“I’m sure it will be fine, Mama,” said Lalani, even though she wasn’t sure at all.
Her mother tilted her head so their foreheads touched. “You better hurry to the loomers to get the rations. I need to finish.”
“But how will you do it?”
Her mother tossed the blood-soaked cloth to the side, and looked at Lalani.
“Sometimes, the only way out is through,” she said.
Lalani thought of her mother’s tells as she walked to the loomers. The furrow of worry on her forehead. The way she wouldn’t look up. The panic in her voice.
But maybe her mother was right, and everything would be okay. It wasn’t a given that she would get mender’s disease.
Then again, it wasn’t a given that she wouldn’t.
Lalani’s feet hit the dirt. The fabric under her arms dampened with sweat. She looked toward the sky. Cloudless. Bright. Quiet.
The village boys were already in school, and the fishermen were distant spots on the water. The shipbuilders worked along the opposite shore, out of view and earshot, near the Veiled Sea. Women worked the crops, hunchbacked on the horizon. Lalani turned to wave hello to the washerwomen, but they weren’t out yet; their bins were dry and empty. A result of the menyoro’s water rationing, perhaps.
By the time Lalani reached Bosalene’s house at the foot of Mount Kahna, her throat was parched and thirsty, her leg hurt, and she couldn’t stop thinking about her mother’s pricked finger.
“I’m sorting the rations now,” Bosalene said from her doorway. “Just a moment and I’ll have yours ready.”
Lalani almost followed Bosalene inside—she was desperate to talk to Mora Pasa—but then she spotted My-Shek, along with three others, in the pen, nosing at the back gate. One of the bottom latches dangled oddly from the post. It looked as if it’d been kicked. The work of the shek, no doubt. But why?
The question hardly had time to form in Lalani’s mind before she knew the answer. The ground in the pen was brown and barren. Bosalene’s herd wandered in the sun, circling an empty water trough and searching for fresh grass. They were so desperate that they’d tried to break the gate to reach the mountain.
“Move back now,” Lalani said softly as she attempted to fix the latch. “If you wander out, you may get lost.”
The shek made way for her, but they were so close that their coats tickled Lalani’s arms. Once she’d refastened the gate, she rubbed My-Shek’s head, then the others’, one by one. Their mouths were frothy with thirst.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you’re thirsty. I’m thirsty, too.”
She sat down, sunk her fingers into the black patch on My-Shek’s chest, and scratched. She looked into his round, dark eyes. My-Shek’s ears folded back with pleasure.
“I’m supposed to look for plants with Veyda today,” Lalani said. “But I don’t know if we’ll find any. I thought about going to the mountain, too. So I understand how you feel.” She inhaled the scent of My-Shek—thick and familiar—and whispered, “My mother pricked her finger, My-Shek. I don’t know what to do.”
The heat was unbearable, but she spent several minutes there, resisting the urge to cry into the downiness of My-Shek’s coat, waiting for Bosalene to appear with the basket of thread. Eventually, though, the heat was too much, and she stood to walk back to the house. She was halfway there, brushing dirt from her shirt, when she discovered that her attempt to fix the gate had been a failure. It was wide open.
My-Shek and two others had already wandered out and were walking up the slope.
There was no time to get Bosalene. By the time Lalani made it to the house and back again, who knew how far the shek would go? They were moving fast already, certainly faster than Lalani thought shek could move.
Lalani hesitated, glanced over her shoulder, then hurried to the broken gate. She closed it, hands fumbling, so the others wouldn’t escape. She needed to get the loose shek before they went too far. She stepped quickly toward the mountain, only to find that she could no longer see the animals.
But there—in the distance. Was that My-Shek? Something moved, that was certain, but she couldn’t tell if it was one of the shek or not.
Poor My-Shek! If he wandered too far, he would never find his way back. None of them would. What if they were snatched by the mountain beast? Or some other creature? And without the shek, the loomers wouldn’t be able to make enough thread. And without enough thread, her mother wouldn’t be able to mend. All things considered, that didn’t sound like such a terrible fate, but when you didn’t meet expectations, your rations were lowered by the menyoro, which meant less food. She could see Drum now, glaring at their meager serving of fish and vegetables, his eyes hooded under dark brows.
