nahmanda

by Charley The Plant

Jove's last gig in Khura'in.

I close my eyes. Slowly, colors start to emerge from the shadows. First the greens appear, then the light shades of blue. The colors and shadows begin to converge until the colors become something tangible: brown earth. Green grass. Blue sky.

And then she appears. She emerges slowly in my mind as she draws in the colors around her. She's made of white clouds and yellow daffodils and emerald leaves. She pulls in the warm colors of the earth beneath my feet to bring her soft hair to life. Cool gray shadows become her eyes. Her lips are red roses.

When I close my eyes, I see her there. The sun is shining high above us on a summer day and she's standing there just far enough for me to take all of her in with my eyes. She's wearing a white dress and her long brown hair falls over her smooth shoulders. A warm breeze makes her airy skirt dance. Her body sways like a ballerina as she turns my way.

And then she looks at me. Man. If you could see the looks she gives me with those beautiful gray eyes of hers…. It's half the reason I fell in love with her. When wind passes through her hair, the scent of flowers comes my way. I can't help but reach out my hand towards her just to touch her silky brown locks.

I'm hypnotized. She sees the look on my face and she laughs; she always does when I zone out like that. Her laugh is the other reason I fell in love with her. It sounds like church bells ringing on Christmas Eve: heartwarming, familiar. Peaceful. I'm a suddenly embarrassed about acting like a grade school boy and I tell myself to snap out of it, but by that time it's too late. She's already laughing, but there's love in her laughter. She draws closer and she runs her fingers through my hair before her soft lips find a place on mine.

The buzz of the crowd outside brings me back to Earth. My eyes snap open and she's not there. That's when I suddenly remember I'm in a foreign country. My wife's off somewhere else performing at another venue and my son is with me in a makeshift cradle here in the back room of a small bar. I thank my lucky stars that he's finally asleep. He's got a big pair of lungs for a baby. When he's hungry, he screams louder than the front man at a rock concert.

I sigh a little as I tune my guitar. The last thing I wanted to do tonight is find a gig while I'm watching my son, but it's cold outside and we'd spent the last of our money getting across the border. A little music in exchange for a warm place to sleep and a little food wasn't a bad deal. The peace that the image of my wife had garnered me for a few seconds fades quickly as I turn my mind towards my work.

E, A, D, G, B, E. In a little while the guitar's in tune. I gently strum a couple of chords to warm my stiff hands up as I look over my shoulder at a son we'd never planned on having. Well…. Not so soon, anyway. We figured we'd have a couple more years to tour the world before we settled down and had a family. We were barely getting by as it was.

But we got by—even if it meant a few sacrifices here and there. Hospital bills had made a big dent in our meager savings, not to mention the cost of diapers, baby clothes, baby toys... But still, we make do—even if it means I go hungry a few nights out of the week. I tell myself that their love is warmer than the park benches I was used to sleeping on back then.

God, how her old man must hate me. He'd called me every curse word he could think of before telling me I'd never be good enough for his daughter. I swore that I'd give her a good life, but...sometimes I think the old man is right. I'd never be good enough for his daughter. I continue strumming my guitar as I sink into what Thalassa calls "the dark thoughts"—the kind where I doubt myself, where I wonder whether she'd have been better off with someone else. And then I look down at Apollo and I smile. Even if it means I go hungry…I wouldn't have it any other way. We wouldn't have it any other way. Not as long as it meant Apollo was in our lives.

The manager peeks his head in and brings the scent of garlic and meat from the kitchen with him. My stomach growls and I'm reminded of the reason I'm here. I stretch my fingers.

"Are you ready?" The manager is a large, gruff looking guy with thick black hair and a mustache. Judging by the way his apron is caked with grease, it looks like he hasn't washed his apron for a very long time. Still, if his food tastes as good as it smells, I could overlook a few unsanitary habits.

I look at Apollo. He's still fast asleep. "Sure. As ready as I'll ever be."

I hike my guitar up on my shoulder by its strap and sidle up next to the manager. I didn't know much about Khura'in, but I did know they were religious. Imagine my surprise when I found myself standing there and looking out over a drunk crowd, half of whom I suspect had ducked into this bar just to avoid the cold. A few of them nearby briefly looked at me before hunching back over their drink. The air shimmered from the heat of the candles that sat on each of the tables and it briefly reminded me of a few of the shady bars where I'd performed before I met Thalassa.

