Chapter 6

Old Stories, New Faces

Karí trudged on the hard-packed dirt path, balancing a pole on her shoulder. The wooden buckets at each of its ends swung with every step. Beside her, Lala carried the same apparatus. Harvesting water from the Big River this morning was not the most glamorous of chores, but Karí was content to make the trip there. The walk to the river always calmed her mind, which might help ease its stuffiness from all the thinking she and Dalon did last night.

“Even if I only sell ten of the new scents during the festival, I will consider that a success,” Lala said, dodging a bush filled with burrs from the edge of the path. “That’s fair, isn’t it?”

“I’d be surprised if you sell only ten, to be honest,” Karí replied. Lala hailed from the family in Lurit who specialized in making soaps, lotions, perfumes, and ointments. Much of their trade constituted of simple soaps that every villager needed, as well as special medicinal pastes developed alongside the village’s katalonans. Karí’s family often worked with hers, as they required pots and jars for their goods. Since marrying Haban, however, Lala had focused on making her own lotions with scrumptious smells. They would be considered a luxury for the average villager, but perhaps she would find eager buyers from the coming caravan.

“Well, if all else fails, at least I’ll be able to gauge interest.” Lala flashed her a small smile. With her delicate features and long silky hair of the blackest ink, there was a refinement to Lala that made her stand out in this fishing village. But Karí bore no discomfort or envy towards the older girl. How could she when the first time Haban had invited Lala home, she had spent almost the entire night chatting with Karí, even though there had been so many more important family members to meet?

Haban and Lala’s courtship was the most scandalous thing Karí’s family had been associated with before Bulaos insulted Lurit’s most prominent weaver. Lala had a cousin on her father’s side who managed to marry a wealthy artisan in a settlement up north, and her parents had hoped the same for her. If not an artisan, then perhaps a successful merchant. That did actually happen. Unfortunately, Lala had all but ignored the merchant’s attempts at courtship, and had poured her attentions on a boy two years her junior.

It was a marvel that Lala’s parents didn’t object to her marriage at all, but Karí supposed they were just being sensible. People tried not to offend the family that made not just their pots for dinner, but also the burial jars for their dead.

The ground sloped sharply as it approached the sandy banks of the river. Karí and Lala angled to a spot where the descent was shallower, worn down by many feet so that no grass grew there. A moringa tree stooped at the edge of the dip, its stubborn roots clutching at the earth.

Karí had just passed beneath its shade when a rushing figure collided into her and sent her sprawling to the sand. White pain shot across her ribs. Cold water soaked into her clothes and drenched her skin.

“I’m so sorry!” a panicked voice cried, and Karí opened her dripping eyes to the shocked, chagrined face of Dalon. He leaned over her, arms stretched out.

His name almost flew out of her mouth, stopping just before Lala’s nervous face peeked over Dalon’s shoulder. He had also opened his mouth, then shut it, as if he himself had fought the instinct to say her name.

“Karí! Are you hurt?” Lala fell on her knees beside her. Karí rubbed a hand over her face, trying to dispel the water that had splashed on it, but her sandy hand smeared wet grit all over her skin instead. She groaned as Lala helped her sit up. Her side ached sharply in protest.

Lala flashed her attention toward Dalon. “And you! Why were you in such a rush?” She glanced up and down at him, as if noticing his height for the first time. “Someone like you can send a toddler flying! You should be more careful.”

Dalon ran a hand through his long hair, his eyes wide with concern, cheeks aflame with embarrassment. “I know, I’m so sorry. Let me help you up.” He held Karí’s arms and pulled gently until she was on her feet. Her wet clothes hung limply on her, sticky with dirt and sand. “Are you all right?”

Karí wanted to say that her ribs hurt where he’d smashed into her, but something about his demeanour trapped the answer in her throat. Now that the ruddiness of his cheeks had faded, his skin showed pale. His eyes were dim and lined by deep bags beneath. A tired but nervous energy permeated off of him. She had never seen him before in full daylight, and maybe this person in front of her was whom Dalon was in the mornings. Maybe the exhilaration of storytelling at night brought out a much different side of him.

