by Sharon Hinck
“They are human. They remember connections and . . . and love. That’s not a terrible thing. If you can help me convince your village to stay away from the lake, you’ll see.”
She pushed back her chair and slammed her empty bowl onto the table between us. “How dare you?”
I lengthened my spine, refusing to recoil from her anger. “I’ve been there. I’ve seen it. And there is a better way. A Maker who—”
“Get out!”
“Please, let me explain what—”
“I’ve been hearing these dangerous lies before. Chanic spoke such things at past revels.”
My pulse quickened. “Chanic?”
Her lip curled. “Outcast. Useless. I’ll be having naught to do with such talk.” She grabbed a broom and brandished it. “You be leaving now.”
I stood and eased toward the door. “I didn’t mean to upset you. But please hear me out—”
She slammed the broomstick against the wall, causing all her tools and mechanisms to rattle. “Not another word.”
I opened the door to her entryway and backed away to reassure her that I was following her instructions. “Just tell me where to find Chanic.”
As I stumbled out her front door, she relented enough to say, “The path beyond the skywatch tower. Past the orchard in the bracken wood.”
She slammed the door in my face. Regret pierced me like a broken rib. I thought I’d made a connection, found a possible ally. Once again I confronted disdain and rejection.
As had the Maker. I drew in a sharp breath. However much I longed to help these people, He longed for it even more. Did their disdain wound Him as it did me? Another puzzle. He was the Maker, how could He allow Himself to be wounded?
I limped past the tower, out of the noise and haze of the village, onto the orchard path. There I knelt and placed my palms against the earth. As when we’d first arrived here, the ground echoed the Maker’s call. Forgotten, forgetting, forsaking.
I didn’t understand this mystery of the One who formed everything taking on the pain of love. But new resolve filled me. I stood, squared my shoulders, and set off to find Chanic.
Away from the village, the path fell into darkness. Overhanging branches of willow, persea, and lenka all blocked the starlight. I moved cautiously, startling at every rustling sound in the underbrush. I’d witnessed the way the Gardener controlled the plants by the lake. Did his influence extend to the rim villages? Was he stirring the underbrush to snag me, or the trees to loom against me? My cloak should have provided ample warmth against the evening chill, yet fear found its way through the seams and made me shiver.
At last a muted glow appeared. As I drew closer, the silhouette of a humble cottage revealed itself, pale light outlining the windows and gaps around the door. “Hello?” I called softly, leery to approach the door. I had no idea what this outcast would be like.
When no one answered, I gathered my nerve and limped to the door. My timid tap was answered by an equally timid voice, crackling with age. “Please be letting yourself in.”
I eased the door open. A tiny low table to my left held one fat candle that valiantly chased shadows from the corner. To my right, a warm hearth lit the rest of the room. A woman hunched in a bent-willow rocker near the fire.
“I’m Carya. Are you Chanic?”
A wheezy chuckle answered me. “Who else would be so far from the village? Come away in.” She gestured with a hand that was as bent as her chair. Gnarled fingers curled in the grip of disease. The poor woman must be in horrible pain. She still hadn’t lifted her head, and I realized she couldn’t.
To allow me to look up into her eyes, I drew close and eased to the floor in front of her. “I’m a visitor. Sent to convince your people to stay away from the convening.”
Her eyes were bright as a bird’s, younger than the rest of her body. Her smile was more a wince, as if even that movement hurt. “Ah. That would be a feat.” Her wince deepened, all humor fleeing. “I tried. Oh, how often I tried.”
“Until they drove you out?”
“When the disease of fire took my joints, I could no longer walk to the convening. And a strange thing happened.”
“You remembered your true self.” I gently rested a hand on hers, hoping the warmth of my touch could soothe.
Her chin bobbed a tiny motion, and the bones in her neck creaked a warning. “But my hands”—she turned them—“could no longer shape my inventions. I had no value to my village.”
How had this poor woman endured, waiting out her days, rejected by her people, with no one to help her? “You have value to your Maker.”