She took a step forward.
Yes, that was My-Shek.
She glanced back toward the house.
Her heart thundered.
She recalled the voice of Lo Yuzi. The story of the mountain beast.
Mount Kahna doesn’t wish to be disturbed! It will eat you alive!
But she had no choice—did she? She had to get the shek before they went too far.
They were probably hiding behind that cluster of trees or grazing lazily in a shadow.
She had to at least try to find them.
I won’t go too far. Just far enough.
Whispering the Sanlagitan benediction under her breath—Spare us. Remain peaceful and quiet in our gratitude—she stepped toward the mountain.
Shifty
Nature is shifty. It takes advantage of how comfortable you are in your surroundings. Humans make the mistake of believing they know best, but nature is there to remind you, at precisely the wrong time, that nature was here first.
Lalani wasn’t in the habit of believing she knew best about anything. She had never been deep in a forest’s belly. She certainly had never been on the slope of a mountain.
She followed My-Shek cautiously at first, but then became so focused on bringing all of the shek home that she forgot to be afraid. She called to them—“Here, shek, here, shek”—but they didn’t come. They bowed their heads to the grassy slope and nosed around for food. When Lalani got close enough to grab one by the loose skin around his neck, he shook her off and they all hurried away.
She followed them. She didn’t think about how long she’d been walking until she noticed that her feet ached and she saw a tree with golden leaves. Had she seen such a tree before? How far had she come, anyway?
Bosalene and the loomers were behind her somewhere. But then, why couldn’t she see the pitched roofs of their houses, or any houses for that matter?
She looked up, up, up. The trees stretched on forever. And the sky was growing dark. Not as dark as midnight, no. But the world around her was gray. She hadn’t noticed that until now. The tree canopy blocked the sun. It was still hot, but not as overwhelming as before. In any other circumstance, she would have taken comfort in that.
She hugged herself and turned around. The shek were still visible, oblivious to the danger they were in. (They were in danger, weren’t they?) She spun in slow circles. Even if she corralled the shek, how would she lead them back? Why hadn’t she thought this through?
It was so quiet. There was no wind to rustle the leaves. No birds flitting from branch to branch. Just the sound of her breathing and the muffled sound of the shek eating.
“It’s okay,” she told them, though they didn’t seem to need comforting. “You didn’t go far.”
She had no idea if that was true or not.
She stopped spinning.
She had no idea what to do. She had no idea what her next step should be. She stood still, waiting for an answer, even though she didn’t know where it would come from. Maybe the mountain beast would give her one, just before he gobbled them all up. An image popped into her mind. An ugly image. The mountain beast, coming after her with sharp, hungry teeth. Mouth frothing like the shek’s—from hunger, not thirst. And his claws. Oh, his claws! Then, a gro
wl. Your eyes. Your eyesssssss. Because that’s what the mountain beast wanted. That’s what he always wanted.
Eyes for his supper.
You Are the Weeping Loset
Imagine you are a weeping loset. You are tall and beautiful, but sorrowful. Your curved branches look like the shoulders of a crying woman, and your moss is gray and coarse. You are unhappy but can’t remember why. Perhaps you suffered a great loss hundreds of years ago, and only a lingering heartache remains.
You see all who pass. You’re a curious tree, because there is so little to do but stand and wait for something to happen. And now, something has! There is a girl. You’ve never seen her before. She smells hot and dry, like dust. She steps lightly, but purposefully, and she is afraid. You know this because your roots plunge into the earth, and everything that touches the ground settles onto them.
Her eyes are wide. She studies you. She doesn’t understand why you’re here, and you don’t understand, either. Her eyes are frightened. You’ve been afraid before, too. You remember that now. You ache to comfort her. You think: If my arms were stronger, I would lower them for her to climb. She could make a bed from my leaves and rest here until morning. But your arms aren’t strong enough to carry a girl, especially one who is burdened by exhaustion and fear. Those things are the heaviest of all. And you are just an old loset covered with moss.
