Yin and Yang: A Fool's Beginning (2 page)

As the Savior, I have a natural affinity for the land
and its animals. A babbling brook can just as easily keep me
company as a hall full of friends. I often prefer to walk on my own
in the high mountains, with only the hawks and mountain lions to
talk to.

Still, being the Savior does not prevent boredom.
Right now, as I finish buttoning my tunic and patting down my
pants, I chew on the edge of my fingernail as I stare out of the
window.

Then, far off down the path, I see movement.

People hardly ever make the extra trek up from the
village all the way to Castor's home unless they need
something.

Yet as I peer through the window, I catch sight of a
hobbling man resting hard on the shoulder of a large woman.

I instantly recognize them as a mother and son from
the village. And, with one look at the particular stride of the
son's hobble, it's easy to conclude he's broken his leg.

“Castor,” I call as I
pull my well-chewed nails from my mouth, “we've got
visitors.”

I needn't have bothered shouting out to him; by the
time I finish, I see he's already making his way down the path to
greet our visitors.

Castor has a strong stance about him, and for good
reason. He is one of the toughest people I have ever met.

He is the embodiment of true grit. Nothing but
blazing eyes, a curly grey beard, and pure, undiluted will.

Right now as he walks down, I can see the mother
visibly relax. Her broad shoulders shift in, and I see her chest
push out in a deep sigh.

“Right,” I mumble to
myself as I press a hand against the cool glass and shift forward,
getting a better view. “Stop spying and get the room prepared,” I
chide.

Finally I take my own advice, push away, and dart
quickly across the room.

At the back of Castor's house is a large room he uses
solely to treat his patients. There is a table with a sheet over
the top that I have to wash every day, regardless of whether it's
been used. And around the sides of the room are shelves and tables
and old wooden chests. Stacked on top of them are glass jars full
of liquid and ointments and dried herbs and colored clays.

Though I know how to make my way around Castor's
treatment room quite well, there are still plenty of herbs I don't
know how to identify, and a whole group of ointments I have no idea
how to administer, let alone make.

Humming to myself as
my
sandals slap across the wooden
floorboards, I hear the front door open.

I feel the
pounding beat of footfall as the group make
their way further into the house. Unhurried, I select a fresh sheet
from a box and furl it over the table. Then I grab the small tray
of tools Castor usually uses to diagnose his patients, rest it atop
the sheet, and stand back.

A second later, the door to the room opens, and
Castor walks in. Behind him is the large mother lugging her
son.

As soon as the two of them see me, I see their eyes
narrow.

It's not suspicion.

Nor is it outright hatred.

They're just uncomfortable.

I watch the mother as she looks from my tunic down to
my pants and then up to my unruly hair. She presses her lips
together, and I can tell she's trying to swallow her words. She
needn't bother; I already know what she wants to say.

I look like a boy, don't I? If not a boy, then I
don't look like a proper lady. From my tunic and pants to my lean,
muscular figure, I lack all of the trappings of femininity. I have
no adornments; I don't have time for them. I barely have manners,
too.

To underline that fact, I cross my arms and lean
back, staring the woman right in the eyes.

Castor clears his throat just as the lady gives a
slight harrumph. Then she turns her attention away from me,
probably hoping that if she ignores me, I'll scuttle off and stop
bothering her.

“Help your son onto
the table,” Castor says in a firm but gentle voice. His tone rings
with a comforting timbre, one that can never fail to calm
somebody.

“He's broken his
leg,” the lady says as she takes a deep, rattling breath. “He was
helping build the new wall around the town hall,” she clarifies as
she sniffs, “and one of the stones fell off and struck him. You've
got to help him,” she adds as she tries to help her boy onto the
table.

“A wall,” Castor
notes as he selects one of his tools, “why do we need another
wall?”

“Security measures,”
the son speaks, his voice ringing with pride as he does, “you never
know when the Carcas are going to attack.”

Castor doesn't say anything as he runs his thumb over
several jars of ointment, concentrating as he tries to select
one.

“Those Carcas have
been moving through the mountains,” the woman adds as she plants a
ruddy hand on her chest, “it's up to us villagers to defend
ourselves.”

“The Kingdom,” the
son shifts up on the table. “We're the first point of defense. If
we fall, those Carcas rats will be able to just sweep down into the
Capital.”

“They aren't rats,” I
mumble as I cross my arms harder and now lean completely into the
wall behind me. “The Carcas aren't going to risk taking their army
through the crags. Not in autumn.”

The son, who is still propped up on his arms, shoots
me a disgruntled look, but it isn't a touch on the disgust that
flares in the mother's eyes as she glares at me.

“My son is about to
join the Royal Army. He knows what he's speaking about,” she half
spits.

I open my mouth to
retort, but Castor gets there first
,
“Yin, please go and select some yaron lotion from the store
room.”

“We're all out,” I
point out as I pull myself off the wall and unhook my arms. I still
shoot the woman a challenging look for good measure,
though.

“Then you will need
to go and collect some more yaron leaves, I'm afraid,” Castor says
quietly.

While his voice barely registers above a hush, that
doesn't hide his pointed tone.

He wants me out of this room before I come to blows
with this woman and her son.

Fine.

Shaking my head, and
mumbling a
, “right,” I quickly
retreat.

As I walk through the
door and out into the drafty, dark hall beyond, I can't help but
overhear the woman as she points out
,
“what a dull girl. I see why her parents gave her up to be a
herbalist; she will never be marriage material.”

Marriage material?

Oh sure, I'll never make a good wife. But I'll make a
great Savior. I won't cook and clean and keep house, and nor will I
massage some man's ego while he treats me like dirt.

I will, however, save the world.

