olumns of brilliance stream down from the voids of the clouds. Shifting spotlights, across the stage of the sky.

Rain had touched the morning dew with a slow steady drizzle. But now it's dry with a slightly stirring breeze. It's a good day, a calm day. The air is clear. Its scent, not floral but sweet. The ground softer, still solid, under heavy hoof and wheel.

Here on the outskirts of San Constantino, four wagons are traveling at a very good pace. In six days of riding they've covered seven days of distance. Despite a slow pace, for a good part of a day, and an inconvenient ambush, on a bad part of the road. That thankfully, due to the intervention of two odd looking guardian angels, ended with very little damage to goods. And almost no injury to the persons of this train.

Saving for Mohs who has a bit of a gash on his shoulder. Which is being inspected by, the youngest of the group, Molly. Casually on the fly. "How's it feel?" she asks, setting her attention back on the road.

"I've had worse, and whatever it is you put on it seems to have calmed the burn."

"Bloodroot, Greasewood, Pine Pitch and Willow Bark. If the burning stopped it's time to wipe it off. Here," she says, handing him a rag.

"Thank you kindly," he replies, blotting off the black tar gingerly. "So, you're really Tug and Dora's kid huh?"

"As far as I know." She impishly grins.

“How old are you?”

“Going on fourteen, So I’m told. Sometimes I feel a lot… more lived than I think I should.”

“No surprise there." He looks down at the an medallion displayed below her neck, "It’s that pendant of yours.”

It’s a circular form of tarnished silvered steel. ringed in clear teal quartz with four gems placed, at intervals in between. A Diamond at the very top, just under the loop. A Peridot to the right, Red Cinnabar at the bottom and Black Beryl, three quarters of the way around. In the center, in hammered brass, there’s a relief of a woman’s eye. The center of which is a dazzling blue sapphire.

“Your mother used to say similar things,” He confides.

“But this, is just a family heirloom,” she retorts, her fingers absently fondling the gems.

“That’s NOT just a family heirloom. Not by far. Hey Wel,” He calls, to his darker skinned companion, “Could you give this little lady some history?” He looks back to the girl, “I think this is your Spirit-father’s job.”

A second horse appears next to Molly’s wagon. It’s rider eyes up the gray-haired man with a slightly suspicious leer. “Mohs?”

“Your Spirit-Kid needs a lesson on A Mother’s Eyes. She thinks it’s just a hand me down.” Molly sets her brow and interrupts, “Spirit-Father?”

Welfort gives his friend a head shake, a look of familiar frustration. Then he just sighs, “It was before you were born, before things… changed, and they had to go away. Both your parents made me swear to look out for you if anything ever happened to them. But they disappeared shortly after. And if your dad is good at anything in this world, besides beating in heads, it’s vanishing, and staying hid.”

“I don’t get it. I believe you but I don’t know what that means. There’s a sense but no substance.”

“Are you sure you’re only fourteen?” Mohs laughs.

“Thirteen but soon enough, why?”

“Cause I… WE, know scholars who don’t speak as well as you do.”

“Dad, he made me read. A Lot.”

There are very few traditions left on this earth. And even the ones it does have, well, they aren't more than two, maybe four, generations old. There's almost none from the Before Days. The trinkets of bygone customs that are here, are here by chance.

Hunters and Travelers sometimes stumbled on old places. Testaments of a past, long forgotten. Buried by conflict, brought to light by a inquisitive mind or a bit of natures trickery. A heavy rain may reveal a hole in the earth, an entrance to a cavernous wonder made of smooth stone and broken glass. A brave or even a more curios, than sense-full, soul may stumble on some relic of those cherished ways of the departed. A flowery emblazoned image with the words Feliz Cumpleaños. A decorative metallic snowflake etched with the words Buon Natale. Or any number of odd trinkets, like plastic pumpkins or turkeys or heart shaped boxes. Then there are those inspirations of time, with colored glass windows, rows of benches, statues of awe. And books, scribed in a language few can read anymore. Unless they're lucky, then maybe a few tomes in words that have endured. Take of them what you will.

Most take nothing.

Still. One, or two, take something.

“That will make this a bit easier then.” Welfort smiles. “There’s an old ceremony, from the churching days, where a man and a woman, respected of the mother and father. would become spiritual guides, so to speak, to their child. And if anything happened to the mom and dad, they'd vow to take them in as their own. Your parents loved that idea. Molly, was my mothers name. What’s your middle name?”

