He caught her hand as tears came to her eyes again.
"Don't cry, Isika," he said. "I am not afraid."
She looked at his small, beloved face. His tea-colored eyes and perfect little nose, the small gap between his teeth, his long eyelashes. She thought of all the nights she had held him as a baby, while those eyelashes drifted shut ever so slowly and then opened wide again as he jerked back to wakefulness. Her exhaustion, singing him endless lullabies, rocking him back and forth and trying not to nod off to sleep before he did.
As though he knew what she was thinking, he began to sing one of Isika's lullabies, his voice soft and sweet. It was the song their mother had sung to her, the first thing she could remember beside the calm of her mother's face.
"Water flowing between earth and sky
Bright day, old night, gentle and wise
Birds on the wing, fire in the stars
Oh high one, earth is in your hands
Oh true one, we are in your hands."
The words had always been a mystery to Isika, and now she felt a spark of longing, a frustration at her lack of understanding. The song had come down to her from her mother's mother, and perhaps her mother before that, but she knew nothing of them, and she was adrift in a time when the words made no sense.
They must both have fallen asleep, because the next thing Isika knew was Jerutha shaking her awake. Kital was curled in a ball against her stomach.
"Wake up, Isika," Jerutha said, her voice urgent. "We don't have much time."
It was still dark, but Isika followed when Jerutha beckoned. She groaned softly as she stood, the memory of her father's decision slamming into her as she felt the bruises on her shoulders and legs, the cuts on her face. Her heart burned with pain. Jerutha led her into the garden and they huddled between the bean plants.
"You must," Jerutha whispered, "come to me if I ever send word that I need you. You must help me if I ask for you." Her eyes stared into Isika's, and startled, Isika looked away.
"What?" she asked. "I don't understand—"
"Hush. Wait and listen. The gates to the village will be closed tomorrow. There's no way out on a sending day. But you know my brother has many boats. I have tied one of the oldest boats to the dock that lies twenty steps beyond the last fishing house, out of sight, behind the tallest rocks. It is very near the sending ground. You will wait only until the sending boat has been untied and pushed off, and then you will run. Get the boat, follow him. Get him back. But you can't return. And I—" she sobbed and covered her face with her hand. "I don't know what your father will do as punishment, so all of you need to go. And you can't come back, Isika, do you understand?"
Isika nodded rapidly, her heart hammering, her mind sluggishly trying to understand what her stepmother was saying.
"Take Benayeem and Ibba," Jerutha continued. "You will need Benayeem, he is strong and smart. And Ibba needs to go with you. But I don't know what you children will do after you get Kital out of the boat. I don't know where you will go." She stared at Isika, her face stricken and pale. "You'll have to figure that part out," she whispered.
Isika stared at her stepmother in shock. Jerutha was telling them to leave the village and never return. Jerutha's face twisted, and tears spilled out of her eyes, already red from crying. Isika drew close and wrapped her arms around her young stepmother. Jerutha was beautiful. She had always been beautiful in Isika's eyes, ever since she had intervened when the village kids were keeping Isika away from the water pump, back when Isika was twelve and Jerutha was not yet her stepmother. Isika remembered her then, face flushed with anger as she sent the children running and held out her hand for Isika's pail, filling it herself and helping her to carry it back to their gate. It was the moment that Nirloth had first taken notice of Jerutha.
"I can't leave you," Isika said.
"You must."
Isika shook her head. Then, suddenly, she understood. She knew why Jerutha wanted her to promise she would come and help. One day Jerutha's own child would be given over and she wanted a way out. She wanted Isika to help her leave, on a bleak day when her own child was sending age. The weight of the dreaded brass horn hung over all of them.
"What is out there?" Isika breathed, her eyes wide. What did Jerutha expect her to find?
"I don't know," Jerutha answered. "I don't know what is beyond our village. But I know you, sweet Isika. I know you will find a way to do this thing."