Few people pass through here. Just the eyeless man. But this girl has eyes, certainly. They are inquisitive, like they carry a thousand questions. You have no answers.
You decide to rustle your leaves so she knows you see her.
There. You blew her hair, but too lightly. You don’t have much strength anymore.
You think: Maybe she is afraid of the eyeless man. Maybe that is where her fear comes from. And she’s right to be afraid. Poor thing, you think, she’s just a girl. You’ve lived three hundred years, and she’s only lived a handful.
How tragic.
She will never know the comfort of your branches.
You think: I could be a hero to you, girl, if only I were different. But this is what I am. So you are doomed.
Then They Strike
“I’m not afraid,” said Lalani. She shivered among the trees, even though it was very warm. “I’m not afraid.”
She was, of course. But if you can trick yourself, sometimes you wind up believing something that isn’t true. Lo Yuzi had taught Lalani that one night, when she and Veyda hadn’t been able to sleep because they were thinking about their fathers. They had been ten years old and wondering about their papas’ journey together. How far did they get before their ship sank? What were they thinking? Did they suffer? It was a terrible conversation and it made their hearts clench, but they couldn’t help themselves. Eventually they’d burst into tears, and Lo Yuzi had come in to see what was wrong.
Sometimes you must feel pain, she’d said, stroking their hair. But when you tire from it, tell yourself: I will be okay. I will survive. Even if you don’t believe it. Eventually, you will. Because it was never a lie to begin with. You will. We all will.
Lalani tried that now.
“I’m not afraid,” she said.
She wished she were more like Veyda or Ziva.
She waited for her feet to move more bravely, but they didn’t. She took small, uncertain steps, her knee throbbing faintly with each of them. Everything around her was both frighteningly identical and completely unfamiliar.
“I will be okay,” she said.
She thought of Veyda, who never seemed afraid of anything. Perhaps it was something she inherited from Lo Yuzi. But no—that couldn’t be right, because Hetsbi was also born from Lo Yuzi, and there wasn’t a more frightened boy in the village.
She thought of Ziva, so bold that she hid away on a ship.
But Ziva hadn’t made it, Lalani reminded herself. And even Veyda was afraid of the mountain. Too scared to look for plants on its slopes.
Oh, yes, the plants. Lalani scanned the ground around her. There was green here, certainly, and not just the grass being eaten by the sheks. There were also plants that spiked in all directions, others with flat round leaves, still others with furry oval ones. Plants that sprouted around the roots of trees and those that grew alone. The trouble was, Lalani had no clue which ones Veyda needed. She debated whether she should gather some or focus on the task at hand—the shek. Perhaps she could do both. She leaned over. Plucked a handful. The leaves were dry, but not wilted. She felt better. Yes, she was still lost. Yes, she was still afraid. But at least she had a purpose.
We all need a purpose, her mother liked to say. That’s why we must be thankful for the menyoro.
Then, another ugly thought: her mother’s finger. The bloody cloth. The needle.
Don’t think about that now.
“I’ll keep gathering plants,” Lalani said to no one. “And let the shek eat their fill.”
Her gathering soon led her to the roots of a magnificent tree, one Lalani had certainly never seen before—not on this day or any other. It was tall, stately, and dripping with moss. Its branches were spindly but curved. The tree looked like it was crying. A faint breeze blew from its leaves, the first one Lalani had felt in days. It was as if the tree was trying to comfort her. And even if that didn’t make sense, Lalani didn’t care. She would take comfort wherever she could.
Soon after Kul became Lalani’s brother, he told her that spirits of dead menders rose from their graves at night and slipped between the flenka boards in the walls. He’d kneel beside her to whisper his tale. His voice was the only sound in the world.
