Flecks of Gold (7 page)

“Everything in the world has a pattern: living things, nonliving things, even concepts can have a pattern to them. When you know these patterns, you can change them in some ways. Take, for instance, this thread.” She plucked a string from the end of a tasseled rugs and held it up. “Most people have to be shown the pattern for each object, then they must carefully memorize it before being able to change that pattern. I gather you knew nothing about lacings before you came here?”

I nodded.

“Well, I showed you how a pattern is taught to a student when I made the language lacing. It is difficult to draw most lacings because they are three dimensional and are often too complex to be seen well on paper, so a teacher must project the lacing for his student.” Slowly another pattern of green lines appeared. This one was much simpler than the language lacing, and I was able to copy her with no hesitation. She studied my pattern with care.

“You are quick; most students have a hard time forming an unknown lacing. Do you ever see snatches of a golden image when concentrating on an object?”

“Yes!” It felt wonderful to know that my strange inner vision had not been a figment of my imagination. In my weaker moments, I had wondered if it was one of the first stages of insanity.

“I would like to try something with you, if you don’t mind. Concentrate on the paper of this map. Try to catch those hints of gold that you see within your mind to see the pattern of the paper.”

I looked hard at the old parchment as if I were about to draw it, but this time I actively sought out the golden threads I had only ever noticed on the edge of my vision. It was kind of like looking directly at a sunspot behind closed eyes. If you looked directly at the sunspot, it moved out of view, but if you looked slightly to the side, it stayed where it was and you could study it. Instead of just a funny yellow splat, I saw the paper’s magical pattern. It was amazing.

I was so excited, I turned to other things in the room to see if I could discover their lacings. It was kind of like getting the hang of those “Magic Eye” pictures that you have to look at cross-eyed to see. At first, it was difficult for me to see the 3-D images, but once I got the hang of how to focus my eyes, I could breeze through them. It was the same with seeing lacings. Ismaha cleared her throat.

“Sorry, I got a little carried away. I never knew such a thing was even possible.”

“Show me the pattern of the paper.”

I formed the pattern before her, and she studied it for flaws.

“You are blessed. There are not many who can discern a lacing without first being shown. Most magicians must study for years to learn just a few of the many millions of lacings there are to know in this world.”

“How many see it like I do?” I asked.

“Only one or two every few generations see as clearly as you. There are more who can see parts of the pattern, not the whole.”

I wondered why I, who was from somewhere far away, would have an ability that few here had. It was a little scary. I still didn’t know exactly what I was dealing with here. So I could see patterns—what help was that? Sure, Kelson had inadvertently shown me where to tweak the lacings he’d made, and Ismaha had shown me purposefully, but there were many joints and lines on each pattern. What if I twisted the wrong part? Would I accidentally blow myself up?

“How do you know what part to change in a pattern to do what you want? How do you know what will happen?” I asked.

“Ah, that is a part that may give you a bit more trouble. Though you can see lacings more clearly than many, the magicians who study the patterns for years are also more able to determine which patterns are similar, which can connect, and which, if changed, will cause disaster. Teachers also show the students as they learn.” Ismaha again held up the thread. “You have seen the string’s pattern, and the paper’s pattern. What can you determine about the two?”

Oh great
. I felt like I was in some surreal high school class. I sighed and studied the two different patterns. They were both fairly simple, but the paper was more complex with extra swirls and cross weavings, so I studied it longer than the thread. I noticed that there was a section of the paper lacing similar to the thread’s and told Ismaha this.

“What else?” she asked.

I looked again, but my eyes were starting to sting. I just wanted to sleep. It had been a long day, and my brain was on overload. “I don’t know,” I said a little sharply. I immediately felt bad about my outburst. Ismaha had been nothing but nice to me, but I just couldn’t handle any more today.

“You are tired and have a long journey ahead of you. Sleep now and I will help you get the things necessary to travel to the king on the morrow,” Ismaha said.

“You’ve been so kind, but I couldn’t ask you to do more. I don’t have anything to pay you with,” I protested weakly.

“We’ll discuss that tomorrow. I hope you do not mind sleeping on the floor here. I have only one bed, and my old bones will not allow me to sleep on floors any longer.”

“No problem. I’m a regular granola babe.” The words “granola” and “babe” didn’t translate. Ismaha gave me a strange look, but before I could reword my statement, she shrugged and went into the back room.

I curled up on the floor rug and stretched one arm over my Jansport backpack. It gave me an sense of comfort to touch it, as if my green school bag were the only thing left of my childhood and my old comfortable sense of home.

I dreamed of golden patterns. They floated before me; some merged and made new patterns. Others morphed by themselves or disappeared completely. I kept trying to figure out what it all meant. It was like the math dreams that I sometimes had where I kept struggling to calculate an answer, only to have the original problem become confused.

I woke near dawn, my bladder uncomfortably full. My arm ached from acting as my pillow, and my hip felt more bruised than ever.

Ismaha showed me a small metal pan to use as a toilet, and then retreated back to her room. I stared at it for a moment, perplexed. I won’t go into details but I will say for that one moment I was jealous of what boys have that girls do not.

When I finished, I called Ismaha back. I stood directly in front of the pan in an attempt to avoid further embarrassment. But Ismaha went straight to it.

“Watch,” she said. She looked at the urine, then a flash of green went off in the back of my head, and it was gone. Even the acrid smell vanished. I reviewed what she had done and noticed what part of the pattern she had changed to make the urine disappear. Quite a useful trick, I thought. It would certainly cut down on disease if others could do it too.

“Did you see the lacing of what was done?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Good, then let’s get you ready.”

