Seirei no Moribito - Volume 2 - Chapter 1.3

CHAPTER III AUNT YUKA’S HOUSE OF HEALING 

Sula Lassal market lay at the bottom of a bowl-shaped valley. About thirty shops lined the crossroads where two main thoroughfares met. Despite Kassa’s claim that it was the biggest market in Musa territory, to the well-traveled Balsa, it seemed surprisingly small. The shops were just simple stalls with thick stone walls, a thatch of straw, and tables laden with wares. She noticed that many sold goods from southern countries, like grain and candied fruit. The mountain slopes of Kanbal were too steep for farming, and the only crop that grew well was gasha, a kind of potato. To supplement the meager harvest, the king bought grain from warmer countries like New Yogo and Sangal, sold it wholesale to local merchants, and then made them sell it cheaply to the people. 
When Balsa reached Sula Lassal, she felt painfully conspicuous among all the shoppers from the Musa clan. Wherever she passed, people’s eyes followed her. She was glad that she had walked all the way around the valley to enter the market from the side opposite the caves. In the middle of town, she finally found a stall selling clothes, all brightly colored to make it easier to spot anyone who got lost in the snow. Long leather boots lay stacked on the floor underneath the table, and a few kahls, thick cloaks of woven goat’s hair, hung on the walls. 
The shopkeeper, a tall man with a face like tanned leather, watched Balsa suspiciously as she looked through his wares. When he saw the clothes she had picked, his frown deepened. “Surely you don’t want those? They’re for men.” 
His speech instantly brought back memories of Balsa’s nanny. She had had the same accent, the slightly slurred roll of common speech. 
“But I want men’s clothing. I’m on a journey of penance.” 
The man blinked in surprise. “Ah, I see.” His forbidding expression softened slightly. “I’m sorry to hear that. And where was it you were coming from?” 
The owners of the surrounding shops and even their customers were straining to hear their conversation. Balsa gave up any idea of being discreet and decided to supply just enough information to satisfy their curiosity. 
“I came from New Yogo. I was born in Kanbal, but my foster father took me to Yogo when I was young, and that’s where I grew up. He committed a crime in Yogo, so I decided to come back here to do penance…. But please don’t ask me any more than that.” 
The shopkeeper waved his hand in front of his face hastily. “Ah, no, I wasn’t meaning to pry! It’s just that the mark on your spear there is like the chieftain’s, and I was wondering how you might be related, considering that you’re dressed like an outlander and all.” 
Balsa felt her pulse race. Oh, blast! It had never occurred to her that people could tell at a glance where she came from, just from the pattern on her spear. She feigned polite surprise. “Really? I didn’t know there was another clan with a similar mark. Well, that’s certainly interesting. But this spear is a memento of my father, and I don’t think he belonged to the Musa clan….” 
“Is that so? Well then, I guess you’re right. There must be other clans with the same design. But there I go prying … That outfit with the boots is fifty nal. I’ll throw in the belt for free because you’re doing penance, like.” 
Balsa took out some coins. “Do you take Yogo currency?” 
“I sure do. Yogo merchants come to buy furs around this time of year. One piece of Yogo silver is worth a hundred nal.” 
The woman who owned the stall across the street yelled, “Hey there! Don’t let him cheat you just ’cause you’re doing penance, you hear? That should be a hundred and ten nal.” The customers burst out laughing. 
“I wasn’t going to cheat her,” the first shopkeeper retorted. “I just meant that that’s the exchange rate for Yogo merchants in my shop!” He winked at Balsa. “So how about it? While you’re at it, why not buy that wool cloak? I’ll give you the lot for one piece of Yogo silver. If you’ve been gone a while, you might have forgotten, but the winters here come early, and the cold is enough to freeze the marrow in your very bones. This kahl, though, it’s woven from Kanbal goat’s wool. The natural oils in it keep off the rain and the bugs too.” 
Balsa smiled and said she would take it. She was richer than she had ever been in her life at the moment, thanks to her last job protecting a prince in New Yogo. His mother, the queen, had paid her enough to live comfortably for the next ten years. Although she had left most of the money in New Yogo with her old friend Tanda, she had brought enough to last her for at least a year. 
“In return, though, would you exchange another silver piece for me?” she asked. “A hundred nal will do.” 
“Hang on. I’ll have to see if I have enough.” He rose and opened the box on which he had been sitting. He counted the money inside and exchanged the silver coin for copper nal. 
“Thank you. There’s one last thing I’d like to ask you.” 
“And what would that be?” 
“Can you tell me how to get to Yonsa territory?” 
The shopkeeper went to the back of the stall and brought out a sheet of thin leather. “This here’s a map for traveling merchants. I’ll let you have it for half a nal.” Although very rough, it showed the major roads leading to the capital and all ten territories in Kanbal, and Balsa was grateful for it. 
She paid the money and left the shop. She had not walked far when a delicious smell wafted through the air — deep-fried losso, a thin dough of grated gasha potato kneaded with plenty of la, or goat’s butter, and stuffed with various ingredients. The savory smell made her stomach constrict with hunger. She bought a losso sweetened with yukka juice and another stuffed with goat’s cheese and minced meat, as well as some lakalle, a drink brewed from fermented goat’s milk, then sat down on a bench near a group of merchants who had already started on an early lunch. As she bit through the crisp outer crust of the losso, the taste of melted goat’s cheese filled her mouth. 

