The Dry Country

BEGINNINGS: MISKIN

Miskin stood at the Gate.

Above her, the Wall stretched higher than two men standing. It wound to the west and east as far as Miskin could see. No one could get into the Dry Country unless they hiked many leagues to the end of the Wall. If anyone was stupid enough to go all the way around just to avoid paying a Guide, they deserved their fate—to be lost in the Dry forever.

Miskin had always wanted to cross the Dry Country, to see it change shape as she walked across it, to feel its strange visions. Now she’d saved enough coin to sign up for a journey with a Guide. Guides could find their way through the shifting landscape. Guides could lead travelers through the Dry to the endless possibilities of Mairewald, and the unimaginable ocean.

But Miskin didn’t care about Maireport. She just wanted to see the strange hills and rocks of the Dry Country. And—she didn’t let herself think about this much—she wanted to become a Guide. She went up close to the Wall and put her hands on the stone, shivering, not from the early autumn chill but from excitement. She tilted her head to look up at the top of the Wall, where stone became weathered wood.

Then she found herself looking for toeholds in the stone, wanting to climb the Wall, to get into the Dry Country immediately. Stupid, she told herself. Always rushing into things. Carefully and deliberately, she turned around to see if any of the other travelers had arrived.

A shaft of sunlight shot over the mountains, briefly blinding her. Sunrise. Miskin took a deep breath. The travelers were to gather at sunrise. When they had all met for their schooling about the trip, she realized that most of the others came from the poor back streets of Yorlith, or from the rocky hill farms that could barely support a goat. What would they think of a girl who grew up in the lush Kayetan valley? A girl who ran away from two fine offers of marriage?

# # # # #

Miskin had dreamed about the Dry Country all her life. When she was a kid, everyone in Kayetan played Dry Country. It was her favorite game. She always tried to bully the others into letting her play the Guide.

Because her Gran told such wonderful Dry Country tales, Miskin did have the best ideas for adventures. Sometimes they had to ford the River, carefully jumping from stone to stone in the little creek. Sometimes they wandered around the pastures pretending to be lost in the Dry hills that moved around when you turned your back on them. Sometimes they fought off monsters. Gran didn’t have any tales about monsters in the Dry, but Miskin imagined them, with red nostrils and dozens of sharp horns.

“It’s only the cow,” said Emme, once. She was mad because she hadn’t been chosen to be the Guide this time.

Miskin glowered at her. “Are you scared?” she asked, fiercely. “You don’t have to play if you’re scared.”

“I’m not,” said Emme, coldly. She could be mean, but Miskin could be meaner. Everyone feared her ferocious temper. Her older brother Tiek often told Miskin that she was as bad as their Gran.

Gran had come to live with them when Miskin was only three, after Mam died birthing the twins. The snappish and grumpy old lady took charge of the household and her temperamental granddaughter. By the time the twins were four, Miskin’s main job became chasing them from one trouble-making expedition to the next. But that was a small price to pay for Gran’s stories. If Miskin worked hard, keeping her two younger brothers from annoying their grandmother, getting them to bed without too much yelling and running around, Gran would agree to talk about the Dry, as she called it.

They’d all sit around the fireplace after supper, her Da, her older brother, and her Gran. “You sure do love those old stories,” her Da would tease her. “You look just like a Gran yourself, rocking and mending.” Then he would ask her to help him mend a scythe handle, or he’d show her how to make knots. That was almost as good as stories about the Dry Country.

Gran had never traveled the Dry Country, never even been to Yorlith. But she’d collected tales for years. And her Grandmother’s Grandmother actually remembered when Finn Geddly learned how to navigate the Dry. Gran’s stories always began there, when people from Yorlith tried to travel north.

“For years, people tried to explore the Dry, but most of ’em never came back,” Gran would say. “Those who did had lost their wits and never found ’em again. Then Finn tried it, and got back in fine shape. He was the first Guide.”

“Can’t people go around?” No matter how many times she heard the story, Miskin always asked that question.

“Grugarth Mountains to the east, and people there who are so smart with their arrows that you won’t see ’em until you’re dead. Cardenstags to the west, no one can climb those mountains. Oh, folks sometimes get through the rapids on the Plegwine River, take a ship around to Maireport.”