“Anne.”

“A N N E?”

“Yes.”

“Then Brahm’s sister is your Spirit-Mom. Heavens help you.”

"On both counts," Mohs jokes.

“Huh," the sprite ponders, then casually interjects, "This as all news to me. But then, they rarely spoke of their old life. The only reason I knew of Septum Muros was from papers of my dad’s, with that seal and his name. So what’s so special about this pendant?”

Welfort takes a breath and looks out to the horizon. Wondering how and even if he should be the one to explain.

“You’re her Guide, Wel.” Mohs snickers.

“And you’re a shrieker’s cunt sometimes, Mohs,” He looks at the girl patiently guiding the cart. “Molly, let me ask you this. Why did your father let you take this trip alone?”

“Because we're in a bad way as far as the garden's concerned. Lot’s of planting still to do, he digs quicker, and I drove better and our buyers need these ingredients for their tinctures.”

“But he didn’t even come to see you off or to see who was going to be riding with you. Does that explanation seem the whole truth to you?”

“It did seem, partial, I guess. I mean we don’t need the money. Thanks to a certain circumstance.”

“So why would he leave his only daughter in the hands of strangers, just to get herbs to another town?”

She thinks hard on his question, feeling the weight of the pendant in her hand, “Malachite... I think dad knew that whoever was with us he’d be watching. He trusts him." A respect born of actions. "And he trusts me. My judgment anyway. My brashness, maybe not sometimes, but my judgment, yes.”

Up ahead there's a crack. A branch breaking? It resounds on their ears interrupting the conversation. There’s a commotion up ahead. The lead wagon pitches to the right and keels. Horses bray in panic. The rest of the procession veers left and slows in the middle of the road.

“We’ll pick this up later.” Welfort spurs his horse to action.

Mohs falls in, behind Molly’s cart. Malachite leaps from the woods and jumps on the buckboard, landing behind Molly’s seat. Keeping watch from atop the jockey box. There are curses and shouts and movement. More curses.

The curses turn to counsel, the adrenaline calms and the chaos dims. Steadily, Em’a makes her way to the back of the caravan. Stopping to give reason to each party on the way. “Broken wheel," she casually announces, before casting her attention on the green boy with the crocodile smile. "Give me a hand big guy?”

“Help?” he asks.

“Yeah, I think you and me can hold that wagon up long enough to drag it to the flat up ahead. There’s a clearing off to the side. A short distance up.”

“Hmmm. Yes, you me can. Molly?”

“I’ll be okay Mal, Mohs is here.”

Twenty minutes later the handicapped wagon is parked well off the road. Held level by some tree stumps jammed up under the frame.

A warm breeze has settled around them. The air here is thick with renewal. The shadows are long and the sky, to the east, a gun-metal blue. “We’ll camp here tonight. It’s getting too dark to see, never mind fix this.” Brahms decides. His company agrees.

While the cook prepares the meals, Terrik and Ferril scout the surroundings, looking for signs, of villages or farms. Any place they might possibly find another wheel as replacement. Rather than taking most of a day to fix this one. The husband and wife sit by themselves. The remaining six gather around the fire.

A sparkling of blue rekindles Welfort’s interest. He studies the girl, rocking back and forth on the log, occasionally bumping into a very imposing creature. Taking her in, with a genial smile.

In one second she looks like she should, a young girl, almost a child, playful and... fondly annoying. In another, she seems, ancient. Lived. But not weighed down by it. Certain of his duty. He sits up, getting her attention. “That charm that you wear has two words on the back. Do you know what they mean?”

“I know Veritas means truth. The same as the enarme on dad’s shield. Fedum, I feel like it means, faithful? I've seen it, or something similar somewhere before, but I can't remember.”

Em’a turns her head and smiles, “It means faith. Not a blind belief, more... knowing it's right. Feeling it.”

Welfort appraises the tall, olive skinned, girl, gives her a nod and continues, “It’s from an old, old language, a language thought to have a power. A language from long before the war that changed this world.”

“Latin,” Em’a chimes.

“You and I have got to talk,” he grins, “Yes, Latin. Those words, together, have a meaning, a purpose. That pendant has a purpose itself. It’s called A Mother’s Eyes for a reason.”

“Only a mother, can see through the words of her child.” Brahms gruffs.

“You have a sense, little miss, a power, an ability,” Welfort exclaims.

“No. No... I don’t...” her voice trails. The last two words conveyed more like a question.

