Forbidden Gifts

Have I run far enough?

Sigurd cannot be sure. But the grey rainclouds are barely visible on the horizon from his vantage point beneath a tree at the edge of a farm. He drops to the ground, legs trembling. He can walk for days on end, and has many a time, but running wears him out quickly.

"I should have known better," he mutters to himself. He'd known, as he was walking through those parched fields, what the consequences would be if someone saw him providing his brand of help. King Alvar's edict leaves no room for exceptions, as he knows well; Sigurd's mentor, Kjell, was executed for taking less dramatic actions to help others. But he did it anyway, with the precaution of using a willow tree's shade to hide his actions, and someone took notice.

"How could anyone with a heart and means to help do otherwise?" he wonders aloud, feeling some boldness since no one is nearby to hear him. The sky overhead is like the inside of a blue ceramic bowl, trapping the summer heat from the blazing sun against the ground below. The weather has been like this in the south of Aethyrozia for more than a week, which even in the summer month of Santor is unseasonable. Most years they have rain every few days in spring, summer, and autumn, but Sigurd cannot remember exactly when rain last blessed this land.

Until he summoned it himself.

He looks back at the grey clouds to his west, smiling in spite of himself at his handiwork. He's never summoned so large a rainstorm before. He knows he's paid a price for it--his dirty blond hair now contains streaks of grey that weren't there before the ritual. Still, it was relatively simple to do, and it felt good to see the clouds form at his command, good to see the dusty ground gulp down the raindrops, even good to watch his damp sacred herbs dissolve in his hands--a sign that Cybarei had accepted his prayer and would grant his request.

"Can I help you, sir?"

Sigurd starts and turns around. A scrawny boy of perhaps twelve years of age stands behind him, teetering under the weight of a shoulder yoke with a full bucket of water hanging from each side.

"Just stopped to catch my breath," Sigurd answers. "Looks like you're the one who needs some help."

The boy immediately straightens his back and tries to look tough. "Don't need no help. Father trusted me to water the fields, and I'll get it done before sundown."

Sigurd's grey-green eyes sweep over the field in front of him. The plants are struggling in powdery soil. His vision is sharp, but he sees no sign that any part of the field has been watered recently.

"Where do you carry the water from?"

"Used to be the well, there." He points to a wooden cover on the ground a few paces away. "But that's gone dry. So I go to the river now."

Sigurd arches an eyebrow. "River's at least half a league away."

"And don't I know it," the boy mutters before resuming his tough act. "No big deal, though. I can handle it."

"I'm sure you can. Don't mean to take that from you. But I'm glad to help you dig a new well, if you'll let me."

"Ain't you a bit old to be diggin' wells?"

Despite the grey in his hair, Sigurd has only thirty-one years, and his eyes flash with anger at the insult. "I'm stronger than I look, boy. Mind your manners."

"You ain't even got a shovel! You mean to dig with your hands?"

"I mean to borrow a shovel, if you have one for the task."

The boy pauses, considering. "Wait here. I'll bring it back after I water the beets." He staggers away under the weight of his yoke and is soon out of sight beyond a rise in the gently rolling fields. Sigurd waits patiently. His rainclouds are still on the horizon. Conjuring another storm like that is too much, too soon, he muses. I already didn't have enough material for that ritual, so Cybarei took from me. I must be careful with how I help this boy.

The boy returns more quickly than Sigurd expected, shovel in hand.

"Here y'are. Make sure you don't run off with it. And...you lookin' to be paid for diggin' a well?"

"Not at all."

"Well, there'll be supper for you if you get it done. My sister insists."

"Thank you kindly. You'd best be hauling more water, in case the I don't find water digging."

"Best pray you do. Thankless work in this heat." The boy lopes off, yoke still on his shoulders with the empty buckets swinging wildly. Sigurd remains motionless under the tree, shovel in hand, until neither sight nor sound of the boy remains. Then he pulls two L-shaped hazel rods from his pack and walks to the well, holding the rods in front of him, shovel left behind.

The rods don't move as Sigurd steps on the well's cover. He didn't expect them to, since the boy said the well was dried up. Undeterred, he walks around it in a circle, and then a slightly larger circle, and then a slightly larger circle, holding the rods steadily in front of him.

"Sehkhe vahten," he murmurs under his breath as he walks, over and over again, in time with his steps. Seek water. The Barivyce words have power, with the right tools and intention. If there is water to be found in this land, he will find it, if he is patient and diligent.

Sigurd's circles take him to a stand of trees near the edge of the field, several paces from the tree where he left his shovel, before the rods jerk inward. He plants his feet firmly and closes his eyes, trying to feel the energy of water somewhere below him. Moments later, he finds it--blue and rippling, perhaps one and a half times his height into the ground. After marking the spot with the hazel rods, he goes back for the shovel.

"Now for the hard part," he mutters to himself, setting his pack down a short distance from where he must dig and putting the hazel rods back inside it. He sets about excavating a well shape, building up the sides with the dirt he removes. The soil is too dry to really mold well. I'll have to try again once I've called the water, he decides. Out of his pocket he takes an opal and a pearl. Please be enough, he prays.

"Aershan'na," he commands, throwing both gems at the ground between his feet, in the center of his shallow hole. The gems sink into the ground. Sigurd steps out of the hole, hoping he's done it right, hoping he didn't mark the wrong spot, hoping he's given enough.

Moments pass. The hot sun beats down on Sigurd's head and back. The hollow he dug stays dry. He picks up his shovel and sticks it into the earth where the gems disappeared, and then it happens.

Water, clear as crystal, burbles up around his shovel. Sigurd bites back a whoop of joy and starts looking busy, digging the hole deeper and building up the sides to make a proper well.

***~O~***

The sun is sinking in the west when the boy returns to where he'd left the stranger with his shovel. He walks slowly, exhausted from hauling water all day.

"No way that old man dug a well," he pants, but in his heart, he hopes he's wrong. In spite of his best efforts, he only got half the field watered, and it's getting late.

He crests the last ridge. His shovel is stuck in the ground next to a hole with a raised rim. The old man is nowhere to be found. The boy approaches the hole, hope and suspicion fighting for dominance within him. When he looks inside, he sees his own incredulous face looking back at him from the pool of water within.

"Blessed be," he breathes.

Hidden within the trees nearby, Sigurd smiles. Without a sound, he turns and walks away. This boy isn't the only one in Aethyrozia with crops that need water, and who knows when the next rains might come without his help?