The animal moves off, having drunk its fill. We must look and smell half dead, for it to have come so close to us. I take Peree’s limp hand and, ribs screaming at the movement, I lie back in the scrubby grass.
When I wake again the air is cool, but carries the promise of warmth as the sun sheds its first light. I get to my feet, wincing at the hammering in my head, and refill the sack for Peree. There’s no change in his condition, as far as I can tell. I wonder if he hit his head as many times as I did in the underground river. I wonder if he’ll ever wake again.
The forest sounds are louder now. Magpies hop around us, their screeches audible over the crashing water. I sit on the bank and think about slipping in to wash the grime off my body, but I can’t find the energy.
I try to form a plan, but what can I do? I doubt I can carry Peree when I’m fresh and uninjured, much less now. I can try to get help, but I have no idea which way to walk. I didn’t think about how I’d get home when I slid into the Hidden Waters. I wanted to get Peree out of the caves he hated, to let him die under the sun. Now it looks like that’s exactly what he’s going to do.
I can’t think about the things he said in the caves. It hurts too much, more painful than the aching in my body. I feel like I’m back in the freezing river, being swept away by the events of the last few weeks, no sense of direction in my own life. I’m at the mercy of the water, as I’ve always been. As we all have been.
Footsteps behind me—this is no possum. I stay very still, afraid to move in case it draws the flesh-eater’s attention. I’m about four or five paces from where Peree lies, too far to reach him and drag him into the water to safety. If I can’t run, I’ll fight. I clutch my side, ready to jump to my feet. I don’t know why the creature hasn’t already attacked.
“She’s here,” Peree murmurs. Relief shoots through me at the sound of his voice, followed by dread at his words. He recognizes one of the fleshies? “She’ll take you home.”
“I’m not leaving you,” I hiss.
“Go . . . please.” The sadness, the futility in his voice tears at my heart. I wait, and listen.
A high-pitched, human voice breaks the silence. It sounds like a child, a little girl, but I can’t understand her. What’s she doing out here by herself? She pauses, then speaks again. This time I recognize the words.
“You aren’t one of them, are you?” the girl says.
“One of who?” I ask.
“Runa. Sick one.”
“No, I’m not sick.”
“But there’s blood on you, and you’re dirty, like them.”
“I know, I’m sorry if I scared you. I’ve been traveling a long time and I’m injured. I won’t hurt you.” I stand gingerly, and face her. “What’s your name?”
“Kora.”
“That’s pretty. My name’s Fennel.”
“You can’t see, can you?” she asks.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I was born this way.”
She considers my words. “So, you can’t see what I’m doing right now?”
“No—what are you doing?” I ask warily.
“Waving at you.”
I smile, and wave back to her. “Are you here all alone? Where are your parents?”
“In the village. I’m getting water for my mother.”
My heart thumps in my chest. “How far is your village?”
“Not far. I can skip all the way there if I want to.” She sounds proud.
“Can you take me there?”
“Do you want to skip with me?”
I cringe at the idea. My head is already splitting. “Maybe later. Can we walk fast instead?”
“Okay. Is your friend hurt, too?”
“Yes. Do you think we can get help for him in your village?”
“Sure, come on.”
I don’t want to leave Peree alone. What if the Scourge comes? But I don’t think I have a choice. I try to tell him I’ll be back, but he doesn’t respond. I think he’s unconscious again. I step toward Kora, and she puts her small hand in mine, leading me away from the sound of the waterfall.
I want to interrogate her as we walk: where are we; who are her people; why do they allow a small child to wander through the forest on her own? But I’m afraid of frightening her, so I stumble along silently, barely able to contain my impatience. The sound of the water fades behind us, replaced by our footsteps and the busy noises of birds. No vegetation touches me as we walk; it must be a cleared path.
“Why are you holding your side like that?” Kora asks.
“I hurt my ribs.”
“You should see Nerang, he’ll help you. He can help your friend too.”
