by Andy Giesler
“Whatever else happens after this,” Shepherd Livv said, “Root deserves to know. I’ll tell her if you can’t.” Her offer wasn’t full of cock or mockery. She just sounded a touch sad about it, is all. Like somebody ought to tell me, and she wasn’t sure Gabriel could.
After the space of a few heartbeats, Gabriel said, “No.” Then he turned to me, and when he spoke, his voice was soft.
“I killed her, Root,” he said. “I killed Aura Lee.”
Words from the Reckoning, So Very Long Ago: Ruth Troyer’s Journal
1
June 13, 2185
Martha died. Some sort of flu. She always took sick easily. Nothing we could do.
Hammad’s a good and kind man. I trust him. He’ll raise their children, Ruth and Atlee. I will, too.
Martha didn’t go far off, as Hannah and Waneta have. She started no village of her own. She stayed here with me.
Martha was a kidder. Always ready to tease. She was the first to shave her head like me. She thought it was a hoot. I remember how hard she laughed when she first showed me. In time, Waneta and Hannah followed her and shaved their heads, too. She was the youngest, and least able to do for herself, but somehow she led those two around all her life.
Folks called them the Three Little Weavers. Martha laughed when folks called them weavers. Sometimes laughed herself to tears. Hannah can’t even work a lap loom to save her life. Waneta’d rather do nearly anything else than weave. Martha had no patience to learn that “yarn-fiddly stuff.”
My baby.
When I Was Twenty-Three: The Last Dance
1
A True-old Story
Some years ago, so I’m told, there lived a weaver of Surecreek.
As a rule, weavers are brave, and fierce, and staunch, but this weaver was ’specially so. When time came for her to take a lone pilgrimage, she was heavy with child, but she counted two months before her babe was due. A weaver less brave, or more cautious, might have chosen the safe path and remained in her village. But this weaver knew her duty, so she trusted Grandmother Root to watch over her and bring her through pilgrimage to receive a child on the other side of it.
During an ice storm one March morning, as the weaver made her way through the deeps of the Divide, the child came. It came too early, and it was not alive, and the weaver was ruined with grief. She wailed as weavers seldom do, and as this one never had. For days she wandered the Divide, with hardly food nor sleep to comfort her, as one might wander who was lost.
Some years ago, so I’m told, there lived a shepherd called Aura Lee.
Now as a rule, shepherds are old beyond imagining, but this shepherd was ’specially so. She had lived since before the Reckoning. Aura Lee was heavy with child, and she was afraid.
She’d toiled and watched for all those long years as the chimeras had diminished, and dwindled, and then had nearly ceased. But a new chimera rose, and another, in the space of just one year. Feeling her daughter move in her belly, she was afraid, for by that time the shepherds had dwindled too. She knew that if the chimeras rose again, all the People might perish. She fretted on this for some long while.
On the morning after her babe came, she saw what she must do.
She saw that if the chimeras rose and the shepherds faltered, the People’s only help would be themselves. So she resolved to break a rule that she herself had set, a rule that kept peace among the shepherds. She would tell the People the truth of all things, that they might watch over themselves when shepherds could not. Aura Lee left the shepherds’ company and went with her infant daughter to the west of the World That Is, and there she pondered how she might make this thing so. She considered what words she might say, that the People would believe the truth, but the words were not in her. She would have despaired, but still she hoped to take counsel from another.
One evening, as that grieving weaver roamed the woods, she heard a babe’s cry and feared herself fallen to madness. But when she followed the cry, she came to a clearing where Shepherd Lee sat with a babe. The weaver, seeking comfort from her elder, told the shepherd of her grief and loss.
As she listened to the weaver, Aura Lee made a plan.
Aura Lee did not expect to survive the task she’d set herself, so she worried how she might keep her child safe. She feared how the other shepherds might use her child against her. She saw in this weaver a refuge. So when the weaver finished her tale, Aura Lee held out her babe.
