There was a rhythm to sweeping. Long, certain strokes overlapped, baring cobbles, like so many pearly teeth, underfoot. Surprised and pleased to find that one thing, at least, was the same the world over, Akadias clung to the familiar even as he faced the challenge of so many new situations without a breather between them. Pausing for a moment, he tilted his face up toward the waxing summer sun, feeling another familiar touch, one as affectionate as a fond kiss, over his face. There was also the cacophony of sea birds in the raucous sounds over the Garden: sea birds and the sound of running water. It was not quite enough to put him at his ease – he didn’t think anything was, short of a barrel of rum and a willing ship’s crew to bear him away – but unlike that, this was what he had. A wise man didn’t waste his hours pining for that which he could not have, it was said. Akadias would have preferred to punch those who had quoted the axiom rather than admit it was true, but it was.
Leaning the broom against a tree, Akadias opened his eyes. Light filtered down through the branches, and the entirety moved in the wind – like a sail, but also, not. Firmly moored by the thick trunk under his palms, the tree split into capillaries, finer and smaller, and the wood…danced. A pretty illusion, but what use was it? On a raker, the wind moved the boat, and it was harnessed and turned to best effect, so that a ship with a Windfinder was never becalmed. This tree didn’t travel: why did it not stand firmly against the wind’s assault? And…how did it stay connected to the ground? He glanced downward, saw that as above, the tree’s thick trunk split again below, and the gnarled wood that knotted the ground beneath the tree was something new. He followed it with his eyes, then pushed experimentally on the trunk with both hands. Something so shallowly placed should shift under his shove, but the tree held fast. Strong against the wind, strong against himself. What happened when it rained, though? When the Gardens were muddy, did the trees slide along the ground, jostling for position?
Curiosity prompted him to seize the broom again, auguring the handle into the ground, breaking apart dried slabs of rich soil that teased his nose with a novel odor – deep, rich…brown. There was no other description for the smell of turned earth, and, excited, he struggled deeper, farther. Nearby flowers succumbed to his sacrilegious curiosity, and Akadias pounced upon them, worrying the bushlike perennials apart from the soil. When the first lay exposed, long taproot all that anchored it to the ground, he sat back on his heels, his curiosity piqued. He had seen the layers that created a root system, had worked them free of the ground with his elegant fingers and his belt knife. Like a strand of curling hair, they feathered and had fronds as exotic as any sea plant he had ever seen or eaten, but…under the ground. As if it was a great brown sea, Akadias decided, staring down at his strange discovery.
“So,” he murmured, his thumb and fingers sliding restlessly over the dissected plant, not truly aware he was speaking. “If there are similarities like this, what else is there?” Tossing the plant aside, he stood, rubbing his hands absentmindedly over his ridiculous white costume. His broom forgotten, his chore forgotten, and his transgression the farthest thing from his mind, Akadias prepared to roam afield. Could it be that this sea of brown and his own of storms and grey and blue were more similar than they seemed? Perhaps the discovery of the natural world was a chore better left to a child, but left alone in this strange and demented wonderland, who would begrudge him the chance to show himself what others took for knowledge so rudimentary that it did not even need formal teaching? With just his enormous thirst for a companion, Akadias skinned bark from trees and pulled flowers from neatly planted beds, smiling with delight at each root ball. Like the fronds of bullwhips, did they filter the earth around them for nutrients? How did they grow, when the earth was opaque and gave them no sunlight for their processes?
And right about then, Akadias discovered bees.
At first, he watched one, his eyes tracking its lumbering flight from blossom to blossom. It was so bulky that he wondered how it got airborne at all. It was like a darter, only…He chuckled. Boldly, he came closer, put out his hand. From this angle, he could see that it was covered in fur. A furry fly? Amused, he reached for it, and shouted. As it died in the grass, he stared down at the thorn in his fingers. Flying jellyfish, he decided, nursing his wounded and swelling hand. And yet, while he understood what a jellyfish did for the ocean biome in which it flourished, what was the purpose of this furry painful fly? It had been yellow, like the centers of flowers, with black. More cautious in his discovery, vaguely aware of the filth caking his white pants, Akadias sighed. He hadn’t found anything that lent even a shred of aid to his overarching dilemma. Stormbringer’s beard, but he wasn’t even quite sure what the dilemma was. Questions of self and purpose seemed to take a back seat to the routine matters of survival, but at the same time, he was certain in his safety. It was just the overwhelming change in the world: at sea, you had an infinite frame, and a long time to focus on anything new that bloomed on the horizon. The world could be condensed to a sheet of vellum tacked to the Wavemistress’ wall.
And now he was off the sea, and that vellum had not held even a fraction of all he was expected to know. The map couldn’t answer questions about women of the Borderlands, nor could it tell him why what had suited his people was inappropriate for these people. Frowning, he spit into the grass. Shore huggers, land lappers: he did not want to please them – and yet, he was one. This was what ‘exiled’ meant: that you were no longer defined by the terms of the familiar, and you had to embrace something new – or, he supposed, you could pine. Withering away for want of what he could not yet have seemed stupid, though, and as he stretched, rising to his feet, he resolved to learn what he could. Certainly the sorrow would course caustically through his veins: the sea was part of who he was, or rather, who he had been. And, he supposed, daring toward optimism, who he would be again.