“Is he your herbalist?”
“What’s an herbalist?” She pronounces the word herb-list.
“Someone who helps people who are sick, or hurt.”
“Oh yes, he’s our healer, but he helps well people, too. He makes funny faces and tells me stories when I’m sad, and I feel better.”
I hear faint voices ahead of us. I imagine what my people would do if a bloody, filthy stranger came out of the forest holding the hand of one of our children, looking for all the world like one of the flesh-eaters. I stiffen, and pray that Kora’s people are different.
“It’s okay,” she says, concern in her voice. “Nerang will help you feel better, too.”
“I know.” I smile for her.
I try to notice as much as I can about where I am before we’re spotted. The sun isn’t as bright as by the water hole, but I can feel it on my shoulders. I hear the wind pushing the leaves around far above. The voices sound like they’re coming from all around me—the ground and the trees. Bread is baking somewhere nearby. The delicious scent makes my empty stomach contract. I smell freshly cut wood, turned soil, and among it all, the pervasive greenheart trees. My guess is I’m in a community similar to ours at home, but larger, from the sound of it.
“Kora?” A man shouts from across the clearing. “Kora!”
More worried voices call out, and I hear people running toward us. I hold the little girl’s hand loosely, ready to drop it in case I’m grabbed or dragged off. A woman speaks, very near to us. Her words are foreign to me, but I hear her fear.
Kora stays close by my side. “Mama, this is my friend Fennel. She speaks the second language. She’s not runa, but she’s hurt. She needs Nerang.”
“Where did you come from? How did you get here?” A man asks me angrily.
“Please, I need help.” I touch my forehead, assuming it must look as bad as it feels. Pain grips my ribs when I move, and I grimace. I want to ask the people to help Peree, but first I need to figure out if they'll help us or kill us.
“Your head looks like the sky before a storm,” a second man says with concern. “What happened to you?”
“I came from the caves, through the river. I hit a few rocks before I landed in your water hole,” I say.
Several people mutter. The first woman, who I assume is Kora’s mother, asks, “You came from the Dark Place? By yourself?” Her voice is soft.
I make an effort to smile. “I’m pretty much always in a dark place.”
“We should take her to Wirrim,” the angry man says. “He should know about this.”
Kora speaks up again, her small voice determined. “Nerang first.”
“The child is right,” a new man says. His voice is gentle with what I can only describe as an undertone of suppressed laughter. “The girl is injured, she needs our help. Have we lost our ability to be hospitable?”
“Wirrim should know that a lorinya is here, claiming she came from the Dark Place,” the angry man says.
“Then go tell him. In the meantime, I will offer our visitor what aid I can. Come with me, young one.” The laughing man puts my hand on his arm and guides me away from the others. His skin is smooth; it feels younger than his voice sounds.
“Thank you, Kora,” I say over my shoulder.
“Don’t forget
you promised to skip with me, when you feel better.”
“I won’t forget.”
I hear groups of people talking about me in hushed voices as we walk. It’s clear I’ve drawn a crowd. The man leading me seems oblivious.
“I am Nerang,” he says.
“I’m Fennel.”
“You have no sight,” he remarks casually. “You must be brave, to have journeyed through the Dark Place all alone.”
I hesitate, wondering if I can trust him. I already want to. His voice is calming and familiar, as if I’ve known it all my life. Or maybe it’s that he smells of rosemary, like Aloe.
“I wasn’t alone.”
Nerang pauses. His voice is sharper than before, but still kind. “There are others?”
“Just one.” I think of the heat of the wound in Peree’s leg, and his last words, pleading with me to go. My words come out in a rush. “And he’s hurt far worse than me. He’s no danger to anyone, truly, he can’t even walk. Please, please help my friend. He’s at the water hole.”
