by Michael
“Prylo, where’s Mother?”
The Fhrey rolled his eyes. “She’s still alive, you fool!”
Off to Moya’s left, Rain was mobbed by a dozen dwarfs that surrounded him. They hugged, slapped, and generally berated the digger.
“Oh, so have you finally dug deep enough?”
“Look! He’s brought his pick, he has! Fool of a boy.”
“Those days are over, laddie! You’ve reached the bottom at last.”
The comments sounded hurtful, which concerned Moya, but they came with smiles and hugs.
Something is not quite right about the Dherg.
After Sarah had let go of Brin, Delwin swung his daughter up in his arms the way he had done a thousand times when alive. Watching the familiar scene brought back the old, ugly pang of envy she’d forgotten.
Moya, who had earned her keep with Brin’s family by spinning wool, used to watch when Delwin came in after a long day with the sheep. Sarah would welcome her husband with kisses. Then Brin would rush over with something to show. All of it—the smell of the food, the smiles, the happiness and love—had driven Moya to slip outside; she had to, or they might have seen her crying and ask why. Moya hadn’t wanted to explain how empty it made her feel knowing she would never experience anything like what they had.
Watching Brin’s reunion, Moya felt the same emptiness. She looked for her own mother, but Audrey was nowhere to be seen.
Some things never change.
Sarah spotted Moya. With a sympathetic look, the woman—who had been more of a mother than Audrey—ran over and hugged her tightly. Trapped as she was in Sarah’s embrace, Moya couldn’t hide her tears.
“It’s okay,” Sarah said. “Everything is fine now.”
Sarah held onto Moya, a moment filled with the nostalgia of a crackling hearth and the comforting smell of wool and baking bread—the shelter Moya had long ago found in a neighbor’s home.
“Your mother will come. Those who have had strong emotional ties with someone who dies know when it has happened. That’s why we are here. There’s a ringing, the same sort you hear if you’ve ever been close to fainting. Audrey was here earlier but she . . . well . . .”
“She hates me,” Moya replied. “Never forgave me for being such a terrible daughter.”
Sarah looked embarrassed, as if company had dropped by while her home was a mess. “It’s nothing like that. I’m sure. It’s just that the gate has been closed, and no one knew for how long, so some left. I’m certain Audrey will be back.” Sarah wiped Moya’s tears away. “Anyway, we’re here, and you can stay with us until you and your mother find each other.”
“Oh—Mom,” Brin said, wiping her cheeks and eyes, “I’m sorry, but we won’t be staying. We’re only passing through.”
This drew surprised looks from both parents.
“Ah, honey . . .” Sarah began.
“You do understand that you’re—that you died? Right?” Delwin asked.
“Of course I do, and I have to admit that I’m not looking forward to doing that twice.”
“Twice?” Sarah said. With a puzzled expression, she glanced at her husband.
Moya laughed awkwardly. “You know Brin, always joking.”
Sarah looked at her the same way she used to when Moya and Brin came home covered in mud—her what-have-you-two-been-up-to expression. That look also said, And this is your fault—I know it. Then, as if she remembered something had been cooking too long, Sarah clapped hands to her cheeks and looked around at the others. “Why are you all here at once? Have the Fhrey invaded the Dragon Camp?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just . . . hey, wait. How do you know about the camp? I lived there after—after . . .” Brin faltered.
“After we died, yes.” Sarah nodded.
All around them, people had finished their greetings and were moving off, walking up the brick road toward where Moya noticed clusters of buildings—little roundhouses like the ones in Dahl Rhen. Most of the people she didn’t recognize, but some teased her memory, faces vaguely recalled from childhood but now unplaceable.
“Other people die, too, dear,” Sarah explained. “They bring news with them.” She paused, a pang of sadness filling her eyes. “A lot of people have died recently, what with the war and all. We’ve heard wonderful stories about you, Persephone, Moya, Roan, and Gifford, and your romance with the Dureyan boy Tesh—who I assume is no longer a boy. We were hoping to hear about becoming grandparents soon. I guess that won’t happen now.”