We walked out of her house. The chickens were out and pecking at the ground. There were villagers out now as well, even though the sun was just rising. The village was bigger than I initially thought. After a few houses, the road sloped steeply, revealing a lot of buildings and activity.

“The view is deceptive from your house,” I said.

“I don’t like to feel crowded.”

We headed to an open market. Many of the stalls were just opening, but everyone we met seemed glad to see Ismaha. They gave her friendly waves and hellos while eyeing me with curiosity. I stared covertly back, remembering Ismaha’s reaction to my eye color. But it was hard not to gape at the villagers. Everyone had varying shades of skin from a slightly darker olive than mine to a deep sepia, but hardly anyone had brown eyes. All the people I saw had eyes that were different shades of blue or green. The colors were startling against their rich skin tones.

Ismaha moved us briskly from one stall to the next, getting a blanket, food, and water. She bought me an outfit similar to hers, but with fewer hanging parts. I measured the blue pants against my legs to see if they were long enough. They weren’t, of course. I was about half a foot taller than everyone around me.

The beige shirt was sufficiently large, however. It was loose in the arms and looked like a long peasant shirt. She bought me a vest to go with the shirt so it wouldn’t flap all over the place. The vest was blue with neat circular designs sewn into it. The neck fell diagonally, like a karate gee top, and buttoned on the side.

Finally, Ismaha bought me a small knife. By the time we finished, I was worried. How could I possibly pay her for the supplies? Why was she helping me so much?

We stacked our purchases in her main room, and Ismaha turned to me. “Now we will discuss payment,” she said.

“But . . .”

She held up her hand. “You said you have nothing, but you showed me a great treasure last night.”

“All I showed you was my book.”

“Exactly. May I see it again?”

I unzipped my bag and handed her the government textbook.

“I will take this as payment if you will allow it,” she said.

“But it’s not even in your writing. What good will it do you?”

“You have already forgotten our lesson from yesterday. There is a pattern to everything. I will simply have to study your writing to find out what it’s pattern is.”

“How long will that take?”

“Years probably. Unless you are willing to help me.” She smiled, and I couldn’t help smiling back at her.

“I’ll see what I can do.” I took the book. I opened the text to a random page and stared at the words. Nothing happened. I looked up at Ismaha in confusion.

“Seeing objects is different than discerning the lacings of concepts. Concepts are much more insubstantial, and harder to contemplate in a pattern. Try reading the writing while concentrating on the pattern of the language’s sentence structure.”

I looked down again and read a little of the page. It seemed odd to me, and I wondered if that was because I was speaking with a different cadence and rhythm now. However, the strangeness of it helped me to see the pattern after a page of reading, and I was finally able to project the lacing for Ismaha to view and memorize. She looked at the golden pattern intently from several angles, then produced a copy in green.

“Wonderful! You have given me a great gift. I thank you.” She headed to the back room and came out after only a moment holding a folded letter sealed with a green wax blob. A design had been pressed into the wax. I peered closer and saw the design was a tree.

“Get this to the king when you reach the city, and he will help you.” I took the letter, unzipped the bigger front pocket of my backpack, and slipped it in.

“And this will help you find your way to Ismar.” She handed me the rolled map that she had shown me the night before.

“I can’t take this. Didn’t you say that maps are rare?”

“Yes, but I do not need it. I no longer travel.”

I grinned at her and saw her lips quirk in response.

Ismaha distracted me from my gratitude by pointing out that she thought I would attract less attention in the native garb she had bought, so I changed. After donning the unfamiliar shirt, pants, and vest, I turned to my backpack. It was a little looser than before without the huge government book, so I stuffed my dirty clothes in the book’s place.

I considered leaving my chemistry and anatomy books with Ismaha as well, but decided that if she had found the books amazing, maybe someone else would too. I was also loath to part with anything that connected me to home.

Ismaha had bought me another pack that I could sling over my shoulder. I stuffed the travel supplies into it, put everything on, and staggered. Traveling would be difficult, but at least I was wearing my running shoes.

“I wish you a safe journey,” said Ismaha.

“I owe you so much. I may never be able to pay you back for your kindness, but I won’t forget it,” I said. I was surprised to find myself sad to leave. I hardly knew Ismaha, but I knew I would miss her.

Shopping hadn’t taken long. It was still morning, even relatively cool. I strode down the village road, crossing the market now in full swing. Vendors yelled to me as I passed, but I ducked my head and walked more quickly. Now that Ismaha wasn’t with me, I felt unexpectedly shy. Everything was so strange.

There were no industrial sounds. People gibbered loudly. The dogs I saw were dirty yellow and yipped strangely. Children ran around the village half naked, and several sported large lizards on their shoulders that hissed when the children dipped low to the ground. The adults wore colorful clothing in a strange style that mashed together Arabic, Japanese, and Indian clothing.

Wares in the market stalls reminded me of European antiques, but none of the objects exactly matched any design I’d ever seen. Most women had strands of their hair partially braided back from their face. Their hair flared out in the back, hanging free. All I had been able to manage was a messy ponytail trailing halfway down my back, secured with a leather strip—which was how most of the men wore their hair, minus the messiness.

Though I was glad when I passed out of the village, the sight of so much open desert distressed me. I wondered if I should’ve waited until the evening to travel. I’d read somewhere that evening was the best time to walk when in a desert, but maybe it didn’t matter if you had enough water. The sun was already warming the top of my head, and the landscape was dauntingly open around me. Ismaha had said the road went straight to the next village, so I walked hesitantly over the hard-packed dirt road.