A Solution Through Shadows

Since uploading the entire story onto this platform, I eventually made the call to self-publish the story onto Amazon in December 2021. I will leave this story here anyways. Should you enjoy this story, and want to support me further, you can purchase a physical copy or an e-book there.

Rustling nearby caught the attention of a stirred figure who listened in distorted clarity as a groan filled the space on the opposite side of the room.

“Let us wake, Oren,” the voice said, low and weary, amid shifting around. “There’s work to be done.”

A door squeaked on its hinges then clicked closed, leaving Oren to fight his weariness and get up from the rough, thin, misshaped mattress. As the weary voice outside the door called to another, he looked up to the shuttered windows trying their best to hold back the pink light.

Oren yawned without restraint, cutting the voice off mid-sentence.

“I swear, boy, you’d be able to wake all o’ Caladh with that roar,” the voice mumbled.

Oren thought he heard a faint giggle as he reached to the floor for his hose and tunic, continuing his waking battle for clarity as he struggled to put them on before stepping out into the hall. Dark and smelling of burnt wood, Oren walked down with a hand on the wall to the larger room where a figure labored over red coals in the fireplace.

A desk and a shelf lined with clay jars stood against the other wall, close enough to a door framed in the same pink light Oren saw out the shutters.

Without a word to the figure, he stepped to the door opening to a cobblestone street. The distant, shadowy mountain peaks greeted in silence, and at the bottom of the mountain, he could barely make out the dark valley waiting its chance to wake.

To either side of him, a row of houses extended out, and another in front, all dark as the peaks. Oren stretched his limbs to the cloudless sky, yawning again, and caught another grumbling within the home about how loud Oren was being. He eased his back and turned to the barrel of water beside the door, cringing in the thought of a cold bath.

In cleaning his face and smoothing out his un-kempt hair, Oren thought about having his hair cut once Wilfred paid him. Then a shave, with another rub of his face, to remove the awkward, patchy beard.

After a few more splashings, Oren stepped back into the house, brighter now that a fire burned beneath a pot. Catching the figure now working behind the desk, mashing a dried herb with a mortar and pestle.

“Mind makin’ breakfast?” The older man looked up to Oren, the round face framed by shaggy black hair, sprinkled in white. “Jaye doesn’t seem to be gettin’ up soon.

“Sure, Wilfred.” Oren stifled a yawn, turning his attention to the kitchen after peeking down the hall with a frown.

The two men worked in silence, Wilfred finishing his task before joining Oren. He pointed out what not to do with the porridge, and Oren nodded with a bit tongue throughout until Wilfred announced the meal ready to eat.

They gathered around a small table, Wilfred muttered a quick prayer to Ban Dia. Oren kept his mouth shut as the older man finished, catching Wilfred’s glare from the corner of his eye before starting to eat.

“Mornin’, Father.”

Oren relaxed at the voice, the two men turned to the hall and found the greeting woman approaching the kitchen still in her sleeping dress. She sat at the table, rubbing at her round face and gave a small smile to the younger man. “Mornin’, Oren.”

He mumbled a similar greeting before spooning more porridge.

“Pickin’ up a habit, I noticed,” Wilfred grumbled in a light-hearted tone. “Oren’s gotten his kicked, thank you, Ban Dia. Yet, you seem to have picked it up.”

Jaye shrugged, grabbing her spoon and dug into the bowl. “My headaches … just tryin’ to shake it off. Don’t mean to sleep in so long.”

Wilfred sighed, jerking his head to the fireplace. “Got the infusion o’ echinacea ready to endure another day. It’s the last o’ my stock, but I doubt this damned plague’ll keep up much longer. Got some tincture, too. Just hope I don’t use it.”

Oren glanced at Jaye, entranced by whatever settled in her bowl as she had not taken a bite yet. Her eyes darted to him, and Oren retreated to Wilfred with flushed cheeks. “What do you want me to do today?” He asked, scratching the side of his face.

Wilfred turned to him, twitching his lips to one side and the other then cleared his throat. “Need you to run down to the patch, collect what's grown. Try replenishin’ my stock from this bout we had with the sweats. Jaye’ll run errands, and hopefully, both o’ y’all be back in case someone needs herbs. I need to take a report to Sylvan’s sister up the mountain today; he wants to know how many died this season.”

Oren perked his brow. “For the king’s census? Didn’t think we had much to do with it.”

“Not like we deal with the dyin’ enough,” Jaye said through her stuffed mouth.

Wilfred scowled at his daughter, jabbing his spoon in her direction. Oren stifled a chuckle as Jaye tucked her head in.

“I believe your mother, by Ban Dia’s grace, taught you better than to talk with your mouth full, child.”

Jaye swallowed her food, and got up brushing her long, messy, brown hair down. “Sorry. But … I’m not up for runnin’ the mountain today. My body’s been sore since wakin’ up.”

“Bit sudden,” Wilfred said, brow creasing as he pushed his bowl away. “You may need an extra cup o’ echinacea later. It may even be best to stay here—”

“I can still run. Just not too far, today.” Jaye stepped to the fireplace, and dipped her cup into the pot of infusion, turning back to the men as she blew on the steaming cup, her eyes settling on Oren for a moment, making Oren’s throat constrict from the lingering attention.