She looked up at the sky, pale blue and distant. Far above an eagle wheeled. She took a sip of lakalle, which was very refreshing in this dry climate. I’ll borrow a horse from a stable in Sula Lassal and leave today for Yonsa, she thought. 
She belonged to the Yonsa clan, but returning to her native village did not mean that any family would be there. Her mother had died when she was five, and she had no memory of her grandparents. The only person she remembered was Aunt Yuka, her father’s younger sister. She had a vague image of her as a tall woman who came to visit after her mother died, bringing over hot meals or sweets. But from what Jiguro had said, she sounded like a remarkable person. 
Balsa’s father, Karuna, had been known at school for his keen intelligence and dexterity rather than for his combat skills. When he turned sixteen, he had decided to pursue higher studies in the capital and become a doctor. Yuka, who was even smarter, asked to follow the same path, and the chieftain gave her permission, probably because he recognized that she would be of more value to the clan as a doctor than as a housewife. When they completed their studies, Karuna stayed in the capital as the king’s physician, while Yuka returned to practice medicine in Yonsa territory. Balsa intended to seek her out first to find out what had happened since her father’s death. 
The folds in the Yusa range marked the clan boundaries of Kanbal. Each clan numbered about five thousand people, who grazed goats on the rocky stretches beneath the mountain peaks and farmed the plateaus above the forested slopes. Clan settlements of about fifty families each lay scattered along these plateaus, surrounded by low stone walls. Major roads ran through the valleys where the markets were located. 
From a stable in Sula Lassal, Balsa rented a shaggy, short-legged horse that looked hardy enough to weather the cold winter. After riding some distance, she found a spring in the woods where she bathed and changed into the clothes she had bought. They were stiff and heavy compared to the clothing worn in Yogo, but also much warmer, particularly the cloak. The cold had kept her awake most of last night: Tonight she should sleep very well. 
She reached the border between Yonsa and Musa before nightfall. It was marked by two crude stone forts on either side of the road at the top of the mountain pass. Relations between the two clans were good, and the guards merely watched travelers pass through while they grazed their goats. They gave Balsa directions to the nearest inn, and that night she slept indoors for the first time in a long while. Used to wrapping herself up in a shiruya and sleeping on the floor by the hearth like the Yogoese, she found it strange to lie in a rough wooden bed against the wall under a heap of musty-smelling straw. She smiled to herself. My birthplace feels like a foreign country to me. 
The next morning, she ate breakfast at the inn and then set out to find her aunt, who appeared to be well-known. The innkeeper told her that Yuka ran a house of healing in the valley near the chieftain’s village, about an hour’s journey from the inn. On the way, Balsa saw women harvesting gasha from the thin dry soil in small plots shored up by stone retaining walls. Once again she was struck by the poverty of her native land. 
High up on the rock-covered slopes she could see little specks that must be goats, tended by the Herder People. Eagles soared overhead, looking for dead goats or their stray offspring. And towering over all loomed shining white peaks that brushed the heavens. 
Balsa’s lips stung, chapped by the strong, dry wind. She rode over a low hill and looked down into a wide, gently sloping valley. She could see the chieftain’s hall perched on a rise to the north and, in the foreground, a market about the size of Sula Lassal. Set apart from both of these was a group of buildings surrounded by a low stone wall. That, she realized, must be her aunt’s house of healing. 
As she drew nearer, Balsa began to feel like she had seen this place before. Perhaps her father had brought her when she was very small. When she saw a branch of a yukka tree overhanging a black stone wall, she was suddenly sure of it. The tree was laden with red fruit, and birds flitted from branch to branch, chirping merrily. The sweet smell of ripe yukka drifted toward her on the wind. She dismounted and was gazing absently up at the branches when someone moved on the other side of the wooden gate. A short elderly man with a rake in his hand stood staring at her. 
“Is this the house of healing?” Balsa asked. 
He nodded. “Yes, it is. Are you ill?” 
“No, I’m not a patient. I’d like to meet Mistress Yuka.” 
He looked doubtfully at Balsa’s spear, as if unsure what to make of her, but at that moment, a plump, sturdy woman of about fifty appeared at the gate. Her salt-and-pepper hair was tied back, and she wore a soft woollen robe. Balsa instantly recognized her black brows, firm chin, and dark brown eyes. 
“I’m Yuka Yonsa. Did you wish to see me?” the woman said calmly. 
Balsa’s heart began to pound. All thought of caution vanished when she saw her aunt’s face. “Aunt Yuka, it’s me, Balsa. Karuna’s daughter.” 
The woman looked at her strangely, as if she had difficulty understanding what Balsa said. Then her face grew stern, and she spoke quietly but forcefully. “Who are you, and why do you use my niece’s name?” 
Yuka had last seen Balsa when she was six. She could not be expected to find that child in the face of a woman already turned thirty. Balsa looked her straight in the eye and spoke equally calmly and deliberately. “I’m not using anyone else’s name. I am Balsa.” 
Her aunt’s eyes wavered. “But that’s impossible! Balsa died when she was only six years old.” 
Balsa felt as if she had been punched in the chest. She had expected something like this, but hearing the words from her aunt’s mouth still hurt. 
“Did you see her body?” she asked gently. 
Her aunt grew visibly paler. “No, how could I? She fell into an artesian well. She was swept away underground and —” 
“Aunt Yuka,” Balsa interrupted her abruptly, “you see the branch on this yukka tree? I don’t know how old I was, but I remember falling from it and breaking my arm.” 
Her aunt’s face turned chalk white, and her lips trembled. She pressed them together and looked searchingly into Balsa’s face. With a shaking hand, she brushed back her hair. “Lusula, Goddess of Dreams,” she murmured. “Is this a waking nightmare?”