"Hey…." The manager stares at me as I walk past. "What kind of songs do you play, by the way?"

I shrug. "Mostly folk songs. Is that all right?"

The manager grunts. "Huh. Folk songs. Do you know 'Gezogezo in the Nahmanda'?"

I shake my head. "Sorry. Can't say that I do. I don't even know what a 'gezogezo' is, much less a 'nahmanda.'"

The manager points past the sea of bar patrons to the far wall. There, several vases full of beautiful white flowers are adorning a shrine of some sort.

"Those flowers over there are what we call 'nahmanda,'" the manager says. The flowers are small and delicate—they look a bit like lotus blossoms. They remind me of Thalassa and I briefly wonder how her own performance is going.

So I tell the manager, "They're pretty flowers. I should pick some up for my wife."

The manager's mustache bobbles a bit on his lip as he laughs. "You don't want to give these flowers to your wife. Not unless she's passed over into the Twilight Realm, of course." He nods in the direction of the shrine. "In our country, we offer those flowers to the ones that have passed away."

"Oh." I look at the shrine again and I spot a framed picture of what I could only guess was an old relative of the manager's sitting among the vases of flowers. I chuckle awkwardly. "Well, here's hoping I won't have to do that for a long time."

The manager nods. "As for 'gezogezo'…." He pats me heartily on the back. "If you put on a good performance, I'll whip up a large platter of gezogezo stew, just for you!"

I frown a bit and chuckle again, this time a bit nervously. "Well. I never say no to a warm meal." He claps me on the back again and leads me out through the crowd.

He leads me to the front of the bar and I look out over the crowd again. No one seems to notice that a foreigner is standing up at the front. They continue murmuring amongst themselves. I shrug my guitar off my shoulder and I take a seat on a bench next to me. I was used to playing for audiences who were less interested in me and more interested in their drinks.

I play a couple of chords and I clear my throat. "Hi."

No response. The crowd chatters away and I decide to try again, a little louder this time.

"Hi there."

Still no response. A tall guy with a chiseled chin sitting at the table closest to the front gives me a withering look before turning back to his drink.

I'm used to this, I tell myself. I strum a couple of chords before launching right into my set. "I'm Jangly Justice, and I'm a long way from home. I brought a few songs with me. I hope you enjoy them."

And just like that, I close my eyes and I begin to sing. When I close my eyes, the world outside starts to disappear. The raucous sounds of the bar begin to fade away as the familiar colors of a summer day rise from the darkness behind my eyelids. They converge as I sing and I see Thalassa again, looking as beautiful as ever. She's as beautiful as a flower in her dress and the ruffles are soft, white petals fluttering in the breeze. This time she's cradling Apollo and we're all sitting there underneath that summer sky. I start singing a song that I wrote for her and I feel the words flow evenly from my lips. Bit by bit, the noise in the bar diminishes and all I can hear is the sound of my voice and the bright, clear tones of my guitar. The cold draft running through the bar becomes a warm breeze in my mind; the sharp chill in my fingers is replaced with the heat of steel strings. I'm singing to an audience of two—the only two who matter. She smiles at me. Little Apollo laughs. The scent of flowers rides the breeze.

The rest of the set goes like that. I sing five songs and I hold my small family in my mind as a blockade against the rest of the world. It's when I'm there with them in that bright green pasture that I find peace. Those mere seconds of peace are all I need to find enough courage to pour my songs out to the world.

When it ends, I open my eyes and the world comes crashing back into my mind. The colors disperse and re-solidify as old wooden tables, baskets of bread, and beer bottles. My small family is suddenly replaced with the faces of strangers staring back at me. The scent of garlic and meat hits my nose.

It's quiet. The audience always is after I play a few songs and I'm always surprised that anyone gives a damn about my music. A smattering of loud applause rises from the audience and I feel an embarrassed heat rise to my cheeks. I breathe a small sigh of relief as I adjust the guitar on my lap.

"Uh, thanks." I smile and I'm about to thank the audience for listening when a beer bottle comes flying from across the room. It smashes against the wooden floor near my feet. My eyes quickly snap over to a man standing up in the back and pointing at me.