She focused her quizzical gaze on my face. “If a Maker formed me, He used some faulty parts.” She gave a wheezing laugh.
My giggle joined hers. “I’ve accused Him of the same.” I rubbed the skin above my bandage, and the astringent scent of Jalla’s liniment lingered on my fingers. “Perhaps I can help.”
I rummaged through my pack and unearthed the small container. The rare and potent ointment had soothed my wound for several blissful hours. I pushed aside my longing for relief, scooped out the balm, and worked it gently into Chanic’s hands. The stiff and twisted joints softened. She moved her fingers, wonder lifting her eyebrows. Next I rubbed her neck and shoulders.
She gasped, and I froze. “Does it hurt?”
“No, no.” Her head lifted to a near-normal alignment on her neck. “I hadn’t remembered what it could be like to not feel the pain.”
I pressed the little jar into her hand. “Keep this. I know there isn’t much left, but Jalla at the red village knows how to make it. Maybe she can supply you.”
She pressed the container to her chest. “If I be keeping my hands nimble, my place in the village can be restored.”
I drew in a sharp breath. “But don’t go along with them. Even if you are strong enough to walk to the convening. Don’t lose what you’ve found. You can help me convince the village to stay away.”
“You don’t understand. The bargain goes deep. There be no changing it.”
“What bargain?”
She lifted her chin an inch more and studied me, lips pursed. “My words can’t sway the village. And you be an outsider who doesn’t understand. But there may be a way I can help you.”
She rubbed a dab of liniment into her knees, then rocked forward and used the chair’s arms to stand. “There is a place of remembering not far from here.”
The last thing I wanted to do was venture back out into the night. The day had already taxed me beyond my limit. “Maybe tomorrow?”
“I haven’t been able to visit it for years. Only your potion be giving me hope my legs will carry me. But for how long?”
A good question. The pulsing burn in my tendon reminded me that the effects of the ointment were temporary. “Just tell me where this place is. I’ll find it tomorrow.”
“You won’t be finding it without help. Come.” She took her candle and handed it to me. Then she grabbed two walking sticks propped against the wall and opened the door. I caught her urgency and followed, promising my aching body it would have rest soon.
Impossibly, the night had grown even darker. We stood for a few moments until our eyes adjusted, then she shuffled forward into the bracken. Lifting the candle, I followed her, carrying a pack of worries with me. She was barely able to walk. What if she collapsed and couldn’t make it back to her home? What if this “place of remembering” was another evil work of the Gardener? Or what if she meant to lure me out in the darkness and leave me?
Dearest Maker, am I following or wandering? How can I know? Guide me. If going with Chanic is a mistake, show me and protect me.
“There,” she said.
Before us, a strange tree loomed in the flicker of my candle. Fronds draped down like branches of a willow, but when I pushed some aside, I could see a trunk so wide it could nearly house Chanic’s cottage.
A deeper shadow indicated an entry.
She rested a gnarled hand on my
shoulder. “In there. I’d join you, but if I wait much longer, my legs may not carry me home.”
“Wait. How will I find my way back to you? To the trails?”
“I’ll use the ointment again in the morning and come for you.”
The earth rolled gently. I swayed, wavering with indecision. “The morning?” I didn’t want to spend the night in the hollow of a tree that was likely infested with creeping insects or perhaps more dangerous creatures. “Do predators dwell near your village?”
But she had already shuffled past several trees, and the darkness swallowed her. She must have the night vision of a forest hound to navigate. I could still try to follow, but what would that achieve? When I first stepped on this land, I’d heard the sorrowful cry of forgetting. Maybe a place of remembering was what this world needed. Or what I needed to learn how to help them. Maybe it could even be a place to bring Brantley, where he could be restored to himself.
I propped my cane against the trunk, cupping a hand to protect my feeble candle from any errant gust of wind. Leaning into the opening, I lifted the light. Mossy daygrass coated the ground. The inner surface of the trunk wasn’t rough as I’d expected, but smooth as a bowl polished by loving hands. I limped inside and raised the light. A quick scan of the space revealed little else. No letter to discover, no parchments to offer clues or guide me. No tool to investigate.
