Summer's Twilight
#1 of Where the Cool Earth Flows
Alrighty, something new I have been working on. I hope you enjoy it. As always, comments are appreciated and requested.
"I don't want you to go." Toran said, his eyes filled with tears. The young wolf before him smiled gently.
"I know Renys." Senyr replied, the use of Toran's other name bringing a smile to the human's face, albeit a small one. "I know. But it must be this way. It is not safe for us, not with the way things are going."
"Senyr, we must go, the rest of the clan is already moving." Foryn, Senyr's father, said. The older wolf, his tawny fur and buckskin trousers almost blending in with that of the stallion he rode, beckoned to his young son, the bright feather braided into his hair visible even in the failing light of dusk. Senyr turned to go with his father, then paused a moment, turning back and holding out his right paw. Toran immediately brought his own hand up, clasping the paw tightly, the three identical, parallel scars on their palms pressed together. Senyr pulled him into a close hug, whispering into his ear so neither boy's father could hear them speak.
"Find where the cool earth flows like water. I will meet you there." Senyr whispered, then pulled back from the hug. Taking the human boy's right hand, he laid a thin strip of leather into it, a brightly colored feather tied to one end, then closed the human's fingers about it. "We will see each other again my friend, trust in that." Toran's father grumbled a little at the wolf's wording, and the canine turned away, hurrying to the second horse and swinging himself up onto its bare back in a single motion. With a last wave, the two wolves rode away swiftly into the scrub brush of the prairie, setting out straight westward for the red stone of the mountains where their people lived and Toran's parents turned away, walking back in the other direction, towards the house.
"I never liked those people." Toran's father commented to his wife, just loud enough for Toran to hear. "Always felt like they were up to something."
"John, they are good people, if you would just give them a chance..." His wife replied, "They always treated Toran well, and you should at least be glad for that."
"You know how I feel about that too..." He continued, his voice fading away in Toran's ears as they entered the large ranch house, leaving the boy standing there alone. For a long time, Toran stood there, brushing his fingers along the bright feather. It was a feather from a Pyre hawk, its plumage scarlet, orange and yellow, constantly shifting like the coals of a fire. The birds were very rare, dwelling only high in the wild reaches of the red mountains west of the human territories. Most of the humans of the world thought the birds nothing more than a pretty novelty, something to be admired perhaps and eventually discarded. But to the tribes of the hybrid peoples, Pyre hawks were sacred creatures, and to be given one of their feathers to wear was a sign of belonging, but more importantly, it was a symbol unique to the clan to which Senyr belonged. Toran knew what an honor it represented to have one, what it would signify if he chose to wear it. And, he also knew, as all of the humans in the Territories did, that if he wore it in human society, he would be teased and mocked endlessly at the very least. As the sun set in the distance, he pondered over what his friend had said, and what the young wolf had meant to him.
Senyr meant so much to Toran that he was half tempted to go get the mustang his father was raising for him and ride after the wolves, leaving behind his parents and the world he had been raised in, but that was a foolish notion. His home was here, and he could not run from it, especially with what was going on... Besides, his horse was hardly more than a colt, barely old enough to have a rider, even one as young and as light as him. And still, he couldn't imagine what his friend had meant by saying what he said. Cool earth didn't flow, not like water anyway. But his friend wouldn't have said it if it wasn't important. Heaving a sigh, Toran turned back at last, giving one last look at the tiny speck in the distance that was his best friend.
After dinner that night, Toran sat on the edge of his bed and looked out on the distant stars and the rising crescent of a moon that shone through his open window. Even though he would be rising before dawn tomorrow, riding out to tend the herds with his father and the ranch hands, he didn't feel much like sleeping. The feather was in his hand once more, and he could feel the strange warmth that seemed to come from it, as if it really were made from the coals of a dying fire. A moment later, he closed his eyes, hearing the heavy foot falls of his father on the floor outside his room. When the footsteps paused, he waited for his father to speak, closing his hand around the feather.
"Toran?" He said, and the boy turned his head to look back at him. "Are you alright?"
"I..." He started to say, then shook his head. "I don't know."
