2: A DECENT POET

ISAIAH spent the rest of his birthday trying to avoid thinking

about the rude suggestions Archilai had made about him. Despite his

best efforts, his mind kept recalling the incident, and so he had no

option but to convince himself of what he knew to be true. Surely, if

anyone took action in there it needed to be him, and he was certainly

not among the many captives lost in childish fantasies and delusions.

Quite on the contrary. Whenever strange occurrences arose (leading

most of the captives into superstitious misconception), he would

usually find a logical explanation. There were reasons why the brick

walls would suddenly change to a darker shade overnight, and it had

nothing to do with sorcery and everything to do with dust brought

by the southern wind.

Born and raised in the Delta region, the south was completely

unknown to him, but he knew a few things about nature's

movements. Deltans, it seemed, were generally known for being

simple-minded people – rather uninterested and even unwilling to

accept the newer sciences. Even though he’d never studied at the

academy in Nagár himself, he’d been fortunate enough to learn quite a

lot about the world from his grandfather that once did - enough to

know that a man’s impulses (more often than not) were best kept

contained, and that reacting to the vicious words of strangers should

be below him. No, if anyone in the fortress did, he certainly knew

where to put his focus, and if someone was delusional it would need to be

Archilai himself – thinking it appropriate to speak so bluntly to a

perfect stranger.

Having concluded both the man and his so-called gift, ridiculous

and invalid, he still felt curious as to what a jewel was. Over the past

four years, he’d heard plenty of wild stories about magic and alchemy

– at times, entertaining ones, but usually far too outrageous to be

credible. He was yet to hear anything about turning potatoes into

jewels, and so he went to consult with Rim as soon as his sacks were

full. The elderly woman (who had more common sense than most) had

explained to him, it was a beautiful sort of stone of no practical

functionality – the sort the patrons carried. This gave him some peace

of mind, as he could at least answer Archilai’s question to himself: yet

another clear no, as he saw no reason for major risk-taking, only to

turn something edible into a pretty stone.

After spending some more time further convincing himself there

was no point in evaluating the ma'er any further, he headed to the

ballroom. All the rooms needed to be spotless whenever the capitalers

visited, and though it was still many days away, he wanted to make

himself useful. He began scrubbing the quarZite (light yellow and

brownish pink in color and more layered by dust than dirt). Its

uneven tones laid the foundations of what was by far the largest room

in the fortress, both in width and height. A mostly empty space meant

for dancing. Other than the five white statues of unfamiliar faces

(lined up against the left wall), it currently collected nothing but dust

– and of course “Greatest Nagár”. The large, proud painting of

Araktéa’s capital, framed in gold and placed between the two arched

windows.

Soon enough he found his thoughts again returning to the

conversation and realized he needed a different approach to it

entirely. With neither solitude nor cleaning easing his mind, he saw

no other option than going to the noisiest, and quite possibly, the

dirtiest place within the walls – the Cave.

As the smallest of the fortress’ four structures it would be easy to

overlook for an outsider. Placed at the northern edge of the fields, and

a healthy range away from the dorms, it was usually the first place the workers

would go once they’d fulfilled their daily chores. Many

would often spend their nights there drinking, playing cards and for

the most part, speaking nonsense. Consequently, it was not a place

Isaiah himself visited with much frequency, and yet this particular

evening he went with a hope that external cha'er might finally put an

end to the one in his head. For once willing to waste precious paper, he

even brought his book with him. Cave conversations mostly consisted

of dull fortress gossip or village lore. Still, he’d wri'en down a few

tales, knowing all too well such adventures were the reason he’d left

home in the first place. He’d come to terms with the idea that writing

stories was much more preferable than living them. Being surrounded

by big-mouthed people (with either wild imaginations or pasts), had

thus turned out to have some benefit after all. Reminding himself of

this, as he paced towards the noise of the sad-looking structure, he

still found himself li'le at ease as he entered.

“Care for a beer, boy?” one of the triplets, named Khair, asked him.

“No, thank you.” He answered, not impolitely and yet wondering

why he bothered asking, as he’d already made it quite clear he had no

interest in their poisons. He then remembered he hadn’t been there

since the coldest day of last year. During what the people of Nahbí

considered winter, but, that felt more like fall. Khair had asked him

the same question then, as he’d told a tale about the resurrection of an

Amnos King (what number in the lineage he hadn’t been certain of),

that everyone but Isaiah had found thrilling. Khair had had his

normal conspiracies about it, which had led to arguments he luckily

had left too early to witness.