Disappointed, I eased to the ground. At least the interior was a dry and comfortable place to rest. The scent of liniment lingered on my fingers, so I removed my bandage and rubbed the residue onto my scar. Then, with my pack as a pillow, I curled up and felt my weary bones sink into the spongy earth. The thick trunk muted any sounds from the forest. No rustling, no strange calls, no voices of the night. My heavy eyelids closed, and I smiled at the sense of peace that cradled me.
“Come and see.” A mighty, loving, and even playful voice woke me. I recognized the Maker and bolted upright. Without thinking, I sprang to my feet. Light streamed into the hollow. Morning already? I raced outside and looked around. Trees sparkled with dew, their branches bobbing a cheery dance with the rolling earth. The primary sun warmed the air, and birds chirruped their approval. Giddy at the beauty, I spun a few times, arms open to gather up the dawn.
I stopped suddenly. I’d forgotten my injury. When I stretched my bad leg to the front, the bandage was gone. The skin was whole. No scar, no pain. My heart swelled with wonder. Thank You, thank You! I’m me again.
A current pulsed beneath the ground, and the earth rose on a small crest. I caught the timing and catapulted into a leap higher than even years of dancer training could produce. When I landed, I sprang up again and again, until breathless.
“Come and see!” the Maker called again. Where was He? I peered around the trees. In the morning light, the undergrowth no longer menaced. Roots tucked themselves demurely out of the way, and ferns parted for me as I padded deeper into the forest.
Laughter spun through the air. Mine? His? The island’s? I couldn’t be sure. “I’m here.” I lifted my arms like a flower seeking warmth.
The trees and shrubs around me shrank and fell away. No, they hadn’t changed. It only appeared that way because I was being lifted. As when I’d first encountered the Maker, He bore me up above the treetops. A swirl of clouds cushioned me—or perhaps that was His arms. “Look.” His word rang like a joyous bell or bounding music.
Beneath us, the island was a tiny shape, with plants covering a floating area only a few yards in all directions from the remembering tree. I gasped. “What happened to all the villages? To the rest of the island?” All those people? Brantley!
“I’ve brought you to the time before.”
I cautiously turned, angling to get a better look downward. The tangleroot grew and spread from the shoreline in all directions. Soon dirt appeared and coated it, then daygrass, then more plants. From this position I watched as creatures emerged from the bracken around the tree and explored outward. Shy bunnies, regal forest hounds, ambling ponies, vibrant songbirds.
Surely I was dreaming, but I wanted to live in this dream forever. “It’s beautiful,” I whispered. But the word was inadequate.
He drew me higher as the island grew. Wider, richer with life, it spun along a current and partnered with the sea in a carefree journey. The Maker breathed across the land. Treetops bobbed, leaves stirred, and as the wind swirled in small tempests, people appeared. They tested their limbs, greeted each other, and bounded across the island in riotous, irresistible glee. I cast my focus to the rim. No tall vines blocked the people’s view of the ocean. No lithe trees wound together to create a barrier.
I grappled to understand. “What happened?”
Movements sped. The island blossomed and exploded in growth. From this vantage I watched the green village spring up, and the people develop artistry of all sorts. Their creations celebrated the beauty of their world and their Maker. The people of the red village organized their play, training their bodies to great strength and agility, reveling in the skills they’d been given. Nearest to the place we hovered, the blue village buildings sprawled outward, and people scurried about. Even with years compressed into seconds, I could sense the villagers’ fulfillment as they created their new machines as if it was joyous play. People visited other villages, and all the island’s paths were well traveled. Couples met and married. Families raised children, served each other in love. Everyone intermingled, rejoicing in each other’s interests and gifts. How had it all changed?
As if in answer to my unspoken question, the whirl of passing time slowed. Now I watched as people from every village made the trek to the lake in the island’s center. It seemed every single person made the pilgrimage. My muscles tensed. Was I going to witness another convening? I squeezed my eyes closed, not wanting to relive that horror. Then curiosity got the best of me, and I peeked.