"You!" he shouts. His face is red from drinking and he's far too thin to have a beer belly that big. "Play 'Gezogezo in the Nahmanda'!"

I've also played at enough of these places to know there's always that one guy at the bar who's far too drunk. He belches and wipes his mouth with his sleeve before screaming at me again. "C'mon, Jingly! 'Gezogezo in the Nahmanda'!"

"It's 'Jangly,'" I say back to him. I feel my muscles tensing. My hand clutches the neck of my guitar a little tighter. "And I don't know that song."

The man starts to scream at me in a language I don't understand. Judging from the looks on a few other faces, he wasn't saying very kind things to me. Soon, other people start chiming in. At the drop of a hat, an audience that was applauding me seconds ago is now throwing insults at me.

"What kind of musician doesn't know 'Gezogezo in the Nahmanda'?"

"Get out, foreigner!"

"Learn to play some real music!"

When the manager starts waving me over from the back, I dip my head and pick my guitar up by the strap. A cold draft hits me and I absently turn towards the windows as I hitch my guitar up on my shoulder in anticipation of our fate. I stare at the windows and I know that there's an immensely cold wind that was waiting for us just outside those thin panes of glass. God knows I'm no stranger to the cold—all those nights sleeping on a park bench after a club manager stiffed me on my wages, those nights when a gig had gotten canceled or a band member had gotten sick. But with Apollo…. Little Apollo…. I could only hope that Thalassa has better luck with her performance.

Dejectedly, I start to make my way towards the back. When a few people try to get their point across by throwing bread in my direction, I decide it's time to pick up the pace and get myself and Apollo out of there as fast as I could. I could figure out where we could get shelter from the cold later.

My mind is still on getting Apollo from the back room when a hard bread roll hits me in the eye. It catches me by surprise and I wince in pain. That's when a loud, booming voice stopped me in my tracks—stopped everyone in their tracks.

"Satorha!"

With my hand over my eye, I stand up straight and look around. The bar is completely silent once again and all I can hear is the howling wind outside. I look over my shoulder to find the source of that big voice and I see the chisel-jawed man who was sitting alone at the front of the bar, the one who had given me a look of annoyance before I started my set. He's standing up now with his shoulders drawn back and he almost looks ethereal with the air shimmering around him from the heat of the candles. With his jet-black hair and sharp eyes, he's an imposing figure.

The man steps away from his table and walks out amongst the crowd. A few of the hecklers in the audience ashamedly dip their heads to avoid eye contact.

"Is this how the people of Khura'in behave towards travelers?" the man asked in that same booming voice. Even I gave a little shiver at the thought of crossing this guy. "Is this what our religion has taught us?" He looks out over the bar for a long moment and there's nothing but the wind howling outside and the shimmering air. I grip my guitar tightly to remind myself I'm still there in that rickety bar and not in hell.

The man suddenly turns his sharp eyes towards me. He extends a hand and waves me over. "Come. Sit with me."

I hesitate for a moment. He waves again, and his sharp eyes begin to soften. I slowly make my way towards his table; as I do, the low, familiar murmur of the bar starts to hum again. The incident was forgotten as quickly as it had arisen.

I draw up close to the table and the man cracks a smile. He pulls out a chair. "Here. Have a seat."

I mumble my thanks and I draw the guitar across my lap as I sit. The man sits down as well. I sneak a couple of glances at him as he pours me a drink and I realize his clothes are made of fine silk. This guy isn't some ordinary Joe off the street. This guy's upper-class.

I feel the man's eyes on me as he pours my drink. He's studying me the same way I was studying him. He's probably looking at my worn hat and my patchy jacket and wondering to himself why anyone would choose this kind of life for himself. I clear my throat.

"What…does 'sahdora' mean?"

The man laughs as he places my drink in front of me and I realize he's just as loud when he's amused as he is when he's angry. "'Satorha.' It's something my wife yells at me when I annoy her." He motions to the drink. "Please. Drink."

I pick up the glass and I take a sip. It's wine, but it's no ordinary wine. This wine tastes…good. I settle back and let the adrenaline drain from my muscles. We sip our drinks in silence for awhile.

"I'm sorry about the people here," the man finally says. He's staring at his drink.

I clear my throat again and look up at the man. "It's okay. I didn't understand what they were saying anyway."

