A veson nodded at the conjure woman and disappeared. “Free the heart, free the spirit.” She lifted the giant hive and set it in a circle of cloth on her head as if it were a water pot. Sentinels swooped close, ready to sting her and perish. “Calm your friends.” Awa danced with the light of a setting sun and urged bees into the hive. The conjure woman smiled. “Travel with me?”
Dazzled by her craft and beauty, Awa would have done anything she asked. “Yes, but spirit slaves roam the six regions.” A few lumbered their direction.
The woman pressed Awa to a cold breast with her free hand. They rose up through green aurora to a cascade of stars and raced along a light bridge to a seventh region with a complex, blurry rhythm. Light reflecting off snowfields and frosted trees made Awa squint. The woman set the hive down on heather-covered cliffs by a crystal waterfall. “You and your bees are safe, for now.”
Awa’s exhalations turned to icy fog. She’d never been all the way to winter, never climbed Ice Mountain to its glaciers. She marveled at columns of ice growing in the stream that rushed over a cliff. Rainbow spirits played in curtains of mist. Cold burned her skin. She shivered. “Is it too chilly for bees?”
“They can rest, sleep, until warmth comes again.” The woman wrapped Awa in a cloud-silk cloak. “Winter won’t last forever.”
Awa strained to catch the rhythm of this seventh region. The pattern escaped her. “Must be a difficult place to find.”
“Impossible, almost.” The woman circled the hive. “Have you seen the Master of Weeds and Wild Things? Djola he is called.” She reached her hand deep inside the layers of honeycomb. “Djola is lost, but not his name, not his true spirit.”
Awa shook her head. “I don’t know him.”
“You love the world.” The woman dropped to her knees, cradling a sluggish bee the size of a hummingbird with three hot stingers on its butt. “We must find Djola before it’s too late.” She stabbed Awa’s chest with a stinger the size of a dagger. Awa yelped at venom jolting her heart almost to a standstill. The woman kissed Awa’s burning ears and whispered, “Do you promise to bring him to me?”
Water doused Awa as she said yes.
4
Lovers’ Lookout
Through a blur of golden frizzy hair, rough hands slapped Awa’s face. She was back in the everyday. “Wake up,” Meera said, worry on her freckled face. Good friends were a rare treasure in the huts. “You’re burning up.”
It was night. The moon grinned at Awa. She had fallen from the tree with unripe mangos. Her head was on fire, returning to the everyday too fast. Horse-keeper Rokiat, a handsome acolyte who lusted after Meera, ignored sparks in Awa’s hair and shook her so hard her thoughts banged into one another. “Wake up!”
“No real escape that way.” Meera dumped a second bucket over Awa’s head. Steam carried away the burnt smell. “Don’t you leave me here alone.”
“I wouldn’t think of it.” Awa lied. She’d thought of killing herself this afternoon, if only for a second.
“Well just don’t.” Meera hugged her.
“I said I won’t.”
They were outside the citadel’s Dream Gates. Lying in warhorse meadows brought no punishment. Few realized this. Hezram conjured Illusion Gates in people’s minds. Awa had mapped the limits of his power.
“Some lookout.” Rokiat shook her again. “What were you doing?”
He was the banana culprit. He often brought fruit, nut bread, and coconut wine, then kissed Meera’s lips and squeezed her breasts. Meera enjoyed the wine, and pretended to pine after Rokiat’s silky black hair, almond eyes, and hungry lips on her pink nipples. Meera gave Awa half the feast to stand lookout. Since acolytes were forbidden to touch transgressors, they snatched new detainees behind dung heaps or shoved their victims into a crack in a wall where priests could ignore them. Few were so bold as to dump a dead girl in the temple or to pile on a transgressor with Hezram standing there.
Rokiat brought food or conjure books as payment and a blanket for the grass. Meera said this—and Rokiat’s shining eyes—meant love. Awa was happy to eat feast food and read forbidden scrolls, but she didn’t trust love. Rokiat thought he was a hero because he wasn’t a fiend shoving Meera in dung and leaving her bloody. A true hero would burst from Ice Mountain on a winged beast and set Meera, Awa, and all transgressors free.
“What if I get caught because of you?” Rokiat scowled at Awa.
“I told you, never a banana,” she shouted.