Instead of what I feared, a beautiful celebration began. Various individuals and groups from each village shared their gifts as multicolored star rain exploded across the sky.
“The true gathering.” Tenderness resonated in the mighty Voice that breathed life into my soul. “Until . . .”
The Maker lowered me closer to the island. Time sped past again. Star rains. Gatherings. Celebrations. Families. Fellowship. Days and nights flickered by as if I were fluttering my eyelids. Then, like landing hard from a jump, time crashed to a stop.
From my vantage point, hovering above the lake, I watched as another joyful gathering commenced. In the midst of their loving, jubilant spirits, a figure walking among them stood out like a demented shadow.
The Gardener! Even safely wrapped in clouds and far above the scene, my hand moved to my throat. I watched the painfully vivid activity as he spoke to person after person.
Heads nodded in assent. “No! Stop! Don’t listen!” I shouted, but the sound floated away. Instead, my ears were opened. I was able to hear his next conversation.
A young man was singing to the group—a tender lyric of thanks to the Maker for the beauty surrounding them. But the Gardener whispered in the ear of a different young man, one who wore the rugged clothes of the red village. “Useless. And look how the watchers adore him. They didn’t offer that much praise when you showed your speed in the race. And now look. That girl from your village. See how she approaches him? She should be yours.”
Like dye dripped into a vat, a color bled and spread across the people. A color of envy and pride and selfishness. An ugly stain. The youth from the red village accosted the singer and girl, and a fight erupted. I winced, hearing too clearly the rage, the thuds of fists, and the crashing of stone against bone.
Oh, Maker, no!
But my horror didn’t stop this unfolding. Evil had entered. Many of the villagers’ faces reflected the same shock that I felt. Amidst their worried conversations about how to deal with this new and frightening occurrence, the Gardener stepped to the rim of the lake.
“The Maker didn’t protect you from yourselves. But I wi
ll. I can erase this pain and confusion you feel. I can prevent this from ever happening again. And I can take your gifts and help you develop them beyond your wildest dreams.”
People flocked toward him, begging him for his aid. I pressed my hands over my ears. I wanted to scream to everyone below that they were fools. But the words stuck in my throat, because I knew I’d pursued a similar path, surrendering my life to the Order in an effort to reach my dreams.
The Maker’s arms held me tighter, His warmth surrounding me. “He is promising them more of what they most cherish. He persuades them to give up their love toward Me and toward each other and offers them their desires instead.”
I squirmed in His grip. “Stop him! If this is the time before, You can stop him from ever damaging this world.”
Instead, we watched as the Gardener directed everyone. People settled along the rim of the lake. Tears burned down my cheeks as vines crept over men, women, and children, encircling their heads, erasing their ability to love. I turned away, not wanting to witness this first convening. I’d already seen the results.
A gentle touch brushed away my tears. “You see.” He spoke with a sorrow that could make the stars weep. “The Gardener has the right because they invited him. And each convening, they continue to choose him. I set limits on his destruction until the fullness of time, but when the harbinger comes, only a sacrifice will halt the Gardener’s reach from spreading across this world.” As I watched, the barrier along the rim sprang up, taller and taller. Not to imprison, but to keep others from stumbling into this place of danger, rejection, and forsaking. I watched as the Gardener sought to travel to the villages but crumpled into a pile of vegetation each time he tried to leave the lake basin. A ravening hound on a short chain. Yet since the people came to him, he was still horribly dangerous.
“What will You do?” I asked.
“I could let them finish the course they have set for themselves.” Images swirled through my mind. Red villagers lost in the chaos of ever-fiercer battles. Blue villagers obsessed with their inventions and puzzles until they forgot to eat. Green villagers adoring nothing but their own creations. Other villages under yellow, purple, and orange star rains also sleepwalking with numb disregard for each other. Fewer and fewer children, and those who were born neglected and forsaken.