“Alright, boy. You’re welcome to sit with us, but I see you’ve

brought that li'le book of yours.” The broad-shouldered man grinned,

flashing a bridge of teeth in at least four different tones of yellow.

Isaiah instinctively held it tight to his chest. He’d caught him once,

trying to steal it. Paper was a rare privilege in there – nearly

anywhere else for that ma'er. Perhaps if he had asked him nicely he

would have shared some pages, but Khair had been unwilling to even

give an explanation or apology, and so he’d kept it underneath his

madras ever since. If nothing else, it’d been a good reminder that all of

these people were true criminals.

Making his way past the triplets, sitting in a row at the bar among five other

drunks, Isaiah found himself a table-less corner nobody else

had claimed. The benches were of faded, brown leather, matching the

ambience in every sense (color it seemed, was understandably of no

concern to the Patrons, except when it came to their own garments).

His seat was next to some cooks, still smelling like the dinner they’d

prepared some hours earlier, and it had a lantern above it, that he

knew beamed just enough light to see the pages clearly. With thick,

wooden walls and heated by dozens of captives (most on the heavier

side) it was almost unbearably hot in there. This first moon span was

warmer than usual, and their breaths (smelling of beer and potato

stew) filled the room faster than it could escape from the two tiny,

half-opened windows. Despite the discomfort, he didn’t think it wise

to go anywhere else. Instead, he remained seated, waiting for any sort

of compelling distraction to captivate his mind.

As it turned out, there were for once no wild stories being shared

among the captives that evening. The triplets were once again

rambling about where the Jalas had gone to - a tribe that had once

lived by the river running through the valley of the unnamed

mountains. Some Deltan villagers were complaining about the food,

and a couple of new Dabárians were criticizing the injustice of “the

system”. Overall, it seemed li'le had changed since the last time he’d

entered, and after once again trying to understand exactly what

system they were referring to, and which part of it they disagreed

with, Isaiah gave up. Opening his book, he looked down at the blank

pages, meditating. He only wanted it to store important writings.

Good stories. Of course, it had to do with integrity, but most

importantly the fact that his grandfather would read it as soon as he

was back home. “Well, that won’t be for some time now, anyway,” he

thought, oddly nervous as he pulled out the charcoal pen that Lady

Huxley, quite generously had gifted him, from his inner pocket. They

hadn’t offered him ink yet – being much too precious to gift a captive –

but he felt charcoal did just as good of a job. Either way, he’d be a fool

to think the issue was with the materials at his disposal. As he tried

thinking of words making up a story worth telling, he couldn’t help

but hearing Archilai’s – uninspiringly flowing around his head again.

“You’re pu'ing your focus in all the wrong places.”

“Are you having problems writing, lad? Maybe I can tell you a story or two.”

Lost in thought and surprised that Byron, the biggest of the

triplets, all of a sudden was paying attention to him, Isaiah looked up.

“Oh, no, thank you... I am just working on a poem.” Poetry was a

concept Lord Huxley had introduced to him to some moon-spans ago.

Though he hadn’t gottten enough time to understand the rules of the

genre very well, he found it fascinating. While most stories were

expected to be thrilling and exciting, poetry seemed to have no such

rules. It had given him the idea that perhaps, instead of an ordinary

storyteller, he'd someday become a poet himself.

“Poems you say? Let’s hear one, then!” Byron said with unsettling

enthusiasm, choking Isaiah’s hope that he’d lose his rare and unasked

for attention, if he spoke of things he didn’t understand. Apparently,

Byron wasn’t completely unfamiliar with the arts after all, and he

knew how to get people’s attention with his loud, broad voice. Within

a very few, and uncomfortably rapid heartbeats, the Cave had quieted

down. Most eyes were directed at Byron, but as he explained Isaiah

was the self-declared poet of them, more and more were turning

towards his dimmed corner. The faint fire of the lantern suddenly

seemed to be burning on top of his head. In his whole life, never had he

felt so many eyes on him at once, and to make matters worse, he was

nowhere close to prepared to share any of his writings. He opened his

mouth to protest, but as he couldn’t find any sensible words, he

started flickering through the fine pages. His fingers trembling

awkwardly. “It’s just some words on paper. Nothing to make a scene

over.” He told himself, finding the whole thing rather ridiculous.

