Avatar Kitai
Chapter 1 - The Visitor
She took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Although she had heard no sound, the house seem to quiet from within. It was as if the very walls had stilled themselves to check that there had indeed been flesh on the door. Even the strong wind blown from the ocean current had stopped tearing at her robes. She knocked again, this time less sure of herself. Her hand shook, but from the chill rather than from fear. She thought back on the words her superiors had given her as she had left. They had chosen her because she was astute and accurate, and her attention to detail was unrivaled. The simple truth was that she available. In an effort to document as much as they could, all of her colleagues had been sent out to the field. They were dispersed around the globe to follow leads before the threads of information they sought out died along with holders of that knowledge.
She was sent to catacombs in the Fire Nation. It was there that she stumbled upon the name: Komatsu. That discovery had almost become her undoing. The Komatsu family had amassed more wealth than several large cities combined. They had tendrils in nearly every profitable business in existence. It caused her to have to sift through thousands of records. The Komatsu's had done a great job keeping their personal lives out of the public and government records. Most of what she found described the family's real estate and business holdings. The financial estimates were staggering. The Komatsu family had a penchant for buying wide swaths of land and various businesses, developing them and then selling them for an enormous profit. Lucky for her, whether her superiors really meant their praise or not, it was her attention to detail that lead her here to this remote village in a bay on the edge of Fire Nation territory. The records only mentioned it once briefly, and the island was so insignificant that it did not appeared on the archived maps. The family had purchased a small home on the tiny island years ago and never did anything with it. She had to beg her way in to access Fire Nation naval records to even find the small archipelago. It was situated several hundred miles south of the capital, tucked in the shadow of several large islands. And so she came.
Even if the lead didn't work out it provided a reason to abandon the catacombs of the Fire Nation. She had spent the better part of the last three years buried in tombs, libraries and underground ruins sifting through and archiving information around the world. She needed the fresh air and freedom that new direction provided.
Though it was now the dead of winter in the Northernmost part of the country, here at the cusp of the southern portion of the Fire Nation the sun peaked through the sky with a gentle intensity. She was grateful for the sun, not simply for its novelty in her underground bookish existence, but because had the sun not been shining she would have died from hypothermia. It brought some warmth to the wind-whipped island.
She lifted her hand formed a fist to knock a third time. Before her knuckles could again rap against the weathered wood a voice shouted from inside the house.
"I heard you the first two times!"
Her hand froze inches from the door. There was no anger in the voice, but its intensity made her retreat back a step. When the voice said nothing else or indicate that it had plans to come to see who had knocked, she gathered her confidence and spoke.
"Hello? I'm wondering if you could help me. My boat sank out in the bay and I just need a fire to dry my clothes and hair." Her clothes were indeed soaked through. She had seen to that before approaching the small house. It was a gambit that she'd hoped would pay off.
"Your clothes can dry in the sun.
"It's winter. That could take all day if it even happens at all.
"If your boat is at the bottom of the bay then you have the time to spare.
"Time I have, but no place to eat.
"We have no extra food to serve,"
"But I do. I managed to save some duck we had planned to roast. Now I'm afraid it will go to waste if not cooked soon."
The house grew silent again. She prepared to change tactics, but decided to wait and see what her gamble had won her when several bolts slid across the other side of the door.
The door cracked and a face, even more weathered than it peered back at her. It was a man, likely 90 winters old. She smiled more than to simply display her happiness that someone had answered but at the irony that the face did not even remotely matched the voice she heard. He looked her up and down in something she would assume was close to pity but couldn't truly tell.
"You are completely soaked," he confirmed quietly.
"I had to swim for shore," She lied.
"And you managed to save a duck to roast?" He whispered even more softly as if the neighbors would hear and descend upon them for a chance at the bird.
She smiled and lifted it out of her satchel
"Oh, please come in," old man said happily and opened the door wider for her to enter.
She stepped inside and surveyed the home. It was a small bungalow, styled similar to the other homes that dotted the shore. The difference was in the craftsmanship. This small home had been built by experienced hands. The wooden floor planks were dark and smooth. She recognized the timber to be an expensive variety, undoubtedly imported here at great cost. She was not a carpenter and so could not place the value, but she saw something whose value she could not determine as she allowed the old man to lead her over to a small dining table. She dropped her satchel in a chair and she sidled over to the fireplace and shed her outer robe. The old man handed her a dry robe pointing to a changing screen off to the side. It was a beautiful handwoven tapestry displaying a beautiful rendering of the changing of season's in a forest in a clockwise cycle. Its style spoke of it having been embroidered by the some great talent, likely Fire Nation if she had to place it. It was worth more than all contents of house together could fetch. She doubted that the two men knew the exorbitant price they could demand and receive for the tapestry.