"I'm sorry about what I said earlier, son." Toran's father said, coming in and sitting down on the other end of the bed. "I didn't mean it. Foryn and Senyr were good men." Toran nodded appropriately, seriously doubting his father's words. He had been quite clear over the years that he didn't approve of the hybrids, and especially that Toran had made friends with them. "I know it isn't easy to lose a friend like that Toran." He continued, laying a hand on his son's shoulder. "It happened to me when I wasn't much older than you. I never did find out what happened to him, but I moved on, I found other friends, some who were even better than he was."
"I doubt it. I don't think I can ever find a friend like Senyr." Toran replied, and he sensed his father nod.
"Maybe not. But there are plenty of humans to be friends with around here, you know." He stated and Toran shook his head sadly. His father didn't understand what he had meant, and Toran knew he never would, which is precisely why he hadn't told him how truly close the pair had gotten over the years they had been friends. "Anyway, we have an early day tomorrow. Best to get some rest."
"I know father. I'll be ready." Toran replied and the older human got to his feet, closing the door on his way out. When he was alone again, Toran opened his hands in his lap and looked at the feather that lay in his left hand, and the curious crescent shaped scars that creased his right palm. After a moment, Toran smiled, reaching up and beginning the process of braiding a lock of his red hair, as his friend had taught him to do. In the end, it really wasn't much of a choice for him.
It was often said that the humans and hybrids had always known of each other. Throughout history, there had been times when they had been friends, and others, when they had been at war, the former more often than the latter. Or at least, that was the way it had been in the past. Now, as the age of so-called progress moved on, with humans creating greater and greater technologies to make life easier for them, the hybrids had, with little exception, refused to do the same, living as they always had done. And there were some among the humans who had found that idea insulting, dangerous almost, and so, eventually, some said inevitably, there had been a great war, a war between peoples, not clans or nations. But, to the surprise of the humans, it had not been the one sided conflict that everyone had expected it to be. Somehow, the hybrids had been the equal of the humans, no matter their technologies. After a decade long fight, the hybrids had forced a stalemate, and a bargain was struck. The humans would live the way they chose, in their own lands, lands that they claimed to have tamed, on either side of the great sea, and the hybrids would stay in theirs, lands untouched and wild, far to the east and west of the human lands, and neither would bother the other again. And, to keep the peace intact, separating the two lands, were the border Territories, lands half-civilized by human standards, technically unclaimed by both groups, with hybrid tribes living in close proximity to small towns and ranches populated by humans. Although the humans that lived outside the territories thought it to be a strange arrangement, the territorial residents found that it worked well enough, the two groups getting along amiably.
All his life, Toran had heard from his father and from others that the hybrids were backward, uncivilized, choosing to live rough instead of in comfort, ignoring all the advances that humans had made. And at first, Toran had believed that. But then the day came when he had met Senyr, and had made a choice that few other humans would have made. He still wasn't sure what had made him make the choice that he had, but it had changed everything when he had made it. Senyr had shown him the way that the hybrids lived, and what they believed. And so Toran had learned what few humans had ever learned, or even cared to learn; the truth.
When he reached the end of the plait of hair, the leather cord he had woven in with the red strands hung the beaded feather just behind his right ear, in its proper place for one of Senyr's people. Senyr had been far more than just a friend to him, more even than the brother that Toran had never had. And he had done so much for him, more than just showing him the hybrid ways. Two years ago, Senyr had even broken the traditions of his people, making Toran, a human, a blood brother to his clan, their shared scars on their right palms marking the place where their blood had mingled. Traditionally, the more scars that were born between two blood brothers, the closer their relationship. But something the pair had been careful to hide, even from Senyr's parents, was just how rare of a thing they had done. Three scars marked only the closest of the close, those closer than family, as it was reckoned. Regardless what anyone else thought about it, he would wear the feather, both because it was his right, and because it was his brother's wish. And one day, though he had no idea how, he would find the place Senyr had spoken of...
***
The great herd of cows milled around in random patterns before Toran, their tails flicking in agitation. The red haired boy was trying to see what the other ranch hands saw, trying to discern which of the cows would cause trouble, break out from the herd, and which ones would stay in with the rest, but he still couldn't see the things that they saw. And truthfully, he wasn't sure he ever would. No matter how many times his father and the hands had explained it, he still couldn't figure it out. They still all looked the same to him, just cows. It was something he didn't have a talent for.
