Pella’s Song

It begins, as always, with a storm.

Chapter 1

The rider burst out from under the stormfront, emerging into the sun-lit prairies, his horse's hooves beating a wet staccato against the pooling mud. Four days of hard riding through the rains had left both man and mount numbed in mind and body, and the sudden absence of darkness and thunder startled the poor nag so much she careened wildly on two hooves through the muddy run-off. Sawing the reins with a wild howl, the man drew the nag’s head back around and the beast darted off again, shedding rainwater and froth in a frenzied wake.

Standing in his saddle, shaky legs straining under the weight of sodden clothing, the man picked out the dark, packed earth of a migration trail. Riding alongside it, wiping rain and tears from his face, he began racing the sun down the path.

The trail wound through scrubby grasslands and along choked watering holes, wending westward another dozen leagues to the shore. Wide enough for four or five wagons, it had been formed ages ago by the repeated migrations of the prairie’s nomadic tribe. Led by instinct and ancient constellations, they tracked the herds of the beasts that stormed the grasslands. As generations passed, the beasts’ cyclical wanderings brought them closer and closer to the western shores, a harsher land where they all promptly died out over the course of one final, torturous summer.

The people proved to be hardier, or at least better at adapting. Exchanging their Eastern and Western constellations for new family of Northern and Southern ones, the tribe travelled up and down the rocky shoreline, fishing and crabbing and tending to a small herd of sheep that learned to like ocean reeds.

The rider knew none of this, and, picking randomly, he turned his horse northward when he reached the shore.

Anxious seagulls cried and took to the air as he plowed his horse through their hunting grounds, and so the people of the tribe knew of his approach well before he saw their camp. A line of spearmen stood to greet him as he circled in towards the campgrounds. The man drew up his horse just outside what he gauged to be a spear’s reach, and raised a hand in greeting. One of the guards lowered his spear, and returned the gesture.

The man slowly lowered himself down from the nag and stood shakily before the arranged tribesmen.

“I have a message for Elder Juren,” he managed to croak, before keeling over in a pile of limbs. The spearmen looked at one another, bewildered, then back to the rider as a slow, muffled snore came from under the damp mop of his hair.

“What do you think, Tope?” offered one of the younger guards. Tope shrugged, a gesture that came easily to him.

“Bring him in, Halleck. And get the horse something to eat, before we have to drag that too.”

Pella was within the camp’s central clearing, working with the tribe’s girls to finish setting out the dinner placements. Like them, she was singing. As they moved, they sang a rhythmic song, harmonizing to Pella’s melody as she led them from placement to placement with her lilting voice. It was an easy task for her, and so she wasn’t nearly distracted enough to miss some of the tribe’s guardians dragging a stranger by his heels into an Elder’s tent. Her song trailed off as she watched the crowd of guards move, and a few of the girls stopped working to look up at her.

“Hmm.”

“Pella, what’s going on?” That would be Zolla, the round-faced girl who stood nearest to her. Zolla still clutched a stack of wooden bowls and spoons.

“Put out another setting, Zolla. I think another merchant braved the storms.” She turned back to watch the guards drag the traveler into the Elders’ section of the camp. Normally, strangers would be greeted by a song by all the tribe, before retiring to a guest tent. The minor breach of etiquette left a heavy feeling in her stomach, as she turned back to the waiting girls. Clapping her hands twice, Pella managed to lead them through the next few measures of the song before she was interrupted by a tap on her shoulder.

Turning, she met a rather sullen looking Halleck, who was leading an even more sullen looking horse by a lathered rein. Halleck was a gray-eyed, stoop-shouldered lad who had decided to become a guardsman for the excitement and honor. All he had found down this path were late nights, early mornings, and slow days in the hot sun. Guards didn’t sing, and so Halleck had left a part of his life behind. Only the occasional dull chore broke up the endless vigil of watching the churning storm clouds to the east, and he didn’t seem particularly happy about this new task as he glowered down at Pella.

“Got a horse needs feeding,” he grunted.

“Um, all right. I could… I could take care of it when we’re done setting up for dinner.” Halleck looked over his shoulder, eyes flitting to the dark clouds on the horizon a moment.

“No, get one of the other girls to do it. You should find your grandfather. The others are taking a stranger to his tent. Pella,” he paused, fingers tightening around the reins, “something feels weird about all this. Tell Juren to be careful, all right? Messengers are always bad.”

“I will.”

Halleck nodded gravely, and handed over the reins before turning abruptly and stalking off after the guards. Pella watched him go with growing apprehension, and only when he was fully out of sight, did she turn to see Zolla standing next to her, eyes wide and mouth trembling.