“And speaking of no longer a boy . . . neither is this one.” Delwin clapped Gifford on the back, staggering the potter. “You’ve straightened out, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why don’t we all go home?” Sarah said, coaxing them with waves of her arms as if they were sheep. “We can sit by the fire, and you can tell us all that is happening in the world. Our place is just up that way.” Sarah pointed up the brick road where Moya saw a well that she could swear was exactly the same as the one that had once stood near the center of Dahl Rhen, the well where the legendary Bucket Raid occurred and where she once coaxed Tekchin to fill waterskins for her.
I’m Tekchin, the handsomest and most skilled of the Galantians.
That scar suggests otherwise on both counts.
“That well looks exactly like the one where we used to live. How is that possible?” Moya asked.
“It’s there because we all remember it,” Sarah explained. “It’s still our common well, but now we draw something other than water from it. Something deeper and more vital. Memories are important here. They help form the world around us.”
Turning to Brin, she added, “Your grandmother Brinhilda is waiting with the children. I asked them to stay. Didn’t want to overwhelm. Some people bring the whole clan, but I know how confusing coming down here can be. I thought it might be you; a mother’s intuition doesn’t end with death, and I remember that you were never a diver, always a wader.”
Sarah took hold of Brin’s hand and started off.
“Wait!” Gifford said.
They all stopped and looked at him. The potter was staring into the depths of the dispersing crowd, where a small woman was slowly revealed. She was young and thin and wore her hair straight and short. As the throng peeled away, the woman stepped slowly forward, approaching hesitantly, her hands shaking, tears welling—her sight locked on—
“Roan?” Reanna said in a soft voice while inching toward her.
Mother and daughter were so alike, though disturbingly, Roan looked a bit older. Moya had to remind herself that Roan’s mother had died young.
They didn’t embrace, not at first. When they did, their hug lacked the wild abandon that Sarah and Brin had shared. Instead, they crept up, hands out but clenched. Then slowly, haltingly, Roan’s mother closed the distance and took Roan in her arms as if her daughter were a fine porcelain figurine. They stayed that way for a time, then slowly Reanna began to stroke her daughter’s hair.
As she did, Roan cried. Moya had rarely seen her friend that way. Roan didn’t just weep, she sobbed.
The two huddled with shoulders hunched and backs bowed. Lifetimes of cowering had turned these women, who might otherwise have been beautiful and proud, into lesser versions of themselves.
While alive, they hadn’t merely cast tiny shadows upon the world; they were shadows.
Moya adjusted her grip on her bow as she scanned the faces around them. She pointed at Roan and Reanna, and said, “Anyone know where Iver the Carver has taken root?” She peered down the brick road, hoping to catch a glimpse of the monster who, for far too long, she had mistaken for a man. “I’d like to put an arrow or maybe six or seven into that worthless excuse of a man.”
“What’s an arrow?” Delwin asked.
“This.” She held one up.
“Is that supposed to cause pain?”
“It’s been known to.”
“It won’t here,” Sarah said. “In Rel, pain is muted like
the light. And I’ve never seen Iver—not around here. He might be farther in. Most of us don’t travel far. We like our little village. Come, let me show you.”
Gifford didn’t want to intrude. He left Roan alone with her mother and walked up the brick road with the others, but he stopped at the well so he could keep his wife in sight. Seeing mother and daughter together was both wonderful and devastating—a tragic miracle of sorts. The two were a marvel, like a shattered mountain that left behind the breathtaking beauty of an exposed cliff. He watched them the way he might stare at a rainbow, trying to grasp the whole of it. When he realized he was staring, he turned away to grant them privacy.