The man laughs. "Not understanding Khura'inese has its perks sometimes." He lets out a loud sigh and shifts in his seat. I take another sip and I let the wine's warmth flood through me.

"I enjoyed your music," he says. "It reminds me of nahmanda flowers."

I frown as my eyes shift briefly towards the small altar by the far wall. "You mean those flowers that you offer the dead?" The man's eyes grow wide as I laugh. "My music's that good, huh?"

The man joins my laughter and shakes his head. "No, no. Nahmandas are flowers that we offer to the dead, yes. But there's a reason why." The man cocks his head in the direction of the altar. "Nahmandas symbolize peace, purity, and spiritual enlightenment in our culture. We offer them to the ones who have passed over to the Twilight Realm in hopes that their souls rest in tranquil repose until we see them again." The man takes a sip of his wine and stares intently at me. "Your music is peaceful." I meet his gaze and I nod as I begin to comprehend the compliment.

"I've always wondered what it would be like to live the life of a traveling minstrel," the man continues. "You know…to write and sing music like that for everyone all over the world to hear."

I laugh again, this time with a little bitterness. "It's not as romantic as you'd think—especially when you're traveling with a family." I hold my glass and I swirl the wine around in it. "Most of the time I'm singing songs about home and my family even while I'm traveling."

The man nods and takes another sip. "That's when songs about home and family sound the best. It's when you're thinking about them that gives them the most meaning."

I think about this for a little while. We both do. We sit and we drink and we chat a little while, and soon the voices around us fade away. In time, I hear the clinking of glass as the bartender gathers empty beer bottles. It's silent. The bar is closing.

I stare at my empty glass. It would be awhile more before Thalassa wrapped up her gig. That left me with Apollo for a little while longer, and seeing as Apollo would undoubtedly be waking up soon, I had to get moving. I still had to find a place to stay tonight and, judging from tonight's performance, Apollo and I were still left without a place to stay.

I set my glass down on the table and nod to the man. "Thanks for the drink…and thanks for saving my hide back there."

The man's eyes widen. "You're not leaving, are you?"

I shrug and motion over to the bar, where the bartender was wiping down the counter. "It looks like they're about to close up. I've still got to find a place for me and my family to stay tonight."

The man shakes his head. "Listen. Why don't you and your family come over to my place?" He suddenly laughs and I'm caught off-guard at his sudden jolliness. "How do you feel about playing for the Queen of Khura'in?"

It's my turn to laugh now. "Yeah. That's a nice little joke there."

The man's laughter fades and he looks at me, all business-like all of a sudden. "Seriously. How would you like to sing for the queen?"

My eyes dart to his clothes again. He has to be rich, sure. Maybe he even works for the royal family. But does he actually have enough clout to get some wandering performer an audience with the queen? "…You…serious?"

"Yeah!" The man belts out the loudest laugh yet. "Believe it or not, I'm married to the queen."

I let out a sigh. "I'm married to a queen too, but that doesn't make me royalty." I smile politely and I stand. "I appreciate the offer, though."

The man grabs me by the cuff of my sleeve. "Just a second." He reaches into his shirt and pulls out a locket. He opens it and I've got to rub my eyes a couple of times because I can hardly believe what I'm seeing: it's him and a beautiful woman whom I immediately recognize from television and a thousand other pictures plastered up across the city. It was the queen. They're posing together in that picture in his locket.

The man laughs when he sees the expression on my face. "Told you." He slaps my arm while I'm still standing there, stunned beyond belief. "Come on. I'd be honored if you performed for me and my family. I'd be honored if you'd be my guest at the royal palace."

I can't do much else at that point but blurt out a few words. "I—I couldn't possibly—"

The man's grip on my sleeve becomes more insistent. "Jangly, listen. Times are…difficult…here in Khura'in. Between dealing with the royal court and the citizens of Khura'in, I've had my hands full." His grip softens, and so do his eyes. "You've brought me more peace tonight with your music than I've had in a long time. Please give me a chance to show my gratitude."

I grit my teeth. The answer was simple, of course. I think about my wife, who was even now still performing, tired as she was. And then I think about Apollo sleeping soundly in the back, who had cried himself to sleep from the cold. I think about these things as I give him my answer.