“What’s going on, Pella?”

Pella shrugged, and handed her the horse’s reins, causing Zolla to juggle her bowls and spoons to take it.

“I don’t know. Could you tend to this poor animal, please? The rest of you, please finish setting up for dinner. It’s almost time.” She turned to face the rest of the girls, a crowd of familiar faces, and clearing her throat, she took up the song where they had left off. The girls caught the hint and, once they settled back into the rhythm, Pella slipped off in search of her grandfather.

The storm brooded to the east, a massive torrent of roiling purple clouds and angry forks of lightning. To the north of the campgrounds stood an old man, his mottled hands clasped behind his back as he watched the storm, the lands underneath the clouds lost to sight under the endless sheets of rain. His wispy beard wafted in the breeze. Juren the Elder often travelled outside the boundaries of the camp, walking out past the pickets and back over the course of the day. When asked, he would declare he was merely checking the beaches for shells or tortoise eggs, but in truth he felt he couldn’t properly observe the stormclouds in the bustle of the camp. A low, rolling rumble of thunder reached his ears, and he cringed.

“Grandpa!” The cry came from behind, and Juren turned to see Pella clamber over a sandy dune. She spotted the elder and immediately changed course, leather moccasins kicking up little arcs of sand as she jogged in. “Grandpa, a man has come to see you. He’s recovering in your tent.” If Juren was surprised, his weathered face didn’t show it. Oddly, she thought he looked sad.

“Thank you, Pella. Before everyone gathers for dinner, can you please find the other elders and tell them I’d like a discreet word with them, an hour after sundown?”

Pella paused, then nodded.

“Sure, Grandpa.”

Juren returned the nod, and without another word, began walking back to the campground. Pella watched him go, then turned to face the stormclouds. Squinting, she tried to glimpse what he had seen in the darkness.

The camp was just settled down for the night as Pella and Halleck picked their way carefully through the teepees. The central tent where the Elders usually met still had a few embers of light flickering from within, and as they drew closer, Pella caught the silhouette of an elder settling in against the hide wall.

“Told you they were meeting,” she whispered to Halleck. The lad grimaced.

“We shouldn’t be listening, then.”

Pella scowled, then stuck her tongue out at him.

“If my Grandpa didn’t want me to know about the meeting, he wouldn’t have told me about it.”

“He didn’t tell you about it, he just…” he trailed off, unsure of how to draw the distinction. Pella, deadpan, watched him gesticulate meaninglessly a moment, before she shrugged and slipped up right next to the Elders’ tent. A moment later, with a huff, Halleck joined her in time to hear Elder Bridd’s whispered reproach from within.

“—just don’t think you’re seeing this clearly, Juren.”

“I’m not asking for much, Bridd.” Juren’s voice floated out from the depths of the tent. “Just a few of the warriors to escort me and my granddaughter to the east.”

Pella suddenly felt her face flush, and she focused on the blurry shadows on the tent wall to avoid meeting Halleck’s curious look.

“If what you’re saying is true, Juren,” interjected Elder Irade’s weedy voice, “then we need everyone to stay here at camp.”

“That’s right,” piped up Elder Krole, “including you, Juren.”

A tense silence followed, only the leathery flap of the tent walls filling the night. Halleck slowly waved a hand for Pella’s attention, but she ignored it.

“No.” Juren said. “Running will only delay the problem, and not by very much longer. In a few years, the plains tribes will have been driven to the coast, and we’ll all starve. Or kill each other. We have to act.”

“You can’t take any warriors.” Bridd cut in, his voice taut. “Nor horses, nor medicines. We cannot stop you from leaving, but you don’t have our mandate to weaken us against outsiders.” Juren sighed, suddenly sounding older when he spoke.

“So we understand each other. Very well. I will take a few days to go around the camp and ask those I think can, and will, help us. You have no quarrel with those who wish to leave willingly with me, I presume.”

“None, Juren. But I don’t expect you’ll find anyone for your fool’s errand.” Irade mused.

At some unseen gesture, the meeting was concluded, and the Elders set out from the tent in ones and twos, heading back to their tents and their bedrolls. Pella sat on the cooling ground and waited, while Halleck looked like he about to explode with questions. The sound of footsteps made him start, and he looked around to see Juren coming down the alley towards them, his bushy white eyebrows knitted in concern. Pella looked up to greet him, and the words were out of her mouth before she knew she was going to speak them.

“I’ll go with you, Grandpa.”

Juren started, and blinked a sudden moistness from his eyes.

“Thank you, granddaughter.” He whispered.

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