And then she lied.
“I found this child among Outcasts,” she said. “They bragged of killing her parents. This babe is alone now, as you are. I see in her a gift from Grandmother Root to soften your loss. Take her and raise her as your own.”
The weaver wept. She embraced the shepherd, then accepted the babe, and softly thanked Grandmother Root for seeing her through pilgrimage to receive a child on the other side of it.
Some years ago, so I’m told, there lived a shepherd called Gabriel.
Now as a rule, shepherds fretted over the People of the World That Is, but this shepherd fretted ’specially so. Gabriel had lived since before the Reckoning, and the People’s plight was of his own making.
He’d toiled and watched for all those long years as the chimeras had diminished, and dwindled, and then had nearly ceased. When a new chimera rose, and another in the space of just one year, it puzzled him, but he was not yet afraid.
But when Aura Lee told him in secret that she planned to break her own rule and end the peace, then he was afraid. For he knew that if she broke the peace, there would be War again among the shepherds, whose number had grown so small. Such a War would leave yet more shepherds dead. The People were not ready to stand against chimeras. With the shepherds waning further, he feared all the People would perish.
Aura Lee asked him to help with her task—to join her in the Divide, at a place they both knew. He sought her there, twisted with fear and worry over the ruin her plan would bring.
When he asked where her child had gone, an idea came upon her. The appearance of two chimeras had not troubled him as it had troubled her, so she was not yet sure of his help. But three chimeras? She thought three chimeras might persuade him. She took his hands in hers.
And then she lied.
She told him that a chimera had come upon her. That it had killed her child. That more chimeras would come, to the ruin of them all. That he must help her speak truth to the People—for if the words were not in her, they were surely in him.
He knew her heart. He knew she would not waiver. He knew she would bring War to the shepherds, and ruin to all the People.
So very long ago, before the Reckoning, Shepherd Gabriel had killed nearly all of the People of the World That Was in the slim hope of saving those few who remained.
Killing her was harder.
Alone, no other shepherd might have ended her. He was neither stronger nor quicker nor cleverer. His only weapon was her trust. Of all the shepherds, she thought only he would never harm her. So he ended her life in the slim hope of saving us few who remained. He burned her body, and he fled. For days he wandered the Divide, with hardly food nor sleep to comfort him, filled with grief and self-loathing.
2
Without
“You lied to me,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” Gabriel replied. And though I was surprised, it was hard for me to be real angry with him.
Because I’d lied to him, too. More than once lately, and about things at least as important. He just didn’t know it yet.
He turned to Livv. “Things have changed,” he said.
“Clearly,” she replied, nodding toward me.
“No. Everything’s changed, and you need to know.”
He told her all of it.
All that I’d told him, and all that we’d done since. He spoke to her plain of Michael’s death, and of how we’d tried to deceive her and the other shepherds. He spoke of what he hoped to do with Grandmother Root’s voice. And as he told her, I could hear him weaving his me
aning, singing it like a song that murmurs just below the wind—not only the story that was, but the story he hoped she would hear. Each word had three more between, unspoken yet loud. He spoke of the future he wished her to see—the future Aura Lee saw, and that he saw now, too. As I listened to this man, old beyond my understanding, I felt all the years of his weary life, and I knew the power of his words, for he’d been telling stories since before Grandmother Root. Even though I knew where his tale would take us, I lost myself in it.
But it didn’t matter. Not one whittle.
Because as he spoke, I saw others arrive, one by one. From a doorway to this side. From a passageway to that. From the steps we’d just descended. He must have seen them, too, at least the ones in front of him.
Seven shepherds. With Gabriel, that made eight.
All the shepherds of the World That Is, gathered here in this room. And these shepherds were not lost in his gentle song as I was. Because they’d known him such long years. Because he’d sung them songs before. Because their ears were just as closed to new ideas as any stubborn weaver’s.
