Children of the Dawn

by Patricia Rowe

  Tor sat down, remembering too late that a rock can hold memories for a man and give them back again, whether he welcomes them or not. This rock offered memories of love-making that should be forgotten. He put all that out of his mind, watching Teahra’s fire flicker in the distance, listening to Chiawana’s murmur.

  Tor spoke in Shahala, the language that Tsilka had once been eager to learn.

  “We were lovers, but not in this life.”

  “What a strange thing to say.”

  “It’s true. The life we had is over. Ashan is my life now. If you ever tell her about us, I will have to kill you.”

  Tsilka looked straight into his eyes. The firelight made sharp shadows on her face. Her look was one she’d give a stupid child. Her voice wasn’t fearful, or desperate—as he’d expected—but sneeringly confident.

  “It’s not over, Tor. It will never be over.”

  “Look, woman, I’m telling you—”

  “You wait here,” she said with a toss of her head. “I will show you.”

  She got up and headed off toward the village. Tor thought how good her naked bottom looked retreating in the moonlight—all round and firm. He thumped his head, and the unwanted thought fled. Would he never get control of that part of himself?

  He drummed his fingers on the rock. Tsilka had better hurry. He was anxious to be with Ashan.

  Tsilka strode toward him out of the night, pulling two reluctant children. She stopped before Tor. They hid behind her.

  “Girls?” he asked stupidly—in the moonlight, anyone could see that the naked toddlers were female.

  Tsilka pulled them out by their arms, and thrust them at him.

  “Your daughters, Tor. Our daughters. While our mingled blood flows in their bodies, it will never be over between us.”

  “But I never knew!”

  “That makes them no less real.”

  Tor’s thoughts tripped over themselves.

  Twins. Creatures of heartbreaking beauty no taller than their mother’s knee.

  He blurted, “Do they know who their father is? And your people, do they?”

  Tsilka took her time, then answered with her nose in the air.

  “I say the god Wahawkin is the father of these girls. No woman ever birthed one baby right after another like that, so people believe me. People love them to think that their father is a god. Maybe even fear them.”

  Exactly alike, Tor thought. Unbelievable.

  He remembered a Misty Time legend about brothers born to the same mother at the same time. Hoofed animals were known to have twins. But human twins? Not since any living person remembered. Powerful feelings surged through him. They had his blood!

  The little girls clung to their mother like outgrown leggings. They peered at Tor with suspicious curiosity, frowns pulling on round faces. Dark eyes captured and held him.

  “What are their names?”

  The proud mother patted one on the head, then the other.

  “Tsurya. For the graceful water skimmer. Tsagaia. For the big tan cat. People say they are the finest children ever born.”

  Tor could not disagree, though he could have picked better things to name them for than a bug and a cat.

  For a long time he said nothing, allowing his eyes to feast on the twins as people feasted on the sprouts of spring. Tsilka demanded no talk, as if she knew that her daughters could most affect their stunned father in silence.

  Tsurya…

  Tsagaia…

  Tor rolled the names over in his mind where they made pleasing sounds. The girls were like shy sunbeams peeking through clouds, like sweet water quenching thirst. Moving no closer, they crawled inside him, grabbed on to something never touched, and held on talon-tight. What was it about them that could make him feel like this? It must be that he was male, and they were female. Precious, fragile, lovable. Girls who would grow up and be women, who carried the future within their bodies.

  Tor was being overwhelmed by something close to worship. But he must think without passion, and now, or in an eyeblink he could destroy his happiness, and Ashan’s and Kai El’s. Tor had experience with the power of will, and he was glad: It would take tremendous will to distance himself from these dangerous creatures.

  He said, “It’s good that people think these are the daughters of a god. They are that special.”

  A look of triumph stole onto Tsilka’s face.

  He went on. “But I don’t want people thinking I’m the god Wahawkin. It’s too much work to be a god. I think I’ll tell them I’m Wahawkin’s special friend, and they shouldn’t make me angry. That will be enough.”