Friend—the word doesn’t seem sufficient somehow. My heart will break if Peree dies, as surely as it would if Eland or Aloe died. It’s already splintering. After a moment Nerang calls to someone nearby, in the other language. A man answers. Their short exchange sounds like birds bickering over a meal.
“Our men will go to the water hole,” Nerang says.
“Thank you,” I say breathlessly.
“You and I will go up, into the trees,” he tells me.
“Climb?” I ask doubtfully. My ribs are throbbing, and I’m weak as a hatchling.
He chuckles, and gently presses me forward. I step onto what sounds like wooden boards. Reaching out, I feel more wood—a stripped, horizontal tree branch—at about the level of my stomach. Nerang joins me, then says something in the strange tongue again. The boards under my feet lurch, and we rise into the air. I grip the branch, bracing myself.
“Don’t worry, young one, you won’t fall,” he says.
“Where are we going?”
“To my home. My herbs and treatments are there.”
“You all live in the trees?”
“In the trees, or on the ground, as each family pleases.”
I can’t decide if I’m more shocked that the people get to choose, or that some would choose to live on the ground in constant danger from the Scourge. The platform stops. I don’t move, afraid to make a misstep.
Nerang takes my arm again. “This way.”
I feel like we’re very high, higher than when I was in the trees with Peree. A damp, smoky scent, like water poured over a cooking fire, hangs in the air. A few people line up along the walkway, speaking in their language. Their whispering stops as I go by, then restarts after I pass. I hear the word lorinya over and over. I keep my head held high, but my grip on Nerang tightens.
“Relax now. We’re here,” he tells me.
“Here” is a shelter, mostly dark, and a little cramped and boxy from the way our voices sound when we enter. It smells of things both sweet and bitter, some familiar, others very strange. I’m reminded of Marjoram’s workroom back home, where all the freshly picked herbs are dried, ground, and stored. I turn my head toward a particularly pungent scent, and sway with the sudden movement.
Nerang steadies me. “Sit,” he says firmly.
It’s a bed—an incredibly soft, thick bed—that feels like layers and layers of fluffy feathers. Compared to the stone floors I’ve been sleeping on for days, it’s heavenly. I sink down in it. Nerang moves away, and lights something. Soon, the soothing scent of lavender and some other harsher odor fills the cozy shelter. Water splashes in a basin, and a cool, minty-smelling cloth slides across my face and arms, cleaning away the dirt and blood. I relax under Nerang’s gentle touch.
“Where did you come from?” he asks.
My mind is fuzzy with fatigue and the strong scent of the burning incense. Sleep is approaching like a powerful storm. I won’t be able to avoid it. I don’t want to avoid it.
“Caves,” I slur.
“And before that?”
“Forest.”
His voice is soft, but insistent. “What are your people called?”
Should I tell him? Is it safe? I can’t think. I’m half-asleep already. “Groundlings,” I mumble.
“Yes,” he says.
I ask only one question before I succumb to unconsciousness. “Where am I?”
“Koolkuna. It means, ‘place of safety.’ Rest now, young one. You are safe.”
I sleep. And for the first time since I became the Water Bearer, I don’t dream. A welcome cocoon of peace and painlessness wraps around me.
Only a few sensations break through: the potent incense, the nutty taste of a thin gruel, Nerang’s voice. He sings to himself in his strange native tongue as he ministers to my injuries. Voices call to each other outside, the wind taps the door against its frame over and over, a persistent visitor. I don’t answer.
But a thought begins to prick at the edges of my consciousness. At first I try to ignore it, like I ignore the sun that tugs on my eyelids in the morning when I’m trying to sleep. But the thought gets louder and louder, repeating itself, forcing me to pay attention. There’s something important I need to know.
Peree. Did they find him? Does he live? I try to ask Nerang, but the words tangle up together in my mouth. So I give up and allow myself to drift again, idly wondering what kind of incense keeps me in this dream state.
At first, there’s only faint light kissing the darkness of the shelter. The moon? Someone’s sleeping nearby, breathing deeply.
