Story: "The Tanner from Henna" (2225 BCE)

[Capsavian Hopewell]

A tale retold by the raconteur KhonnStormbull, son of KhinnStormbull, in 2225 BCE.

The refugees lined up in columns along the rough-hewn cobblestone alley outside.  There were scores of them—mostly children and women.  Some of them were in better health than others, all of them shared that same look of despair for what they left behind.  All of them clinging to that frayed thread of hope for what the future might bring.  If only they dared. 

They entered the threshold of the mead hall, one, two, three at a time.  Just inside, Vali Hopewell paced behind a row of benches where stoic resettlement officials asked their questions without emotion.  To allow themselves empathy would invite any shred of sanity to flee.

“Name?  Kin? Skills?”

The questions were the same for each refugee, and the varied responses were etched into the clay tablets, destined for the kiln. 

A life reduced to a line of cuneiform, mused Capsavian grimly.

The tongue of the Hennans was not so dissimilar to the Dernish language, even as the accent was distinctly of the rugged basin from whence they came.  An accent which would no doubt be diluted within a generation, living amongst the Derns.

The stories they told were as redundant as the questions they were being asked.  And yet a more perilous journey could not be envisioned.  Harrowing escapes under the cover of night.   Family members left behind because they were too old or too sick to run.  Perfectly healthy animals slaughtered so the enemy could not benefit from their meat.

Most of the refugees were from Vita and Neddings; the settlement of Port-au-Pwnie knew no survivors, having been cut off and hit early in the war.  The quarry city of Janus did not fare much better, so far south as it was and with so many of the invaders as obstacles to freedom. 

Something snapped Vali Hopewell from his distracted introspection.  It was a woman’s voice—one of the refugees. 

“…tanner.” She answered the nodding resettlement official before being waved on.

Capsavian furrowed his brow and watched the woman accept the loaf of bread just as each refugee was provided before her.  She exited the hall and joined the throng of her hungry countrymen as they loitered and muttered to one another in solemn tones.  The Vali could see they were unsure of their drab surroundings, but after all had nowhere else to go.

Capsavian continued observing the woman.  There was something…unusual about her.  A handful of her peers gathered nearby, and they conversed quietly for a few minutes.  The woman, veiled partially in her hooded cloak, wandered through the crowd, placing her hand on the shoulder of one refugee, whispering assurances to another. 

The Vali shook his head slowly.  Something about this woman tugged at his mind, roused his suspicions.

It was no surprise that when he decided to approach the cloaked figure, those around her clearly expressed wariness, a certain protectiveness for their peer.

“You, lady tanner,” Vali Hopewell pronounced.  “A word, please.” 

The din of the murmuring refugees ceased suddenly.  Capsavian was aware of the silence surrounding him.  He remained undeterred—surely the refugees would not think to harm the very person who was feeding them, providing shelter for their families.  Or so he hoped!

As though reading his mind, the woman nodded and held up a hand reassuringly to the refugees. 

“A tanner, hmmm?” Capsavian broke the silence. “Tell me, lady tanner, how a tanner commands such respect?”

“Sir, my family was known for our quality goods and fair dealings.” Her voice was clear and strong, the accent thick.

The Vali chuckled and nodded at her hands. “With hands unmarred by dye, and you lack the pungent scent so common amongst your trade.”

“You laugh, sir.”  It was an observation rather than a question.

“Yes, indeed I do, lady.”

“Might I humbly ask why, sir?”

“Of course you can, lady, though you know already the answer.” 

“Then humor me, sir.”

“You are as much a tanner as I am, lady.  Your poise, the way you carry yourself, even your mannerisms tell me you are highborn.  Likely a tribal elder, if I had to guess.  Though I wonder why all the secrecy—you are amongst friends here.”

Capsavian paused, letting his statement hang in the air a moment longer for effect.

“I might suggest you would make a better tanner than an actor, however, lady.  Thankfully there is no need for acting here; I am Vali Hopewell, your host.  You are safe here.  It would please me to see your face, and to know your name—your real name, not that which you gave my staff in exchange for a meal.”

He could hear the woman inhale sharply, “Vali…I would have guessed that was you, though we have never met before.”

The woman dropped the hood to her shoulders, revealing a long, ruddy mane.  Her face was dark and proud, her cheekbones high with a distinct jaw line.  It was her eyes though…her gaze was piercing—challenging, really—when they locked with Capsavian’s. 

The Vali realized he was holding his breath, and then realized his mouth was slightly agape.  Here he was, ruler of Aidern standing upon his own soil, and he found himself resisting the urge to kneel before this figure.  The woman did not need to identify herself, nor had a chance to do so before Capsavian found his voice.

“Welcome to Aidern, Matriarch.”