#6. Meeting at the Farm
Everyone who gathered at the old family farm in Romualda that night, was unaware that they were stepping onto a path leading deeper into the heart of Humbravana. The elders who were present knew of the purpose and had some insight into the significance of their meeting, but even they could not see how its outcome would impact each one of them so personally, let alone to what extent it would determine the destiny of the land and the nature of life itself.
Every candlestick holder in the farm house had a fresh tallow burning attentively that evening, and all the fires were lit in the main rooms to keep distant the first frosty chill of autumn in the province of Romualda. The heavy drapes were yet to be pulled snug across the windows, and the diamond panes sparkled like jewels as the flames and figures shifted inside.
Candlelight illuminated the intricate mosaic pattern of colorful tiles on the face of the massive masonry heater, which was central to the house and commanded the entire north wall of the living room. Hypnotized by the flames gently pulsing in the firebox, Mirvalus was relaxed and content by now in his usual comfy chair beside it. The buttons of his vest pulled at their stitches around the little barrel of his belly, and his thin, bandy legs were stretched out towards the fire. His feet were propped up on a small, tapestried footstool and sported a new pair of carpet slippers, which he had slit with his pocket knife about an inch down the top for a better fit. He slowly sipped a glass of torkeenaudah, a golden liquor made from fermented gooseberries, which is especially popular in Humbravana during the colder months.
‘Pilgrims’s Path’ by Imero Gobbato
Vada, you were delayed. How was your journey over from the big city?”
Even in the soft light, the shadowed lines on Lady Vada Golanda’s pointed little face were sharper and more drawn than usual as she studied the patterns of the fire. Her small frame almost seemed to disappear in the bulk of the easy chair where she sat across from Mirvalus.
Segelvo by Imero Gobbato
“We had trouble with one of the Segelvos just beyond Arkadena, and had to make a detour to the station in Sirla. The poor dog somehow suffered an injury and became lame on the right foreleg, and then we had to wait over an hour for one of the stable boys to bring a replacement for the team.” She leaned forward carefully to take the small glass sitting on the table beside her, adjusting her thick, woolen shawl so as not to disturb the delicate, bright-eyed bird nested on her shoulder.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, my dear. I find traveling stressful enough these days without such troubles. My old bones felt every little bump under the wheels of the dog carriage on our way up, I creaked as much as it did!” Mirvalus shifted in his seat, stretching his back with a little cringe. “Although I don’t welcome the cold and snow so much anymore, I do look forward to switching to the runners for a smoother ride.”
“Yes, I feel the strain of these journeys more than I used to.” Vada gently leaned her head against her feathered friend as she smoothed its ruffled feathers. “Mora and I were reluctant to leave home as it is. Weren’t we, my love? There is still much to do to organize the plants in the conservatory and bed down the gardens for the season, but, when there is business of the land to attend to…”
‘The House of Romualdel’ by Imero Gobbato
Vada and Mirvalus sat in silence for a while, sipping their drinks and contemplating the reasons for their arduous rides to the farm, yet relishing the stillness and comfort of a place as familiar to each of them as their own homes. The rooms and furnishings around them were settled and intimate, and the low, hand-hewn ceiling beams felt strong and supportive. The intricately carved patterns of flowers and fauna on chairs and tables, and polished wood surfaces of doors and moldings, glowed in the soft light. There were woolen tapestries of scenic vistas, some of them quite faded, hanging upon the dark, paneled walls, and patterned rugs, also worn and threadbare in areas, were scattered upon the smooth, wide floorboards. There was a certain reassurance in the evidence of the passage of time and the generations of family and friends who had lived and farmed here since the original two room homestead (now part of the stables) was wrestled out of the fieldstone and timbers of the land, centuries ago.
A young woman entered the room carrying a plate of stuffed mushrooms still steaming from the cookstove in the kitchen. She had a pretty face, containing the innocence and purity of recent childhood, with large, hazel eyes and a splash of freckles across her nose. The knitted sage-green dress she wore draped softly to just below the knee and was pulled in around her slim waist with a felted beige girdle patterned with matching green wool. The firelight caught the fluffy fibers of the dress, and along with the red highlights of her auburn hair, created a distinct aura around her willowy form. She placed the plate on the low, wooden table in front of the overstuffed couch between the two elders, and then plopped herself back into its richly textured maroon upholstery, pulling one of the fat cushions behind her back.