  Tor took a deep breath, and when he let it out, sent with it lingering feelings of awe about the twins.

  “I cannot be their father, or your mate. I can only say they’ll never want anything as long as I’m alive. I promise you, Tsilka. Now you must make me a promise: What you and I did long ago must be kept secret. Forever after forever. I belong to Ashan. I will never be yours.”

  Tsilka’s triumph collapsed, Tor saw it, though she tried to hide the misery taking its place. He left no space in his heart for pity.

  “I would never harm your daughters, woman, but I could kill you. And I will, if you do anything to harm Ashan or Kai El. I mean it: I will kill you if I must.”

  Tsilka said she would keep the secret. But her unspoken thoughts were so strong that Tor could feel them: With all her strength, Tsilka wished, hoped, prayed that Ashan would die.

  As if even then, Tor thought angrily, she could have me for a mate.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE SHAHALA KNEW THAT THERE WERE TWO KINDS OF death: The first, last, and only death of ordinary people; and a shaman’s death, a temporary kind that came several times in her life, so she could learn from spirits what needed to be known.

  While the second death of the Moonkeeper, Ashan, continued, the Other Moonkeeper, Tenka, never left the medicine circle.

  Others can do what they want, she thought. I’m not leaving Ashan. When we lost her before, the Time of Sorrows almost destroyed us.

  She heard the voice of Raga in her mind: Rising Star, think only good thoughts when you are with spirits.

  Tenka sent her mind drifting. Inside the stone circle—wrapped in rainbows, flecked with stars—time flowed like the Great River, with nothing to mark its passing. How long had it been since Ashan’s screams started the strange events? Tenka opened her eyes. Upriver, in the direction Where Day Begins, gray softened the sky.

  The morning of the fourth day.

  “Oh please, Amotkan, let it end, I’m only thirteen summers, and I’m so tired… ”

  Tenka realized she was whining out loud. But no one heard. Only Tor and his boy were here. It wasn’t light enough to see them, but she smelled them sleeping.

  From time to time others had come to the stone circle—people of both tribes. Staring at the Moonkeepers, they talked quietly, shook their heads. Tenka pretended not to see them, and after a while they would leave.

  Tor had been here the whole time… as he should… he was Ashan’s mate.

  Except for the first day, when I thought he’d never come back.

  Tor had solved the immediate problem by taking people away—Tenka didn’t know where he’d taken them, and didn’t care. But he’d stayed away too long. It got dark. Alone with lifeless Ashan, and the rumbling of the monstrous river, and a coyote howling somewhere too near, Tenka had been forced to fight childish fear. That was no way for a Moonkeeper to behave, even one called the Other.

  Tenka wondered why her brother had left them. Anything could have happened—wolves coming up the river, or bats swooping down from the sky—

  The Other Moonkeeper put the fearsome thoughts out of her mind. She had enough to worry about, just taking care of Ashan. Tenka had gone without sleep, making sure Ashan was shaded from the sun and warm under the moon and, most important, never alone. She dripped water and medicine tea onto Ashan’s lips, taking no nourishment for herself: A hungry s
haman focused at her best.

  This was the hardest part: With the power of her mind, Rising Star must keep Whispering Wind part of this world, so she could find her way back. It wasn’t easy. There were many distractions, especially the strangers with their strange talk. But as always Tenka did her best. It must have been good enough.

  On the fourth morning of her second death, earthly life stirred in Ashan… a miracle witnessed by Tenka, Tor, Kai El, and a few others who had just come to look.

  Amotkan was gone. Raga was gone. The Shahala Moonkeeper Ashan was alone in the endless sky. It was time to go back. Ashan smiled at her choice of word, for here, “time” as people understood it did not exist. Still, she began to pull in her web, returning through air that was rainshower fresh, taking time to enjoy the marvelous creations she passed.

  Ashan saw light outside her eyelids… not spirit light, or exploding stars, but ordinary morning light. She took long breaths of cold air, sharp with juniper smoke. Heard rivernoise, chirping birds. And voices… unclear, without threat. She didn’t strain to understand. Enough to lie here and enjoy living bone, breathing flesh, warm blood pulsing.