He discovered he was standing in what appeared to be a village remarkably like Dahl Rhen. Many of the houses were similar to those he remembered. Where they fell short of identical was in their perfection and lack of wear. They all sported thick, straight timbers and fresh thatch of bright blond. And not a single roofline listed or bowed. The other notable difference was the vast number of buildings—thousands, maybe tens of thousands—that radiated out from the well’s central location. All of them were classic Rhulyn-Rhune roundhouses, but then again, not quite. Gifford spotted cook fires outside the homes, just as there should be, but he didn’t smell food or even smoke.
A good many people in the crowd waved at Gifford and the others as they walked past, everyone smiling, all friendly. None of them was thin, pale, or sickly. No one limped or coughed. He searched the faces for his father, who was little more than a vague memory, and he hoped to finally meet his mother. All he knew about her came from others. By all accounts, Aria was amazing. She’d died at sixteen but had left a deep and wide mark on everyone who knew her. Brave, kind, and wise were the words most often used to describe her, and over the years, Gifford had come to idolize this woman who knowingly sacrificed herself so he could live. He wanted to meet her, if only to say thank you, but he didn’t know what she looked like, and she wouldn’t be able to recognize him, either.
Did she come to the gate but hadn’t realized who she was there for? Maybe we passed by each other without even knowing.
No, he concluded. Surely, Delwin and Sarah knew Aria, and they would have reunited mother and son. Now that he thought of it, he wondered why Brin’s parents had said that Audrey would be back for Moya, but they hadn’t said the same about his family.
What does that mean? Has something happened to them?
Maybe his parents were like Meeks, wandering the world of Elan and never finding their way into Phyre. The thought made Gifford feel suddenly alone.
Brin had gone into her parents’ home. Moya stood with Tekchin, speaking to a handful of Fhrey, who seemed fascinated and a bit disconcerted by Moya. Rain continued to chat with his fellow dwarfs. Oddly, everyone was speaking in Rhunic.
Maybe they’re using their native languages, but because I’m dead, I can understand them. Perhaps when I talk, they are hearing Fhrey or Belgriclungreian.
Smiling at the idea of speaking Fhrey and wondering what that must sound like, Gifford spotted Tressa resting beside the well. He went over and sat on an overturned bucket. “Misfits together again, huh? Just like sitting in front of Hopeless House.”
“No,” Tressa replied. “You were expelled from there.”
“What? Why? Because I can speak better?”
Tressa shook her head. “No. We kicked you out years ago.”
“Really? Who’s we?”
“Me, I guess. I’m the only one left, aren’t I? Anyway, you have her.” Tressa pointed at Roan. Mother and daughter continued to speak, foreheads touching. “Oh, yeah, and there was that thing about saving all of mankind that you did a few years back. That really ruined your worthless status. People think you’re a hero now. Can’t have heroes in Hopeless House.”
“You’re not worthless, Tressa.”
“I don’t see a line forming to thank me for all the good I did with my life.”
“It isn’t over.”
“Yeah, it is,” Tressa said with a terrible certainty. “And what a mess I made of it, huh?”
“What did you do that was so awful? You married badly—must be millions who have done that.”
Tressa shook her head. “I can’t blame it on Konniger. If I didn’t know what he was up to, I should have, isn’t that right? I mean, what kind of wife doesn’t know when her husband is out killing people? And I’ve always left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth even before I met him. Folks started calling me a bitch when I was eight years old—eight! I don’t know why. Didn’t even realize what it meant. I tried to be a good person, brought back the Killians’ cow when she got lost. I was out all night, tore my dress, and took a beating from my father over it. The stupid animal had gotten caught in thickets, probably would have broken her leg and died. No one saw me, though, so I didn’t get any credit. And I was the one who made Heath Coswall return Tope Highland’s knife—that nice one he had, remember? I made Heath give it back; said I’d tell if he didn’t. He did, and I kept my promise, never said a word. Of course, no one knew it was me. I kinda thought that was a good thing, you know? I guess I was wrong. Been wrong a lot. Funny how you get to see things so clearly right after you can’t do anything about them.”
Roan was looking their way, waving for Gifford to come over.