“Farts and fleas! Quiet.” Rokiat peered through unripe mangos. “The rocks have ears. The grass tells tales.”
“Who wastes night eyes on this grove before harvest time?” Meera said. “Fleas and farts?” She laughed at his colorful language.
Filled with awe, Rokiat tugged Awa’s singed hair. “Did you fly off to Smokeland?”
“Green Elder drivel,” Awa said. “Too many nights doing lookout. I fell asleep.”
Rokiat frowned. He wouldn’t tell anybody her secret. He’d do anything for Meera or his horses, and Awa was friend to both. “What’s that?” He pointed to a Smokeland honeycomb and two dagger-sized stingers clenched in Awa’s fingers.
“Oh. Look. See?” She displayed a fresh gouge on her leg to distract him.
“Whayoa!” Rokiat closed his eyes. Priests bleeding transgressors made him sick to his stomach. He cleared warhorse dung from the sundial courtyard, buried dead acolytes who had no family and weren’t worth proper funerals, or oversaw any disgusting transgressor-duty instead. Other acolytes were glad to trade with him. Awa hid the bee-daggers in Bal’s Aido bag hanging at her waist.
“That leg wound festers.” Meera frowned at an old wound that wouldn’t heal.
“Honey helps.” Awa smeared a thin layer on her leg and the burnt arm that had oozed pus for two years. Smokeland honey dulled pain and prevented fever.
“Bees don’t sting you?” Rokiat glared at the honeycomb.
“This cloud-silk cloak is beautiful.” Meera stroked it. “Where’d you get it?”
“I don’t know really.” Awa folded the cloak again and again, until it was no bigger than a thin honey cake.
“Don’t let anybody find that.” Rokiat blinked as it disappeared into Bal’s Aido bag.
“I won’t.” Awa drizzled more honey on her leg. Nobody, not even Hezram, had ever noticed Bal’s shadow-warrior bag, which still held the golden wheel and marble eye from Smokeland. Great treasures.
“Come.” Meera gripped Awa’s squishy arm without gagging. Meera was as wide and strong as Awa used to be. Meera dug nails into tender flesh. Awa grimaced. Every step hurt, even on spongy grass. “We have almost a league to go.” A league should take a person an hour to walk—Awa needed two. “Next week is the Sun Festival to the gods of Ice Mountain. The day of short shadows.” Meera ran through mango trees toward Ice Mountain’s rocky flanks, tugging Awa along.
“Preparations begin tomorrow.” Rokiat ran beside them. “You’ll work for me, burying the dead. A sickness takes many acolytes. Every day in the temple somebody pierces himself instead of a transgressor and then creeps off to die in our cottages.”
“They lose their wits.” Meera shuddered. “It’s scary.”
“Hezram doesn’t want their bodies to fester.” Rokiat ran ahead. He could do a league in half an hour. “I’ll protect you from sickness and rogues.”
“What could you do against Jod and his set?” Meera let go of Awa and danced around him, showing off the cocoon and carapace anklets Awa made for her. She shook the rattles at his crotch and tickled him with her toes.
“They’re all thugs, still…” Other acolytes would have tormented Rokiat for his soft ways, but he rarely left the meadows, and everybody feared his warhorse friends. “I’m not afraid of Jod or the rest.”
“Jod and his crew have no pity, no heart,” Awa said. “You should be afraid.”
“I’m not.” Playing a brave man and risking all for Meera thrilled Rokiat. Lovesick fool. He could end up cut and bled
too. Who would tend his precious horses then? Oblivious, Rokiat sang an epic in a dead language about a veson shadow warrior who defied emperors, had many, many lovers, and became one of the first Green Elders, roaming free, talking to the ancestors, and recovering lost wisdom. Someone like Yari!
Rokiat could make anyone’s heart ache when he sang. He even charmed high priest Hezram. Next week after the festival, Hezram would put the old Master of Horses out to pasture and give Rokiat keys to every meadow lock. All the priests and cooks trusted good-natured Rokiat. He was the perfect lover if Awa and Meera were ever to escape. Awa tried to like him. She sang tree harmony to his song.
“Here we are.” Meera ran for a tunnel hidden in prickly bushes. It led to the transgressor huts. Awa limped behind her.