She stepped behind the screen, changed and emerged in the just offered robe. It was much longer than she was used to, and dragged a bit at the bottom. She had worn the custom robes of her station for so long that she'd taken for granted the benefits of tailored garments. She bowed gratefully nonetheless
"Thank you very much," she said bending deeply at the waist.
"It was the least I could do for a pretty lady," the man winked.
She smiled at the harmless gesture, trying to radiate kindness.
"You could fish her boat out of the bottom of the ocean," came a second voice in a deep baritone. In her unexpected shock at the deep growing sound the woman's feet momentarily left the ground. This was voice that belonged to the man that had berated her knocking on the door. The sound was even more overpowering without walls to mute its intensity. She spun around searching for the source. From the shadow of the small hallway the specter came forward. He caned his way into the light pouring into the receiving room. He was older than the man that had answered the door by probably ten years and the extra age showed itself distinctly upon him. Though he moved slowly, the encumbrance of his age was lost in his demeanor. His eyes were dark and intense and focused on her; his jaw strong, square and cleanly shaven. His hair was as white as any cloud and the few strands he had left billowed thinly over the crown of his head like a rank of soldiers determined to hold their own and give no more ground. His height and shape told that he'd been a large brawny man in life, though his musculature had long thinned out leaving a stoic, wide frame. She could tell from his stance that he was fighting his spine's urge to stoop with old age. She wonder briefly what nation's army he had served in, noted the thought as something she would ask and returned her consciousness to her narrative.
"Well, I've never been that fond of fishing," the man that answered the door said.
"You'll hear no complaints from me. We already eat fish too often." he answered.
"Well, you'll be glad to know that tonight we are having a very different meal."
"What happened to the fish stew you made such a scene over?"
"That was what we were having before. Now, it's just an appetizer." He said this as he ladled soup into two bowls and handed one to each of them. "Tonight this chef will prepare a feast of duck." he said triumphantly, brandishing the limp bird.
"And where did this chef manage to find duck?"
The woman smiled brightly.
The old man tapped his ear. "My hearing is going. I must've missed that part during our little chat through the door."
"Then it's a special surprise for you," She said.
"No, it's not because we won't be having it." The old man said as much to her as to the chef.
"Oh yes we will," the chef replied. "I am forced to cook the same things day in and day out. Fish tonight, fish tomorrow, fish the next day!"
"And each time you find an inventive way to make it."
"That is not the point. I am a world class, top trained chef."
The woman spooned soup into her mouth as she didn't know what else to do. She was surprised to find the soup was very delicious.
"World class?" Older man scoffed. "You were trained in the kitchens at the Fire Nation capital."
"And yet it hasn't stopped you from eating my meals."
"I didn't mean to insult you. You talent for cooking is undeniable."
"Undeniable!" the chef repeated. "And now I once again have a worthy ingredient and you are trying to take it away."
"I am not trying to take anything away. That is the young lady's duck, not yours. We should give it back to her lest she starve on our account."
"No, no." She spoke up. "I'm happy to share what I have. It's not as if I could eat the whole thing myself," the woman pled to the elder man, then speaking to the chef added. " I'd be honored for you to prepare me one of your meals, especially if you make duck half as good as you soup," she said wagging the spoon in the air, "I will have gotten the better of the deal. And I've never had the pleasure of eating food by a world class cook." She said it with a smile. It was the only truth she had told them since she'd knocked on the door.
The chef did not wait for approval but nodded his head and turned to prepare the meal. The silence only lasted for few beats before the gravelly voiced man turned to her and whispered.
"He won't remember in a week that he actually made duck and will begin to lament about fish again."
"Oh," the woman whispered back in a low voice. Does he have much trouble with his memory?"
"You wouldn't believe it if I told you how much." The old man replied with a grin.
The woman grinned back and mentally reminded herself: smile, win them over, be charming.
"In fact," the old man added. "We keep a daily list of what he's cooked to help him." He pointed to a small list pinned to the wall. "Could you grab that for me."
The woman obediently rose from her chair and brought back the paper.
"Thank you. My hands are getting stiff with age. Could you write-" he paused and called to the cook, "how are you preparing the duck?"
"It's a surprise," the cook called over his shoulder.
The older man sighed in feigned irritation. "Could you write 'duck surprise' for today, please?" he asked her in a low voice.
The woman nodded and wrote under the meal for today.