“Maybe Oren can help with half o’ my load, get to the Farmin’ and Minin’ Districts quicker than I can. And get the herbs from the garden too.” Jaye offered to Wilfred, turning back to Oren with a pleading gaze. “Could you?”

The constriction in his throat tightened at the mention of the Farming District. Oren clenched his fists glaring at the back of his left hand, spotting one of the scars on the taut skin and tore his gaze from it. His breathing grew heavy thinking about the District, but a crack from the fireplace tore Oren back to the table and how quiet it had gotten.

Oren snapped his attention to Jaye, the plea in her eyes gone for concern and a hint of regret. He turned to Wilfred, confusion and wary in his eyes.

“I, uh …” Oren brought a hand over his eyes, aware of the tension in his back and took a breath to ease them. “I guess I could … if I need to go down to the patch anyway, like Jaye said. Clip the herbs after the first delivery and return here with them before goin’ to the Minin’ District.”

“I’d rather those deliveries get done first,” Wilfred said, his tone terse and cold such so Oren flinched. The older man cleared his throat. “At least with each o’ you takin’ half the work, it’ll be done quicker. Not like Oren’ll make the same mistake twice like that one time.”

Wilfred’s laughter came out coarse, and Oren tried to match it. But he lifted his hand to find Jaye huddled in her spot, face turned away in what he thought to be shame.

“Once y’all return, Jaye can stay with the shop, and you’ll run to the patch afterward. I can deliver the report then.”

Oren pursed his lips, glancing up to the ceiling with a forced grin. “Then it’s a day like any other.”

The three finished their meals, and Jaye went to ready herself for the day as Oren went to the desk with Wilfred to prepare the packages. Picking up his bag, Oren checked to ensure he kept his scissors in the same place and put on a pair of brown gloves, watching Wilfred measure out herbs into small, woolen bags.

“There’s your half,” Wilfred muttered, pressing the pile off to the side.

A hand rested on the base of Oren’s neck, and Jaye stepped up to the desk beside Oren, bumping her hip into him. He cocked his eye at her teasing smile, giving her a small one in return and thinking Jaye’s didn’t reach her eyes.

“One’s goin’ to the Farmin’ District,” Wilfred instructed Oren, pointing to one of the two packages. “Just in front o’ the fields, borderin’ the pastures. The other package goes to the Minin’ District, for a seffas named Therm. Got some instruction for you to go with, too, so you don’t get lost. Like that one time, remember that?”

Wilfred chuckled, but Oren didn’t reciprocate the playful jab at him as he fought his sinking gut at the mention of the pastures. In turn, Wilfred’s humor died in Oren’s silence and instructed Jaye to deliver her packages to the Housing and Market Districts.

“Wasn’t it cooler, yesterday?”

Oren blinked, standing outside their home as the sun beat down on them. He looked to Jaye, wearing a brown dress, fanning her reddened face.

“No.” Oren glanced to the blue sky in thought of the slight breeze that touched his skin, and how it contrasted the warmth of the sun’s touch. “It’s much cooler now than a few weeks ago. Besides, aren’t we close to Leaf’s Fall? Should be gettin’ cooler now.”

“Then it’s my imagination,” Jaye admitted, motioning her head to the right of the path. Oren followed her, fighting his thoughts.

“Melisende wants to venture down to the quila’s home tomorrow,” Jaye spoke up. “You up to it?”

Oren rolled his eyes at the mentioning of the qui-la, whose home was situated at the bottom of the mountain in the Farming District. He scuffed the bottom of his shoe on the street harder than he intended to, and Jaye stopped to glance back to him with a soft smile.

“We’re not going by there,” she reassured in a lighter voice. “I don’t think we’ll run into—”

“You don’t think,” Oren scoffed, rolling his eyes toward the downhill slope, barred by the line of stone houses in front of them. “Well, I don’t think I’d want to go anyway. Melisende’ll go from the quila’s forest, up to the Markets, all around Caladh, and somehow land us by the pastures to pet the damn deer because ‘It’s been a while, Oren!’ She can’t seem to satisfy her curiosity, no matter how many places we go to.”

Jaye didn’t say anything, and Oren exhaled a harsh breath. Running a hand through his hair, and tapping his toe to the stone to distract himself.

“Do you want me to go to the Farmin’ District instead? Since you don’t want to cross paths with the ackans at all.” She said in a quiet voice.

Oren turned to Jaye, a yard away with her hunched shoulders and face turned away.

“No, Jaye,” Oren’s voice failed him, grimacing at what he said. “I’m sorry. I’m just worked up … thinkin’ about the ackans.”

“But if you’re uncomfortable—”

“No,” Oren waved Jaye down, grabbing onto his bag. “You’re not feelin’ well. I don’t want you to get hurt fightin’ yourself. And it’s been some time since … that day. They might not recognize me. Too busy with work and whatnot. I’ve grown up ….”