“How are you Nivanine?” Vada’s eyes, as soft and grey as the feathers of her companion, sensed an unease and looked gently upon the restless girl.
“Curious about who it is, this artist person, this ‘Lucoel’ you are here to discuss, and why he might be coming here and what for? As usual, I have not been told anything!” Nivanine frowned at her father and pulled at the thick braid of hair she had painstakingly plaited and wrapped around her head in preparation for what Mirvalus had told her would be a ‘special’ evening. It felt tight and confining around her ears, and she wanted to rip it all out.
“Oh now, now, Nivanine,” said Mirvalus, in his kindly, yet dismissive tone, as he continued to study the fire. “You will have all the information you need about Lucoel, in good time.”
Nivanine glanced down at the new slippers she had made him for his birthday. Ruined! But she held her tongue. Slowly she was adjusting to the fact that her aging father was getting more and more eccentric and stubborn in his ways, and trying to control him just made them both more frustrated and distant from each other. It was a distance, a distractedness in him that had always been there in varying degrees for as long as she could remember, and no doubt even before he had adopted her. She took a deep breath. He simply wants to be left alone in comfort, she reminded herself, so he can focus on his botanical collection and bury himself in his books and papers.
“Have you seen Lucoel’s artwork?” Vada asked softly, wanting to soothe Nivanine’s irritation.
‘Approaching Storm’ by Imero Gobbato
“No, not yet.” Nivanine poked and prodded the cushion behind her back to position it as a reminder to sit tall. She didn’t want to reveal just how irritated she felt. No point getting into it when she didn’t even really know the reason herself. Feeling left out was only part of it. She could see the moon rising just above the trees outside, and knew it was pulling at something inside her and contributing to her mood. The Harvest Moon, swollen and a fiery orange-red, bathed the fields around the old stone house, now stubbled and spent after long days of the labor of scything, gathering and storing of food and supplies for the winter. She was exhausted! She looked at the unruly wisps of white hair haloed around the head of her aging father. As he gazed into the fire, he seemed small and fragile after his long journey from Norenna. She picked up the plate of fragrant mushrooms. “Here, Vada. Father. You must be hungry.”
The rumble of deep voices filtered in from the hallway and Sarrath Romualdel entered the room through the arched double doors, accompanied by a commanding, stiff postured man who had a slight limp in his left leg, an old injury, it is told, from the Dark Years of the last great conflict in Humbravana. Little was known about the powerful leader of the Provinces of North and South Igony beyond hearsay. He was not one to intimately reveal anything to anyone, but Nivanine was quite familiar with her own discomfort when around Sarrath Igony’s detached and haughty presence.
“Lady Vada Golanda, a pleasure to see you.” Igony bowed and kissed the hand she extended. The dove fluttered uneasily and its dark eyes blinked with caution several times.
“Please don’t get up.” He turned to Mirvalus. Igony’s fine, greying hair was slicked back off his forehead and behind his ears, ending in a slight flip at the nape of his neck. His freshly manicured sideburns and mustache made his hardened face more severe than ever as he leaned forward to shake hands with Mirvalus. With thin, tight lips, he showed only the slightest curve of a smile as he dipped his head in greeting towards Nivanine, flicking his eyes on her briefly while selecting a mushroom from the plate she was holding. He slid it into his mouth and turned away.
It was rare for Sarrath Igony to leave the Northern territories to travel to these parts. This made Nivanine even more aware that whoever Lucoel was, he must be someone of significance for the hawkish leader to release his military responsibilities for a few days to be here. Igony had a reputation for being a strategist, known for never acting on anything without a specific goal in mind.
“I was told Dasilla might be joining you on this trip, Igony?” Vada shifted herself to face him and his leather riding boots creaked as he perched uncomfortably on the edge of the couch.
“She is here, changing for the evening. I am afraid my daughter has been wandering a little wild of late,” A slight smile seemed to reveal some pride he felt in this, “so I am pleased she has taken interest in Lucoel and his work enough to accompany me here.”
Dasilla is here too! Nivanine tugged on her braid as she absorbed the news. What does she want?