"Could you also add your name as a guest?" he said. It will help in a few weeks time when I try to remind him that he had a guest here to taste his world class cooking."
The woman laughed genuinely. She put the pen to the paper and summoned a name from her memory: Mei. It was the name of a girl she had known back home.
The old man nodded, slid the paper towards himself for review and thanked her.
The woman smiled, "It's a small exchange for the hospitality you've show me. Such traits are a rarity these days."
"Are they?" The old man asked in surprised. "In my day, manners were at the very center of society, a way of life."
"Well, a lot has changed. I've traveled quite a bit and I find the world has become an unkind place."
"That's a shame to think unkindness and dishonesty have become commonplace."
The woman nodded, "It makes me appreciate your hospitality all the more."
The elder man sat his bowl down and laced his hands together, the index fingers connecting in a steeple. "You do?" he asked in a surprised voice and she nodded. "And yet you have lied non-stop to us since you set foot into our home. You say you appreciate our kindness, but not enough it seems to tell us why you are really here." The pleasantness in his voice had only changed a degree, but the certainty with which he said it whipped her to attention.
She froze with the spoon of soup halfway to her mouth, managed to collect herself quickly and then force the soup down her throat with a large gulp. She had not fooled them. She put the utensil in the bowl and placed the bowl in her lap. "I beg your pardon?" she responded with as much innocence as she could muster. The man spoke calmly.
"I guess I will drop my manners as well." he shrugged. "Why have you come here with a story about a sunken boat and needing shelter and a made up name like Mei?" His question was a mix of confidence and curiosity.
"Mei is not a made up name." she gasped with feigned injury.
"It is not your name though," he replied.
The woman sat her tea down. Her voice inquired softly. "What on earth would give you that idea?"
The man shrugged and scratched his ear, "A number of things." he said but did not elaborate.
"Maybe Mei is just an uncommon name for this part of the world?" she said and looked down into her soup, pushing a piece of vegetable around.
"It's fairly common, but that's not what gave it away. There were little things. For example, when I asked you to write your name there was a brief hesitation while you thought it out."
"You figured that my name was fake simply from my slowness to write it," She said disbelievingly.
"Well, that's just an example of one of the signs," The old man said.
"And yet you let me into your house despite the signs." she replied with a smirk.
"I figured if that was your best lie then you couldn't be that dangerous.
"And that's what gave me away?"
"The story about the boat was not really convincing either,"
"I thought that part was solid,"
"You said that you fell into the water. Yes, you are wet from top to bottom, but your satchel is dry." he added as he lifted her pack with his cane. "If you had fallen in only chest deep water, your hair and your bag would be dry as you likely would've put it above your head. If you fell into deeper water the bag would be as soaked through as you are as you would have had to swim for shore and your entire body would've been submerged. But again, you are wet from head to foot and your bag is not. So that meant you didn't want to get it or its contents wet, likely something you needed to keep dry. I'd guess books or papers if I were to take in account your excellent penmanship." he said tapping the menu she'd written with his finger. "Which likely means you study in the Earth Kingdom."
"How did you-"
"-Know it was the Earth Kingdom? You've made no mention, nor are there any signs of a crew with you, so that means if you had a boat then you'd have had to row it yourself. Looking at your arms, It's a safe bet to say that you've never rowed a boat a single day in your life. Water Tribe women grow up in boats, they'd have gone down with the ship before admitting have sank one in such a shallow bay. Fire Nation women could have started a fire with two rocks and would have likely swallowed both before knocking on a stranger's door for help with anything, least of all drying their clothes, and," he looked her up and down and added, "You are definitely no nun from any air temple."
The woman lifted an eyebrow and spoke.
"That doesn't mean I'm not dangerous. I could very well be an assassin and you've let me into your home."
The old man chuckled and sipped his soup for the first time. "Any assassin worth hire knows better to accept food or drink from their intended target. Chef could have slipped any number of poisons into your tea or your soup.
Chef had not even taken his eyes off of the pot he was stirring, but it was clear that he had not missed a word.
"You are no assassin my dear," The old man concluded. "Tell us your real name."
"My name is Hana."
"Ah, there's a real name. I'm Ooma. Tell me, Hana. What brought you to our little island?"
"You are right. I am from the Earth Kingdom," She confessed. "I work for the Ministry of History and Antiquities in Ba Sing Se."
"And the Earth Kingdom has sent you to collect me for your exhibit. They thought maybe I'd have kicked the bucket and want to turn me into some statue to gawk at?" The older man asked. The cook chuckled good-naturedly and continued to stir.
The Scribe shook her head. "I don't collect people. I'm a scribe. I gather and write information for the archives. I'm here to speak with you. A simple interview. That is all, and that is the truth."