“Uhm, yes, let’s see...” he stuttered, and finally, he found the one

he’d written a few weeks prior. It was the only poem he hadn’t ripped

out, penned instantly after coming out of a dream he now only

remembered as a pale blur. He cleared his throat and tried soothing it,

but it seemed every drop of saliva had dissipated from his mouth to

further thicken whatever was left of the cave’s air. The lump that lived

in it, that he was growing much too familiar with, pounded

aggressively, as if warning him that saying the wrong words would

lead to death and misery for them both. “It is just words.” He

reminded it, as well as himself, and then took in a long breath, before

speaking to his first audience:

“They were two

Two walking through

Through an invisible war

Cold, and in bliss

Looking for more

Together,

forever in a dream

Both hungry

both freezing

both yearning

One burning

For some God

Or all the stars

Shining brighter

in the north

The north beyond Dabár

A place only to reach

with little more

To learn and teach

Still not until

One is left behind

at a quiet place

left behind

in vicious flames.”

Isaiah didn’t dare look up from his book, having quite awkwardly

ended his performance stuttering the word “flames”, and feeling as if

it had materialized inside his head. He realized he hadn’t actually

finished the piece, and that it didn’t sound as good read out loud, as it

once had in the dream or inside his head. Furthermore, his voice had

been too quivery, and though the Cave wasn’t large, he felt it hadn’t

reached far enough. Slow seconds went by in an unusual silence that

rarely occurred in Captive’s Cave, as he thought of these many

shortcomings.

“That’s all.” He finally stated, feeling they were waiting for something more –

misreading his words as a story with a clear

beginning and an end. It didn’t need to be so. This was poetry after all,

and that much he knew.

“That’s all?” Timotheus, the third triplet, asked. Isaiah nodded,

confirming and closing the book as if it is the action that would make

everyone turn their attention away from him and go on as usual. It

didn’t of course, and the throat-lump seemed to ascend to a whole

new state of existential distress.

“You wrote that?” Byron asked. His ungroomed fingernails

scratching through his beard.

“Yes. Just the other day.” It might have been a few weeks back, or

even a moon span ago now, but his voice was trembling too much for

him to correct himself.

“And how did you come up with these things?”

“I had a dream and...” Isaiah stopped himself, feeling his cheeks

flushing, “It doesn’t really ma'er. What... what did you think?” He

felt both bold and silly for asking, for it should be the least of his

concern, and they probably hadn’t understood. As Lord Huxley had

explained, poetry was all about the unsaid. None of the captives

seemed particularly familiar with silence or keeping things to

themselves. Not to say, he hardly understood the piece himself

anymore, and wasn’t sure if he was even meant to.

“I think it was good.” Timotheus smiled, his teeth just the slightest

bit brighter than his larger brother’s, and his tone quite a bit

friendlier. “I would prefer a song, but it was alright.” he added,

looking over at Byron who looked inside his half empty jug of brown

ale.

“I didn’t find it too extraordinary, lad. Besides, Khantal, as you

should know, is the land north of Dabár, and it’s not a place a child

should be making up stories about.”

“You...didn’t like it then?”

“Not very much, no. Sorry.” Byron said, and the apology would’ve

almost have sounded sincere, hadn’t it been for his cunning smirk.

Now, the others started mumbling, clearly uncomfortable with the

lack of chatter.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Isaiah was very

surprised to hear himself say. It was not the first time he’d felt an urge

to speak up to one of the triplets, but he’d never thought he’d be stupid

enough to actually do so. Perhaps it was because it was the first poem

he’d ever written, and because he felt almost certain it was, at least, a

decent piece of writing. The lump seemed to dig its way through flesh

and veins, and if nobody had heard his heartbeats before, there

wouldn’t be any way of ignoring them now. At last, every thought

having to do with Archiliai had successfully dissipated. His head, and

every other part of his body, were occupied imagining which way

Byron might grab a hold of him – just like he’d seen him do numerous

times with rude, or just plainly unfortunate, men. As the large man

got up from his seat and took two slow steps towards his corner, even

moving an inch seemed impossible. In the dim light of the lantern, he

saw that Byron’s narrow, green eyes bore an unse'ling seriousness to

them. Like a large animal ready to assassinate its prey, or a Zura

preparing to punish a captive, and yet, Isaiah’s throat remained free

as he placed his hand on the wall above his right shoulder and bent

down towards him.