To live alone in the wild? To build a new life with only children to help each other? Isika weighed it against letting Kital die in the waves. She thought of the grief and helplessness she had felt at Aria's sending. It was an easy choice.
"I will come back to you," she said. "I will fly to you when you need help."
"I know you will," Jerutha said. "And I know something good will come of this, of you, Isika. There is something special in you, something pure and strong. Now quickly, you must tell Benayeem and Ibba and we will prepare for the sending. We must gather food and hide it from Nirloth. And, little sister, you need to act as though nothing has changed. Don't let him know that you have any hope at all."
CHAPTER 5
Isika woke Benayeem and whispered the plan to him in the garden, just as Jerutha had done for her. When she finished, he straightened and looked at her. In some ways, Benayeem and Isika were the closest of their siblings, because they remembered their mother and the desert, but in some ways, they were as distant as two stars, because they were so different. He was quiet and tall, self-contained and often withdrawn, while Isika was impetuous and reactive, quick to blame or cry, ready to make up right away. He had taken this terrible news of Kital's sending and he had run. Isika had stayed and blown up at her father and received the penalty. Now she saw him trying to make sense of what she was saying.
"Just… leave?" he whispered.
"How can we let them take one of us again?" Isika said. She used what she knew would shake him. "Our mother's last baby?" Deeply protective of their mother, Ben had been devastated by her death. He nodded, staring at his hands, long and deep brown, wrapped around his thin legs.
"We'll need my bow," he said. Every year the men of the village hunted when the deer came through in the hot season, heading north. Benayeem had gone out with them for the past two years. Last year he had taken his first deer. "And some rope."
He looked at her then, and she saw sorrow and guilt in his eyes as they skittered over the cuts on her face. He reached out to touch her hand, careful of the cuts on her knuckles, then he stood and went quietly toward the small shed behind the house. Isika saw him drawing himself together, moving into the practical things of what they would need to bring. She smiled. Her face hurt as her smile pulled at the deeper cuts, but she knew that she had him beside her, and though Benayeem was quiet, with him she felt they might have a fighting chance of surviving.
She told Ibba only that she needed to obey when Isika told her to run. Seven-year-old Ibba was tiny next to Isika and Ben, who were both tall for their age, and long-limbed. Ibba was petite and wiry, full of energy, her eyes huge in her small face. She had skin as smooth as silk, deep brown like the earth in the freshly plowed fields during the planting season. Isika whispered the words to her little sister as she braided her hair to prepare for the sending ceremony.
She smoothed oil through four large sections of Ibba's tightly curled hair, rubbing the oil into her scalp and smoothing her hair, then winding the sections into long twists that fell to Ibba's shoulder blades. She had done the same with own hair earlier, pulling it apart to get rid of the tangles, the way her mother had always done for her, the way she now had to do for herself.
"It'll be okay," she said to her small sister, lying through her teeth, because how could she be sure of anything, shaking with love and fear and energy to run? She was barely sure of her own name, and the ground under her feet seemed shaky and strange. Were they leaving? "Tomorrow you only need to listen and be absolutely silent. We're going to get Kital back. And you c
an't tell anyone what I'm telling you now."
Ibba's eyes flooded with tears and as Isika finished with her hair, winding a cord around the finished twist, she ran back to her sleeping mat, and wrapped her arms around Kital, who was napping. The little boy murmured and cried out in his sleep, and Ibba squeezed him tighter.
The ceremony would happen at dawn the next day. The rules of the goddesses dictated that the great field gates must be shut and locked until noon on the day of a sending, keeping everyone inside the walled village. The villagers would push the boat off into the black, choppy sea, then walk back through the sea gates, leaving their beloved children to drift off into the ocean. If they stayed to watch, they risked the anger of the goddesses. Jerutha hoped these rules would save Isika and her siblings; the people compelled to move back into the village. Perhaps the three children would not be missed until later, when it would be too late to stop them.
Isika was terrified, but she looked at tiny Kital on his mat and felt the heat of strength and resolve flowing through her trembling arms and legs.