“They stink, and their brains hang out of their ears. They wear seaweed and grass capes and carry needles that are four feet long,” he would say. “They come in through the cracks, but you can’t see them because they’re invisible. They can always tell who has the weakest spirit in the room so they know who to attack. That’s why I don’t have to worry. But if I were you, I’d be scared. You have a weak spirit, even for a girl. They’ll choke you to death. They wait for the silence of night. Then they strike.” He wrapped his hands around his own neck to demonstrate.
Lalani knew Kul wanted to scare her and that it probably wasn’t true, but she was scared nonetheless. She couldn’t sleep when it was quiet, so she’d focus on the deep breaths of her mother. But then she would start to worry that her mother would get mender’s disease and come back as a ghost, and eventually she grew to fear her own sleeping mother.
How was it, she wondered, that Lo Yuzi’s stories thrilled her, but Kul’s made her afraid of her own mama?
After weeks of fitful sleep, Lalani finally told her mother about Kul’s story.
“Why would mothers come back to haunt the children?” her mother had said, shaking her head. “No, mothers wouldn’t do such a thing, even in death. If dead menders were to haunt anyone, it would be Kul.”
Her mother rarely said such things, so this both surprised and comforted Lalani. After that, the story drifted from her memory, almost as if she’d never heard it.
But now, as she stood in the complete silence of Mt. Kahna, old fears blossomed.
The world wasn’t saying a word.
They wait for the silence. . . . Then they strike.
One foot in front of the other. That’s what she had to do. She turned around and retraced her steps—or she thought she did.
“I’m not afraid,” said Lalani.
The shek had wandered off. A sickening feeling swirled in Lalani’s belly. The shek were nowhere in sight. My-Shek was nowhere in sight. She’d wanted to take care of them, and she’d failed. As useless as a wallecta, just like Drum said.
No. She would make herself useful. She would keep hold of the plants and try to find her way. She would not think about her tired feet, her hurt knee, or all the things that could snatch her. Mountain beasts. Mender ghosts. The mountain itself.
She wasn’t going to think about the boy with the canteen, the boy who ignored everyone’s warnings and traipsed up Kahna alo
ne, never to be seen again.
She wished it wasn’t so quiet.
Her feet crunched the dry leaves. Crunch, crunch.
She pictured her mother’s face, then Lo Yuzi, and Veyda. Something to comfort her.
Mountains are mountains.
She stopped and looked around. Where was that weeping tree? She’d felt some degree of comfort near it. Maybe she should sit under its canopy and figure out what to do next.
Crunch, crunch.
She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them, willing all the bad thoughts away.
“I am not afraid,” she said. Louder this time. “I am not afraid.” She raised her fists in the air—one of them stuffed with plants—and said, “I am a mighty warrior! I will conquer this mountain! Beware all who wish to stop me!”
Her heart sprinted through her chest.
She pulled a dangling twig from a nearby tree and swung it in front of her. The twig was shaped like an ax-saw, sort of. It had a curved tip, like a hook.
Whoosh-whoosh. Her whipping branch cut through the quiet.
But then she heard something else, too.
What was that?
She dropped the twig. There. Very faint. Bz-bzz-bz. Something winked at her, a pinprick of light. Only one at first, then another and another.
A bulb fly. Three of them. Little fluttering insects with lighted wings. Despite her precarious situation, Lalani couldn’t help but feel a rush of excitement. She loved bulb flies!
Lalani followed them without thinking about it. They shined bright and hopeful, even though it wasn’t yet dark. Soon she reached a creek, where she fell to her knees and drank greedily. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was. She drank and drank and drank, even though some of the handfuls she scooped from the creek were spotted with dirt and it caught in her throat and made her cough. The creek was thin and unimpressive, slivering along the earth like a worm. Still, it was water. She hoped My-Shek had—or would—find it.
The bulb flies were gone now, so she followed the creek. Lo Yuzi had told her once that water was life. And she was right. Without the rain, life was precarious. Perhaps this creek led to a roaring river. It didn’t appear so, but things weren’t always what they seemed.
Lalani of the Distant Sea Page 4