"Toran, watch those two big ones on the right, they are trying to push their way out." His father called, his voice barely to be heard over the lowing of the beasts. Toran grimaced and turned the horse he was riding towards the cows his father had indicated. Sure enough, two of the largest cows in the herd were heading right for the edge, starting to pick up speed. Spurring the horse along, Toran hurried to block their path, the animals seeming annoyed that he was in their way, but they stopped moving at once, resigned to holding still. Scanning the edge of the herd once more as the sun finished climbing to noon, Toran paused to think over the events of the last few months, as he had often enough since his friend had told him that their clan was leaving. There had been rumblings in the east for some time, originating in the so called 'civilized' human lands, rumors of a war brewing out there, between Torius, the largest of the western human nations, and the nations across the eastern sea. It was rumored that the war was going to be a bad one, one that, if rumors were true, would be worse than any other. Many in the Territories had about disregarded the rumors, after all, the territories technically belonged to no one, so what did they care if there was a war between nations? But some, like Toran's father, had been more wary, keeping a watchful eye on the news coming in from the east.
And that, of course, was one reason the hybrids had retreated so far from the human settlements. Shivering, Toran resisted the urge to sweep the feather away from his neck, every motion he made making it tickle him unexpectedly. That morning at breakfast, Toran's mother had made no mention of his choice to wear the feather, not even seeming to notice the change, which was better than what he had expected, but his father on the other hand... He had rather coldly asked if that was really what he was going to wear, but other than that, he hadn't even looked at him. Of course, Toran reflected, it could be worse. None of the hands had dared to mention it once it became clear that his father wasn't making an issue of the odd choice. Still, the herd was almost together, which meant that they would all be taking a break soon enough, and Toran would have a chance to have a moment to himself. The most experienced hands were already bringing the last heads in on the far side of the herd.
But even as he saw the hands close the ring of circling riders, Toran glimpsed something in the distance, something out of place on the wide and flat plain. Rising up in his stirrups as high as he could, he shielded his eyes with his hand. Trying to make out what it was, he completely lost track of what he was supposed to be doing.
"Toran, watch it, they are getting past you!!" His father shouted, but Toran's eyes went wide and he cut off his father's coming reprimand.
"Riders!!" He called, pointing in the direction of the rising dust clouds. "Lots of them."
"What?" His father asked, looking in the same direction. After a moment of staring, his face turned to a serious expression, his hand drifting to the stock of the rifle that was holstered on his saddle. Looking around, Toran could see that the few hands who had rifles were likewise drawing their weapons, the rest going for their revolvers. More than once, they had had to fight off roving groups of rustlers and once a gang of outlaws who had been looking for some extra money. This was the first time that Toran had been present for such an event, and, at first, he had no idea what he was supposed to do. Then, as the thunder of the horse's hoofs became audible in the distance, he decided that the best thing to do was wait here, behind the crowd of riders. Though he knew how to shoot, and had been doing it since he was about six years old, he and his father both hadn't thought much point to him carrying a gun, though now he was seriously reconsidering it. The cows in the herd were already losing their cohesion, starting to move away from the newcomers and as the herd scattered, Toran could see the riders much more clearly.
There were at least twenty, riding hard, but still almost in a wedge formation. For the most part, they were dressed in dusters and the wide brimmed hats favored by the local ranchers, all but one that is. After a moment, Toran's father relaxed, calling for the hands to lower their weapons, letting the rifle sag back into its saddle holster. The new riders were already slowing down, reining in their panting horses and finally Toran recognized the man in the lead. It was Bill Turnman, the Marshall of the nearest township. He had always been somewhat friendly with their family, and at least fair to the hybrids, which was more than could be said of many in his position. Of course, he didn't look much like a marshal today. Not with the man who rode at his right hand. Unlike the other riders, he wore a military uniform, light blue beneath the dust of the trail, his shoulders decorated with what looked like officer rank, the insignia in the crown of his wide brimmed hat that of the Torius 5th Cavalry, the military unit that had posted nearby for Toran's entire life. Perhaps more impressive, he wore a shining sabre with a gilded hilt at his side in addition to a long barreled pistol, obviously meant to be fired from horseback.
"Damnit Bill," Toran's father shouted, pointing towards the scattering herd. "It took us all morning to gather them together!!"
"Sorry John." The Marshall panted, out of breath. "I had no choice. They did it, it's started."
