Timestamp: 60th Summer 513 AV
It had only been a week since Jabran had learned that he would be leaving his home and his family. It didn't please him but his sick father had called him to the bedside where he lay. "I am dying, son. I do not have long left for this world." It was unkind not to respect a dying man's last wish for his son. All he wanted was to be by his father's side when he died. He wanted to see him to the next life. He would do this thing and return to celebrate the old man's life.
The journey would be short and simple. Jabran would be joining a trading vessel that was currently traveling the seas around Mizahar. The ship would travel along the southern coast of Falyndar and up past Kalea. Jabran was supposed to learn new languages and skills. Meet new and interesting people with whom to learn from and trade with. However, he did not want to go. He was born in the desert and wanted to die in the desert. His only ambition in life was to keep his tribe alive and to secure the next generation. Nothing interested outside the burning sands, outside his daily routine of hunting and training, of listening to the Abayla regale an eager crowd with sacred stories. Recently, he had been thinking of starting a family. For many years he had given the idea no such thought but soon he would be old and unwanted. Silently he had begged his father to let him stay, but to no avail. He didn't understand why he had to leave. "You are too serious", he had been told. "You have not the joy in your heart like Eywaat". The words hurt him. He revered his god greatly and to say that Eywaat was displeased with him in some way was too much for him to bear.
The ship was anchored out at sea and they would need to take a small boat out to it. Jabran sat in the boat with Ashara and two men tasked with bringing them out. The water was calm and crystal blue and Jabran realised, for the first time in his life, that he did not know how to swim. It didn't seem to be a useful skill for a desert dweller. Water was scarce and when you found it you either drank it or let your horse drink it. Life was simple in the desert.
He studied his guide, Ashara, as the two men rowed. She was copper skinned and black of eye and of hair as with all Chaktawe. She had a certain grace and air about her that she had gained from her travels through the world. It was slightly superior. She seemed to look down on everyone, at least everyone who had never left the sands. As they made their way, she talked. She hardly stopped talking, not even to breathe. She told stories of a Sea of Grass, a city made of ice, a city lost in the clouds. She recounted all the races that she had ever seen and known and loved. Some that spin webs, some that have wings, some that never die. Jabran regarded her with an unchanging expression that let nothing in and nothing out, as sharp as steel and cold as ice. While she seemed to consider her life a monument, a beacon as tall as the watchtowers, for all to see and learn from so they can better themselves, Jabran could only pity her. He pitied her for being a slave to what she had seen, for not being content with the desert and Eywaat and Makutsi. But mostly he pitied her, unbeknownst to himself, because it was all he could do, because he couldn't imagine anything other than the life he knew and looked down on those who could. It is a sad kind of pity that afflicts all men in all walks of life. They cannot see it and they cannot know it in themselves; but other men see it. They see it in those they know and those they don't know and feel the same pity.
As Ashara talked, Jabran thought. He thought of his life and what it meant, of his dreams that had to be postponed, of Chulyein, his dearest friend, who stood somewhere in Yahebah. "You can lead a horse to water", they said. "But you cannot make him swim". He already missed his friend dearly. He would return in a couple of seasons. He hoped he would not be forgotten.
A man's first sea voyage can be a surreal experience. The water seems rough when calm and when rough it feels as though you are about to fall off the edge of the world as your gut heaves and turns. Life is spent on the deck with both hands desperately gripping the side of the boat, always the fear of weakness overpowering you haunts you as you try not to fall into the abyss.
As Jabran stood looking at the endless ocean, where blue meets blue, where gods sit to drink tea and talk of noble dealings and sinister plots, he lost another battle as his breakfast came up. It hit the sea and was lost beneath the waves. He shivered just as he had every time. The routine was always the same: retch, shiver, despair. He was tired of the sea, tired of ships, tired of the calm water and of rough water. He was tired of uncouth sailors and arrogant traders, the weather and the cold. He longed for the heat of the desert sun, the feel of sand through his toes, the trees of the Keerdash Grove.
It was early in the morning and the sun had just risen. As with every night Jabran had tossed and turned in his bed, hardly able to close his eyes. He would come up on deck and watch the great ball of fire rise, hoping it would offer more heat than the day before. It never did. As he regained his composure after his excursion Ashara came up behind him. "Having fun?", she asked with a smile. "I don't think I was this bad on my first voyage." Jabran could not remember how long they had been at sea. "Many weeks, I suppose", he thought. He couldn't help wonder when the sickness would stop, it was all he could think about. Ashara must have seen the look on his face, "Don't worry, we're nearly at our next stop." She pointed towards the horizon. Jabran squinted and began to make out shapes. Faded, at first, and indiscernible but they gradually got more clear. "You'll need to brace yourself", she warned him. "From here on in the sea will get rougher. It's one of the advantages of a rocky shoreline." Jabran looked at her pleadingly but found nothing except for a teasing smile.
