Chapter 3

The Rhowari caravan stopped a mile outside of a fragile palisade wall, other the top of which one could see the tanned leather caps of yurts. The inhabitants of this village were once Rhowari themselves, however the lifestyle and belief has proven difficult and tedious for certain tender members of the faith. A small group of the modern-day "rovers" had splintered from their caravan two decades ago to found this, a rickety hamlet called Rhowan's Rest.

Around this new settlement the former rovers evolved a new faith, offering a conclusion to the endless wandering of their vagabond origins. They claim that Rhowan, though lauded as a prophet, was no god, and age had inevitably set upon him. In keeping with the warnings the former king received prior to his departure from Arkovia, he founded a camp in which no one may claim title or ownership. Where this camp was located no one of the new faith knew, it had apparently dissolved after his eventual death.

This foundation of yurts and tents was located at least two days' travel from any major township, Malmouth to the west and then southwest, and Pearl Peak to the northeast, another proper city with Hatherton several miles away to fulfill its agricultural needs. Rhowan's Rest was set inland by four miles, well inside a forest which absorbs the powerful ocean breezes. The woods here were not dense and the few trees that initially stood in the town's way were cut for firewood and what little lumber was needed to erect the housing.

Fenrick, typically called "Fen," was only 11 years of age this day, a boy unfamiliar with the settlement that his elders observed with much ire. His understanding of their ways was basic, and the differences were basic indeed, yet he also observed for himself that the mutual belief in pacifism held true on both sides of the palisade walls before them.

"We aren't friends," Humbrey, Fen's caretaker since he was orphaned eight years ago, warned him. "We stop, observe our own customs, resupply, and move on."

"Do we rest the night?" the precarious boy asked.

"Nay child, we finish our business before nightfall." Fen stared at his feet as they continued walking, glad to be within sight of their next destination. It's been a long stretch, these past three days, but such was the life that his people insisted upon.

"Remember our words?" Humbrey asked, eyeing his ward carefully. Fen raised his head, face straining as he tried to remember. "Life is a journey," Humbrey began, unwilling to wait for a response. "If we settle, we are dead."

Such words were obviously symbolic, not even universal will all Rhowari clans, but they still set a morbid tone for the young lad. The concept of death was far from obscure to his understanding - in fact it was so serious that we was unable to extract metaphors from its usage.

How could it be? Fen wondered, the village of clearly living people before him as its antithesis. Soon they were upon the gates and its guards, armed and armored in only the most ramshackle of gear, swung the entrance open for them to enter. Fen didn't pay attention to their posture or the subtle hints in their faces, his youth making interpretation difficult, so he immediately found the prompt reception to be a sign of strictly good faith. And rightly so, as the only disdain these settlers feel is the reciprocity expected from the rovers' discrimination.

Inside of the permanent camp it appeared larger than expected, evident of the occasional desertion of other Rhowari caravan members over the years. The accumulation was apparently expected, as the wall was built to contain almost double the current structures and population. Whether or not this space would indeed be filled by permanent immigrants, the free space provided excellent parking for the carts and horses of passing rovers.

A stout man greeted them in their temporary quarters, a serious face and posture overall, yet he managed a grin and ruffled Fen's ear-length auburn hair as he came close. The man acted as an emissary and welcomed the clan's leaders, his words and tone carefully receptive. He was met mostly with silence until Dustin, the unofficial leader of the caravan, engaged him in a low, monotone voice. He conveyed the supplies needed and expectations of their stay - including the time of their departure - and was met by a series of nods before the stout man hobbled off to set the trade in motion.

It was barely early afternoon and it seemed like the barter would be completely long before their plan to set off at dusk. Which is fortunate, as it gave them the opportunity to gain some distance from the camp before settling the night for sleep, though it was probable they would continue traveling and sleep in shifts on the less burdened carts.

While the time passed, Fen saw fit to break away and explore, taking care that Humbrey didn't notice his sudden absence. He approached the tent and campfire of a couple, middle-aged, possibly married in a sense. They were tattooed, full sleeves of archaic writing busying their sagging, skinny arms.

"What does it say," Fen asked timidly, pointing. "On your arms?"

The man looked up and allowed a faint grin to cross his lips. "They are the words of our tribe," he answered coolly. "They say, 'We are of the King. We are of his soil'." Fenrick looked confused. "It means that we still follow the way of King Rhowan and that we have accepted this place for our deathbed, as did he when he came of old age."

"That's a lot of writing for a short phrase," Fen observed.

The woman then smiled and offered her answer. "It's in the language of Old Arkovia. They were more lengthy and poetic in their words."

"How did you write it?" Fen asked, unfamiliar with the concept of permanent tattoos.

