my hand.

            “Do you recall the way we came?”

            “Yes, Grandmother”

            “Very good. I fear that despite your mother’s best efforts, you will take the path of the shaman. It is difficult to suppress one’s true nature… Especially when you are a child. But that matters little now. I cannot go any further. You will have to continue the journey alone. Do not fear, nothing will happen to you along the way, but the ascent is steep and at the end of it, you will need to scale the face of the mountain. You will find yourself in front of a wall and you will not be able to advance further. In this wall, you will find an indentation in the shape of this key. Slot the key inside it, and then come back down the mountain and back to the camp, without stopping. Do not look for me, do not call for me. Whatever happens, do not stop, and do not stray from the track. Find your mother and tell her what you have done. Do you understand?”

            “Yes, Grandmother,” I answered, feeling more than a bit scared.

            “Good. The chief virtue of a young shaman is being able to remember and follow instructions, even under the icy cloak of fear.”

            Then a wide smile lit up her face. “And now, my child, go. You have my blessing. May the Gods and the Spirits protect you everywhere and always.”

            She passed beneath the stone table, keeping me close behind her, then she gave me a light push forward to set me on my path.

I made my way, by the light of my lantern, faltering sometimes. I wondered what she was going to do, all alone, in the darkness. But my attention was soon fully absorbed by my ascent, since the path was becoming increasingly arduous. The voice in my head roused itself and soon started nagging me:

            “A little more… you are almost there… nearly… nearly… hurry, hurry!”

            At last, I found myself before an immense rock face, barring my way. The sky was beginning to brighten. About two feet above my head, there was a shallow nook in the rock in the same shape of the talisman. I climbed up, finding footholds in the jagged rock, and I placed it inside. It slotted in perfectly. A roar exploded inside my head, and then there was only silence.

            A few droplets of water seeped out around the key and trickled down like teardrops into my hand. Then, with a resounding crack, a cleft opened in the rock below the talisman, and it ran down the mountainside to my right, towards the valley. There was a terrible rumbling sound, as if the entire summit were splitting into two. A shower of water gushed straight out of the crevasse, before curving in the air and crashing down into the darkness far below. I heard the screaming and the whinnying of horses. The water must have rushed straight into the bandit’s campsite. Laughter, clear as crystal, resounded inside my head.

I was truly frightened now. I hurtled back down the track as fast as I could. The Spirit’s laughter filled my ears. I could not see the shaman anywhere. When I arrived back at the camp, I ran to my mother and I told her everything without pausing for breath. She did not ask any questions.

            “Show me,” was all she said.

            It was daylight by then. We climbed up to the stone circle. When we got there, she held me back by my arm.

            “Now, whatever you do, do not pass beneath the stone table.”

            We approached it slowly. The shaman was sitting crossed legged, her back up against one of its pillars, her face towards the rising sun, a smile playing about her lips. She was dead.

            I felt tears well up in my eyes. My mother said the prayer for the dead in a shaky voice.

            “How will we get her down to bury her?” I asked.

            “The nomads do not bury their dead. They burn them, or even exhibit them in certain places… Shamans have the privilege of choosing how they die. She chose to pay the price of your passage with her life. Therefore, we will leave her here.”

            Silence fell upon us for a few moments, then my mother sighed and asked:

            “Are you still able to talk to the Spirit?”

            “I think so… I can hear it laughing.”

            “Then remind it owes you payment for its freedom… and as payment, ask it for the life of the knight priest.”

            I relayed these words to the Spirit. I heard an indistinct growl, then nothing but silence. When we returned to the camp, the priest’s fever had gone down, and he was fast asleep, exhausted. Many of the bandits had drowned, and any survivors left us in peace.

The following day, for the first time in weeks, we saw a cloud.