The day passed so slowly that Isika wanted to scream. She made the breakfast tea and gathered the wood as usual. This time, she met no one in the forest. She used a headscarf to hide her bruised and cut face. Full of nerves, she couldn't look at her father as she brought his tea to him in his sleeping room. She hoped he would attribute her silence to yesterday's beating.
They ate the day meal. Ben tromped around the yard, gathering various supplies. Jerutha pulled the clean sending cloths off the clothesline and Isika helped her fold them. Kital and Ibba sat in the garden, their heads bent together as Kital drew pictures for Ibba on the ground with his finger. The house was oddly silent. No one dared speak, in case the hope in their hearts was audible in their voices. Isika's father stayed on his mat all day. He had tired himself the day before; stomping around and swinging his cane.
In the afternoon, he called to Isika. She and Jerutha were quietly setting aside part of the day meal for the children to take with them. Isika looked at her stepmother, her eyes wide with fear. Jerutha looked back at her with steady eyes, then bent her head and whispered.
"Go," she said. "You must."
The room smelled bad again and Isika felt reluctant to walk in, but her father beckoned her to his side. Pain rushed through her as she limped to him. She kept her face blank.
"Daughter," he said, his face a shadow on his pillow. "You must resign yourself to the way." There was no anger in his voice.
Isika was silent. She stood with her eyes on the floor as a proper Worker would, though every cell in her body screamed in protest. She would not resign herself any longer. Isika had lost a sister and a mother to the way. She was finished with resigning herself.
"I have decided to train you up as a priestess, Isika." Despite her resolve not to look at him, Isika's eyes flew to her father's face. "Benayeem is not the right choice, I know this now. He doesn't have the heart of a priest in him. He will be nothing more than a regular Worker."
This was her father at his most appeasing, his rough voice as soothing as he could make it. He told Isika this news as an apology. He had hit her, true, but see, he was training her to take his place. A single square of sunlight shone on the dirt floor. Many people in the village had slate in their houses now, but Isika's father insisted that the old ways of dirt and stone were enough for their ground.
"Do I have a choice?" she asked, hardly able to get the words out. She dared another look at him, now that her eyes had adjusted to the dim light. He lay in his corner on the bed mat, his face grayer today. His hands lay listless by his sides, and he looked out through the small window, rather than at her. He frowned.
"Of course not. You are a Worker. None of us have choices. We do what we are destined to do. The goddess of fate rules over us in completeness. The only satisfaction is through following carefully in her footsteps. You may have questions, Isika," now he looked at her, "but you are full of spiritual power and you will be a great priestess."
She flinched when his gray eyes met hers. His words confused her. Everything had changed in the night. Yesterday she may have welcomed his words because at least being a priestess would set her apart, keep her from needing to marry. She knew that otherwise, she would be at a disadvantage, looking for a husband to take her on merit of her cooking ability or her willingness to work hard. She was one of the black outsiders who lived with the priest, and no one would happily choose a girl who may bring bad luck, someone with the shame of being different. But today the world had shifted and Isika was about to spit in the face of the goddess, Fate. She thought of Kital and confusion fled. Isika was utterly sure that she would follow her baby brother and get him out of that boat, goddess or no goddess. She nodded to show she had heard her father's words, and looked down at the square of sunshine on the floor, silent.
"You may go," her father said.
The evening passed and Isika lay on her sleeping mat early, Kital in her arms. She stared into the dark, knowing she needed to sleep for strength, but she felt nearly crazy with the feelings that washed over her; fear, curiosity, dread. What if they couldn't row hard enough to reach him? What if they died in the wilderness, if one boy with a bow wasn't enough to care for them? Life had been hard but predictable, just two days ago, when all she had to worry about was whether her father would check the firewood. She couldn't begin to think about how to approach a new life. Workers were raised for obedience. What would become of them? It didn't matter. They were leaving. They could not abandon Kital to the waves. Somehow, she drifted off, into the relief of sleep.