I'll learn the ancient arts of sorcery and summoning,
and I'll hold back the Night for the last year of the ages. That
seems a trifle more important than marrying some hick and being a
good woman.

Feeling a rush of frustration, I strike out at the
wall. With distracting ease, I punch right through the beams,
shards of wood cracking around my knuckles.

Now that's how I keep house.

. . .
.

Though of course Castor will probably make me fix
that hole right up when I get back, it feels momentarily good to
strike out.

It feels like, with a simple punch, I can strike
right through the idiotic traditions of those small-minded
villagers.

I'm no fool, and I
know it will take more than lashing out, but it still feels good.
Especially when I imagine that woman's reaction to the hole I've
left in the wall. I can just see her round, permanently-red cheeks
puffing out as her eyebrows shoot up behind her
fringe
. “Ladies don't punch walls,” she'd
likely say.

Yep. Ladies don't.

But I'm not and never will be a lady.

With that thought filling my mind, I yank open the
front door and jog up the path that leads to the woods.

As soon as I walk under the canopy of those great,
gnarled trees that border the forest, I let out a sigh.

Then another. I even let my eyes roll into the back
of my head.

As I breathe in the fresh mountain air, I let it
soothe me like only nature can.

I understand nature. Nature doesn't give one hoot
that I don't dress in lace and carry a parasol. Neither does nature
care that I won't make a good wife someday.

That's why I've always liked the outdoors.

As I patrol the forest, looking for yaron leaves and
just generally wasting time, the sun rises high in the sky. Though
it's tipping into autumn, and the wind now whistles with a cold
kiss through the trees and crags, I don't feel cold.

I’ve always got my bangle and ready access to the
incredible magic within.

I usually hide it with gloves or long sleeves though.
Castor won’t let me show it to people. He keeps the fact I’m a
sorcerer secret. Though not everyone has the ability to use the
devices of those that came before to summon magic, it isn't a
unique skill. The Royal Army is full of practitioners, and I know
of a few even here in my lonely village.

As the Savior, I have unique skills, however. On the
final day of the age, I must use my abilities to summon Gaea. I
will fight alongside her, or die trying.

I can also conjure spirits to guide me on my quest.
Or, at least I will be able to, once I learn how.

Try explaining that to the simple minded folk in my
village, though. Whilst they've heard of the Savior, they think
she's little more than a myth. Why wouldn't they? There hasn't been
a Savior for 1000 years.

Sighing to myself, I run my hands through my hair
just as a strong breeze whips past me. I smile into it as I feel
its power. Far off, I can hear the wind ripping past the crags,
sending a constant, low moan filtering out into the valley
beyond.

A chill escapes over my skin, and as I breathe in
deeply, I smell rain far off.

I could very easily stay up here all day. I could run
through the forest paths in nothing but my worn sandals, my hair
whipping behind me like a mane, my arms pumping and my lungs
struggling to draw in my next breath. Or I could climb every
gnarled tree, leaping from branch to branch as my rough hands
scrabble for purchase. Or I could venture high into the mountains
and take a swim through one of the iridescent blue tarns, the ice
cold water caressing my skin.

. . .
.

But Castor would kill me. Okay, he wouldn't kill me,
but he'd likely make me train twice as hard for a week in
punishment.

Still, I take my time as I wander back to my home. I
deliberately take one of the long, winding routes that travels
along a steep cliff with a fantastic view of the village below.

It's when I'm walking confidently close to the edge,
every step disturbing stones that tumble into the ravine far below,
that I see something.

There's a long, wide, stone road that leads up to the
village. Though it's but a strike of grey against the rolling green
hills and slate-colored roofs of the town, I manage to make out
forms moving along it.

I also hear the neighing of horses carried far on the
wind.

While some in our village have horses, something
doesn't feel right.

In fact, as I stand there and stare, one foot propped
on a stone perilously close to the edge, I lean forward. The chill
wind whips through my hair, making my cheeks tingle and my ears
prickle.

Slowly that feeling that something isn't right creeps
over me. Like the whistle of the wind behind, it steadily grows
until it roars in my mind.

Ever since childhood, I've always had a sense for
danger. It is part of being the Savior. With a close connection to
Gaea, I am continually in contact with the natural world. And when
malaise and doom descends upon it, it descends upon me too.

As nerves escape over my back with swift ease, I
force myself to turn from the view.

Though people do visit our village, and of course
merchants travel here with supplies, on occasion we receive
so-called official visits. Whether it be from the police
investigating some crime, or the tax-collectors, it is usually
never good.

Yet as I continue down the path, the feeling that
descends upon me is more than simple unease.

The wind begins to roar louder through the crags, and
it rushes with ferocious power through the trees and bushes. Taking
it as an omen, I push into a run. My feet move expertly through the
loose stones, and I never stumble.

I've wandered
a far way from home, but it takes me less than
10 minutes to get back.

Barreling into the
house as if my life depends on it, I practically kick down the
door
. “Castor, I think something's going
on. I saw horses heading up the road to the village. They're
probably there already . . . . Castor?” I call as I rush
through the main rooms.

I've tracked dirt and mud through the hall, but I
don't care. I turn on the spot, my eyes wide as I search for any
sign of my guardian.

All too soon it becomes apparent he isn't in. Though
I know I've been away for a long time, Castor would have waited for
me to return before leaving. While he’s more than happy to let me
wander in the lonely mountains, he doesn't like to leave me at home
alone. It's not because he's worried I'll make a mess and punch
through all the walls. It's because he doesn't like people dropping
by with only me in the house. Not only am I trite, rude, and
dressed like a boy, but I am the Savior, and it is his duty to
protect me.