Rokiat smiled at Awa. “You sing like whispering leaves.” He turned to Meera. “You taste like sunshine.” He unlocked the tunnel gate then kissed Meera’s navel.
Meera pulled away. “We have to go.”
Rokiat groaned, wanting to lick Meera all over. He watched her with a greedy eye, then came to his senses and locked the passageway behind them.
“I started off pretending with Rokiat…” Meera shivered with lust as they picked their way through the dark.
“Do you love him?” Awa was jealous, even though she didn’t want Meera the way Rokiat did. A swarm of demon-flies flashed green and blue, lighting the way.
“Torch-bugs mean we deserve good luck.” Meera smiled, in a grand mood.
“Everyone deserves luck.” Awa sighed. “We call them demon-flies.”
Meera squeezed Awa. “Something is about to change. I feel it.”
The days before the festival, high priest Hezram freed transgressors at the ice god’s whim; acolytes also bled some transgressors to death to fortify Dream Gates for the next season. Acolytes joked that Hezram might spare Meera. She was ugly—brassy yellow hair and freckled skin, but perfect body—big belly, breasts, and thighs. Or Hezram might spare Awa because she was beautiful—sable skin and midnight eyes, but broken—a burnt arm and crippled leg. Sacrifices should be one thing or the other, not a mish mash. Too much hope made Awa stomach-sick. Not knowing was torture.
“We don’t want anybody to know about our tunnel adventures,” Meera said, her feet flying over rocky ground.
“No.” Awa gritted her teeth and kept up.
“Jod says, Iyalawo Kyrie is against bleeding transgressors to death. He worries she’ll ride into Holy City on feast day with a troupe of spark demons to burn priests and acolytes and rescue transgressors. I told him not to worry. Kyrie won’t do this.”
“Why talk to Jod?”
Meera sighed and took Awa’s good arm. “Kyrie only cares about her mountain and her trees, and her haint people. Ice Mountain is Iyalawo Tembe’s concern.”
Awa leaned into Meera. “Iyalawos marry their mountains.”
“That wrecks the heart for everyday men.” Meera shuddered. “Floating-city Babalawos plotted to poison Kyrie, but she made her one true love drink the lethal brew instead, and he died.”
“I heard a different story.” Awa couldn’t remember the details.
“Kyrie is black lava and bitter ice,” Meera insisted. “She eats her enemies’ hearts and makes demon gates from stolen phalluses. Tembe is not that bad.”
“Really?”
“Tembe loves Hezram. Kyrie loves no one. She calls up earthquakes and bad weather. A monster.” Meera quivered, happy to have someone to rage against as they slipped from the cave into the back of their hut—a dead end for anyone without the key Rokiat let Meera steal. “We don’t need monster Kyrie rescuing us.” Meera kissed Awa’s cheek. “We’ll save ourselves.”
Awa grunted at this fantasy, then touched Meera’s smile and relented. “Yes, we will.”
Sometimes illusions were torture. But not always.
5
Gifts from the Crows
The Crows watch as people throw good food in a deep hole and cover it with dirt. They screech and caw at stupid waste. They drop feces on faces and heads. An archer sends an arrow their way and only nicks one wing. The Crows take to the trees, blending into shadows to avoid his bad aim. They hope for carelessness, for bits of flesh left lying.
The sun is almost gone and people are tired from filling holes all day. They sweat and curse and gripe and finally drift back inside the gates. The Crows count. Three remain: Rokiat, Meera, and Awa. Rokiat and Meera roll in the grass, caressing and sucking one another. They are no danger. Awa uncovers the last dead bodies. She strips off yellow robes and caws, not the nonsense most humans do. Awa knows how to speak of good food or danger or all is safe. Awa sits in grass, chattering as Crows swoop down, watching as they pick and peck at a feast.
A wild dog pokes his head in her crotch and sprawls in her lap. Awa rubs his big gray head and keeps him occupied as Crows fill empty bellies. She knows their hungry days in endless desert that once was many, many forests. Too many forests to count, gone. Awa knows sweet water and poison berries that humans can’t eat, but Crows love. In these dry times, Crows face great dangers feeding anywhere. A hawk or night owl has better aim than Holy City archers, so Crows come whenever Awa caws. She never forgets them, never leads them astray.
A Crow with several white wing feathers does not feed with the others. This Crow flies close to Awa. She sits up, quiet and still, and the Crow hops toward her, despite the wild dog. He snores, lulled to dreams by Awa’s fingers.
