Sons of Chenia

Chapter 37

Six decades were written in the wrinkled, aged skin of the two hands that rested on the heavy oaken table. The callous digits spoke of countless years spent holding the reins of a horse. The ink stains, from the previous night, were once a common occurrence on those hands. The black liquid settled in the crevasses of the fingernails as it always did. But the most definitive trait of the extremities was the color: bronze. Although Sagemark was a port city that knew more clouds and fog than sun, the hands reflected a life spent under a wide open sky, in lands far and wide that Katerina had yet to know.

Katerina stood over her grandfather, Sergei. She watched as his back rose and fell with each breath as he lay hunched over the table. Her eyes drifted back to his hands, so strong in her mind. He used to lift me with those massive paws, she reflected. He picked me up and sat me down on my first horse. He taught me the art of riding.

Beneath those hands, Katerina spotted a few drips of ink. She leaned over her grandfather, oblivious to his snoring, to spot the parchment under his arms. She scanned the pockets of writing that were visible.

"He finished," she whispered.

She reached between his hands for the four pages. Slowly, she tugged. Sergei shifted as the parchment moved but he remained asleep. Again, Katerina pulled at the sheets until they came loose from under his hands. She moved to the window to read them in the light of the early morning.

The parchment started with the greeting that had been her grandfather's standard for as long as she could remember: Sergei, a Southern Shepherd, of the Yitl family, writes to you . . . From there, the letter went on to describe his granddaughter's chance encounter with five young Chenian men who had returned to the motherland to assist The Movement. He listed the five young men by name and provided a brief description of each. He ended his letter by reiterating his own efforts to recruit others to the cause of Chenian freedom and sovereignty before signing his letter with another of his standards: For Mother Chenia, Sergei.

Katerina lowered the letter. She turned to her grandfather, who still laid asleep on the table, his snoring unceasing. A tinge of pity came over her. No, she thought, do not feel that way. She tried to put the emotion out of her heart. But she was unable to help it.

The truth of the matter was that her grandfather's mention of his efforts to help The Movement in Chenia were exaggerated. In some cases they were complete fabrications. It was not that he was not trying. In fact, his actions were incessant. His zeal was unmatched.

And that was the problem. Few in Sagemark regarded the trouble in the West as their concern. Even as the streets of Sagemark swelled with Chenian refugees from eastern Czaria and the Frontier, the resulting public response was apathy. The citizens of Sagemark were simply too involved with putting food on their own tables, which had grown scarce over recent months. Farmers from the countryside, once dependable sources to feed the bustling port, had lessened their journeys into Sagemark due to the threat of robbery from desperate refugees and opportunistic thugs. Those that did venture to the city would only do so by banding together and hiring protection from one of the clans or the New Council. Such hired guards charged exorbitant fees that drove up the price of every food staple.

Katerina and her grandfather had been spared the worst of the food shortages. Having once been a Shepherd of southern Chenia, Sergei still had connections with many of the sailors from that region. When they were in port, his friends would pay their respects and supply his pantry with pickled, jarred and dried foodstuffs in exchange for the mending of clothes or the use of a stable horse which Katerina and Sergei were always glad to provide. The sailors would also bring news from abroad. The tidings were often dire, which would send Sergei into a fit. For days afterwards, he would take to the streets and taverns, arguing for support for The Movement to any passerby or neighbor.