Maireport lay on the inconceivable ocean that people crossed with huge ships, bigger than the biggest river barge. Anybody could find a job in Maireport, loading the ships, or buying and selling the wonderful things that came from strange places. And if you didn’t want to do that, or to sail away on one of the ships, you could farm. Maireport was surrounded by miles of farmland even richer than Kayetan farms.

“But you could take a boat down the Plegwine to Pilal,” Miskin said. “Pilal has ocean.”

“That trip will take a year out of your life,” her Gran said. “Unless you get wrecked in the rapids and lose a limb or two. Oh, some merchants manage to get through the swamps between Yorlith and Pilal, but if you don’t get sucked down into the mud, you die of the ague. Everyone wanted an easier way to get to Mairewald and Maireport. Finn Geddly made that possible.”

“Just hills and rocks, you said, in the Dry.” Questions, Miskin knew, would keep her Gran talking, keep her from thinking about bedtime.

“Hills and rocks that move around when you aren’t looking,” the old lady snorted. “Stay too long and even the Guides get lost. Fourteen days, you get, not an hour more.”

Miskin used all this, along with her imagination, to lead the Dry Country game. But only children played it. The game stopped when you turned twelve. Then Miskin’s friends began to work more hours on their family farms or in shops. They went to village dances and played at flirtation, settling down to the business of finding a husband or wife.

Miskin wasn’t interested in a husband. At fifteen, she still got her work done as fast as possible so she could ramble around the fields. Sometimes she did go to the dances, mostly because Piotor asked her. Piotor had been the first one of her age group to stop playing Dry Country and start flirting with girls. During their final year in school, he’d taken to walking Miskin home. He told her all about his family farm, and what he planned to do with it. When Miskin told him about her family farm, he’d nod and tell more about his own. He was a terrible listener.

One day, when Miskin had just turned sixteen, her Da came into the barn while she was hunting eggs. “You still ask your Gran for those tales about the Dry Country,” he told her.

Miskin, who was wondering where Reddy had hidden her eggs this time, said, “Sometimes.”

“You’re too old for such nonsense.”

When Da used that tone of voice, Miskin paid attention.

“She likes to tell those stories,” Miskin said.

“You ask her for them.”

“It makes her happy.”

Da sat down on a sawhorse. “It’s just a bunch of hogwash, you know. Finn Geddly created it just to make money for his Guides.”

“Everyone in Yorlith helped him build the Wall,” Miskin said, feeling the heat of her rising temper.

“Those are children’s tales. You’re grown now,” her father said. He considered Miskin, who stood in front of him holding her basket of eggs. “Piotor has asked my permission to court you.”

“I don’t want,” Miskin began, but her Da hadn’t finished.

“Odbart the merchant also wants to marry you. I gave both of them permission to court you.”

Afraid she would drop the eggs, Miskin carefully set them down on the floor of the barn.

“I’m not ready to be married,” she said.

Her Da sighed. “Not many girls get one such offer, let alone two.”

Miskin felt hot all over. “You just hate the Dry Country,” she said, loudly. “You’ve always hated it. For no reason at all! I don’t want to be married to someone like you!”

“If you keep losing your temper like that, girl, you’ll never get a husband,” her father said, gently. “You’ll just have to stay here and look after your brother’s children.”

“I don’t care!” Miskin shouted.

“You know that marriage is a woman’s job,” said her Da. “No man can run a farm or a business without a wife.”

Miskin felt the anger and fear wash over her. She couldn’t speak. Her Da sat silent for a while; then finally got to his feet. “Think about it,” he said. “Now get those eggs to your Gran; she’ll need them for breakfast.” He considered her for a moment, then strode out of the barn, leaving Miskin staring at the eggs.

She was terrified. She’d never thought about it much before, but now she realized that she didn’t want to get married and chase her own children. She wanted to have adventures like the ones in her Gran’s tales. But no one she knew had adventures.

Miskin worried all day. While hanging out the laundry, she asked the Goddess to help her. While hauling the twins out of the creek by their ears, she even asked the God. Neither one answered.