The man looked up to the ceiling and back at her. "What information could you be possibly looking for?"
"I am assigned to research the Avatar. The Ministry is compiling information for his official biography. I am a part of the team cross checking the portions of his life that are missing or are factually questionable.
"Oh," the old man said disappointedly. "You're not here to research me?"
"Not unless you are the Avatar."
He chuckled. "I am not."
"Then, no." She said. "I am not here for you."
"That's alright. I'm not fond of visitors any way."
"Hmm," Hana said. "I would've never guessed it."
They shared an easy laugh.
"Researching the Avatar, you say?" Ooma asked her and she nodded. Ooma looked at her intensely. "The Avatar is an old man now, if even alive. If there is anyone that may be able to speak about him their time left may be limited; and so your time would be better spent looking for them."
"I am looking for them. However, it's like you said, most that knew the Avatar are long passed and they are ironically easier to find than the ones living. I happened to discover that this house once belonged to the Avatar's family. My research is more than about the people he knew, but also the places that he traveled to as well. Those can often help piece together a mystery. They are like a firsthand account. But one must become something of a detective rather than a scribe in those cases. That's partly why I came here, to could see if it still held some clues about the Avatar's life."
"Isn't the Avatar's childhood chronicled in the Earth Kingdom? He did spend some of his youth there learning to Earth-bending."
"The Avatar's time in the Earth Kingdom is documented there, but those records are incomplete. And if you ask me, they seem a bit disingenuous."
"Disingenuous?"
"The way those records are written reek of political correctness. I've studied many, many governments texts. The writings stored there on the Avatar all read like a staged version of someone's life. And from what I've gathered from other sources I get the sense that Kitai was one of the more…spirited… Avatars.
The old man looked at her with an expression that she could not read, but it made her feel a bit embarrassed, thought why she couldn't fully say.
"I'm sorry, dear." He said with a shake of his head. "It's just me and Chef here now. He can't remember anything that far back and I'm no better help to you."
The house gave another one of its silences. The scribe's smiled in meek thanks. She began to gather her materials into her satchel.
"What about your early travels?" the cook asked his companion from his post over the fire casually breaking the silence that had lingered while the woman reached out for her belongings.
The scribe's lifted an eyebrow to the chef. "What do you mean?"
The cook banged a spoon against the side of the pot and spoke over the brim and into the whatever was on the boil as if he were telling the food and not his seated audience. "Earlier on in his life," he pointed at his old companion, "he met the Avatar.
The scribe looked back to Ooma.
"Ooma sighed. "His memory is acting up again. He's giving greater weight to some of my younger memories I shared with him. It used to help sometime when I told him stories about my youth."
"And what a youth it was, running around with the Avatar!" Chef said banging the pot again either ignoring or oblivious to the first parts of what Ooma had said.
"Running around with the Avatar?!" Hana croaked. "How well did you know the Avatar Kitai?"
Ooma's irritation had returned. "The Avatar and I encountered each other as young men, early in our travels."
"That's-that's the kind of information I'm looking for," She stammered. "The interactions that helped illuminate what shaped Avatar Kitai."
"Shaped the Avatar?!" Ooma laughed. "That may be a stretch."
"Your interactions with the Avatar may have a greater effect then you realized at the time."
The old man shuffled uncomfortably. She had not expected someone so seemingly sure of himself to make such an anxious move. "In my old age, I can't say that I recall all of the details clearly. It was many, many years ago."
"Why don't you just start where you remember."
"It's mostly jumbled memories. Non-sense, really."
"Anything could be a great help in piecing together his early life."
"Whatever small details I may recall may not be of any use to you."
"Many small details are what complete a puzzle. A small detail is how I found the clue in the Fire Nation archives that brought me to this place. "
"And remind me," Ooma asked with what seemed to be genuine interest, "What detail was it that helped lead you here?"
The scribe smiled proudly and explained.
"The Avatar's family name is Komatsu. It's a fact not widely known, but I learned it while studying some time ago. I saw that someone in the Komatsu family bought this plot of land in the years just before the Avatar's birth. Unlike some of their other ventures outside of the Earth Kingdom, this land was never resold; it stayed in their family, which was something I noticed was odd in comparison to most of their foreign real estate habits. I thought that it'd be worth a look if I could be able to find some trace of the Avatar's early life.
"I see. That was very clever of you, Master Scribe,"
"I'm not a Master Scribe. I've only just graduated from being a novice."
"With your attention to detail I am sure you will move rank quickly enough. I am sorry that you've come all this way and I have nothing to offer you for your cleverness."
