Hidden And Dangerous
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I was the last of my kind. It had been a long time since I’d seen anyone from the outside world, though not for lack of trying. My family and I would often take the opportunity to go out in disguise or as fugitives when one of us was sick enough that we thought it necessary.
That usually involved a lot of running, hiding, and sneaking around, which could be fun but only after we were sure no one else knew what we were up to.
“We’ve come a long way,” someone said, making me jump. “You’ll get used to it.” They were right: I got used to it eventually – though I never really liked being alone so much. Still, there was something about this place that made people more willing to talk than elsewhere.
There weren’t many things you could do with your hands while standing, let alone walking or climbing, but most folks found some small game to occupy themselves with when they had spare time. Some people even tried to teach me how to play their favorite games, but there wasn’t much call for dice throwing on my island and they all looked at me rather strangely when I told them I didn’t have thumbs.
It happened very quickly: one day we were still wandering in the jungle, taking care we stayed close to each other so no one might notice that any of us was missing; the next the whole camp had disappeared overnight and we’d stumbled across an abandoned city full of people who spoke our language and were happy to show us the best places to find food or water.
They explained to us that we were far from anywhere and should keep going south until we reached the edge of the world, where the trees stopped growing and we could finally look back and see where we came from. We thanked them profusely and promised not to tell anyone we’d found them.
I remember wondering if they meant it: surely they knew someone would come looking sooner or later? But when we got there, no one did: we found nothing but open sea. So the three of us kept moving, hoping the people we’d met before would catch up eventually.
They hadn’t by the time the sun started getting low in the sky, so we decided to stop for the day and make our camp under some big trees on the bank above the water. When I woke up it was dark, and everyone else seemed tired too, but then a fire burst into life, sending up sparks that danced through the air.
Everyone stared at me – perhaps because I was the nearest one to it – until someone shouted, “Hey!”
When they saw that I hadn’t noticed yet, someone threw a handful of pebbles over my head and I turned to face it. A man stood beside it, staring down at me. He had dark skin and short black hair, like me, and he wore clothes I couldn’t identify but were probably made from skins – like mine, only better.
His eyes caught mine just as he was turning away again, and his expression changed abruptly: he gave a little bow to us, smiled, and took off at a run towards another group of men who were already gathered around a fire. I watched him go for a moment, fascinated.
Then he ran straight past them, almost knocking one of them over, and they all laughed as he went. As soon as they did, the laughter stopped. The men all looked at each other, then at me, then back at one another.
“Did you hear?” a tall fellow asked. I nodded, wondering why he was asking me when everyone else could understand his words without any problem. “They’re coming.”
He was right: it sounded like they were already here. After the noise died off I listened for a bit, but the sounds of people moving through the forest became muffled. Eventually, though, I heard them. Their footsteps grew louder every minute until I could pick them out clearly between the others – soft, light steps that belonged to people of a smaller size than ours.
Then they were there. I don’t know how many there were but I counted six. They carried themselves differently, like a different species altogether. They had no need to crouch low and move in tight groups to avoid being spotted by animals, and they had no fear of the darkness.
I remember thinking they must have lived there for years. They came closer; a few stopped to greet their friends and exchange brief news before they continued. Most of them, though, moved along with us, keeping pace with our slow but steady march.
They never left our side; when we paused for a drink from the river, or a rest, or a bite to eat, they did the same, and always with that curious tilt of the head that reminded me of our own folk when they were trying to puzzle something out.
We were all strangers now, so none of us talked to each other about it. I wondered what they thought of us: if they understood our speech or not. Were they like us? Did they want to help us or take us somewhere else, or did they just want to get rid of us? I tried to keep quiet, but I couldn’t.
There was so much to think about. What had the people in the village done to deserve this? How long had it been happening? And what did they plan to do once they arrived?
The night passed slowly. The others slept while I lay awake watching the stars and listening to the soft breathing of my companions. Every time I closed my eyes I imagined they’d be gone when I opened them again. Finally, I felt sleep creeping up on me and I forced myself to lie still for a long. I was exhausted.
When I woke up it was a bright morning: a clear blue sky that shone down on us and sent sharp shadows dancing through the branches above. The forest smelled clean and fresh; the breeze carried the faintest hint of salt water.
The men’s feet made little noise as they walked ahead of us on the path. I looked around. I didn’t recognize the place at first. It was too close to the shore, and there wasn’t enough cover to conceal anything except rocks and sand.
Then, gradually, I made out the shapes of familiar objects: a broken tree stump sticking up from where it had fallen, half-hidden in shallow mud; a stone arch marking the entrance to a cave in a hillside beyond it.
Someone behind me said, “That’s the place…” and pointed at an image in a book.
“Yes,” I whispered back. My voice felt rusty. “Where are the people?”
A few of them glanced over their shoulders, then shrugged.
“I don’t know.”
“It must be here, then.” I started walking forward; the others followed after me. I had to force myself not to look back for signs of them.