Oren watched the woman’s brow bow as her eyes darted across what Oren presumed to be his face before sighing, leading the way in a march of silence. He hesitated for a moment, regretting what he said and followed after Jaye.

They came to a wide cobblestone road, a heavy cart of crops passing them by and up the steep mountain on a taut rope. Everyone stayed close to either side of the road, watching the cart warily as it made its slow ascent.

“I’ll meet you at the square when you’ve finished up,” Jaye said, turning back to Oren, concerned. “Don’t take too long though, because if it does—”

“I won’t.” Oren tried to smirk. “I’ll be fine.”

Oren held onto Jaye’s gaze a moment longer before she started up the mountain, and Oren lost his smirk disappeared as she rounded the corner. He turned to the downhill slope, and stepped towards the green and brown fields, beckoning him.

Beyond the fields, Oren took an interest in the massive, gray wall on the other side. No taller than the third row of houses on the mountain, but still imposing as he recalled the stories of what laid in wait beyond them.

Figures the size of ants, from where Oren stood, moved around the fields. Oren imagined the oozzi, hulking, hairy humanoids with horns on their heads pulling plows behind them in barren fields or cutting maize from the stalks. Then of the ackans, thin and furry who worked the deer pastures or assisted the oozzi as needed.

As Oren neared the district, he pulled out the instructions Wilfred had given him, studying the writing several times over and poked his head up, to avoid running into an oozzi or a human. But Oren couldn’t push away the thought of the ackans, his face burning the longer he thought about them. Their protruding canines, reddish fur, pointed ears, and mischievous eyes made them appear ready to pounce on the unsuspecting target.

The housing style changed from stone to wood, the latter of the two in shambles compared the building Oren lived in. Wheezing coughs projected from the windows, making Oren flinch when he neared the homes.

The oozzis and humans Oren did cross paid him no attention. All were uniformed in the sleeveless tunics, carrying their shovels and hoes on their shoulders. Their children played in the dirt without care or joined the parents in the fields with sullen looks.

Oren found the house matching Wilfred’s instruction, which did neighbor the fenced enclosures not too far away, where a lone buck grazed in the corner, separate from its kind. He re-checked the note several times over before steeling his nerves and marched up to the door, knocking on the wooden frame. His back turned to the pastures, and Oren kept his head bowed, waiting for a response.

“Hold on,” a low-toned voice boomed out the window. Oren sighed in relief, recognizing the tone be-longing to an oozzi.

But the relief didn’t last as the humanoid took his time. Oren glanced from side to side on a whim, and caught a stray ackan idling in the path with scrunched eyes directed at him. He snapped his attention forward, clenching onto the instructions, fighting his heated face again, and hoping the humanoid didn’t recognize him.

The door opened, revealing a brown-haired oozzi peeking his brown eyes out before opening the door wider.

“Wilfred’s runner?” he asked, flapping his ears. “He’s go’ the herbs for this plague, I heard.”

“Yeah,” Oren exhaled, reaching into his bag and pulled out one of the smaller ones. “Put the herbs into boilin’ water—”

“I know how they work.” The oozzi said, holding out a handful of silver coins and an empty palm. “No’ the first time I’ve deal’ with such thin’s. Only good it’s the only time of the year my family gets sick, else we face the Dead Leaf labor.”

Oren grimaced at the thought of the snow-covered ground in the mentioning of the Dead Leaf and accepted the coin and handed off the package. “I understand. Makes me wonder about how the farmers have fared since this bout was sprung on us. Don’t recall Wilfred sendin’ many deliveries of echinacea down here for the plague. Nor the Minin’ District, now that I think about it.”

“Cuz mos’ of us been busy tendin’ the field, and the miners busy up there, too.” The oozzi jerked his head backward. “None of us caugh’ it, but the ones who ventured through the Housin’ Distric’ to get to the square … did.”

Oren thought about what the humanoid said before shrugging. “Well, we can at least prepare for it next season.”

“Tha’ we can,” the oozzi said, shaking his head to swat the flies away from his ears, eyes narrowing on Oren. “You look familiar. Seen you ‘round here. No’ with the bag, either.”

“I do come down here to check the herbalists’ patches by the quila’s forest,” Oren said in a slow tone. “Make sure they’re healthy.”

“Much earlier than that. Years ago. Workin’ with the ackans in the pastures.”

Oren bit his lip, stepping back to the dirt path. “Can’t say, myself. It’s been some time if I’ve … come through.”

The oozzi shrugged. “Don’ matter … just nice to remember, is all.”

Oren didn’t say anything, bowing his head in farewell and glanced to the pastures where he had seen the ackan, now gone. He pursed his lips and retraced the path he came from, observing the fields again for the oozzi and humans were all at work and he eased his shoulders. There were no ackans in sight. Oren thought of a short cut to the Mining District as his eyes turned to a building, stopping at the sight of three ackans in between a building, tight and huddled in their shadowed conversation. He glared at them, hoping to make out what they were saying until they turned out to look at him.

Their black lips pulled back to bare canines, and Oren averted his eyes back to the dirt and hurried out of the Farming District.