PAOLO'S MEMORIES

PAOLO'S MEMORIES ( Character Background Material for Knights of Sparrow)
Paloo Denari, born almost a month and a half early was given his great grandfather’s name, but his mother always referred to him as, “My wee one.” That’s probably where all the trouble started as Paloo was growing up. The other boys, his cousins that came to visit in the summer and help with the goatherd, picked up the “Wee” nickname and wouldn’t let it go.

Paloo could be clever and engaging with just his parents, but with the summer visitors, he appeared shy and unsure. Being the youngest, the sports and games with the other boys had always been difficult; plus he was small for his age which made it worse. His big, hulking cousins called him “Weedle” or “Wee Weedle,” pushing him with taunts to the verge of tears and frustrated anger.

He was always happiest when he could spend time by himself, exploring in the high mountain slopes and rock cliffs that soared up on both sides of the tiny valley where the family holdings were marked by the stacked stone columns erected by his great grandfather Paloo over 100 years before.

Occasionally one of the flat stones would become dislodged. His father explained it happened when the water froze between the stones during the long winters. Every spring he and his father, a tall, wiry man with long silver-gray hair worn always in a long, single braid, would make the rounds of the markers to repair any damage and symbolically reclaim the holding. He always let the small boy help move the stones and clear away the fallen branches that might obscure the all-important markers. Each column featured a large, square stone with the word, “Denari” carved with arrows signifying the corner or border of the land. After a hundred years, some of the letters had eroding away, but Paloo could trace the grooves with his finger, spelling out each letter. It was the first word he could remember knowing how to spell.

The most important column marked a sharp corner at the lower trail where once you’d passed it you were outside the holding. Paloo had never been allowed to go past that marker. His father would go every three days starting in the spring to take the pack horses with a load of fresh goat’s milk, sloshing on their backs in strong fabric and leather milk bags. “You’re too young, to go below,” his father would say. “Wait till you’re old enough and big enough to walk the distance as I do.”

His mother taught him how to read. There were four scrolls in the house, always kept in their special waxed wood cylinders with the hide covers tied tightly over the open ends. The idea that different shaped marks on those scrolls could actually represent words and ideas always amazed Paloo. His favorite scroll told about the splendors of the world, out beyond great grandfather’s marker. As Paloo struggled over the words with his mother’s help, he began to see pictures in his mind of oceans and deserts so vast that no man had ever seen the other side. How could there be so much water? All he had ever seen was the gurgling, rushing stream that flowed down the narrow valley floor making a background sound that was ever-present. More than once his dreadful cousins had snuck up on him, their approach covered by the music of the water over the rocky streambed.

And the deserts of New Godsland? The most sand he’d ever seen edged the beaver pond, down near the lower end of the holding; just a narrow bit of blackish material filled with tiny pieces of glittering mica. It felt nice to walk barefoot along that strip on a warm day before wading out into the ice-cold water of the pond. “The water comes from the ice, way up high in the real mountains,” his father always said.

The scrolls also told about cities, built by men that were home to thousands of people; all living and working in the same exact place, like the Eye in Nostrom across the sea. Paloo’s imagination brimmed with the gigantic fortresses and palaces of King’s Port with rooms on top of rooms climbing up to the sky. His little bed, snug in a loft above the cooking corner of their house, wasn’t a real room, and you had to climb a ladder to get there. How could any place be so strong to hold rooms on top of rooms? Sometimes Paloo would read the descriptions in the scrolls, and then spend hours thinking and puzzling about how such things could be. It made his head hurt.

Sometimes, his mother’s older brother, Uncle Neenth, would return with father to help with the horses if the trail washed out from a thunderstorm, or one of the animals went lame. Paloo always hoped he'd take his two sons back home with him.
Uncle Sayath had been to Riverport when he was younger. His smooth-shaven face would light up, and he’d get a special look in his eyes. “Not one of the leading cities, just a small trading center. No more than fifteen or twenty thousand people. But you should have seen it! The food that was for sale, and the entertainers…and the place where they held the games! And the houses that looked like palaces!”
At that point, Paloo’s father would always stop Uncle Sayath, saying, “Now that’s enough. The boy’s mind is full enough of that world down there. Leave it be.”