Weeds Among Stone (Jura City Book 1) Read online

  Weeds Among Stone

  A Jura City Novel

  By Douglas Milewski

  Jura City Novels

  Weeds Among Stone

  Standing Between Earth and Heaven

  A Touch of Genius

  Copyright 2010 by Douglas Milewski. All Right Reserved.

  https://sites.google.com/site/endhavenproject/

  The cover painting is by Sergey Korovin, To the Pentecost (1902).

  Table of Contents

  Map of Irontown

  Maran

  Zarand Agricultural Territory

  Sureh

  Osei

  Irontown

  Workshop of the World

  Bagged and Beaten

  The Nightmare Sickness

  Rules and Regulations

  The Iron Road

  The Forge of Ten Iron Rods

  Kommissars

  The Evening Shift

  Meister Maran

  The Kurfurstin Mother

  Working for the Kurfurstin Mother

  Cult of the Iron Duke

  Her Eyes Opened

  Waking in the Land of Dreams

  Preparations

  Running

  Jack

  The Project

  Kitchen of the Damned

  The Grave of Nomos

  Industrial Weapons

  Those Who Survived

  Election

  Conclusions

  Glossary

  Map of Irontown

  Maran

  Tier by tier, field by field, Maran ascended the mountain to visit her grandfather. The path led to the uppermost tier, where her grandfather toiled away at the new soil to complete a new tier for the farm.

  Her grandfather ceased his toil when he spotted Maran. He motioned his granddaughter to his favorite rock, lighting his pipe. The wind whipped the smoke from the bowl. They both settled onto the rock, then sat in silence. Maran dutifully waited for her grandfather to begin, however long that took.

  Her grandfather stayed silent, staring into the earth. Maran stayed silent as well, waiting for her grandfather to begin. Bored of staring at the scenery, Maran watched the clouds drift through the rocky spires that dotted the mountain.

  “Why do we have traditions?”

  Maran saw where this was going right away.

  “You want to make me a wayfarer.”

  “You're getting ahead of me,” said Grandfather. “Now, why do we have traditions?”

  “Because,” Maran said, “if we didn't', we'd argue everything to death and never get anything done.”

  “Good of you to remember.” Grandfather tapped her with his pipe. “Now, you may jump to conclusions.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “As smart as you are? You learn every other lesson in one go. Learning to respect your elders? Impossible.”

  “Grandfather!”

  “All right. Your mother talked my ear off this morning. We decided that you should be our wayfarer. By we, I mean her.”

  This news caught Maran off guard. “I have work to do. I have to arrange the kiln tomorrow. The farming season is about to start. You need all your hands. Have Arma go out. She the best cook that we have.”

  “Arma’s not a widow. You are.”

  “Grandfather, this is not a good time.”

  “Correct. For us, it is not a good time for you to leave. For you, it is the best time. Your mother’s been thinking about you. She sees you wandering about the mountain. She sees you sitting before the White Lady. We know what that means. You are thinking about taking the Vow. For that, I commend you. It is a spiritual step like no other and it changes you like nothing else, but that vow should not be taken in ignorance.

  “In recent years, we have feared following our own traditions. Your mother had concluded that the White Lady demands this, and she believes that the correct candidate is you. Considering what a wayfarer needs to do and the unpredictable hazards you will face, I think that she is right. It won't be bear hunting, but it will be challenging.”

  Maran exhaled, trying to control the emotions. Mother had ulterior motives. “Are you still worried? Is that it?” she asked.

  “Of course that’s part of it! Kirim’s been dead for two years now. You’ve mourned traditionally. I honor you for that. But if that were the only reason, I would not allow this.

  “Maran, you are good at landing on your feet in this uncertain world. Even if Arma were a widow, may the hounds pass us by, she couldn't. It’s not in her. I think that she would be overwhelmed and die of mental distress. However, you mother is sure, we are sure, that you would thrive instead. There is something in you that wakes on uncertainty. In your heart of hearts, I think that you need something to fix. We just don’t have big enough things to fix around here.

  “Go into the wider world, Maran, and find inspiration in what you see. Let the White Lady lead you to interesting places. Make a new way for the rest of us to follow.

  “So many of us have done this, in one way or another. It is a good experience with a few cautions. You can’t fix everything that you see. You can fix some of it, maybe. However, I know you, and you will try to fix all of it. Just don't bit off too much. If anything, the future is like a mountain track, twisting you back and forth so much so that you doubt both the peak and the valley. Don’t be discouraged. Look to light inside you and be happy leaving the world a little better than you found it.”

  Grandfather set Maran’s ration book between them.

  Maran took a deep breath in, then let it out slowly, her misty breath streaming away. Your family held your ration book. To hold your own book made you your own master. Maran found that a sobering thought. To be your own master meant responsibility to others as well as to yourself. It meant going away from someplace safe, into the loneliness of the open road. It also meant achieving a dream. Maybe Maran could not reach that dream, but if no one reached for those dreams, then no one would succeed.

  Maran took the ration book. Her grandfather nodded, then went back to puffing his pipe.