"Of course. Give me a moment to get my son."

He nods, and I slowly walk past the empty wooden tables as I gather my thoughts. I pass the manager as I make my way to the back and I'm about to apologize for the performance when he holds a hand up to stop me.

"You did good tonight, kid." He pats me roughly on the back. "Your music is good. Don't let anyone else in the world tell you otherwise." His mustache bobbles as he laughs. He wipes his hands on his apron then, with a nod, he disappears into the kitchen.

I hardly have time to reflect on what the manager just told me as I turn into the back room. I'm greeted with the sight of my son in his makeshift cradle of pillows. He's still fast asleep. I gently pick him up and he shuffles a bit as he finds a comfortable place in my arms.

The man is waiting for me as I emerge back into the bar. He spots the little bundle of blankets in my arms as I hoist my guitar over my shoulder.

"That's your son, eh?" He laughs. This guy loved to laugh. "Looks just like you. What's his name?"

I look at my son. He wriggles a little before falling back into a sound sleep.

"Apollo." I look at the man. "As a matter of fact, I don't even know your name."

The man smiles as he opens the door. A cold gust of wind hits our faces and I'm suddenly glad at my stroke of luck in meeting this guy. "It's Dhurke."

Dhurke exits the bar and holds the door open for us. Before I leave, I look at the spot where Dhurke had been standing. The small altar full of nahmanda flowers was there. The stubs of two incense sticks are standing in a pile of its own ashes, and I don't know if it's because of the cold or a premonition, but I shiver a little as I look at the altar. Then I look at the nahmanda flowers again and I remember what Dhurke told me about them. For a brief moment, a weird sense of peace and tranquility washes over me.

"Let's get a move on, Jangly." I hear Dhurke's voice calling to me from outside. I pull the blankets snugly over Apollo as I give the nahmanda flowers one last look. We step outside the bar.

Before us, the lights of the bazaar glow brightly in the cold night.

When I close my eyes, I remember all of this. I remember the cold night. I remember my son in my arms and my old guitar on my shoulder. The shadows and the colors converge and they form these images for me, just as real and as bright as when I was looking at them with my own eyes.

I used to see these images all the time. I closed my eyes a lot back then; that was my way of shutting out the world and finding my inner peace. I closed myself off to the sight of my wife—my poor, beautiful, lonely wife—walking through the streets of an unfamiliar country in search of her husband and son. Later, she's walking through the streets as she holds those white, funny little nahmanda flowers in her hands. She lays them down by the royal palace as locals stroll by, unaware of her grief.

I also see my son in a cabin tucked away from the world. Dhurke is there, and he's raising him the best that he can. I'm grateful for that…. But there are those times when I see my son looking out over the city from afar and every line on his face and every tear tells me he wants nothing more than to be a part of all that…. Well, those are the times when I wish I could reach my hand out to him the same way I used to reach out for Thalassa in my mind. But I can't.

Those are the things that make me want to close my eyes and retreat from the sights and sounds of the world. But I know if I did, I'd never see the beauty in it as well. I see Thalassa moving on instead of succumbing to despair. She's married again. She has another child. And although the sight of her with a man who isn't…me…pains me to the core, I wouldn't have it any other way. Not if all ofthis had to happen.

I also see my son growing older by the day. He's growing up into the spitting image of me and he has no idea. But I know. And I take pride in how handsome and strong my son has turned out to be.

But despite the happy moments, despite the sad moments—despite all of this—I still close my eyes. It happens less frequently these days, but there are still times when I close my eyes and I let the colors converge behinds my eyelids. And she stands there in a summer field full of white flowers, as beautiful as always. She's standing there and waiting for me. Apollo's there, too—a handsome, brave man that I'm proud to call my son. We sit down as the colors weave in and out of my sight, and I sing them a song. The notes fly high on the wind with the scent of nahmandas.

In my mind, I release my regrets, all the "what ifs" that could have been. When I'm there with them in that field, I don't regret not being a better husband or a better father. I don't regret my inability to provide for them. In my mind, I simply thank them. I thank them for letting me be a part of their lives, as short as it was. And when I do, I lay on my back in that field of nahmandas and I look up at the sky and smile.

In time, the colors slowly fade. As they do, I feel a sense of peace wash over me. And I rest.