"What are you talking about?" Toran's father asked, the ranch hands closing in around them to listen.
"Its war John." The Marshall replied and Toran felt his blood chill. "You and I both know its been coming for a while, but its official now. There is an army landing in the northeast from over the sea."
"So what?" Toran's father questioned, many of his hands nodding in agreement. "That's thousands of miles away from here."
"I know that." Bill replied, sounding as if Toran's father was being obvious. "Trouble is, there is already talk of a universal draft, and that includes everybody in the Territories as well."
"Bull." One of the hands spat in disgust. "Its none of our business. That is why we live out here in the first place."
"How dare you?!" Demanded the military officer. "Have you no sense of duty, no honor? Your nation is at war, and you should be glad to be called on to defend it!"
"Shut up, Captain." The Marshall ordered, glaring the man into silence. Though the officer was obviously used to being the one giving the orders, the Marshall out-massed him by a huge margin, and more than that, the other riders with them already seemed rebellious. Wisely, the captain did as the Marshall said. "Look, I know many of us came out here to get away from all of this, but I believe we are still citizens of Torius. But there is another way, an alternative to the draft..."
***
Toran sat at the table later that night, looking down at his hands. The big table was empty except for his family, the ranch hands elsewhere tonight, either in their bunk houses, or outside on the porch. Normally, many would be in here, drinking and laughing and talking about the hard day's work they had just put in. But everyone had a lot to think about tonight. Toran's father and mother were sitting across the table, talking quietly. Toran's mother was all too obviously trying not to cry, and Toran could easily understand why that was. The humans in the territories were facing the devil's choice, either be drafted and go off to fight, or take the Marshall's other offer. The other way that he had mentioned, the way that would keep the Territorial residents out of the fighting, was not actually much better. Since the creation of the Border Territories, their government had stationed units of the military there to protect the people, and to keep the peace, or at least so it was said. These units were mostly cavalry with some infantry mixed in near the largest settlements, highly mobile, and well trained units that, with the war on, were urgently needed elsewhere.
So, to release those units for service in the east, the territorial governors had come up with an idea, units that would be called Territorial Rangers, drawn from local citizens, trained to fight as soldiers, but made to protect the territories, not to fight the war. As a condition for service in the Rangers, the Governors had decreed that every man who volunteered would be exempt from the draft, and therefore from war. What was more, if each territorial county fulfilled the required levy for the Rangers, that county's draft requirement would also be considered to be fulfilled. But still, despite the generous terms, the people had been resistant to the idea, and Marshall Turnman had made the point that, since Toran's father owned the largest ranch for hundreds of miles, and was widely respected by everyone for three towns in any direction, would legitimize the Rangers in the eyes of many if he himself were to volunteer. Toran's father had agreed, and word was already spreading that the unit being raised in the area was to be under his command.
"Toran," His father said, making the red haired boy look up at him, "Lets take a walk." Surprised, Toran got up and walked out onto the porch with his father, following him when he led the way out towards the stables. When they were out of earshot of the ranch hands sitting on the porch, the rancher spoke to his son. "Listen, I know there is no minimum age for joining the Rangers, and I know many of the other boys your age will be joining up."
"Father..." Toran started to say, but his father held up a hand for silence.
"Look son, I know we haven't exactly seen eye to eye on everything." He began again, looking at Toran with concern, his eyes lingering on the feather in his son's hair. "And I know that if you want to serve, I can't stop you from joining. But I want you to do me a favor, I want you to stay out of it. I need you here Toran, on the ranch. You are only fifteen, so you won't be eligible for the draft for another three years, and I want you to stay out of the Rangers as well, at least until then."
"What?" Toran asked, surprised. He had always thought that his father would have encouraged him to join the Rangers, especially if he was going to be in charge, so that at least he could keep an eye on the boy, and keep him out of trouble.
"Look, if I am going to be commanding the Rangers, I am not going to be around much." The older man said, looking up at setting sun. "I need somebody I can trust looking after the place, keeping what hands aren't serving in line and the like. I want that person to be you."
"Father, I'm only fifteen..." Toran started to say and his father nodded. "They aren't going to listen to me."
"They will." He replied. "And yes, you are fifteen, which means you are old enough to keep a hold of things here. Will you do this for me son?" After a moment of surprised hesitation, Toran nodded...