He was looking for his broom when the woman stopped on the path before him, her dark eyes widening with surprise as she took in the wreckage he had created in his curiosity. Turning back the way he had come, he winced: his broom lay in the center of the destroyed flowers and churned earth like a conqueror’s flag. Her gaze shifted to him, traveling up, and Akadias fought the urge to run.
“Novice,” the voice purred, “I don’t believe you begin to understand the trouble you’re in.”
If he had had a voice, he would have assured her that, to the contrary, while he might not be able to guess the punishment he was about to receive, he certainly knew one was forthcoming, because in the White Tower, you paid dearly for anything you learned – even if you taught yourself.
In reply to Getting Your Feet Dry[show]/[hide]
Dawn broke over Tar Valon in segments, or perhaps it was just the Tower's reaching shadow that poured night into the wide avenues and broad plazas. The figure swathed in blankets standing at the window was invisible, and at any rate, his six-foot-and-change frame would never be as dominating as that of the White Tower. Serene and radiant, carved of a substance known as elstone, it stood proudly on its island, drawing eyes from travelers even days away. Days, mused Akadias din Starwind, rubbing his sleep-deprived eyes, that he had not known were his last. He should have known, should have
guessed that he was but trading one prison and one death sentence for another, but he had been...naive. In his innocence, the Tower had seemed a new beginning. From within, with the perspective born of a week of study, he knew he had been wrong. The only new beginning to be found in Tar Valon was the beginning of his end.
The first day, he had been kept in a narrow white closet, told that "the Mistress" would see him, and indeed, she had. The white room had driven Akadias to distraction, and he had been eager to flee it. Now, it was his haven. Only, of course, the word haven was inflected heavily with sarcasm: it was less a home and more a cage. He had lived in cramped spaces, so its tiny size was no bother to him, but...it was still. And not in merely the physical sense, but it was also quiet: there was no wind, no weather, no sea. He slept too long without the morning cry of the sea birds, and he could not find sleep when he tried for the lack of rocking under him. The world was crazy, and wrong. Even when someone had done him a seeming kindness by pointing out the tall flags of harbored ships, they had only demonstrated how far off the ground he had to live.
Automatically, his fingers clenched in the windowsill as he leaned out, his eyes searching the pearlstreaked horizon for a sign that the sea moved on. Tar Valon was a wide delta in the River Erinin, which was hardly a sea, and from higher floors, one could see the haze of land across its muddy brown currents. This was no place for an Atha'an Miere, bound on each side by land, cut off from the width and depth of the sea - but then again, he was no longer Atha'an Miere. Exile, that was their word here. Exile was a new word, but it was one he was familiar with, now: it was the shorelapper word for having no home save the one provided for you by strangers. He was learning other new words, too, but none mattered so much as that one. Another word he was coming to hate was 'schedule' - that seemed to be a word akin to "torment." When you began the day exhausted, being herded from task to task - and none the promised classes that he had been inveigled with - seemed akin to an afternoon spent with the Hand of the Light.
Well, he had another word for the Aes Sedai.
Codswallop.
"You! You, boy, what do ye be doing outside of your room?" a drawling voice demanded, and as Akadias glanced backward, hitching his blanket closed around his nudity, a panoply of answers presented themselves and were summarily decided against. For all his faults, he was not actively suicidal, and the swaying fringe on the shawl about the woman's shoulders was Red. His first two days here, he had considered how the Ajahs described the women in them, and while he had come up with arbitrary classifications for the Blue - talking until blue in the face - and the Gray - putting you half to sleep with their lectures on protocol and procedure - the Red had defied him, until he'd heard one. Shouting, her face an unattractive shade of puce, he had considered her the strongest proof yet in his theory, and wondered how he would be classified. He couldn't be Green, as there wasn't a sea available that made him nauseous, but he supposed he could be Yellow - too frightened to leave this first safe bastion for the Black Tower.
He'd made the mistake of voicing this theory aloud, and a howling young man had set him to rights. Now, he was just as wary of the Red Ajah as before, but he had far better reason. While the Novice halls were patrolled by Accepted, there were no male Accepted, and the Accepted were as forbidden from the male Novice Galleries as the males were the female. A pity, he considered, and not for the first time, either. The small Taraboner woman sized him up, seeming nonplussed that her eyes had to travel up - and up - before they reached his. "Faugh!" she declared, wrinkling her nose. "You do be stinking!"