But Karí didn’t think so. Something seemed wrong.

“Look, you’ve stunned her!” Lala accused.

“No, I’m fine,” Karí said quickly. She nodded at Dalon. “Are you?”

Dalon’s brows rose the tiniest bit. He must have sensed that her question referred not to the collision, but to something else. He glanced at Lala, then back at Karí. “Yes, I’m well.”

He crouched to retrieve a wooden bucket, its contents spilled. He also retrieved the pole of buckets that Karí had been carrying and offered it to her. “I’m sorry again.”

Karí took it and slung it over a shoulder. The pain in her ribs was easing now. She was probably just bruised there.

Dalon skipped back to the edge of the river and refilled his bucket with water.

“Karí?” Lala prompted. Karí realized she was still staring after him.

“Right, let’s go.”

They moved to a spot downstream from Dalon and unhooked the buckets from the poles. Karí waded into the shallow part of the river, the clear, cool water closing over her ankles. As she dipped a bucket into the water, a dull throb bloomed on her side, but she was only half-aware of it. Her gaze followed Dalon as he strode out of the river and up the rise of the ground, his own bucket balanced on his hip.

“Do you know him?” Lala asked. She had already filled her two buckets and was now hooking them back to the pole.

For a moment, Karí considered confessing. Perhaps not everything, only that she and Dalon met sometimes. It wasn’t the first time she’d entertained the idea of sharing this secret with either Haban or Lala. Out of anyone else in her family, they would be the most understanding. And they would probably agree to keep her secret, too.

The thought lasted about half a breath, before fizzling out like bubbles. Any kind of confession she made would quickly derail into questions that would lead to revealing the amulet. And even Haban and Lala’s fondness for her would not make them forget their pragmatism in this case. In fact, forcing them to keep the amulet a secret too would make them accomplices in her and Dalon’s crime. Karí herself would never want to get them in trouble.

It was occasions like this that impressed upon Karí just how precarious using the King Eyes was. And yet, an overwhelming part of her clung to the opportunity like a nobleman grasping at his jewels. She knew it would end, eventually. And when that time came, she would be just as lonely as she’d been before Dalon came along. Lonely and unheard.

In the end, she just shrugged. “Only as much as I know any other villager,” was her simple reply. It was already quite a big lie. Outside of her own family, Karí rarely sought and interacted with others. The few times that she did, people asked her what her specialty was in her family’s pottery trade. Telling them she had no specialty left her cheeks searing and her feet itching to run away.

She tempered her answer. “He seems like he’s from the south of Lurit.” The fisherfolk along the coast and the craftsmen upriver tended to mingle in their own circles.

Lala stepped closer to her, the water splashing the edges of her pale underskirt. “There was a moment back there where you two were just staring at each other,” she said. “Like you were trying to talk with your eyes instead of words.”

“Really?” Karí chuckled nervously. “I... I don’t know. I guess we were both just surprised by what happened.”

“Are you sure you’re fine? You’re all soaked. Look, I have a friend who lives near here. We can borrow some clothes from her.”

“Oh, this is nothing. The sun will dry me by the time we get back home.” Karí patted her tunic and skirts, which fortunately were already earth-toned. The sandy, muddy stains weren’t that visible. She filled up her second bucket, but her mind drifted to Dalon again.

He had seemed ill at ease. Perhaps it was just accidentally running into her that made him so uneasy. Anyone would be, had they smacked into someone and spilled water all over them, especially if they were illicitly meeting with that person at night. But Dalon’s concern seemed deeper than that, like something worse was nagging at him.

Dalon did leave a little frustrated last night. They both did. Neither of them could come up with good ideas for why King Luyong insisted for his daughter to live in a cave. Was that it, then? Was Dalon that stressed about the story?

Well, what would Karí know about his desperation for a raft, anyway? She performed most of her work right in her family’s compound. Her father owned a raft, which they took every time they needed to visit the clay deposits up the Big River. Even Uncle Ilas’ stall was walking distance from Karí’s house, yet a long trek away from Dalon’s neighbourhood of beach huts.

