Dara, Page, and the Secrets of the Multiverse

▷ 4.1

The stick in Page's hand clocked the ground in a series of dull thuds on his way up the incline. Warm wind from the sea tickled the back of his neck and ruffled the hem of his robes. The cloak which he fastened by his collarbone fluttered behind him like the district flag waving at the city. He licked his chapped lips. His waterskin had run out long before he went up the steep slope, and the way back to the well was tedious.

He wiped the sweat beading on his brow, fixing the basket strap digging on his shoulders along the way. His slick fingers gripped the splintering staff as he hauled his weight over a higher ledge. Maybe he should replace his staff for a...sturdier one hewn from oak. Cypress sounded nice too. That was, if he could afford it.

Lean season was coming in, rolling from the west with the cold air in tow. Winter promised no harvests, and they had to figure out a way to survive the long months without profits from the shop. Page chewed his lip, climbing up another ledge. Against the glare of the sun shining through the peak, he counted how many more steps. Four? Five? Didn't matter.

By the time he hooked his fingers on the final ledge and swung his leg over, the characteristic carob tree waved at him when a stray breeze rustled its leaves. Page ought to wave back—after all, this was the tree they owed most of their shop's local popularity—but a person hidden behind the wall of pointed rosemary stalks tore his attention away.

The person craned his neck to the sky, wiping his forehead against his long, scratchy sleeves. With a sigh, he went back to scouring the ground. Page swallowed against the scratchy feeling in his throat and gripped the straps of his basket tighter. He tramped towards the man crouching on the floor, lost in his own world.

"Dara," Page called, modulating his voice so it wouldn't hike up past its normal timbre.

He looked from his work, saw Page, and dusted his hands against his robe. "Page," he said. His voice sounded breathless, but maybe it was because of pulling weeds and searching for rosemary seeds. It couldn't be because of Page. Far from it.

"What brings you here?" Dara inclined his head towards him. Not really a question; just an invitation for Page to carry his half of the conversation. That was all from Dara, and it was Page who had to see this interlocution to the end.

Page crouched next to him and waded through the rosemary stalks with his hands. This variety was rare in the flat ground, so their seeds fetched high prices in the trading square. If they could score a handful before winter set in, they'd be able to space out the supply to get them through with enough funds. Of course, that plan hinged completely on finding enough now and in the near-weekly hike Page had scheduled for them until the end of autumn.

"I thought we'd go up together," Page replied, disguising his statement as a passing comment more than an accusation.

Dara shrugged, ripping a root network from the ground. Apart from the seeds, they had also taken it upon themselves to cultivate and maintain this small ecosystem. Nobody knew how to climb up this spire-like hill, except for Dara and Page. "I noticed you went to the shepherds this morning," he answered. "Figured I'd get more things done if I get a headstart. You can't handle everything alone, Page."