She slept only a few hours before Jerutha woke her. In the dark of the early morning, they gathered what they needed. They would not eat or drink tea before a sending. Isika shivered without end. She hoped that people would assume that she feared for her brother, which was partially true. She went over the steps in her head. They needed to push him off in the boat, then make sure they trailed behind the other Workers as they filed back into the gate. They couldn't run until almost everyone was back inside, and hopefully they wouldn't be spotted.
Yesterday Benayeem had taken the bundle of supplies to the small boat that was hidden among the rocks. He was skilled at getting into difficult places without being seen. Isika supposed it was from trying not to be noticed for his whole life. She saw him emerge from the sleeping room and met his eyes briefly. This morning he was responsible for ringing the bell to announce that the sending was imminent. Isika watched as he picked up the heavy bell. He held her gaze for a moment before turning and sealing their fate with six rings of the bell. They rang out over the flat, dusty earth, vibrating to the sea's edge, the boats on the harbor, all the way to the richer houses that sat at the edges of the town, far away from the stench of the fishing boats.
Isika thought she could sense people preparing themselves for a sending— scurrying around, opening the gates in front of their houses. Nothing would ever be the same. She knew nothing of the future. She felt that they were standing on the edge of a cliff. Perhaps she was leading her brother and sister to their deaths. She shook herself and gave Kital his sending tea, singing their song to him until his eyelids were too heavy to stay open. They drifted shut, his beautiful eyelashes resting on his cheeks.
Nirloth came out of his room, his limbs stiff in his long black robe. He walked out of the house without looking at any of them, leaning heavily on his cane. Benayeem followed with Kital in his arms. In the courtyard, Ibba fetched the donkey and Isika passed Kital up to Ben after he mounted, taking care to tuck Kital's head against Ben's shoulder so it wouldn't bounce around on the rocky path to the shore. Isika's father opened the gate, muttering the sacred words as they passed through the wall. She looked back at the house as she passed through the gate, a final glance at the place where she had last seen her mother, and then she turned to follow the others.
***
The Workers filed to the harbor from every direction. Some were missing, Ben could tell, from his
perspective on the donkey. The wealthiest of the Workers were not very wealthy, but they could afford to pay the temple for the privilege to miss the sending. He had witnessed the payoff happening many times, in the temple, when the warning music vibrated through him at the exchange of money. But most of the villagers were present. As the priest's apprentice, Ben had never missed a sending. He felt a sudden hope that this would be his last. It fizzled when he remembered that first they needed to escape, a dangerous thing. The people drifted together to the sea gate. His father spoke the sacred words over the gate, and the Workers filed through with bent heads, walking out to the harbor. Ben saw Faiza, the tomato seller, put a gentle hand on Isika's shoulder. His sister flinched, her wounds hurting her, and Ben winced in sympathy.
"May your eyes be guarded, Isika," the woman said.
"And your speech kept safe," Isika replied.
The woman said nothing more, but she walked by Isika's side as they made their way to the harbor. Ben thought about how he had bought tomatoes from her on days when Isika was too busy to go to the market. He remembered her smile, back when her baby was small, before he was given over during that horrible season when her family's farm had a tomato blight. She didn't smile much any more. As he watched, she bent her head and slipped back into the crowd of Workers.
He caught a glimpse of the harbor as the villagers walked down, only a murmur here and there breaking the silence. Ben kept his eyes away from the dark shape of his father at the head of the procession. He didn't want to think of his father too much, afraid that he would lose his nerve to break free at the last moment, if he considered his father's heavy anger. His heart was pounding until it seemed like it would rise through his throat. He looked down at the sleeping Kital in his arms, and as he did, he heard a clear, lovely note. The burst of sound surprised him, and he looked around, but soon realized that it had come from within him. His arms tingled with it. A single, centering vibration through him. Yes. Gazing into his brother's sleeping face, he felt it rise inside him, filling him with sound, but it wasn't the painful ring of discordant music, or ominous drums. This was peace, like sleep and waking all at once.
World Whisperer Page 4