I take stock of myself. I’m still in the feathery bed. My chest is wrapped in a tight binding. There’s a dull ache in my ribs, and I have a mild headache and a nagging itch on my forehead. I test my body, stretching it bit by bit. I’m tender almost everywhere, but I’ve had enough injuries to know what healing fractures and bruises feel like.
I sit up cautiously, slide my legs off the side of the bed, and stand. The wooden boards creak, but the breathing doesn’t change, so I take a few steps toward the source of the light. A faint breeze blows into my face. It must be a window.
Nerang speaks, making me jump. “How do you feel?”
“Much better, thanks to you. You must have strong healing powers.”
“It helps to have a strong patient. Several ribs were broken, and you had a nasty blow to the head, but you’re mending nicely.” He stands and pours something. “Here, drink.”
The water’s warm, but tastes bright and clean, like the Hidden Waters. “My friend . . . did they find him?” I ask.
“Yes, he’s here. He’s alive.”
My body tingles with relief. “Then I owe you much more than thanks. Where is he, will you take me to him?”
“In the morning. He’s on the ground. He couldn’t be moved to the trees in his condition.”
I frown. “The ground? What about the Scourge?”
“Your friend is safe, I promise you.”
I hear the low hoot of an owl outside. The forest sounds quiet and peaceful—safe—like Nerang said. “How do you protect yourselves from them? Why do you allow your children to wander by themselves? Aren’t you afraid for their safety?”
He laughs. “There’s much for you to learn about Koolkuna, young one, but now is not the time. You need to rest, your body is still healing. And I’m an old man, I need my sleep.”
“You don’t seem old.”
“And you don’t seem like you have no sight,” he says gently. “Things are not always as they seem. Sleep now. Your questions will be answered.”
I climb back into bed. “Peree’s really all right?”
“Yes. Sleep.” His tone is soothing, but I hear something in his voice, a hesitation. That pause keeps me awake long after I hear his breathing slow again, and after the owl tucks its beak into its wing and sleeps.
I’m still awake, worrying about Peree and wondering about Koolkuna, as the moonlight gives way to the first timi
d rays of the sun.
Chapter Eleven
Laughter drifts through the window on the breeze, waking me. It’s been morning for some time, judging from the light. The little room is cooler and more pleasant than I would have thought possible in the middle of summer.
I sit up and adjust my sleep-twisted dress around me. I didn’t notice what I was wearing the night before, but the dress smells clean and feels unfamiliar. Someone must have changed my clothes. I stand and grope my way around the shelter, memorizing it. It doesn’t take long. Two beds, a wash stand with a clay pitcher and basin, and a set of rough shelves with an assortment of clay pots and small leather pouches. I pick up a palm-sized wooden container and smell the contents. Sage, good for seasoning meat. Who knows what Nerang uses it for? The water in the pitcher smells and tastes clean, so I drink. I pour some in the basin, and wash my face.
I pause at the closed door, my hand resting on the wood, trying to slow my heart. There are people out there who are probably very unhappy that I wandered into their village. Imagining again how my community would react to a stranger, I almost go back to bed. But I think of Peree, and step outside.
A hammer beats a staccato rhythm somewhere down below, and the smoke from a cooking fire reminds me I’m starving. Women chatter, their voices drifting through the trees. They sound like they’re working. I wish I could tell what they’re saying.
“Fennel!” a familiar voice yelps.
“Kora?”
“I’ve been waiting for you! Every day I asked Nerang if you were awake, and every day he said you were still sleeping. Then this morning he finally said I could visit you! I’ve been waiting for you to come out since breakfast.” She takes my hand. “You look like you smeared berries all over your face, but you don’t look as much like a runa anymore.”
I laugh. “Good . . . I think. How long have I been here?”
Kora considers. “Three sleeps, maybe?” Three days! Fear for Peree washes over me again. “Will you skip with me now?”
The Scourge Page 12