Hana looked dejected. "You must to remember something," she whispered. If it had been a fraction more desperate she would have been begging.
"I believe your things are now dry, my young scribe. There is a small inn farther up the shore where you can stay for the night." The old man said ending the conversation.
She was hurt at her sudden dismissal. "I need just a bit of your time." her voice wavered dangerously close to the desperation threshold.
"I don't have much of that left to spare," he said coldly.
"So, why not become apart of history before that time is up?" She mimicked a line she had heard one of the elder scribes use before.
"I'm already a part of history. I lived it. Now it's the past. It's gone. I don't dwell in it and no one cares about it."
I am a historian, I care." Hana said gently. "The past is my life."
"What a sad life you must live then." With a firm chill in his voice.
The scribe opened her mouth and then closed it, devastation etched across her face.
"Who have thought!" Chef chuckled. "There'd be a day when I remembered something and you didn't," the cook said flourishing another bowl of soup and putting it in front of the scribe. "You've told me the story enough times," he said jabbing at the air between him and Ooma. "The story of how you met the Avatar. I can tell her the parts I remember for her records that way her trip here isn't a total loss."
To this the older man raised an eyebrow. "I doubt you could recount any of those stories. You can hardly remember what you made for dinner three days ago. "
"I bet it involved fish," Chef added slyly.
"If you ever decide to give up cooking you may have a career in comedy," Ooma retorted.
Despite her frustration, Hana smiled at the two.
"The part about me not remembering dinner may be true," Chef said "But you used to tell me your younger adventures during a time when my memory was a bit better. Your words somehow stuck in there when everything else was leaking out."
"What exactly do you remember?" The scribe asked.
"You can't trust a thing he says." the old man hissed to her in a low voice. "His memory is far too poor."
"Maybe, but it should at least make for an interesting story over dinner." She turned to the cook. "I'd be delighted to hear your version of events, Chef"
"Dinner will not be happening." the Ooma said. He was standing now and the threat in his voice was unmistakable. Hana had not heard him rise, but his posture was menacing and echoing all the sentiments of his voice.
"It would be quite impolite to revoke my invitation." the scribe replied.
"Then you will have to excuse my bad manners. Your invitation has been withdrawn," the old man countered.
"How terribly rude, Hana replied with obviously feigned hurt.
Ooma scowled coldly and added. "You'd hardly be the first woman to think me rude."
"Fresh, isn't he?" chef said from the kitchen musingly.
"Quiet you!" the old man shouted to chef and waved a fist.
"Apparently abusive too," the scribe added in mock surprise.
Ooma's face contorted into one of such anger that the other two paused.
For the first time Chef put down his spoon and offered to walk Hana over to the boarding house.
"No!" Ooma shouted. "The two of you won't be going anywhere together." He surveyed both of them and then breathed deeply to regain his composure. "That won't be needed. If it will get you to leave," he said looking to the Hana, "And him to shut up," then I will tell you of my encounter with the Avatar," The old man growled and sat. He was now cross with them both, but it struck the scribe as more desperate than angry. She hurriedly snatched her writing materials from her satchel.
"Where will you be starting?" She asked while writing.
"Where all stories start. At the beginning," Ooma answered, still in a huff.
"At the beginning of your time with the Avatar?"
"Yes." Ooma answered.
"And this was when exactly?" The scribe asked without looking from her notes.
"Some time very shortly after he'd learned to bend all four elements."
"And how exactly did you come across the Avatar?" She asked.
"I was assigned to journey with him." Ooma sighed.
"By whom?" Hana queried.
"By the elders of my nation," Ooma answered, his responses growing more clipped.
"And did you and the Avatar grow close during this journey? Did he provide you any details into his life that may have been considered private or uncommon knowledge?"
The old man released a breath nosily, clearly annoyed with her questions that prevented him from the telling of the tale.
"It's a standard question," she said. But the old man stared at her and made no indication that he would answer and so she continued.
"How did you verify that you were indeed in the presence of the Avatar?"
He looked at her as if she were stupid. "I saw him bend all four elements,"
The scribe wrote this down too as she asked her next question.
"And on what particular occasion did you see him do this?"
"I saw him do it on several occasions."
"Do you recall the first or most prominent occurrence?"
"It was during a fight," Ooma answered immediately.
Hana wrote this down hurriedly, her shaking hand betraying her excitement.
"And do you recall who it was that the Avatar was fighting?" She asked.
"Yes," Ooma answered in a low voice. "It was me. I was fighting the Avatar."
Chapter 2 Royal Escort
