Pannoan Wanderings

Zasha inhales the scent of the brine. It isn’t as sharp as back home, nor are the winds as boisterous. The birds sound different too. These lackluster comparisons aside, this was as close to the Old Country as things got these days. If she closed her eyes and focused hard enough, she could almost pretend to hear the bells of Saint Tarsus. The dull ache inside Zasha turns her away from the nostalgic sensations of home. She is here, today, with Csilla. Today is their little picnic to help give both women a distraction from their various responsibilities and day to day concerns. Today is for the here and now. Csilla works so hard every day. Her work isn’t thankless by any means, but Zasha knows how grueling it can be to work and work without any sort of fun to look forward to.

Before leaving, Zasha asked three different friends if the light lunch she packed would be enough food, which unhelpfulled left her with three different answers. In the end, she went with a few sandwiches on dark rye. Zasha used up the last of her mustard reserves for this luncheon, a fact she hopes will find resolution as the settlement grows. Who would have ever expected mustard would be such a rare commodity?

A handful of bright green apples, tart and crisp, unlike the delicate deep red ones from home, and two bottles of crystal clear water from the spring near the settlement accompany the sandwiches and Zasha’s tea set. Rounding things out is a bunch of the strange yellow fruits that grow all over the place around New Pannoa. Inside their leathery peel is a soft sweet fruit. Surely this will be enough food.

“It’s just the one basket and our blanket and cushions, friend, otherwise I’d be happy to let you share the load! Besides, today is when we get to put down our heavy burdens for just a bit.”

Walking backwards so she can meet Csilla’s gaze as the two stroll to the beach, Zasha stops to feel the soft sand underfoot. An idea seizes her suddenly.

“I’ve been practicing a little parlour trick with sand, Csilla, watch this.”

Carefully, Zasha takes up a scoop of sand in one hand. She gives a small puff of air into her other hand, before joining the two together in a rough sphere. She leaves a tiny gap between her thumb and index finger of her left hand, allowing a glimpse into the slapdash crucible. Her hands burst into flames, before turning a bright green-white with the pure heat. Focusing the heat inwards to her palms takes but a moment of concentration. The temperature within the handmade firing device soars higher and higher. Inside, the sand begins to melt and turn liquid. Impurities sizzle and pop before surrendering to the almighty force of heat.

Zasha incrementally reduces the heat emanating from her hands and begins rolling her palms back and forth against each other. The trick, she thinks, is to slowly cool the glass so it doesn’t crack. Between her hands, a molten lump and glowing glass smokes. A few motions this way, a pinching and appalling that way, and soon Zasha holds a tiny glass figuring in the shape of a great whale. A blue-green tint, like that of the ocean itself, creeps in as the glass begins to cool.

“For you! Sort of just made the first thing I thought of, but hey! It worked better than I thought.”

Of course her shoulders were fit for burdens! Zasha knew her work ethic wasn’t exactly healthy, but keeping busy was the only true remedy to the dreams of home. One can’t focus on the past when they are too exhausted to stand. She had even taken to trying her hand at math and figures again. This was in a foolhardy attempt to help with the massive construction effort to provide all the survivors with tidy little houses built to their needs. Compared to all that, taking time out with Csilla was a vacation!

Zasha wants to say something about this, but the words don’t sound right in her head. Csilla needs lighthearted fun! The way she smiled at the little trinket brings Zasha back to the moment with a flushed face. Was the day getting warmer?

“It’s nothing, really. I wondered how hot I could go, so I tried it out on a few different things. I got the idea watching this man make marbles back off Exeter Row back home. He’d get this mix of stuff glowing hot, and then shape it into those colourful little stones. I barely remember asking him what was in it. Sand was at least one of the ingredients! The rest was just a matter of finding sand and getting to melt. No idea how to do the colours, really. That was a happy accident.”

Zasha shifts into a cross legged pose on the soft blanket. It was pleasant, sitting here in the warmth of the day with her friend. The seabirds, winging this way and that, add their calls to the whole experience. It was odd, hearing wholly foreign sounding birds.They sounded nothing like the ones back in the Sabbioncello harbours.

“I'm just as blessed as anyone else, really,” Zasha shrugs as she moves to take an apple from the basket, “We all have our talents. You’re a damn sight better with those little needles and tiny things than I. No idea how you do it. And you manage to just, you know, say things that need to be said and listen at the same time. Maybe it’s the company I keep, but having someone do both as well as you do is rare.”

Zasha uses a small knife to cut her apple into little slices. Little sear marks touch the flesh of the apples as she flash heats them before inserting the hot morsels into her sandwich. Was it an odd combination of flavours? Probably. But the sweetness of the apple matches the savoury smokiness of the cheese so well.

“Did you ever wake up and decide to be good at what you do, Csilla? Or did you just wake up one day and suddenly realize that all the time you spent with needle and thread made you able to make them do pretty much whatever you want?”