Brave Story - Miyuki Miyabe [201]
The lustrous, silky white cloth used in the refining process was also spun locally. It was woven from threads made from the fiber of a peculiar grass called huhulune, and was quite valuable. Everyone who worked on the tears had to wear clothes made entirely of this indigenous grass. Clothes made from huhulane were very expensive—one outfit, for example, would cost an entire year’s salary in a place like Nacht.
When she had been working, Satami was a weaver in one of the workshops. Weaving the fibrous turf was a taxing chore, requiring great focus of mind. More than half of the weavers were women. These days, when Sara was not by her mother’s bed, she would be in the workshop, where some of her mother’s friends took care of her. Wataru would wave and say hello whenever he saw her, but she would shyly run away, or hide behind a nearby adult. She never warmed up to him no matter how much he tried.
There were few children in Tearsheaven. Most of the residents had come alone, and many of them went for weeks without having contact with the outside world.
“It makes sense, if you think about it,” Bhuto had said. “The people here…their family and friends couldn’t cure what ailed them. Or, even worse, they’re here because they lost family and friends in the first place. They come to us with two burdens: sadness and loneliness.”
Bhuto had been born in Nacht. A drifter by profession, he was a hired hand in the direct employ of Mayor Mag.
“It was about five years ago, I guess. Ran into somebody at a gatehouse wanting to go to Tearsheaven, and too afraid to make the journey alone. So I helped him along the way.” He had ended up staying in the town. “There are lots of women here, so most of the men are busy doing strong-work, like carrying water. They needed more people for guard duty. The mayor asked me to stay.”
He seemed like a nice enough person, but Wataru had no doubt that when push came to shove, Bhuto could shove pretty hard.
“I’ve been a drifter since as long as I can remember, so it doesn’t bother me too much being alone. Funny, isn’t it? Loneliness isn’t such a bad thing, but mix in a little anger and sadness, and it can become the worst punishment in the world.”
It was a little after noon. Bhuto was puffing on a cigarette, while Wataru dangled his feet from atop a town gate.
“Not that being a watchman is all that demanding a job. If you see someone on the road, you ask if they’re a visitor to Tearsheaven. If they are, you open the gate. If they’re not, you wave them along. That’s about it. It’s just an excuse to sit out in the sun.”
Shortly, an individual riding an udai approached the gate.
“Ooy!” Bhuto called out. “Have you business in Tearsheaven?”
The rider took one hand off the reins and waved, calling out, “I’m a traveling merchant! Have you business with me?”
“You got tobacco?”
“All kinds, my friend. All kinds.”
The traveling merchant was an ankha man, and his goods included cakes and toys as well as cigarettes. A carved wooden figurine caught Wataru’s eye. It was a simple doll, but he thought the smiling face was cute.
“Can I buy this?” he asked. “For Sara,” he explained to Bhuto.
Bhuto smiled. “You’d make a good brother!”
The traveling merchant dismounted. Between cigarette puffs, he proceeded to make small talk. There had been a strange occurrence over in the woods north of Lyris, he said. Apparently, a curious silvery cyclone had appeared out of nowhere and took a good chunk of forest with it.
Bhuto listened to the story intently, his face blank, but never once betraying the fact that he had heard of the cyclone before—and that it had carried the boy sitting next to him all the way to Tearsheaven. The watchman of the town of sorrows knew the value of tight lips.
“By the by,” the traveler said, finishing his cigarette and mounting his udai. “Have you heard the rumors of folks selling counterfeit tears?”
Bhuto leaned forward, his expression suddenly intense. “What?”
“Just something I heard in Arikita, haven’t seen it myself. Someone out there