Karí’s hands fumbled with the metal hook as she looped it in the bucket’s handle. She was being a poor friend. Dalon had a genuine need for the money they could make if their story was a success during the festival. It was reasonable for her to let others down on something she had no affinity for. If she felt so strongly about crafting stories that she was willing to break an edict for it, she needed to put her skills to good use. She couldn’t afford to disappoint even in this.

“Lala, I’ve been thinking about a story.”

“Oh?” Lala’s brows rose with the sudden change of topic. But like with most things, she swam with the flow.

How should Karí ask for ideas? She couldn’t outright reveal this was about ‘Utaw and Princess Maya.’ And she sensed that she and Dalon had gotten too boxed in to that story last night. She needed to refresh her mind, look at the problem from a different angle, from a higher standpoint.

“Well, stories in general. There’s a theme I see often.” They strolled to the well-trodden path beside the hunching moringa tree. “It’s when a character hides a family member from the rest of the world. Like in ‘The Tree that Sheds Stars,’ Lagup hid his older brother up in the magic tree. Or the old woman in ‘The Cursed Nipa Roof’ who stowed her grandson away in the jungles. Why do you think they do that? Especially when the stories claim that this character loves their family.”

Lala’s eyes narrowed. “Is this a question about the stories or a roundabout way to talk about someone we know?”

“About the stories,” Karí clarified hastily. “Definitely about the stories.”

“Well, I suppose it depends on the particular tale.” Lala’s lips pursed in thought. “There could be many interpretations. Perhaps the character is afraid for their family’s safety. That was the case in ‘The Cursed Nipa Roof,’ wasn’t it? Or perhaps the character wants something from their family member that they don’t want anyone else to have. I think people can be selfish even when they love somebody.”

People could be selfish even when they loved somebody. King Luyong was definitely the antagonist to Utaw, but he never went beyond the rights of a king to his people. The tale never indicated that he was deliberately cruel to his own daughter either. What would happen to the story if she imbued King Luyong with a more sinister streak?

“If you’re interested in stories, you might want to ask Grandmother Damang,” Lala added as they reached the higher ground and the dirt path leading to the houses. “I heard she might attend the welcoming event this afternoon after the caravan of merchants comes in.”

Earlier in the morning, scouts came back from up north and reported that they had spotted the main caravan sailing down the Big River. They estimated it would arrive in Lurit just a little past noon. Datu Hálgundî would set up a pavilion of refreshments to allow the merchants to rest and mingle. Families like Karí’s, who had private contracts with some of those merchants, were also invited.

“I can’t walk up to the woman who was once the official storyteller of Lurit!” Karí said.

“Why not? She’s kind and old. I’m sure she would be pleased to know that someone still wishes to hear her tell stories. Or hear her talk about stories.”

Larger settlements might have several official storytellers, whose duty was to share the people’s values and history through stories, songs, and epics. Lurit only had one official storyteller, and Grandma Damang had retired when her voice could no longer sustain the narration of even a short tale. Her last performance had been three years ago during a village feast. Karí’s Ma mentioned that back when Grandma Damang’s voice had still been full and resonant, she could capture even the most stubborn mind prone to wandering.

As a little girl, Karí had entertained wild fantasies of being apprenticed to Grandma Damang, since the woman’s only surviving child had relocated to the mid-islands. But the typical price to secure a storytelling apprenticeship was not one even Karí’s family could easily afford. And with her inability to communicate well, it would be the highest form of arrogance to ask her family to invest in it.

“I may not even be allowed to approach, let alone speak a single word,” she countered Lala. And even if she could speak to Grandma Damang, she’d probably get so tongue-tied that the old woman wouldn’t understand a thing. “Besides, isn’t she voiceless now? She stopped performing when I was fourteen.”

“Well, I suppose you’ll know if you try to talk to her.” Lala had an amused curve to her lips.

“Ah, quit teasing me, Lala.” Karí shook her head. “We don’t even know if she’s going to be there, anyway.”