“Good,” Livv said when they’d all arrived, cutting his words short. “I’m glad to know the threat’s ended.”
“It’s not ended,” said Gabriel. “The water in the Void is still—”
“It’s ended for now,” she interrupted. Then she said to me, “Thank you for your part in that.”
“No need to thank me,” I said. “It’s thanks enough, you all just being here. I was worried you might not come.”
“Root?” Gabriel said.
“I’ll confess, I was real worried when we bumped into Shepherd Livv. Seemed she might be alone. But the rest of you came too, and I’ll tell you, it’s a great relief to have you here.”
“Root?” he said again, as the shepherds moved in toward us.
“Gabriel, as a rule I don’t hold with stretching the truth. But with so much hanging on it, I supposed it’d be alright, though I do apologize for it. Truth is, I do not recall my ma ever saying one kind word about Weaver Gretta of Underhivvel. About her being a self-righteous nanny’s ass? I heard that once or twice. About her being a cocksure humblehog? Why, I heard that now and again, too. But the one thing my ma said about her more than any other was that if you wished every person in the World That Is to know something, you should just tell Weaver Gretta of Underhivvel it was secret. So when we told her we were headed to Haven and why, and then we begged her not to share the truth of it? Well, I hoped she’d get the word to all you good folks so you could visit here, too. And I’m pleased to busting she did.”
“Why do you want us here?” Livv asked.
“To end your war.”
“There’s no war,” said another shepherd whose voice I didn’t know. “We’ve had peace since before you can even imagine.”
“Well now,” I said, “we see things different, maybe. Best I understand it, what you have is called a ‘truce,’ and that’s somewhat different from peace. A truce is when everybody’s still mad with everybody else, and they all still disagree, but then they decide to stop murdering each other. Or at least they decide to stop the murdering right out where others can see it. But that don’t end war. Just slows it down. And the shame of it is, us ordinary folks have kept dying all the way through it.”
I fidgeted as I spoke, there among all these ancient and mighty folks. “Now, I was raised better than to wish punishment for what’s come before. I try to think of what might be ahead, as Grandmother Root taught us. So all I can imagine right now is the good you folks might do if your war was ended. And though I don’t have much practice at wars and such, it seems to me a war can end once everybody who’s left agrees.”
Another shepherd spoke, and I knew her voice. It was Surecreek’s own Shepherd Lydia, Rachel’s daughter. I wondered whether she’d helped kill Surecreek. “It’s amazing what you’ve done, and we don’t doubt you have Lee’s special naughtwork within you. But you’re not up to this, Deborah. You won’t persuade us, and you certainly can’t kill seven shepherds.”
“Shepherd Lydia, if you don’t mind, my name’s Root. And gosh. Persuade you? You good folks have been squabbling since the Reckoning. Even if I had a knack for persuading, which I sure do not, I’m not smart enough to untangle that knot. And kill seven shepherds? Gracious! I couldn’t, and I wouldn’t care to. Naw. I’m just going to leave you no choice but to agree.”
I’d like to say real brief here, mostly for the little ones listening, that just as with lying, you ought not to take things that ain’t your own. My time with Aylee and Eulee left me believing that stronger than before. But I decided maybe, if it might help save all the People in the World That Is, maybe it might be all right. Just the once.
I finished fidgeting with my sash and removed what I’d hid there. The Ender I’d borrowed from Gabriel when he showed it to me—outside Greencreek’s wall, after my Dance with Shepherd Michael. The Ender I’d kept secret in my hand when I closed the case and handed it back to Gabriel, empty.
I slid the Ender open, felt for that little bump, and heard the noise I’d heard once before on the banks of Slowbird Creek. Like a buzzing rumble, it was. A deep, wide sound that had no business whatever coming from such a little nubbin of a thing.
Gabriel hollered, “No!” just as I pushed it.
The shepherds were so careful.