“I’m not dead meat yet.” Awa says what many humans say to a curious bird.
This Crow aches from barbs caught in the chest and face. Eating is hard and pain is constant. Awa has hands that have plucked berries from bushes and honeycombs from a hive. The Crow has also seen these hands pull barbs from the wild dog and warhorses and from Meera and Rokiat. The Crow hops on a boulder, close enough for Awa to reach the barbs and pluck them out. Awa holds her breath. The Crow caws, speaking of pain, asking for help, hoping Awa is not stupid like most other humans.
The wild dog stirs and the Crow almost flies away, but Awa leans in, squinting at the barbs and shaking her head. A bee buzzes in a puff of hair. The Crow caws and caws. Awa reaches her hand out. The Crow pecks her fingers to make sure she will be gentle. Awa jerks away from the beak. The Crow caws again. Quick as an arrow, Awa pulls a barb from the Crow’s white feathered breast. The Crow pecks her thumb.
“Zst!” Awa hisses.
The Crow pecks Awa after each barb, but she even tugs out one buried in the Crow’s face. Relief.
“Farts and fleas!” Awa shakes bloody fingers. “Thanks to you too.”
The wild dog jerks awake. His big head tilts to the side and his tail slaps the dirt. He dips down on his elbows and sticks his hind parts in the air. An invitation. The Crow spreads iridescent wings (which hold only a memory of pain) and struts toward the dog who lunges. The Crow flies just out of reach of powerful jaws and lands on the dog’s back. Awa laughs as the Crow walks toward the tail. The dog twists around, catching a few wing feathers in his mouth. He tugs gently then releases. The Crow soars high and swoops down to tug the dog’s tail before flying off to join the feast. Some succulent flesh remains. Awa holds her sides, laughing. Meera and Rokiat are laughing too. The dog licks Awa’s fingers and trots into mist rising from the Amethyst River.
Rokiat and Meera take out a picnic of fruit bread and coconut wine. They enjoy a good meal in moonlight with the Crows. They leave many crumbs. There are warm updrafts and sparkly threads and stones from the yellow robes to play with.
Awa shoves the bones into a hole and covers them with rocks. “Green Elders bury the dead on high biers or in a rocky stream bed. This is where they buried Neth. Why take forever to become dirt?” She sings to the wind.
Meera and Rokiat listen before another roll in the grass. Awa has no human to roll with, not even the dog. She caws a lonely song. Crows answer and toss shiny stones at her. She catches one and smiles.
The Crows have seen what Awa did for the pi
ebald one. They tell everyone her story. More Crows will follow her. She is famous, a friend to Crows, horses, wild dogs, and bees. As the moon rises, Awa sings human songs and hobbles away with Meera and Rokiat in a shower of glittery gifts.
6
Blood Conjure
Laughing with crows and the wild dog lifted Awa’s spirits. She was out of breath keeping up with Rokiat and Meera, but the ground was soft and the moon smiled. The temple-mountain’s ice-blue peaks looked serene, hopeful. Iyalawo Tembe had left Awa and Meera a pot of scraps and a sack of stale bread and bruised fruit instead of feeding it to the pigs. Perhaps Tembe was better than Kyrie. Awa and Meera might live through the week and dance at the Sun Festival. Rokiat was a fool for love and after the festival he’d have any key they needed.
Fannie was fearless. The warhorse would carry Awa far, beyond Hezram’s reach. Good citizens shunned runaway transgressors or dragged them back to the huts. If Awa and Meera rode warhorses, folks would think twice before giving chase. Griots claimed warhorses could outrun death. Awa would head for the Bog River Gorge or the sweet desert and look for Bal and Yari. If she had survived, surely they had too. She felt stupid giving up hope when escape was so near.
Rokiat led them from the burial grounds past the warhorse corral to the temple. No need to sneak through a tunnel—they were a work detail. He stopped at a side gate and whispered to the guard, a drunken fellow who laughed too loud at whatever Rokiat said. Stringy hair covered his face and fluttered as he made rude noises with his lips.
“Burial detail is better than blood watch,” Rokiat insisted.
“I’ll bet.” The guard leered at Awa and Meera. He reached for Meera’s breasts.
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