The Legend of El Shashi by Marc Secchia Page A

history.”
    The quim hesitated over the scrolleaf, trapped by my memories.
    “And to accomplish that, she used me.”

Chapter 7: Alila and the Rising
     
    The bread of playing God is but crumbs of misery.
    Old Roymerian Proverb
     
    “Mata’s timing,” averred Farmer Lak, in a slow, gravelly voice, resting his fond gaze upon his wife as she waddled out of the lyomhouse. He hooked his stubby thumbs behind his belt buckle. “Need the extra hands, mark my words, stranger. Only ten weeks now. A daughter by the way she’s carrying. Blessings indeed.”
    “Indeed.”
    I signed the buskal of Mata’s peace, a circle made above the heart with one’s hands pressed palms together. Judging by the shrieks coming from behind the house, this family was a lively one and possessed of several older blessings as well.
    “Can’t say as to where you’d sleep.”
    I glanced up at him. His b rawny, work-stooped shoulders bunched together behind his neck as though twin jatha strained at the yoke. He was a huge man, fully half a head taller than me and twice as broad through the middle. He reminded me nought more than of an ulinbarb tree, weathered and durable.
    “Had an outbuilding fire just last Rushday. Burned the place clear out. The other hands is sleeping in the barn , but there’s no room there ‘less we turn out the animals.”
    “Have you timber?”
    “Nethe yes, but neither joiner nor fitter who costs less than this farm pays in two anna.” He shook his head gloomily. “It’s a sore trial of faith, mark my words.”
    Just then, several shouts interrupted us. “Father! Father!” Two young tearaways burst around the corner and flung themselves at the farmer without a care for life or limb. I took a backward step, but he swooped on them with a great bear-hug, spun them around, and settled them one on each hip before I could catch my breath.
    “You scamps! What do you want?”
    “Alila took my sweetbread.”
    “I had it first!”
    “Liar!”
    “ Silence!” Farmer Lak roared. He glared at each girl in turn, and then smiled at me. “I gladly present my daughters, stranger.” Nodding left and right, he said, “Alila. Jeria.” Bare-limbed and dark-haired, the twins pouted identically at me. I marked them for perhaps six anna of age. “Girls, give greeting to our new farmhand …”
    “Arlak,” I supplied.
    They smiled sweetly and chorused, “Be welcome, Arlak!”
    “Father, she took my –”
    “But I had it first!”
    “Be still! By all that is holy, squabbling in front of a guest! Have you no shame?”
    They were likeable rascals, I decided. A handful indeed. But Farmer Lak’s heart clearly matched his jatha-girth. He must love his children as dearly as my parents had once loved me–before Mata had torn them from the world of the living and cast them aside like chaff upon the fire. And then Janos, too, leaving me with no-one in this life, save Jyla … why? Larathi, why?
    I watched Lak dealing with the twins, settling the dispute, setting them on their way with a fond swat upon each departing behind.
    “You have children, Arlak?”
    “No.”
    My flat response elicited a knowing grunt. “Ah. Well then. You some kind of joiner?”
    I shivered and rubbed my arms. Mild days as yet, but first frost was imminent. I needed to find a place soon or I would become one large ice-sculpture out on the road. “No, but I’ve built outbuildings and houses before. I was a farmer myself. Have you tools? I’ll have the roof secure before Alldark Week.”
    The farmer squinted into the distance. “You say so?” I imagined he sought to weigh up my promise against my threadbare cloak, tatty thexik trousers, and boots I had salvaged from a roadside ditch.
    Catching his gaze, I looked him levelly in the eye. “My word on it. My grephe too.”
    He pursed his lips, looked me once more up and down , and roared, “Done and a good bargain!” and crushed my fingers with his two-handed Elbarath handshake. “Get you to the