He stood up, thrilled at how easy it was to get to his feet. He took a step, then stopped. “Come with me,” he said to Tressa.
“You don’t have to be nice to me, Gifford. It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. And yeah, I do.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you.”
Tressa laughed. “I took the Second Chair from Persephone, remember? And Konniger and I were useless even though we were supposed to be in charge. And I tried to marry Moya to the Stump. You didn’t forget that, did you?”
Gifford scowled. “You work at making it hard to like you, Tressa.”
“So, don’t.”
“But I—”
“Don’t.” Tressa stood up. “I know you think I deserve what I got. You all do. Everyone does. Some folks—like you—are just a little more polite about it, I guess. But I don’t want pity. I’d rather be hated.” She stormed off.
The interior of Brin’s mother’s home was eerily similar to the one where Brin had grown up. Her murals—the ones she had painted on the walls—and the handprints of the child she had once been were all there. The details were remarkable, and if they were the result of memory, Brin finally understood where she had gotten her Keeper’s talent from.
The moment Brin entered, she was rushed by a small mob. Five children nearly tackled her. They were dressed in wool, woven in the pattern of Dahl Rhen. Each focused on her with excitement.
“Everyone, this is your baby sister, Brin,” Sarah said, then she pointed at each of the children in turn as she introduced them. “This is Will, that’s Dell, over there is Wren, Dale, and this little one here is Meadow. They died before you were born. Wren lived the longest.”
“I got sick,” the little girl said. “You beat my record by fourteen years.”
The family features were there; each child looked a little like Brin, same eyes, same mouth, and yet they were unique—original paintings born of a common artist. Brin knew she’d had brothers and sisters, but details had been cast into the gloom of childhood myth. Now, they were talking to her.
“I—” Was all Brin got out before Meadow hugged her. She was the youngest, her face all eyes and cheeks.
“Was it . . . was it awful?” Dell asked. “Your death, I mean. Was it violent?”
“Dell!” Sarah reprimanded. “What kind of question is that?”
Brin recalled stories about Dell, Sarah’s firstborn. He was named after their father, and everyone called him Little Dell, a moniker the boy was said to have hated.
“Sorry. I was just curious.”
Brin didn’t know what to say. She knew she couldn’t provide details because eventually the key would be brought up
, and she thought it was best to not say anything about that, even to her own family.
Thankfully, she didn’t have to explain, because Sarah changed the subject. “This is your grandmother Brinhilda,” Sarah said as she introduced a woman who failed to meet any expectations. Brin had always imagined her grandmother as an evil crone, the Tetlin Witch’s uglier sister. This woman was pretty and younger than Sarah.
“I would have come to the gate,” Brinhilda said, “but you wouldn’t have recognized me even though I was the one who provided you with your name. I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you, dear.” Another hug was delivered.
“Your uncles and their families will be stopping by later, I expect,” Sarah said. “Everyone will want news about what’s happening in the world, so you can expect to be hounded. It’ll give you something to do, for a while, at least. Too many days are just like the ones that came before. It’s quite boring with so little to do.”
“Why is that?” Brin looked around.
“This is a place of waiting.” Her father spoke loudly, and as if to prove the point, he sat down in a chair by the well-stocked fire pit. “A place without want.”
“But that’s good, isn’t it? I mean, you don’t have to toil, right? There’s no need to cut wood or farm. You both worked so hard in life, you deserve some rest. All your problems and fears are gone.”
“And we have nothing to do,” Sarah said. “I used to look forward to a time when you kids would be grown, and your father and I would finally be able to relax. At some point, I realized it would never happen. There would always be something needing attention. That’s what life is, dealing with one problem and then the next. It’s striving and suffering to obtain a goal, only to find another one waiting beyond it. I thought life was misery because of the unending succession of trials and tribulations. But now, I see that challenges are what life is all about. Take them away and . . . there’s no point. It’s like life is a game, but now the competition is over. We’re still here, waiting and hearing about others who can still play. It’s not terrible, but neither is it enjoyable.”