By noon, Hani and Ansa are as far from home as they have ever been. Hani would have been even farther along if he’d left Ansa behind and taken the skiff, as the river is in flood and the city, they say, is directly downstream from the valley, but he feels like he would have been vulnerable on the river, easy to see from far away and with nowhere to hide. He also would have been lonely and even more scared than he already is if he’d been by himself. In any case, the road hugs the river all the way to the city — at least Hani is pretty sure it does, because this is the road everyone takes before they don’t come back — and it’s easy walking because there are few travelers to churn it into sucking mud, which is its usual condition at this time of year. And if someone comes along who looks like he would be best avoided, Hani and Ansa can just slink off into the woods or the underbrush until he has passed by.
But as it turns out, there are no woods or underbrush. As they make their slow but steady way toward the war, Hani is surprised to find that this new valley is more wrecked than his own. The next is likely to be even worse still. Back at home, most of the trees have been chopped down and many houses are in need of serious repair, but even so some livestock remain, a few fields have been plowed in preparation for sowing, and most farms are still managing to get some sort of barebones crew together for the spring planting. Just two or three planting seasons ago, the valley that Hani is passing through now would have been crawling with farmers, oxen, and mules at this time of year.
This is supposed to be the season of hope and rebirth, when everyone is hard at work helping nature wake up from her long sleep. Instead, anyone can see that the fields were not sown last fall or spring, and maybe for an entire year before that. Even now, in early spring, they’re overgrown with thistle, mullein, and clover and most likely could not be turned over even if teams and plowmen were on hand to do it. Other than a lone boatman glimpsed easing his raft into the bulrushes shortly after dawn, Hani has not seen a single human being since he left home yesterday. Nor has he heard the thud of an axe, the whistle of a shepherd, or the call of a cattleman. No birdsong, no lowing herd, no barking dog, no cackling barnyard fowl, no pawing horse. The only sounds he has heard since rising this morning are his own footfall, the dull tread and snorting breath of Ansa at his side, the sigh of the breeze in the rushes, and the stream gurgling like a suckling baby.
The orphaned buildings strung out along the road and those set farther back in clusters below what used to be the tree line are long abandoned. Many have lost their doors, probably pulled off their hinges and broken up for firewood. Most have collapsed or collapsing roofs, their rafters and tiles pilfered, and not a few have clearly been put to the torch for the sheer fun of it. Here, a stone granary has been ransacked and lies sprawled on its side, as if pushed over by a giant hand. There, a wrecked mill squats, disintegrating over the stream that once powered it. Everywhere, the furrows choke on weeds and the farmhouses gaze empty-eyed over delinquent fields and terraces, like parents who have been disappointed by their children once too often and no longer dare to hope that they will amount to anything.
Hani and Ansa have met no one on the road, alive or dead. Whatever violence occurred here scared its victims away before it descended upon their homes. Maybe it was done to them; maybe they did it to themselves. There’s no way of knowing. In the early days of the war, whole communities uprooted themselves and fled to the safety of the forests. The refugees who passed through the valley could tell you where they came from — usually, a village that no longer existed — but had no idea where they were going. The forests are long gone from the farming lowlands, so whoever lived here not so long ago is either dead or hiding in the mountains.
There’s a difference between hearing rumors of a distant war and seeing with your own eyes villages and farms that were just like your own only a short time ago and are now laid to waste. The outlines of the streets are all there, as are the footprints of the homes and farm buildings that were swept away by whatever storm blew through here, but all life has fled. Like a fresh corpse that can sense that something important has just happened to it but can’t quite manage to remember what it was, these ruined villages look as if they’re dreaming that they’re still alive and might wake up at any instant. But that instant is long past for these places. This is a dream they won’t wake up from.
Ansa raises her head and shakes it, making her ears crack like whips. Hani could have ridden her all this way if he’d wanted to. She’s carrying just the lightest burden of a blanket, a small sack of barley groats, and two waterskins, and she could easily have borne his weight. She has carried far heavier loads without complaint and has sometimes been used cruelly while doing it. If Father were here, he would insist that Hani ride and he would berate him furiously for sparing her. But Hani has brought her along more as a companion than as a pack animal. She’s better company than Hushoo and is always steady in a crisis. He trusts her advice more than he trusts Father’s or his own, and he can always rely on her sense of humor when he’s feeling low or confused. She’s a favorite of Arinna’s, too, and will feel grateful to have been asked to participate in her rescue. It’s an easy thing to reward her devotion.
In their first few hours on the road, Hani chatted amiably with Ansa in his normal voice, but his commentary has gradually been reduced to a hesitant whisper.
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From Sing to Me by Jesse Browner. Used with permission of the publisher, Little Brown and Company. Copyright © 2025.