He blushed and shifted his feet, and she noticed just how much bare leg peeked out of his blanket. "Do you no even be decent?" he was harangued, and his blush deepened. He backed away, seeking the safety of his cubicle, but she chased him - remaining a decorous distance between them, of course, and with her handkerchief pressed to her nose. Unsure whether to be offended or even more worried, he opted for the latter, and scrabbled for his doorknob. Cracking his thick skull on the doorframe again, he cried out, and when the door shut between them, he unleashed his fury upon it, earning little more than a resounding rattle and a painfully stubbed toe. Clearly, through the door, he heard, "See that you do be taking a bath before you do be reporting for chores!" and when he dared poke his head back out, the Red sister had moved on, presumably to attack some other hapless male. Feeling a twinge of pity for the next lad to cross her path, Akadias let his blanket fall back to his bed. The one set of chores he had completely ingrained were those regarding the cleanliness of his living space, for there was no room for slovenliness on a raker. However, there was also no room for a bathtub aboard one.
Anyway, the fool bathing in saltwater deserved the swimmer's itch - or worse, the scaliness of salt drying to the skin.
He was not going to hunt the patrolling Aes Sedai down again just to ask where - or how - one took a bath, and so, he prepared to explore. He slept in his skin, as he always had, and so, as he bent to the creaking wooden chest that held a bundle of assorted things given him at his...induction...he tried to puzzle out which would best serve him now. Reasoning that he must require a cloth, soap, soda for his teeth, and the largest piece of battered white fabric that was neither sheet nor blanket, he leaned back on his heels. Collecting his requirements, he eased out of his room - looking every direction for that blasted Aes Sedai - and then, he began his search. Naked as he'd been born, he moved through the halls of identical doors, not noticing how far he'd gone astray as his search radius widened. It was the sound of splashing that caught his attention at last, and as he elbowed the door open, his fabric loincloth low on his hips, he was unsurprised to discover the bathing room was full of women. They liked the facilities aboard ship, too. It was not uncommon to be chased out by a woman wishing to bathe, but the rule was rather matter of fact. If you were unwed, and she was as well, then bathing was allowed. At any rate, their method was quick, and he honestly did not think he had ever seen more than went on display for anyone once the brown hulk of land disappeared behind the raker's sails.
Well, he had, but certainly not aboard
ship.
A shriek sounded, and a red-cheeked, red-haired woman barreled past him, her bottom twitching most prettily as she fled. The remaining women were akin to a stirred antheap. The familiar sallow complexion of a Domani retreated behind a tall screen, and a shocked and pale face under wet hair took him in with wide blue eyes, her hands on a cloth plastered over her chest by the iron bands of her arms. A Borderlander glanced back over her shoulder at him and frowned, opening her mouth as if to say something, but she shut it again as he studied her face. As the Atha'an Miere were scrutinized in every port, he turned his eyes on her, drinking in the odd placement of bones and skin that made her so many wheels distant from the sea. He reached the closest tub and as he was folding the towel neatly to the stool beside it, the door banged open, startling him upright. He reached for the towel again, but it was too late. The red-cheeked woman had returned, her face tear-streaked, and she'd brought a friend.
Although, she certainly didn't have an iota of friendliness on her face for
him.
The other women in the room filed out behind the Accepted's banded skirts, most only partially dressed. With little chance to admire them, Akadias arched an eyebrow at the Accepted, his mouth firing off the opening salvo in this latest land war.
"I was commanded to take a bath," he protested.
"In the women's bathing room? A likely tale!" she shot back, her skirts twitching from the pressure of her clutching handhold.
"It does not matter. I will stand guard on the room from the
outside," she emphasized, her glare dark with disdain, falling toward the half-concealing bit of toweling that was all that kept him off display, "and you will bathe and then, you will..." He frowned. What had he done wrong
this time? Was this how the Tower would be every day? One woman to tell you to do a thing, or else, and another to catch you at it and say you could not, and here was the consequence?
"Light, just be glad I am not telling the Mistress of Novices," the Accepted snapped, turning on her heel. "But if I catch sight of you in the Novice halls again, you can rest assured she will hear of your filthy-minded antics! And...this afternoon! When your assigned chore time is. You'll be sweeping paths in the Garden, to contemplate the many sorts of filth that occlude your mind." Seeming pleased with herself, she swept out, closing the door in a gust and a crash.
Akadias stewed in his bath, finding no pleasure in coming clean, wondering how it was again that for the crime of being a stranger in a very strange land, he was punished. For the sake of the filth in his mind, he was to sweep paths in the Gardens! No matter how he protested that this was bathing in the manner to which he was accustomed, although it was a lie anyway, he was wrong: the more he spoke, the stormier the Accepted’s mien had become. “And be glad,” he mocked the door, “that I do not tell the Mistress of Novices.”
Tell her, Akadias wanted to argue: tell her that I did what I am accustomed to! What crime could there be in that?
But three days’ survival in the White Tower had taught him one new custom: take what you are given, and pay for it. It argued and went across the grain of twenty-eight years of Atha’an Miere law and tradition, and it left him with more questions than anyone had answers for – or time to explain the few he had. Why was it wrong for him to continue living as he had before, when it was allowed for others to live in the way that they had been raised and were accustomed to? Did some places breed better people? Were there more behaviors he would be punished for? Was he considered inferior?
He could answer that one for himself, and it seemed that the answer was yes.
Once dressed, he was escorted to the head gardener, a small and decrepit man with a full and glorious head of white hair. For all that he was on dry land, a broom felt the same in the hands now as it had then.
