The Land's Whisper by Monica Lee Kennedy

of
the wind touching turf.
    Brenol blinked. The silence punctured him
with doubt, yet the sense of the hovering eye still held his spine
with cold hands.
    He tried again. “Garnoble?”
    Nothing.
    Brenol exhaled. He was surprised to not feel
relief. Instead, disappointment pooled into his gut. He allowed his
eyelids to fall, searching for the right words. “I’m not afraid
anymore…and I want to understand.” Brenol opened his eyes to stare
blankly at his hands: filthy cold, thin. He feared he was imagining
it all. “Who are you? Will you talk to me?”
    “ Yes. ”
    It was a subtle voice, nothing like the one
in the cave, yet hearing it convinced him of the reality of both.
“I hear you,” he replied, dumbfounded.
    The boy inhaled, suddenly awake with thrill
instead of trepidation. He smiled and spoke. Their conversation
flowed forward, although the land’s speech was trim and without
flourish. It was entirely unlike conversing with another human, but
Brenol found it made sense nonetheless. It was so natural for
him—as natural as the heat of his blood and the hue of his hair.
Pleasure bubbled within as he realized as much. It was easy. Simply
easy.
    The two spoke until morning light streaked
the sky and the red sun warmed his forgotten limbs. Brenol roused
his aching body and slid his way back into Coltair. Few were awake,
let alone out of doors, to notice his movements, and he came to the
heart of town without being questioned.

CHAPTER 5
    Peace is but an illusion while malitas walks the land.
    -Genesifin
    Brenol did not tell anyone about conversing
with the land. At first, he wilted before the difficulty of
articulating the experience, but soon the initial silence turned
into a burning secret that he feared to touch. While he did not
doubt the land or himself, he wondered about how others would
perceive him. And so the secret grew hotter within his chest.
    Burning, burning, every night he slipped
away like a creature of the shadows to converse with the land, and
every day he became more aware that others experienced this place
and the eye far differently.
    Days merged as the two found a place amongst
the visnati. They were a hospitable people, and Darse’s fear melted
before the tangible world of fishing poles and tilled soil. His
towering height granted him a confidence—however false it might
be—and helped shake loose any lingering suspicion of dreams and
voices and the evanescent.
    The village of Coltair was a vast space of
open and cultured land nestled beside Pearia , yet still
close enough to the eastern ranges to invite a daily neck crane
toward the purple and gray peaks. The visnati grew extensive
gardens, stretching out for matroles, that they collectively termed
Gardenia. They had hothouses for seedlings and other plants but
concentrated the majority of their energies in the tilling of the
open land. The small community—no more than three hundred
persons—shared the crops from the Gardenia, and each family also
had a side plot beside their house for private use. There was
enough for all, for they knew their craft and labored hard, and the
visnati were hospitable. Darse and Brenol were never made to feel
unwelcome.
    There was ample work in the Gardenia, and
their hosts were eager to teach. They instructed the two on
Garnoble’s crops and Rook accompanied the two fishing along the
Pearia, demonstrating how to snag the larger fish in the nooks of
the river bottom while leaving the smaller ones to grow and mature.
They were even taught brewing and learned to gather the roots used
to make the varieties of ale, which ranged from thick and bitter to
creamy and sweet.
    The visnati were an easy-going race. The
slow pace of life and the working of the land showed in their
sturdy but relaxed faces. Mirth flowed out in friendly speech, and
there was little formality among them. Their eyes twinkled when
they conversed, and Darse could see it plainly: they were
satisfied. The day was meant for working with