At last, I reached the rock arch that marked the mouth of the cave, and I pushed it open and stepped inside. In the gloom, the walls of the tunnel seemed to stretch endlessly away, until they faded into shadow. The smell was stronger here. The scent of fish. And the sound.
There was music, too: the soft chirp of insects, and distant voices singing in strange languages that reminded me of our own folk in the south but without the harsh, grating tone I’d become used to hearing. The light from outside filtered in a thin glow at first, then became more powerful as we entered, filling the chamber with a gentle, golden hue.
At the end of the passageway, a wide opening led deeper inside. On either side stood tall statues: three standing figures, one on top of another, all holding a large stone in their hands. Above them hung a circular hole in the ceiling where shafts of sunlight streamed down.
Someone was waiting inside; a person dressed in the clothes of our folk but who spoke with the accent of the people in the village. His hair and beard were brown and short; he wore a robe with loose sleeves. He bowed to us, smiling widely and bowing lower than anyone would ever bow to a stranger from the South, and said simply: “Welcome.”
***
We had come far. I remembered nothing of the walk from the shore; all I could recall was that the journey had taken us deep into unfamiliar lands. Our progress was slow. We were forced to travel in two groups, since most of the men were older, with families to care for.
Even though they were young, I was given the responsibility of bringing the children back home with the promise that if anything happened to any of them, I’d return and tell Mother what happened.
That was the agreement – that we were going to save ourselves; not everyone wanted to leave the safety of our village. But we were determined, and we kept reminding them. One by one those who had stayed behind finally decided to join us.
We had to push on; the longer we waited, the more likely it became that someone might come looking for us. If that happened, it meant certain death for us all.
As soon as we got to the coast, the first thing we saw was a ship. It was small and fast. They knew who we were. I remember thinking it strange how calm they acted when we told them our story and explained why we’d sailed off into the unknown. Perhaps we weren’t so different from the strangers among us.
They took us aboard and set sail right away. We couldn’t speak to them much; they spoke only to each other. I tried talking to some of them but they didn’t understand what I said. I thought about trying to make them talk to me using the tongue we shared – the language the elders taught us – but then I realized I didn’t know what to say.
What if it sounded silly? So I went back to speaking our own dialect, though even that was hard to remember now; it had been years since I had spoken our own speech. For all I knew, this new group of people who’d found us could have their own ways of speaking, or a separate culture entirely.
We traveled together for weeks. It was a pleasant voyage but I still felt anxious and worried. Once or twice during our journey, I wondered whether there was something wrong with us because we hadn’t returned yet. After several days on board, I began to get seasick.
This is a common experience on the sea: when you’re not used to the motion of the waves, your stomach can become upset. I spent most of the trip feeling queasy, my eyes closed and head resting against the hull of the ship, wishing I’d never come to these lands.
A little while later I heard a thump on deck; I lifted myself up, expecting to find a sailor or someone else I knew. Instead, I saw an old man sitting at the edge of the gangway. His body was bent over, his face twisted with pain. When I approached him he turned his head slowly and looked straight at me. Then he spat out a wad of saliva and waved at me in greeting.
I had no idea who it was. All around me the crew of the ship shouted and laughed: “Who’s there?” they demanded in their strange accents, though I’d already seen that they spoke our own tongue. The old man made a gesture with both hands as if pushing against invisible weights before he pointed to himself and nodded.
I shook my head in confusion and turned to ask a question but at that moment the ship lurched sharply forward; I staggered and stumbled back against the wall. As the ship moved away from us, the captain came running towards me. He asked me if I was all right. “Yes,” I muttered, but I couldn’t stop trembling.
“Are you sure?” he replied, frowning. “You’re shaking like a leaf.”
That night I woke up vomiting over the side of the ship. When the sun rose and the sky glowed with its golden light, I could see it was a beautiful day. It seemed to be a good omen, and yet somehow, I was filled with dread. Something terrible had just happened.
The captain brought me food and water, saying, “You shouldn’t try to move too much.”
When I looked up, his face had changed; suddenly I noticed that he wasn’t as young as I’d imagined. He had wrinkles and grey hairs. He said we were going to dock somewhere along the way and take on supplies, and then he added that if anything else came up I should tell him. Then he left me alone.
After a few moments, I started wondering where we were headed. I thought about asking another passenger but when I saw he had a bandage wrapped around his arm, I figured it would be best not to bother him. Later, the ship began to slow down.
I looked out through the window, watching the dark waters pass beneath us. My stomach hurt, and the waves rocked the ship gently back and forth. In the distance, I could see what seemed to be a huge wall of rock.
I remembered that the mountains I’d seen from far away had been covered with snow. I wondered whether it was always so cold here. Then I realized that the ship was slowing down further. Soon, as the captain announced, we were docking in the harbor where the old man had sat waiting for me.
The ship slid smoothly alongside the docks until it came to rest. At once there were shouts from the shore: men and women calling out questions. We waited patiently until one of them came aboard, a tall and handsome young man.
I had never seen anyone like him before: his skin was very pale, as though it were made of paper, and his hair was a dull blue. He smiled and gestured at us to follow him ashore.