She ran into the fields, running and running as if she could escape her fate. Usually she loved to run, but this time it didn’t help.

In the evening, she asked her Da for more time to decide which man to marry, but he simply told her that Odbart the merchant was a better catch.

That night, she dreamed. She was flying over the Dry Country, watching the hills and dunes shifting and changing in a complicated dance that seemed to be telling her something she couldn’t quite understand. The hills looked like sleeping beasts, like the back of Zenzl the tan cow, chewing her cud under the trees—until they woke up into things with too many spindly legs and too many stalky eyes, bringing Miskin bolt upright in a panic. It took her a long time to get back to sleep.

Exhausted from nightmare worry and broken sleep, she didn’t even bother to hunt for the eggs the next morning. Her Gran frowned at the empty egg basket, then at Miskin.

“I need to restock my medicines,” Gran said. “Time you learned. We’ll go this afternoon. You go get the eggs now, move quick.”

On any other day, Miskin would have been amazed and excited. Her Gran had always refused to let anyone go with her on herb-hunting expeditions, no matter how much Miskin begged for the privilege. “Nope nope nope,” Gran would say. “You’ll just run all about. Not ’til you’ve found some patience.” But now all Miskin could think about was her impending marriage. She just nodded at Gran, took her egg basket, and went hunting eggs.

They set out after the noontime dinner, while Da and Tiek rested under a tree and the twins took off with some plan Miskin knew would be trouble. But Gran didn’t seem to care. The old lady carried an unusually heavy pack on her back, along with her herb satchel. “No telling what we might need,” she said. Without paying attention, Miskin nodded once again. She was trying to think of some way to get out of marrying. She could run away, but where would she go? If she went toward Luka and the river, Odbart would find her. If she fled the other way, to Yorlith, Da would surely come after her.

Gran led Miskin upstream along the creek, to the place where it ran along beside the Yorlith road. Instead of starting to look for herbs, however, the old lady sat down in the shade of a big tipula tree. Miskin sat beside her. If she ran away after everyone was asleep, she might get far enough to hide before her father came after her.

“You want to get married?” Gran asked.

Of course Gran knew all about her suitors. Of course.

“No,” whispered Miskin.

“What do you want to do?”

Miskin stared at Gran.

“I’m serious, girl. What would you do if you had your choice of anything in the world?”

“I’d—” Miskin suddenly wanted to cry. “I’d be a Dry Country Guide,” she said. She didn’t know that until the words came out of her mouth. Of course, when she was younger, that’s what she wanted. But she hadn’t allowed herself to think about that for several years.

“Thought so.” Gran had opened the pack, and now she pulled out clothes: the narrow pants worn by men, a boy’s shirt, and a boy’s cap. “There’s food enough in here to take you to Yorlith. While walking, you’ll do better as a boy. When you get there, see if you can get work at Finn Geddly’s. If not, see if you can run errands. I’ve saved a few coins; they’ll keep you going until you find a job. Then you can save up for a Dry Country trip. Put these on, child, don’t stand there gaping.”

“Why?” Miskin finally asked, as she changed her skirt and tunic for her brother’s clothes.

“Because I never did.”

Miskin stared at her Gran, suddenly seeing how old she was. “I can’t leave you with all the work.”

“You won’t. Your big brother has got your friend Emme to marry him. Just told us yesterday afternoon while you were out mooning around. She’s a good worker. We’ll be fine.”

Miskin was still trying not to cry. She’d miss her Gran terribly.

“I’ll stay out all day collecting herbs,” said Gran. At supper, I’ll tell your Da that you went to see Piotor. Then I’ll make him understand.”

Miskin’s fingers shook so much she couldn’t button the shirt. Her Gran did it for her.

“You scared?” Gran asked, with the glare that had frightened generations of children.

Miskin took a deep breath. “No,” she said.

“Then git.” Gran stood up, handed Miskin the pack, and turned to leave. Miskin dropped the pack and ran to hug her Gran. “I’ll miss you,” she said.

“You won’t have time. Now get going.” And Gran strode off, leaving Miskin standing under the trees holding the pack.

# # # # #

“Yorlith, Gateway to the Dry Country,” said the sign.

