Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Moira of Iseldel: Preface

[SYNOPSIS]
Moira is awakened from a decade-long state of slumber to find her family, captured and perhaps killed long ago by Ragnar’s soldiers. When sets out to find them, she soon discovers her quest and responsibilities are much larger; as she learns she is both a Rememberer and a Binder with the birthright of Fire, one of the four forces that brought the world into being, she is drawn closer to Ragnar, an evil man with the heart and power of the Ice Giants.

She journeys with Shep, a beast of mysterious origin, into the Land of Spirits where she finds the Book of Remembering. At the port city of Lirea, Andrius, on a quest of his own, joins them. Their joint destinies become clearer, taking them across Iseldel and back, until at last they must face Ragnar himself at the edge of the world. Moira or Ragnar must join the two halves of the world together again to gain power of the rejoined land, but neither knows what they will find on the other side.


[PREFACE]

There is still a grove of fig trees on a side street near the city center of Lirea. The town itself is built upon a hill, everything crushing down to the port where ships with sails from every coastal province are docked. The smell of the wharf, of damp and salt and rotting sea plants and fish inhabits the city. It has always been this way.

A merchant arrives to open shop as the sun comes up. He is dark-skinned with a fine, smooth black mustache. The wrinkles by his eyes are from smiling, bargaining with customers and raising eyebrows high. He does well, shown clearly by his generous waist and the way his silk trousers hang in rich folds. He is a fig seller. He was born outside the city in a hut no bigger than a thimble. When his younger brother arrived in the world, out went Marishi Reb to seek his fortune and grander accommodations.

“Oh, Mr. Reb and his fig trees—The fig trees,” people say. They say it knowingly at each other’s houses for tea, strong but paled with milk and sweetened with dark sugar. The word travels from ship to ship that enters the harbor and those who do not know of the fig trees step onto land and go in search of them. Even the Seer can no longer claim as many visitors as the grove of fig trees that sprouted and sprang so mysteriously out of the stones in the center of Reishi Street.

On this morning it is cloudy to the east, but the wind is carrying the gray away. Lirea is waking, half in shadow and half in sunlight. The sounds of the people begin like a flock of starlings in a tree—first only one branch of roosting noisemakers feels the warmth, then the next and then the next. The air is jabbed and stitched in an improvised garment by the sounds: doors, blankets, creaking cart wheels, coins against pockets, street vendors crying out, the storks on the temple roof flapping and settling, sailors and dock workers and the heave of muscles against crates, breakfast being made, sugar stirred into tea, the same tea slurped hastily and the day begun. Lady Morning puts on this crazy cloak and welcomes her gypsy people to another day, another life, another story.

“Figs! Figs!” Marishi Reb is looking fine today. He runs a thick hand over his black hair, thinning now, but his mustache more than makes up for that. A woman walks up the cobblestones with a little girl in tow. A child rests on her hip.

“Figs for the lady—good for the complexion and for keeping a happy husband!” She does not stop. Marishi Reb claps his palms together.

“Good for children, for growing and clever thinking in the school house.” The little girl, barefoot, turns to look back at him.

“Good for even the youngest—sweet to make him good-tempered, rich to bring good fortune, savory for interesting character. To eat a fig each day before speaking, before dressing, before the day begins is to have good luck, good love, great happiness.”

The little boy in her arms is leaning out to the side, out of his mother’s hold, looking and listening to Marishi. They have stopped nearly underneath a fig tree. The child tilts his fair face up. There is a fig, ready, ripe, plump and within arm’s reach. A smile plays at Marishi’s lips beneath the fine mustache. His silk trousers ripple with the breeze coming up off the harbor. “Go on,” he seems to say, “yes, yes.”

The boy reaches up one hand, quickly, and the fig is plucked from the tree; the branch sways as he lifts it to his mouth.

“Antony, no!” His mother lets go the hand of the girl and reaches for the fig.

“No problem! No worries—it is gift from the trees. I only tend them. I do not own them—who could own these trees? They are for all people, to help with the remembering. I do not charge for figs. Once I did, but not any longer.” The woman sets the child down. His sister, seeing him bring the purple-brown fruit again to his face and bite the tender surface hesitantly plucks one of her own. The woman’s face is furrowed, questioning.

“But you must make a living like the rest of us. If we do not pay you, how will you survive?”

“Oh, madam, you must be a stranger to this city! I do not charge for figs, though once I did, it is true. The very first tree in this grove came from one of my figs one day years ago. What I ask money for is for the story. It is a good one.” The woman does not move, but she does not reach into the purse tied about her waist. Marishi Reb is not deterred. He rubs his palms together and stands taller.

“I will tell you first. If it is worth a coin or two…” he pats the bag of coins in his pocket. “If not…” he holds up his hands, “you go on your way. You will have only given me a morning of your listening ear.”

The little girl tugs at her mother’s dress, she looks at the man. The boy is too young to wonder about the story, but he is happy playing with a stick in the cracks of the cobblestones. The woman nods her chin once, and Marishi Reb begins.

“This was back in the time when the battles were lost—the beginning of the Dark Time. The capitol was taken, the people forgot; even here in Lirea—the fig trees bore [no] fruit [and times were hard for a fig seller]…But that is not the story I will tell you.

“This is the story of Moira…”

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