  Thoughts… she could catch only fragments, an end or a middle. Thoughts should be a blend of pictures and words. The pictures in her mind were right, but the words for them were wrong… not even words she knew, just sounds shaped like words. Her mind was speaking but could not understand itself.

  Am I caught between worlds? Is part of me still out there flying with spirits?

  A picture of her son formed against her lids. Kai El, she thought, and word matched picture.

  Where was her son?

  Ashan sat up and opened her eyes. Squinting in the brightness, she saw Tenka staring at her, openmouthed.

  As if, Ashan thought, she yah ah itchnikai sees a ghost. She had to smile: that’s just what Tenka was seeing. Ashan didn’t know how long she’d been away on her spirit journey, but it must have been long enough for people to wonder if she’d return… even a shaman eventually died for the last time.

  Ashan asked, “Kai El tah ah kahnit?”

  Tenka tilted her head, wrinkled her brow.

  “Tah ah kahnit… I mean… where is Kai El?”

  “He’s, he’s—”

  “E nai ilutya—” Ashan clapped her hand over her mouth to stop the strange sounds.

  “Amah!” Kai El shouted, diving on her, almost knocking her over.

  “Ashan!” Tor said, grabbing her up in his arms, crushing Kai El between them. It felt so good that she cried.

  People talked at once.

  “Those sounded like Tlikit words!”

  “Itskaya na tucamo!”

  “Impossible!”

  Ashan’s ears buzzed. The people she recognized spoke Shahala. The others—strangers—spoke a language she’d never heard, but suddenly understood.

  “Tor must have taught her!”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “What’s wrong with me, Tor?” Ashan asked, relieved that the words came out right.

  “I don’t know. Somehow you’re talking in both languages, but all mixed up.”

  “You mean those clacking noises are Tlikit words?”

  “Yes.”

  Ashan looked at a young woman. The only thing the stranger wore was a waist strap with a woven grass mat hanging down to cover her in front to her thighs.

  “Enak ahteak?” Ashan asked. It meant, “Do you understand me?”

  The wide-eyed woman said, “Chu,” which meant, “Yes.”

  Ashan shook her head. It was all too much. She would figure it out later.

  “Bring people to see this talking miracle!” someone said.

  Many came. When they heard Ashan speak—first in one language, then in the other—they were amazed.

  That night in Teahra Village, no one was more amazed than Ashan herself. The long journey of her people was over. Teahra Village was better than she’d hoped. The Tlikit were so interesting, she couldn’t keep from staring at them—any more than they could keep from staring at her and the Shahala.

  But the most amazing thing was happening in Ashan’s ears, and her mouth. She tried to explain it to Tor.

  “I think of something… like water falling from the sky. In one ear, I hear ’rain.’ In the other, I hear ’uvia.’ Both words are right, depending on if you’re Shahala or Tlikit.”

  Tor shook his head in wonder, as he’d been doing since Ashan came back from her second death.

  He said, “You aren’t the first to use two kinds of talk. I can do it. So can Elia, and one of the Tlikit women—the one named Tsilka. But it was learned. It takes hard work, and time. Ashan, you have never even heard Tlikit words.”

  “And now I know how to say them all, with spaces and heaviness where they belong. And I know what the strangers are saying, no matter how fast they talk.”

  Tor just shook his head.

  ’ ’It’s the most wonderful gift,” she said. “I thank the spirits who gave it to me.”

  “It’s more than just a gift, Ashan. The knowledge of both languages is a needle you can use to stitch the tribes together.”

  Ashan agreed.

  Tor said, “Do you know what I like even more? It’s proof of what I promised when I didn’t know if you would live: ’Forget what your eyes see,’ I told them. ’This woman who is dead will one day be your chief.’”

  “Well, I have a better chance at it now.” She took his face and turned it so their eyes touched. “Thank you for your part in this, Sweetmate. It must have been like walking on a vine stretched across a canyon.”