Careful to gather all the working ancient tools in Haven, where those tools could do no mischief among the People. Careful to keep their Enders apart from Haven, in that box outside, far above. Careful never to gather all the shepherds in one place, where one Ender might take them all. But they hardly needed to bother being careful. For who but a shepherd could use an Ender? And what shepherd would be so foolish as to End themselves—along with all the other shepherds, and all their ancient tools as well?
A good many noises followed. Since my Nothing had gone to sleep with all the others, I couldn’t see who made those noises no more. Somebody yelling. Somebody moaning. A good many words in the Shepherds’ Speech that sounded quite distressed. One person chucking up her guts. And I surely understood why. I about chucked up my own guts. Went to my knees a moment before getting back up.
Gabriel stood up beside me. Grabbed my arm. “Root,” he demanded, “what did you do?” But I figured that was pretty clear, so I didn’t answer.
Above all the cluck and jabber, a voice rose. Livv’s voice. Just one word.
“Why?!”
“To end your war,” I said. “War’s over once everybody who’s left agrees. Your war was about whether to teach plain ordinary folks, or to kill them. If I understand right, which I sure hope I do, we’re all just plain ordinary folks now. So I suppose you’ll want to teach us rather than kill us. Maybe there’s still ancient tools around I don’t know about, tools that could wake the Nothing within you. But from what Gabriel told me, you brought every ancient tool you could find to Haven, to keep the People safe from them. If that’s so, my Ender just broke them all. I suppose you could try to find more tools in the Somber, but I hear they’re awful hard to come by. And the Somber has that…that…Gabriel, what’s the word?”
“Radiation,” he said softly.
“Radiation. That’s the thing. So you probably won’t go looking. Still. I don’t know. Maybe you’ll risk it.”
“Why?” Livv asked again, and this time there was no anger in it. She just sounded tired.
“Clear enough, I’d think. With the Hidden Folk scattered and the ancient tools all broken, chimeras won’t rise no more. But the waters will. We don’t know what’s waiting on the other side of the Void. Maybe there’s not enough shepherds left to protect us from whatever’s coming, but there might be enough plain ordinary folks to do it. I figure Aura Lee was right. It’ll take time to convince the People, and time to ready them. For all the wrong you folks have done, you’ve done it for a Goodafter, to protect the People. So I figure you’ll keep to that purpose. I figure, comes to it, you’re all good folks who wish
the People well.”
Turns out I was right about their Nothing being asleep. And that was good.
I was also right about them gathering all those ancient tools in Haven, as Gabriel had told me, where the People would be safe from them. Those tools were just hunks of metal now. And that was good, too.
But I was wrong about war being over. Awful wrong. Because not everybody who was left agreed.
For Gabriel, Livv, and Rachel—the eldest shepherds, who’d seen the Reckoning and all that came before—it was over. They gave up war the moment they felt their Nothing sleep and knew it wasn’t likely to wake again.
But for the five younger shepherds, war couldn’t end. They’d been born to it. It’s all they’d ever known. I guess it was the only way they could understand the World That Is and their place in it. And since I was their war’s other half now, those five turned their wrath toward me with murderous intent.
That might have gone real poor for me. Five wrathful shepherds dancing with scrawny little me? That might have gone real poor, indeed.
Except for that smell.
The smell that bothered me as we came down the steps, deep away into Haven. Because just as Gabriel and I reached the bottom of the steps, I understood what smelled wrong. It wasn’t a smell that troubled me. It was the lack of a smell. A smell that ought to be there, yet wasn’t.
Here we were, as far from outdoors as you might ever be, yet I smelled neither candlewax nor woodfire nor fat burning in lamps. Now, I can’t tell light from dark, just as I can’t tell one color from another. But I do know this about light: folks need it to see. So when I smelled the smell that wasn’t there, it occurred to me that among all those ancient tools from so very long ago, some of them must be making all of Haven’s light. And I knew that, after the Ender, there wouldn’t be light no more.