I followed him down the gangway, and soon enough we arrived at a building with many windows and doors. Inside there were other passengers, also standing around, looking lost and confused. I realized then that none of them had come with us.
Some of the younger ones were whispering and pointing at us; at first, I assumed they were angry, but after a short while they became friendly and began speaking to one another in our language. They asked me if I wanted to go into any of the buildings, but I was still too nervous to speak.
Finally, the young man invited me inside and took me across the floor to look at some books and maps, which showed places and things that I didn’t know. When he finished showing them to me, he led me out onto a terrace that overlooked the whole town.
Here, on this island, it appeared the people had built everything they needed themselves. There were long rows of houses, all different colors, and each one seemed to have two floors. The streets were narrow and windy, lined with small shops and stalls; children ran between them.
The whole place smelled of flowers. At last, as I watched the sun sinking low in the sky, I felt the warmth of their welcome wash over me.
“It looks like a nice town,” I remarked.
“Not a bad place,” the young man agreed, smiling.
I tried again: “Why do you call it ‘Kraan’? Do you mean the word is something like your name?”
He nodded gravely. “That’s exactly what we mean.” He explained that Kraans were creatures from a far distant land and that we shared the same name.
“But you don’t understand us when we say it,” I said. “You only hear a strange noise.”
The man nodded. “We’ve lived by ourselves for so long now that we’ve forgotten how to use our voices. If we did want to talk to someone we’d probably need to learn the words, wouldn’t we? Or even better… we could simply show you. What do you think?”
There were no chairs, so I stood. The man reached up and took my hands in his own, and slowly began talking: “Kraan… Kraan…” His voice was low and musical, like a bird chirping. As he spoke, I could feel myself relax; the warmth from his palms spread through me like sunlight.
Then he turned me round, and suddenly I understood why I’d felt so comfortable around him: he was blind. Yet he knew exactly who I was, and what I meant, without ever seeing me. This was because Kraan was not the sound of his voice or the vibration in his throat, but the very essence of his spirit.
It was a power that existed everywhere, not just within him. For all I knew, he might already have known that I was a traveler before we met, and simply hadn’t been able to tell anyone before. I wondered what he could sense of me: whether the color of my hair, the shape of my head, the pattern of my footsteps – whether, perhaps, these things had told him something about my nature, even without the aid of sight.
Then I saw that he was trying to read my face, and I quickly closed my eyes. After a moment or two, I heard him give a little laugh: “Well!” he said. “You’re very good! You must be the best-trained listener in the world.”
I opened my eyes again, and he handed me a handkerchief and gestured towards a bench, saying he would bring me something to drink.
At first, I couldn’t remember the taste of anything – nothing seemed real to me until suddenly I realized the cup was full of hot sweet wine. It wasn’t just pleasant: it felt magical. The way that it warmed me up, made me feel safe and warm – all this was new to me.
When he took the cup away, I was left with an empty feeling. All I could see, in the twilight, were the lights and shapes of buildings all around us, and the stars above bright pinpricks in the darkening sky. I thought I could almost make out a path beyond them, leading somewhere else.
The next morning, I woke up early. Before long the others had woken as well, and we ate breakfast together in one of the restaurants.
My father came up to me later and asked me where I wanted to travel today. Without hesitating I pointed across the harbor. He frowned. “Are you sure? We can visit any place you like.”
“Not quite, Father.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know you’ll never let me go there. But I don’t mind. Not if I’m going to die soon anyway. That’s the thing – the truth – about being a traveler. No matter how much I love this life, I always feel it won’t last; that eventually I’ll run into something which I can’t get past or fight back against. So I’d rather meet it sooner than later and then end it. Because I’ll be dead either way.”
For a long time he didn’t speak, just listened intently. I looked at his face: his brows were knitted in concentration; he was thinking hard about what I was saying. Finally, he shook his head sadly and put his arm around my shoulders. “I know,” he said. “You’d think you were the first person to come up with such a theory – that traveling was a kind of death sentence.”
I smiled. “It isn’t just that. In fact, I don’t really believe in fate anymore. There’s no such thing as fate.”
He gave me a look that said, You must be mad and walked off.
That day we visited many places. The man I’d spoken to earlier took us all over the city and introduced me to its people, and we went on to visit the market. The shops here were mostly selling clothes.
I picked up some silk trousers and a jacket, but they weren’t the right colors for me – too dark, too rich, with no lightness or freshness – so I left them behind. My father bought them instead and paid double what I’d seen them sell for elsewhere. I was glad when he left them alone, and we continued on our way.
The markets themselves were fascinating. Some sold food or vegetables, while others offered more esoteric goods: dried fish, spices, perfumes, precious metals, and stones. They also carried the latest news, gossip, and rumors: I overheard whispers of wars abroad and political intrigues.
And I noticed other things too: a certain kind of music, different from anything I’d ever heard in Duttig. These sounds, mixed with the smells of exotic foods and incense, created a strange sensation in the air.
The End