“You read your words to us, thinking we know nothing about

literature and would be impressed with anything you’ve written. Now,

I might not be an academic like that grandfather you’ve spoken so

fondly of, but I’m a Dabárian, and I’ve read some poems in my days,

lad.” Time seemed lucid, as the two of them eyed each other. Byron

then lowered his voice, as if out of courtesy, as he said, “Your writing

is not bad, boy, it is just... unremarkable. Real labor suits you be'er, so

my advice to you would be to keep focusing on just that.” It was so

silent just then, that even if he’d made a bigger effort to whisper, the

nearly sophisticated insult would’ve been heard by every ear in the

Cave. He followed up his advice with a stiff smile, and a hard patch on

Isaiah’s shoulder. Before the rest of them had a chance to take in what

had just been said, Byron turned and raised his jug from the bar – to

everyone’s relief, signalling for things to go on like usual. This was

Captive’s Cave after all, and not some Nagárian salon. Certainly not a

place for poetry, or for innocent, young dreams to blossom.

Isaiah walked out immediately. The fact that he could do so with

his breath still intact, and all his bones in the right order, was a minor

comfort. It didn’t just feel like the slightest hope regarding his

potential talent had died. Rather, it felt like it’d been publicly executed,

hung, burnt and ridiculed all at once. Though he knew he shouldn’t

pay attention to what uneducated men like Byron said, his words had

rung too clearly for him to deny. Still, the fact that he allowed himself

to be so affected by a drunken fool’s words, was perhaps more

unsettling than both the stuttering and his audience’s confused eyes in

the aftermath of it. “Why would I even ask their opinion?” he

wondered, thinking he should know be'er than asking questions he

did not want the answers to.

He’d never been fond of surprises and after a long day when

nobody, not even himself, was acting as usual, he wished he could

become calm enough to sleep. He walked at a rapid pace over the

fields, feeling as if everything that’d been reliable, or at least

predictable, was flying around like dry, meager soil – blinding him

and unwilling to land anywhere. Looking up towards a nearly

completed moon, with a head full of questions, he realized it was still

not too late to go through with his birthday ritual. There was still

enough time to ask. He did not have any seed to plant, but could at

least look for the Lady’s gardener and tell him that any seed would do.

As he stumbled over a misplaced rock, he threw the idea away as soon

as it’d come, sensing his skin crawl by the very thought of owing

anyone in there anything at all. Besides, he had too many questions at

once, all graspingly desperate and hysterical. Reaching the end of the

fields, he found himself nearly unwillingly walking towards the

seeding place. Looking down at the ground, he started wondering.

Wondering if perhaps the earth simply had grown tired of him and

his questions. Offering no objection nor confirmation, he finally laid

down on the bed of leaves in mutual silence.

For some time, he looked up towards the sky, appearing like dark

velvet in between the leaves that still clung to the oaks behind him.

It’d been some time since he’d given the night sky his full attention,

and he wished the stars would write out what he should do. They

were silent of course, but less static than many other things, and so he

allowed himself to hope they could at least see him. That they were

somehow staring back at him in their own heavenly way. His

grandfather had once explained that the stars could guide you home –

yet gazing for too long could turn anyone into a lost and irrational

star-chaser. He hadn’t said anything about how long ‘too long’ was, but having

felt both lost and irrational (looking down or straight

ahead) the whole day, Isaiah thought looking up couldn’t possibly

cause any further harm. There were low whispers tingling through

the trees and the faint smell of something sour he hardly ever noticed

anymore. It resembled vinegar, and though always present, he’d failed

to notice it for some time. He continued gazing, focusing on the moon

as his lump slowly eased. Some captives claimed the moon to be

magical – a distant god watching over them. He’d thought they’d been

spending too much time looking upwards, for though beautiful, he

thought it had more of a resemblance to a glowing potato than a god.

Or perhaps, he now realized, it was more like a flying jewel. Hanging

over their heads with no other use than to please their eyes. “Not the

worst of fates.” He realized.

Le'ing go of analyzing these distant mysteries, Isaiah took a deep

breath, allowing the night air to fill his lungs. Eventually, as he

claimed a few more, his mind calmed, and came to the acceptance that

he wouldn’t be planting anything on this birthday – nor any other

day of this year. He then decided to make this lack of action a promise

to himself – a promise that he would do whatever it took to get out of

there. No questions asked. Even if his writing was unremarkable and

his escape plan had been foolish – even if he was a failure, he was at

least no longer inside the delusion of being anything else. It seemed

clear enough now that it was time to leave, but right there and then,

he didn’t need a plan, a plant or the sky telling him how. He just

needed some rest and silence. Some time to look upwards until his

own existence seemed insignificant enough, for it not to bother him

anymore. For some precious moments it seemed that a beautiful,

useless, flying circle was all he needed.