  Scarcely acknowledging that her grandfather had finished, Maran curtsied absently, making her way back down the treacherous path, unsure of what just happened, and absolutely befuddled at what this meant.

  When Maran approached the lodge, Grandmother came out and met her on the path, beaming, hugging her with pride. “You have a good heart, my granddaughter; a strong heart with clear eyes. Too long have we had no wayfarers. Enter and rest today. Sit. Be easy. Enjoy the simple comforts of our home. Your life may never be comfortable again.”

  From the kitchen door, Maran’s mother, aunts, nieces and cousins poured out, holding bread and salt, singing the Traveler Song. This was the song that was sung to welcome wayfarers.

  Where do you go now?

  Come into the hall.

  You are welcome.

  You are welcome.

  They chanted this, over and over. Maran cried happy tears.

  The welcoming passed quickly, and soon the women hurled themselves back into the kitchen.

  Maran attempted to help, as Grandmother tolerated no idle hands in her kitchen, but this time, she would accepted no aid from her granddaughter.

  “You are the honored one today. You must receive the guests. Wash your face and feet. Put on your best clothes. Make ready for your ceremony!”

  Maran had worked hard all her life as that was the way of all dwarves. They were a people of work. “Indolence leads to suffering,” was how grandmother said it. In those rare moments of idleness, when Maran accomplished the least, she felt the most uncomfortable. The thought of leaving all her work behind scared her.

  Maran had worked as the he
arth-tender for her grandmother’s hall for two years. It was she who rose earliest to start the fires, and she who rested last after banking them. In the hours between, she tended the kilns, learning the secrets of fire from her father and grandfather. From waking in the mornings to sleeping in the evenings, Maran knew no rest. How could she leave such happiness behind?

  On a Loam farm, everyone worked ceaselessly. Her grandfather woke when he heard Maran stir, walking up the mountain to work on a new terrace, breaking down the limestone into fertile soil. In the evenings, he toiled in the ceramic shop designing and painting knives for his most demanding customers. Her grandfather deserved his reputation as a grandmaster knife maker, with each ceramic knife requiring exacting skill. “Nothing short of blasphemy should cause my knives to chip or break,” he stated plainly. To him, this statement was a fact. All things were made with excellence at all times.

  Grandmother ran the household with a dictator’s grip, assigning family members to their tasks, and promoting them when necessary. As long as you did things her way, which included meeting her high standards, she showered you with praise and love. When anyone failed, no matter what age, she yelled, “Look at that mess. You must want more work to do.” She would then appoint the offender to a particularly tedious and unpleasant task. Her yelling made sure that everyone in the house heard, for the offender was an object lesson.

  In the kitchen, her grandmother administered her kin even more strictly. “This family once cooked for emperors and king and we will again. I will make meister cooks out of you. Remember, cooking is holy work. ” She would then tell a story about some terrible thing that happened to her while she was a cook, warning her family of the terrible tempers of the Hadeans.

  The remaining family worked just as hard. Maran’s brothers grew trees and harvested the day’s crop. Her father traveled for months at a time. Her sisters and cousins tended and milked the cows and goats, fed the chickens, gathered the eggs, worked the garden, and wove hours per day. Her nieces and nephews tended and learned what they could. Everyone did their work from sunrise to sundown, every day, from birth to death, in their never ending race to grow enough food. That was the Loam way.

  When the other work was done, everyone worked in the workshop. During the long winter days when even the Loam could make nothing grow, they practiced their ancient art of ceramics. Although the Loam were most famous for their beer steins, that was not the limit of their expertise, for they had shunned metals since the time of legends. Everything that others made from iron, bronze, brass, or pewter, they made from clay and fire. Each apprentice could sculpt and re-sculpt the clay with astounding expertise, whether hard or soft, fired or not. They knew the secrets, passed from generation to generation, brought from their far-away homeland of Uma.

  The higher caste dwarves called ceramic “fake stone.” They asked, why a dwarf want anything made of fake stone? The only possible explanations for this behavior, in their eyes, was that the Loam were backwards, stupid, or blasphemous. Most proper dwarves assumed all three and took every pain to remind the Loam of this.

  Religion mattered to the Loam. Even with a strict work ethic, and even stricter production quotas, the Loam honored the gods as they should. They celebrated all the great feast days with no reservations. Among Maran’s family, whose heritage involved professional cooking, this meant the most professionally delicious banquets. The food came from their private gardens, which was their only land exempt from the crop quotas. For the feast, all the neighbors would bring food as well, making for a spread, and Maran would have to stand around, greeting them all as they arrived.

  Maran felt awkward standing outside, waiting to greet the neighbors. This was normally her mother’s task, as her mother was the priestess for the agricultural aspect of the White Lady. Maran felt silly walking out with her blooming branch, waving its white flowers and welcoming those on foot. To her chagrin, as they arrived, everyone already knew that Maran was to leave as a wayfarer. This flustered her at first, but after the first greetings, she grew comfortable in the role. Something about that ritual helped her to accept her new direction.

  By the time that King Oro crowned the hill, Maran had no surprise left in her. Bursting with delight, she dashed out across the linering snows to greet her great uncle. Far more demonstrative than most Loam, Oro dropped off his goat and gave Maran a prickly kiss to her forehead, his beard smelling of charcoal.

