Excerpt: The Mapmaker's Tale

The Lady and the Tiger: First Steps
Meela unfolded the pages. Looking over them it took a while for it to register that they were not documents. There were pictures of a someone in a travelling cloak and, what was that? It was a Tiger! He had been listening to the dinner talk. Where? When had he arrived?
Had she known he was there before the apology, before the music, she would have been angry with him for not making himself seen. It smacked of the kind of thing the other mother did when Anche was younger. She cringed with the memory of turning to find the other mother just turning her head and walking away from a door frame. She wondered where the woman was now and was tempted to look out into the corridor. Instead she took the pages and made herself comfortable in a chair, pulling the coverlet over her legs.
The sketches were small and very economically drawn. Just a few lines defined the landscape, and a few strokes the characters of the Lady and the Tiger. The characters were not in the positions she’d expected based on the story she knew. The Tiger was the most changed. It was as much man as animal. It walked upon its two rear legs and wore clothing. Not just any clothing. It wore—He wore breeches and a coat. He also wore an instrument on his back. Meela smiled thinking that perhaps the Tiger was meant to be Pod rather than Taylor. A bard rather than a soldier at least.
The lady wore a travelling cloak and something that looked like armor. She wore a breast plate over some kind of knitted over shirt, gloves that also looked like they were made of a plate metal, something on her legs and feet that Meela didn’t recognize or know the name of also in metal. How she knew they were metal from the images, she couldn’t say. It’s the artistry, she decided finally. She’d only seen such skill once or twice in her life and that was from the hands of needle women.
How do I look? the Lady asked of her companion. It is the best I could do with what we have.
It is the best I could provide.
You didn’t harm him, she said in sudden alarm.
Of course not sweet Lady, the Tiger purred deeply. I would not do that to you. I only asked for his garments to shelter you while you travelled. He was afraid, of course, but not so afraid that he could not remove his outer garments for you.
Did he say anything? While I am so grateful for your intervention and hence my freedom, he did interest me. They all interest me as people. I was just not interested in the life they represented. Her voice was soft, her head low as she said, It is no life at all, what they had in mind.
The Tiger waited to hear if she would say more and when only silence followed he said, He said only that he wished the Lady well. He was sincere, he added. And he did not cry.
At that she smiled, which was his intention.
Where shall we go first? she asked, her face now bright with interest and intent.
Hmm, the Tiger purred. There is indeed an entire world for us to explore. Perhaps we should first decide what would we like to accomplish?
Why accomplishments first?
You said you did not want to live the life that had been decided for you. So, why not pursue something of your own! Choosing an accomplishment is the way I help myself to move forward. It helps me move forward through fear, or hunger, or any other challenges life tosses my way.
I’m curious. What was the accomplishment you desired that brought you to the prison we shared?
The Tiger laughed so hugely that the ground shook under her booted feet.
It was not your question that amuses me but the way you asked it. And the way you asked it, as well as that you asked, that amuses me. I wanted to do something remarkable, something that would change someone’s life in a way that was completely unexpected. Do you think I have accomplished that?
I think so, the Lady said, smiling. Although, the act of speaking might be considered more than just an accomplishment. I would say it bordered on the miraculous.
Ah, the Tiger said, I never said that I limited my desire to the ordinary. If I can accomplish miracles then that is what I shall endeavor to do. And as often as possible.
So, he continued, what do you desire for your life?
I would like nothing more than to have an adventure on the road.
That is a very big endeavor, the Tiger said. I think you have accomplished most of that already, by being here, under these trees, by this road with me. You have escaped capture by the rules society executes under the guise of marriage.
The Lady looked closely at the Tiger’s eye to see if he was laughing at her. He was not. You believe marriage is a form of capture? She asked.
I no nothing about marriage, he answered. It is not in a tiger’s disposition to consider such things. What I am more knowledgeable of, he said thoughtfully, is the heart rhythm of fear.
The Lady’s breath tremored in surprise. What do you mean?
I could sense your heart’s rhythm as you waited. When the young man was set to making his choice, your heart quickened.
It could have been out of desire, the Lady added quickly.
Yes, it could have been. But it wasn’t. Desire has a scent and it is a scent remarkably different than that of fear. As for the heart, he said, it beats differently when anticipating pleasure than when anticipating pain. If I were to direct you to a familiar sound, he said, looking around the landscape. He sniffed the air as he looked around. There! He said. Let us walk to that grove of trees. You can hear what I mean and perhaps, he added looking at her with his deeply penetrating eyes, you will learn more about yourself and what you wish to accomplish.

They walked a short distance away from the wall that she had recently seen the other side of. The Lady looked back only once, to see the small, dark square that had been her only connection to the outside world. Other than the tiger in the next cell, that is. She looked to see if he had a window as well. He did not. She did not want to feel pity for him. He had too much dignity for such attentions. She noted his easy stride, his relaxed demeanor, his miracle of speech. What had she been wishing for that this was what she had received? Surely it was not a tiger.