Miskin could hear her Da saying what he always said when someone mentioned Yorlith. “Den of sin and vice,” he’d say. He also liked to say “Dry country? Not dry, not a country. Should be called the Suck You Dry Country.” He’d say that when Gran was telling stories to little Miskin, and Miskin would stamp her feet and yell. Then her Da would laugh at her, and swing her up in the air, and she would laugh with him.

She missed her Da. She needed a job. She needed a place to sleep. And she was hungry. First, however, she had to see the Wall, to know that it was real, that her Da had been wrong about its being a hoax and a swindle.

Her three-day walk to Yorlith was both boring and frightening. She kept expecting to see someone she knew. Sherl the weaver took her fabric to Yorlith to sell, so every time Miskin heard a wagon behind her, she dived into a hedgerow, getting full of prickles, or a ditch, getting a mouthful of stinky water. Then a spring thunderstorm sprang up from the west, with rain so thick that Miskin found it hard to breathe. At least it washed away the ditch water.

She hoped to sleep under a tree somewhere, but she was so soaked, with water squishing in her boots, that she spent a coin to get warm at the pub fire. The pack that her Gran gave her held a handful of coin, tied up in a cloth, along with some bread, cheese, and apples. Miskin couldn’t imagine where Gran had found the money; their farm was rich in meat, vegetables, butter and eggs, but poor in coin.

She didn’t pay for a bed; once she had been warmed and dried by the fire, she put her blanket down in a pile of old hay in the barn, along with six or seven other boys and men. Of course they all slept in their clothes—even their boots—so Miskin didn’t feel too strange as she curled up in the blanket Gran had packed.

And she dreamed. Again the brown hill of the Dry Country became the back of—not a cow, something else. A horse? A huge dog? It rolled over and grinned at her with dozens of enormous teeth, then closed its mouth to whisper words that she knew were important, though she couldn’t understand them. Then the animal-thing was gone, and Miskin stood under the Wall. It loomed above her in dim light leaning in, whispering, whispering, until it transformed into fog.

She was glad to get up early and start walking. With the dreams to chew over, she forgot to worry about Sherl the weaver or her Da, so she made good time, arriving in Yorlith by late afternoon. Miskin had been to Luka with her father once or twice, and had always listened avidly to Sherl’s stories about Yorlith, but the noise and crowds still overwhelmed her. She was glad her Gran had given her boy’s clothes; she couldn’t imagine shoving her way along while wearing a girl’s long tunic and skirt. Fortunately, she was tall for her sixteen years, and strong. While walking to Yorlith, she had practiced a boyish stride that made her back ache. No one paid her any attention.

Her Gran had told Miskin that the Wall lay north of Yorlith. So she headed that way.

As she walked, the houses and shops stopped quite suddenly, giving way to fallow, shrubby fields. The north road went in a straight line over flat country, so long before she reached it, Miskin saw the Wall. Built more than a hundred years ago by the first Finn Geddly, made of stone topped with sharp wooden spikes, it rose three times the height of a tall man and stretched as far as she could see to the west and to the east. No one could get into the Dry Country unless they hiked many leagues to the end of the Wall—and every league was patrolled by dogs and men.

As she approached, one of those men came up to her. His dog sniffed at Miskin.

“What you want, boy?” the man asked.

“I just wanted to look at the Wall,” Miskin said, in her husky boy-voice. She’d practiced that, too, while walking, and at the pub where she’d eaten dinner.

The man grinned at her. “Go ahead, lad” he said, and watched as Miskin went up to the ancient stone and put her hands on it.

Nothing happened. No visions, no dreams. Beside her was the oaken Gate, bound by iron, triple-locked. She touched it. Still nothing.

“Where can I find Geddly’s Guides?” she asked the guard.

“Thinking of crossing the Dry?” he asked.

“Maybe.”

The man shook his head. “Wouldn’t let any son of mine go that way. Oh, the Guides will get you there, right enough, but it’s a strange and dangerous place. They say no one crosses the Dry unchanged.”

Miskin nodded. “Just wanted to see how much it cost,” she said.

“A year’s wages, for a boy like you.”