The male spoke again. "Very slowly, and carefully!" he said with strong hand gestures. "We used the quills from a basilisk cub's tail." Fen's eyes widened, clearly aware of the creatures and their ferocity. The man nodded with a theatrical grin. "Then we poked it into our skin like a needle, and for the black dye we used the pitch from two different trees in the area, mixed with yellow ochre. One pinprick at a time, the dye is forever part of our skin."

"It doesn't wash off?"

The man shook his head in wide, expressive sweeps. "And it never will."

"Wow," the lad said with a gaping mouth. "Can I have that too?"

Both the man and woman chuckled, glancing at each other with genuine satisfaction. "I don't think it's wise," the woman said.

"Your parents wouldn't even appreciate us putting the idea in your head," her husband added.

Fen didn't even turn solemn at the mention of his departed parents. "They're dead," he said plainly, the couple's eyes lowering in sympathy. "But I guess Humbrey won't like it either. He's the one that takes care of me."

The man nodded. "I suspect you're right. Any good caregiver would advise against getting tattoos so young." He watched as the boy lowered his head, his face gloomy as he stared at his feet. "What's your name, young man?"

"Fenrick," he said woefully, still gazing downward. "Most call me Fen. Sometimes 'Sprout', but I don't like that; it means I'm little."

The man's grin returned. "Well Fen, 'Sprout' sounds rather endearing to me," he said. "It depends on who says it, and how they make you feel." Fen didn't look up, his lips pursing and feet fidgeting from the attention. "Would you feel small if I called you 'Sprout'?"

Fenrick raised his eyes, unable to ignore the question. "I think so," he moaned. "Do you think I'm small?"

"Not at all, child," the man answered respectably. "In fact I believe your heart and mind are both quite grand. I'm impressed that a body as small as yours can contain such great things." Fen let a smile cross his lips, head tilting down again in embarrassment. "You should be proud to wear such a name as 'Sprout', I think."

Fen still gazed at his feet, his cheeks rosy and hot with splendor.

"Would you like to know our names?" the man asked. Fen nodded. "My name is Lucien Heshtacia. This is my life partner, Gloria Hestacia. And we're of the Doushtaki Clan of the New Rhowari. It's a pleasure to meet you, Fenrick."

Fen didn't respond for a few seconds, then found courage to face them and make eye contact. He bowed to pay respect, unsure of what gesture is customary between the two cultures, or if there was even a difference in culture at all.

"I guess you can call me 'Sprout'," he offered timidly.

"Then I shall the next we meet," Lucien said gayly. "Now I think you should be off to your own people; they won't like you wandering so." He gently shooed Fen away with a gesture. "Run along now."

The boy complied, returning to his caravan while Humbrey was looking for him. He lied, saying that he was hiding beneath a cart while spying the settled Rhowari all along. As little and naive as he was, Fen at least understood that his youthful, undiscriminating perceptions weren't appreciated among the stubborn lot of his traditional people.

In the time that Fen spent wandering, one of the carts was filled with only the goods they would trade away for the food, tools and textiles they'd need until they reached Pearl Peak, or more likely its southern suburb, Hatherton. The cart was wheeled to a wooden lean-to which housed a small stockpile of goods to be given in return. After the exchange the representatives of each tribe offered the obligatory parting niceties and the roving caravan set off through the eastern gate.

The road hooked northward and exited the forest, bearing a narrow beach until it dissolved into eroded crags. A steady wind came from the east, the sea bringing its autumn chill upon the now-bundled Rhowari. Against the tide sailed a lonely brigantine, pushing northeast where it would pass by Stillman's Cove, which formed a stagnant pool of seawater where the shoreline bent sharply toward the northeast. The shore would eventually tip eastward again, and soon to the southeast, forming a blunt point of land where Pearl Peak loomed.

Few settlements of worth were beyond that city, yet Fen was still unknowing of the ways of the world and where men's aims were rested. He could not even recognize the symbols on the vessel's sails through his caregiver's spyglass, but they certainly made him uncomfortable and implied sinister deeds to follow. Humbrey and the rest of the adults knew more of what to expect, all of them grateful that they were unlikely to make contact with its passengers.

As the ship sailed farther from the shore, Fen's thoughts drifted to less ominous things.

"Do you think I can get a tattoo?" he asked Humbrey.

The man's face grimaced, though it failed to show through the thickness of his brown facial hair. He was somehow less concerned at how his ward obtained the notion than he was at how painful the process would be for the child.

"Nay, lad," he replied in a voice gravely from settling mucous. He cleared his throat. "I doubt you'd like getting one. Besides, they only grow uglier as you age."

"Oh," Fen whimpered.

"Don't worry, Sprout," Humbrey said, trying to cheer him up. "We'll find you something more practical. And just as creative!"

Fenrick wanted to look up and feign encouragement. But he failed - his expression was blank, and he sulked quietly for a ways. He'd heard that name, "Sprout." It made him feel little all over again.