What is your name? The Tiger asked interrupting her reverie. I can continue to call you Lady without any effort. I am only being curious. The Lady looked at him with a wry smile and resisted the obvious response of the danger curiosity posed to the life span of cats, whatever their size or talent.
Would you be unhappy if I did not give you the name I was born with?
It does not surprise me that you might wish to change it. Isn’t it the custom of marriage to erase the woman’s identity and replace it with that of the man?
The Lady stopped walking, stilled by the depth of his insight. Perhaps it is exactly that. I hadn’t considered it that way before. She continued walking and he took up his place beside her. Perhaps I was thinking along those terms as I considered how I would be referring to myself for the rest of my life. I did not like the rhythm of the names together and I was thinking of what name would sound best with his. When you asked, it was that name that rose to my lips.
Call me, Arathea.
Arathea. It sounded soft and fluid in his voice. It is a name that is more air than sound. The sound the wind makes in trees. It is a good name to begin an adventure with. He said it again with more voice, growling the first syllable. Yes, a very good name for adventures.
We are here, he said.
They were approaching a pool. It was a deep blue pool surrounded by black stones. Someone had taken a lot of effort to create it, Arathea thought. It collected the water that tumbled wildly from nearby rocks starting high up among the trees and stopping for a while in the pool. From the pool the water spilled over its edges into a natural depression in the earth, itself lined with stones. From there the water continued along a natural stone path deeper into the woods where it ended in a fully developed stream or river. Arathea guessed its end. She had never seen a stream or river having been cradled in the lap of womanly enterprise and education all her life.
The tiger sat at the edge of the natural pool, crossing his legs. He patted the ground next to him and she sat there. Listen, he said, to the water. See if you can hear your passion and your fear in its voice.

Arathea sat and listened. She closed her eyes and let her body relax and listened to the trickling water sounds. She tried to understand what the tiger wanted her to hear. First she listened for her heart’s rhythm as she sat there. Putting her hand over her chest she put it down again finding only the metal of the armor there.
Try your wrist, the tiger whispered, his voice more a sensation on the ground than a sound in her ears.
She put on hand on her wrist and in time felt the tiny bounce that was her heart beating far above in her chest. Now she could hear the rhythm in the falling water. I hear it, she said as quietly as she could.
Good, came the purr from the ground, now listen for another rhythm.
It did not take long since she now knew what to listen for. There in the fall of the water into the pool was her fear. It was a nearly shrill sound under the tap tap of the falling water. I hear it, she said, her voice rasping with emotion.
Good, he whispered, his voice not much more than the sensation of fur under a hand.
She listened again, calming herself, feeling the bouncing pressure under her hand slow, calm. After long breaths of listening she heard the dancing water that was her desire. It spilled over the edge of the pool and finding its way to the ground it leaped and danced.

Under the plate of armor, Arathea felt her large heart open as though it was itself a pool released from its tension by drops of water. Feeling rippled from her heart released by her falling tears. Her body trembled with relief. What she felt relief from, she did not know.
A soft touch, softer than any touch she could recall, brushed her cheeks, and took her tears away.

Anche put down the pages. She knew that Pod was a bard, but she hadn’t thought of bards as people who wrote stories. Meela would have known that though. She knew about tales and their significance. She would not have dismissed Pod’s skills as being merely entertaining. She would have listened to him, questioned him closely, asked him piercing and pertinent questions.
Anche felt that blush of shame again. She had apologized. She had done it formally and with all sincerity. She had done it in front of her father and been forgiven by both him and Pod. What more was there to do? She looked over the pages again, taking in the tidy writing, the skillfully economical drawings.
Anche looked with more attention at the drawings. This time she looked with the eye of a sketcher and a pilot. Making sketches of the details over and through which her father’s pilots navigated his ships was her talent. It was the talent that had won her her own shipping barge for one short season. First, Anche looked at the marks themselves. What kind of instrument had Pod made the marks with? A quill, a pen, something of his own design? Ah… He used a brush. She could tell by the nature of the flow of the lines on the page. She could also tell by the shapes of the lines, the nature of their corners when they changed directions suddenly. It was also elements of the mark that were missing that revealed the tool. Why was this necessary? She didn’t know. There were lots of things in that locker she called her head that seemed to serve no purpose. She just noticed the nature of marks made on paper.
So, let’s continue, she said to herself. No need to stop just because I noticed myself noticing. She did stop at that thought. It was one of the actions she needed to remember as a novice traveller. She tended to wander around in her thoughts when she noticed herself and it was a dangerous habit. Good to remember and take notice of and keep going. So she did.
Ink. What kind of ink did he use? She had a quick and effective test to discover the most interesting and useful quality of the ink. Will it survive being on the water? She spit on a thumb and rubbed her thumb against a corner of a frame. Fortunately Pod had provided frames for his little pictures so that she could safely test the ink without ruining the drawing.
It passed the spit test. That eliminated most sources of ink that Anche had seen in her life. Ther e were only a few that passed the spit test. Most were sold for map making and were shaped in sticks to be ground as needed. The other ink that passed the spit test was made for contracts and sold in bottles to be kept on desks. It did not surprise Anche that Pod had used a brush. She also believed that he would have used a stick ink. The two seemed to go together. She had just learned something about bards also. It made sense that a bard would use a brush and ink in a stick. If a bard’s work was to compose impromptu pieces, then it would be convenient that he would carry ink that had to travel well.