It had only been a week since Jabran had learned that he would be leaving his home and his family. It didn't please him but his sick father had called him to the bedside where he lay. "I am dying, son. I do not have long left for this world." It was unkind not to respect a dying man's last wish for his son. All he wanted was to be by his father's side when he died. He wanted to see him to the next life. He would do this thing and return to celebrate the old man's life.
The journey would be short and simple. Jabran would be joining a trading vessel that was currently traveling the seas around Mizahar. The ship would travel along the southern coast of Falyndar and up past Kalea. Jabran was supposed to learn new languages and skills. Meet new and interesting people with whom to learn from and trade with. However, he did not want to go. He was born in the desert and wanted to die in the desert. His only ambition in life was to keep his tribe alive and to secure the next generation. Nothing interested outside the burning sands, outside his daily routine of hunting and training, of listening to the Abayla regale an eager crowd with sacred stories. Recently, he had been thinking of starting a family. For many years he had given the idea no such thought but soon he would be old and unwanted. Silently he had begged his father to let him stay, but to no avail. He didn't understand why he had to leave. "You are too serious", he had been told. "You have not the joy in your heart like Eywaat". The words hurt him. He revered his god greatly and to say that Eywaat was displeased with him in some way was too much for him to bear.
The ship was anchored out at sea and they would need to take a small boat out to it. Jabran sat in the boat with Ashara and two men tasked with bringing them out. The water was calm and crystal blue and Jabran realised, for the first time in his life, that he did not know how to swim. It didn't seem to be a useful skill for a desert dweller. Water was scarce and when you found it you either drank it or let your horse drink it. Life was simple in the desert.
He studied his guide, Ashara, as the two men rowed. She was copper skinned and black of eye and of hair as with all Chaktawe. She had a certain grace and air about her that she had gained from her travels through the world. It was slightly superior. She seemed to look down on everyone, at least everyone who had never left the sands. As they made their way, she talked. She hardly stopped talking, not even to breathe. She told stories of a Sea of Grass, a city made of ice, a city lost in the clouds. She recounted all the races that she had ever seen and known and loved. Some that spin webs, some that have wings, some that never die. Jabran regarded her with an unchanging expression that let nothing in and nothing out, as sharp as steel and cold as ice. While she seemed to consider her life a monument, a beacon as tall as the watchtowers, for all to see and learn from so they can better themselves, Jabran could only pity her. He pitied her for being a slave to what she had seen, for not being content with the desert and Eywaat and Makutsi. But mostly he pitied her, unbeknownst to himself, because it was all he could do, because he couldn't imagine anything other than the life he knew and looked down on those who could. It is a sad kind of pity that afflicts all men in all walks of life. They cannot see it and they cannot know it in themselves; but other men see it. They see it in those they know and those they don't know and feel the same pity.
As Ashara talked, Jabran thought. He thought of his life and what it meant, of his dreams that had to be postponed, of Chulyein, his dearest friend, who stood somewhere in Yahebah. "You can lead a horse to water", they said. "But you cannot make him swim". He already missed his friend dearly. He would return in a couple of seasons. He hoped he would not be forgotten.
***
A man's first sea voyage can be a surreal experience. The water seems rough when calm and when rough it feels as though you are about to fall off the edge of the world as your gut heaves and turns. Life is spent on the deck with both hands desperately gripping the side of the boat, always the fear of weakness overpowering you haunts you as you try not to fall into the abyss.
As Jabran stood looking at the endless ocean, where blue meets blue, where gods sit to drink tea and talk of noble dealings and sinister plots, he lost another battle as his breakfast came up. It hit the sea and was lost beneath the waves. He shivered just as he had every time. The routine was always the same: retch, shiver, despair. He was tired of the sea, tired of ships, tired of the calm water and of rough water. He was tired of uncouth sailors and arrogant traders, the weather and the cold. He longed for the heat of the desert sun, the feel of sand through his toes, the trees of the Keerdash Grove.
It was early in the morning and the sun had just risen. As with every night Jabran had tossed and turned in his bed, hardly able to close his eyes. He would come up on deck and watch the great ball of fire rise, hoping it would offer more heat than the day before. It never did. As he regained his composure after his excursion Ashara came up behind him. "Having fun?", she asked with a smile. "I don't think I was this bad on my first voyage." Jabran could not remember how long they had been at sea. "Many weeks, I suppose", he thought. He couldn't help wonder when the sickness would stop, it was all he could think about. Ashara must have seen the look on his face, "Don't worry, we're nearly at our next stop." She pointed towards the horizon. Jabran squinted and began to make out shapes. Faded, at first, and indiscernible but they gradually got more clear. "You'll need to brace yourself", she warned him. "From here on in the sea will get rougher. It's one of the advantages of a rocky shoreline." Jabran looked at her pleadingly but found nothing except for a teasing smile.