“Your mother has the ability to feel the truth of things. like the way most mothers can tell when their child is lying, over-embellishing, or only being partially truthful. That tool, enhances that ability. Essentially, everyone around you, becomes like your child, to you.”

“Do you want to know how I KNEW you were Dora’s child?” Brahms asks.

“Mmmhm,”

“Only one other person in this world could make me stay my blade with one word. The one who used to wear that.”

“So why did my mother pass this to me? Why would she give that up?”

“Because she got pregnant and had you.”

“That makes no sense. Unless only virgins can wear it?”

Welfort laughs, “No. There’s those that believe that. Some that subscribe to that to control the users. But the Sisters can fall in love and have sex, like everyone else. Your mom and dad were together for quite a while before you. It’s… Brahms tell her how Annie described it.”

Brahms, takes a sip from his flask. Remembering a conversation from before the day his nephew was born. He furls his brow and speaks softly, “When they have a kid, some of the bearers can’t wear that anymore. There’s a part of them that changes. Maternally. They get the urge to center their focus on their child. But that pendant keeps them rooted in the ‘all are my children’ feeling. They start losing sleep, get headaches. And generally they’re constantly annoyed. Eventually it has to come off. Sometimes it winds up in a box, without them ever realizing they put it there."

An air of melancholy surrounds Molly. A hint of remorse, solemns her words, “So, I was the reason she lost her power?”

“She didn’t lose her power, what your born with only stops when your heart does. She just loved you so much she wanted YOU to be her world.”

“How can you know this? You haven’t seen her for years.”

It’s Mohs who answers, “You wouldn’t be able to wear it if you didn’t have the affinity. But mostly, because you haven’t told us we were wrong. Even your denial was spoken with more question than conviction.”

They sit in silence and eat. Molly gets thoughtful. Malachite leans in and brushes up against her shoulder. She leans back and rests her head against his ribs.

Lot’s of memories course through her mind, Bits of pieces of her past. Like how she knew that the man at the market was jacking up his prices, because she was a kid. Or that her green friend was someone special. Even before she chanced a meet. Or the feeling, that she had to intervene that day, or he would have wound up dead. The more she pieces it all together the more it falls in to place. But still something still gnaws at her. She feels she knows the answer to it, so she gives it a test, “Does everyone who wears this end up helping people?’

It was a simple question.

And it got a simple answer.

Chorused by Brahms, Welfort and Mohs,“No!”

“It’s a tool,” Brahms adds, “People will do what they do. There’s some who use it to, extort, cheat and swindle. It’s... like a shovel. You can use it to dig and plant, to grow and feed, or you can use it to bash someone’s head in and rob them while they’re out cold.”

“Karma, is just karma,” Molly recites.

Brahms humphs, “You’re, definitely, his kid.”

Welfort gets inquisitive, “Look, if you’re still not sure, let’s, play a game...”

While the stars move, across a wide open sky, stories are told and she separates truth from lie.

Through the play of the game Mohs notices something interesting. Em’a, thumbing up and thumbing down. With remarkable accuracy. He gets an idea, “Molly, let her have it for a minute. I doubt it will work but humor me.”

Em’a takes the necklace and loops it around her neck. And they play another round. Both of them sort the false from the fact. The bi-colored eye girl looks squirmy though. Edgy.

The charm is returned and Molly sits quiet for a minute. Thinking about the change from with to without. “It was harder. Not harder. Slower, to feel it out. Not as precise. Without it, it was more judgy. Less knowing and accepting.”

“It didn’t effect me in any way,” Em’a retorts, “But I tell by smell. Lies have an odor. It was very annoying though, like it knew it couldn’t help me. Or I couldn’t help it. Or maybe it just felt like it belonged on someone else. Made me uncomfortable. Like my skin was not my own, tighter.”

The moon hits its peak. The fire just embers, pulsing different intensities of red. The Life within the trees thrums with a familiar, steady, cadence.

Crickets harmonize the weather. Owls ponder their age old question. A bleat, that could be tomorrows dinner, calls through the green.

Molly gives in to the rhythm. And quietly falls a sleep, sitting up, against Malachite’s chest.

One by one the others stand. Moving, separately, towards rest. Mohs relieves Terrik on watch. Malachite lays Molly down, on a bed-roll, in the back of her wagon. Then he climbs a tree, on the opposite side of the road from where Em’a sits. Vigilant. Waiting for dawn.