The Halyean Legacy

They came in the night.

Shouts and screams woke Mahri from sleep. She sat up instantly. Her heart was pounding.

Her mother came over and whispered to her urgently, “We have to go to the beach cave now. Remember what we practiced.”

Horses whinnied; hooves pounded; shouts and screams were closer.

Mahri rubbed her eyes and remembered her father had warned that people against refugees might attack their village. This was real. Suddenly Mahri felt panic enveloping her and swallowing her up. Paralyzed with fear, she couldn’t remember what she was supposed to do next.

“Hurry Mahri!” her mother whispered, “Are you still asleep?”

She came over, gently shook her, and helped her to stand up.

With trembling hands Mahri took the pack her mother handed her. Then turned and grabbed her quilt from the sleeping mat. Stumbling in the dark she followed her mother to the back of their small cottage. They climbed through the back window and closed it behind them. Her grandparents and father were already outside. In single file they hurried from grass to trees to beach path. She looked back and saw her mother pull a pile of brush over to hide the entrance to the path. Then they reached the rough, steep steps down to the beach made by her father. He went down first and helped her grandparents with the last and steepest step.

Shouts came closer, and Mahri heard rough, angry words, “Grab that boy! Let no one escape!”

Her friends. She had to go and help them because they had to live too.

She turned back. “Ma, my friends. We have to help them.”

“Mahri, they’ve gone to hide. Now we have to hide.”

Gently she turned Mahri forward. Her tears made it hard to see and she slipped on the rock steps but her father caught her and set down gently. As her mother climbed down the steps, Mahri looked up, and saw red and orange flames leaping into the sky beyond the trees.

Whose house was that in flames? Mahri’s heart clenched. She turned away and stifled a sob.

“Follow me to the left,” her father told them, “Then we’ll walk into the sea and turn right. The sea will cover our tracks.”

They followed him into the shallow surf of the incoming tide, cool water swirling and foaming around their legs as they hurried to the rocky point that hid the cave. The waves crashed against their legs, pushing them towards the rocks of the point, then tried to pull them back and out to sea. Bending forward, their legs struggling with the pull of the water and the soft sand being pulled out from under their feet, they finally made it around the point, and struggled through the surf up to the entrance of the sea cave.

Mahri and her father came last.

He caught her when she stumbled and helped her move forward through the strong push and pull of the surf. Then they ducked and waded inside the cave entrance. The rumble of waves muffled the shouts and screams from above. Now inside, they trudged up a short sandy slope to a rock ledge. Her father climbed up then turned and took the packs and Mahri’s quilt from them and helped each of them up onto the dry ledge of the cave. He had brought supplies earlier and they were stored in the back. Water. Food. Blankets.

The cave was quiet and cool.

“Mahri, come and sit here by me,” her mother said, and handed her a cloth to dry her wet legs. She sat, wrapped her quilt, trying not to cry, while she dried her legs.

“I never thought this would happen, but it did. I feel scared for us and our friends.” Her mother’s arms tightened around her.

“Why?” said Mahri in an anguished voice.

He mother answered, “We have always had refugees come to the Halyean Lands from the Zarpahz Kingdom and other kingdoms too, but now with war and famine across the sea, many more from Zarpahz are coming to the West Harbor region because it is the point of land closest to them. The West Harbor people see them settling in their area, working diligently to survive, and sometimes taking work from them, so they have started to oppose the refugees—they fear the different culture too.”

Her mother sighed and continued, “I think we were targeted because the West Harbor people are also opposed to those who support the refugees, like your grandparents and I who have been helping them with childbirth and sickness, and your father who helps them build homes. On trips into West Harbor, he saw that anger was growing and predicted an attack might come; he told every family in our village that he saw trouble brewing and told them to have a safe place to hide. I hope they took his advice.”

Mahri asked, “Is it like this everywhere in our country?”

“No,” said her mother, shaking her head, “In the north it’s peaceful.”

Her grandmother came over and sat.

“Mahri, you are a brave girl. I never had anything like this happen to me when I was your age.”

She gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze and said, “I made these sweet nut cakes for you this morning. Eat some now because sweets are good for a shock.”

Mahri took a cake. She began to eat and felt herself relax.

“We are refugees too, because our region is many days north of here,” said her grandmother softly. “It’s peaceful there because the tradition is to be welcoming and kind; they have peaceful ways to resolve conflicts.”

“I want one of those sweet cakes too. Then let’s sleep,” her father said, as he laid blankets down on the sandy ledge.