  Oro took a long look at Maran, so Maran feared a joke, Oro’s humor being both awful and terrible.

  “I have something for you,” Oro said. “You’ll be needing these. I won’t have time to give them later as I’ll be pretending that I’m a king or something.” He reached into his often-mended saddlebags, pulling out wrapped knives.

  Oro explained. “These knives were my wife’s, bless her soul. She would want you to have them. They are yours now.”

  Maran blushed with honor. She remembered Great Aunt Getta using these. The knives were as white as porcelain could be, painted with suns in the ancient tradition. They depicted all the gods from the Alliance, both living and dead. Aunt Getta said that they were her bride price, made in a time when the empires were strong and the world knew some peace. The signature on the tang was Grandfather’s.

  “I have two request for you,” he said.

  “What would that be?” asked Maran, expecting something trivial.

  “When you leave, go to Jura city. Just for a little while. See if you can make it up to Claytown. Take some flowers to the White Lady.”

  Claytown? “Aren't we still exiled?”

  “Yes, but do it anyway. Let the White Lady know that we still have some grit in us.”

  “I know you. That the easy request.”

  Oro nodded. “I also want you find allies for us among the Ironmongers. Maybe if we appeal far enough up, we can get some of these terrible regulations lifted. I've tried for years, but I can't get anywhere with them.”

  The Ironmongers were known for their bloody ruthlessness. “That's dangerous, Uncle.”

  “So is bear hunting, but that never stopped you.”

  “You ask too much.”

  “Give it a week or two, then move it. Do what you want. Just promise me that you'll try. You Aunt would want it.”

  “With an appeal to Aunt Getta, how can I say no?”

  “You can't,” said Oro.

  Duly appreciative, Maran kissed her uncle’s cheek, took his arm, then escorted him into the lodge. She even laughed at his jokes.

  With Oro’s arrival, Maran’s grandmother ordered final preparations for the feast. The White Lady wanted to see all the good food during her ceremony, being comforted that her people still practiced the arts that she gifted to them. Maran’s mouth watered over the dishes: saffron rice, raisin rice, crusty rice, flatbread, yogurt dip, soup, fried figs, mints and walnuts, potatoes and peas, lentils, spinach snacks, assorted curries, stuffed eggplants, and vegetable kebabs. Outside were a lamb and a pig roasting in the pits. And Mother herself made the ceremonial poppy tea.

  Complementing this feast was her family’s special brew: chai stout. Her brothers had made up a fresh batch that morning. Father called that recipe the most valuable thing that the family owned, and after a stein of it wet her mouth, Maran had to agree. A life without good stout was a life wasted.

  The only thing missing from the feast was strong coffee. With last year's crop failure, only had enough for one cup, and that would be sacrificed to the White Lady.

  When Maran’s mother, Saba, saw everything prepared and the all the guests welcomed, she rang her bell in a call for silence. Folks dashed about for their places, kneeling quietly. When all were ready, Saba opened the tabernacle and removed the idol of the White Lady, taking it to the feast table. Saba removed last year’s clothes from it, wiping the porcelain idol down with a damp cloth. The little girls brought out the new clothes, Saba dressing the goddess again.

  Her task completed, Saba smiled at everyone, opening her arms wide
. “Welcome everyone, and everyone be welcome. I am glad to see so many faces this year.

  “Back in autumn, the White Lady woke up, the frosts came, and we knew that our Mistress had returned to the world. This week, the frosts have ended. The White Lady has left us to sleep the summer away. The world grows green again. Now, we celebrate our White Lady, so that she stays away in good humor.

  “This is a happier festival than most, and also sadder. The rumors that you have heard are true. Too long have we sent no wayfarers into the world. Too long have we suppressed our traditions in unjust fear. However, the time has come for us to reassert our traditions that our betters deny us. We are a people of the Contract, as are all dwarves. It is time that the Union honors that contract. If they won’t honor it, then we will honor it ourselves. For that, for all the other injustices we suffer, we need a wayfarer.

  “King Oro, would you please come forward?”

  Oro stepped up to the altar, wearing his second-hand boots and battered crown. “My friends, neighbors, and countrymen, welcome. Today the world changes. Today, I have a woman who would be a wayfarer. When I first met her, a tiny tot, she called me ‘Oh-oh.’ She found my name so funny that she ran around all night saying ‘Oh-oh’ to everyone. You could not silence her. In the years since then, she has grown into quite the able woman; quite the capable woman. I am the one who should be saying ‘Oh-oh.’ She might want my job! In another hundred years, she might just get it, and the joke will be on her. In the meantime, she will go see the world as it is, and if we are fortunate, change it for the better. Maran, step forth.”

  Maran walked up to the altar.

  King Oro looked at her. “The world lies beyond this doorstep. Do you accept the road before you?”

  Where Maran expected to find hesitance pulling at her, she now found acceptance. She spoke her words with no reservation. “Yes, I will walk the road before me and go to where it leads, no matter where it leads, by the White Lady.”