  “Oh, it was,” Tor said, smiling.

  She kissed him, then said, “Tell me all about it.”

  A woman who could learn another language without being taught… people much in need of leading accepted it as an omen of spirit approval, a sign of good times to come. A relief.

  CHAPTER 10

  SEVERAL DAYS HAD PASSED SINCE THE SHAHALA Moonkeeper awoke from her second death.

  “Tor, take me away,” Ashan said in a rare moment when she was not the center of a crowd. “These people are like spiders sucking prey. I’m dry, and they still want more.”

  “Come with me.”

  Leaving Teahra Village, they walked a trail that followed the river. Chiawana’s low-throated rumble took the buzz of human voices from her ears. Tor strode tall beside her, a powerful warrior to protect her from everything. Ashan was a small woman; her head reached the middle of his chest. At times the weight of her duties made her feel even smaller. His arm around her shoulder reminded her that she didn’t have to be strong every moment of her life—not as long as she had Tor.

  Raga, you were wrong, she thought. The law was wrong. A Moonkeeper can have a mate and still do her work—maybe even do it better,

  Tor turned from the trail, and led her to the water’s edge. He spread his deerskin shirt on a flat-topped boulder. They sat close together.

  Ashan could still see Teahra. And its people. Two tribes of them. Young and old; alone and in groups; standing, sitting, walking, talking, working. So many people.

  She had a vision of a bee tree—with something wrong— the bees swarming around like the mother had forgotten to tell them what to do.

  She looked away, and let herself be amazed by Chiawana’s tremendous size. Ashan had never seen a river that couldn’t be crossed. It shone blue under the autumn sky. Its ancient voice seemed to say, What is a day in the space of forever? A breeze lifted her hair. The low sun warmed her skin. She breathed deep.

  “Mmmm… it’s nice here.”

  Tor said, quite seriously, “I don’t think winter comes to this place.”

  Ashan smiled. “Winter comes to every place.”

  “Well, autumn was never this warm at home. It’s probably already snowing in the Valley of Grandmothers.”

  She pictured Anutash, with snow covering any sign that people had ever lived there.

  “We were right, Tor. If we can’t live in our homel
and, this looks like a good place.”

  “We?” he said, smirking. “I’m the one who found it.”

  “But I’m the one who got our people to come.”

  “Well I’m the one who kept them from killing each other while you had your nap.”

  They laughed. Besting each other was a familiar game, with no winner or loser.

  It felt wonderful to be alone with Tor. Ashan had been surrounded by people since she woke up—speaking that language, she thought, still not used to it. The Shahala wanted to talk to their Moonkeeper about all kinds of things. Some were nervous and wanted reassurance; they didn’t know how to act around these strange new people. Others shared their excitement—what a good place this was, all the food, the interesting new people.

  Tor had been kept just as busy by the Tlikit.

  “Oh, Ashan,” he said suddenly, enfolding her in his arms. He whispered into her hair, “It’s so good to be with you. So good.” The depth of feeling in his voice said how terrified he’d been of losing her.

  “I love you,” she said. “I pray we never have to be apart again.” .

  Eyes closed, lips pressed to his muscled chest, nostrils filled with the man-scent that was his alone, she gave herself to his embrace. If she lived to an age of ten women, she would never stop loving this feeling. So warm, so safe, to hide in the cave he made of his body, to be at the center of a warrior’s strength and protection.

  She murmured, “The longer I love you, the more I love you.”

  “Not as much as I love you. Everything about me is bigger.”

  Another familiar game… arguing about who loved the most. Little memories known only to the two of them…

  It took a long embrace to satisfy them. Releasing her, he put his arm behind her back for her to lean against.

  Ashan gazed at the village.

  “So many people,” she said, shaking her head. “I tried to count them. I sat where I could see the whole place, and spread out a piece of leather. I started with the women. I’d pick one, and put a pebble on the leather—two if she had a cradleboard; then again for each one I saw. But then they’d move, and I’d forget who got counted and who didn’t. There are too many, unless I could get them to sit down at the same time.”