Exile

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  Their mother stood at the front door, laughing as their father chased the three little ones across the beach. He advanced on them, his copper plait flying. First he caught plump little Itania who was only just walking. She squealed with delight as he lifted her high in the air, swinging her around. Laughing, he kissed her red-gold curls.

  Then he tucked her under his arm and chased down Tamaron. The three-year-old ran across the beach, white hair streaming, determined to get away. Tripping in the soft sand, their little brother surrendered with a squeal of mock terror. Tamaron’s peals of laughter carried up the dune to Ronnyn and Aravelle.

  ‘Da!’ Six-year-old Vittor sang, dancing just out of reach. ‘Can’t catch me, Da.’

  Laden with two little ones, their father could not catch him, no matter how hard he tried. Ronnyn felt a smile tug at his lips and glanced at Aravelle. Like him, laughter illuminated her face.

  Their mother shaded her eyes and waved to them on the dune. It was just like any other evening, but today they had news.

  ‘There’s a fisherman,’ Aravelle called.

  ‘Washed up on the beach,’ Ronnyn shouted, wanting to share the excitement. ‘He’s alive.’

  ‘What?’ Their father put Tamaron and Itania down, then strode towards the dune. Their mother also ran to meet them.

  Aravelle and Ronnyn plunged down the dune, legs sinking calf-deep in the cold, soft white sand. When they reached their father at the base, he steadied them.

  ‘We dragged him up beyond high tide,’ Ronnyn said. ‘Come see.’

  ‘I wanna see too,’ Vittor cried.

  Their parents exchanged looks. Their mother caught Vittor by the shoulders, drawing him close so that the back of his head rested against her abdomen, his white hair bright against the dark material.

  Tamaron and Itania trotted over. They tugged on their mother’s robe, wanting to be picked up.

  ‘Come on, Da,’ Aravelle urged. ‘We’ll show you.’

  Again, their parents exchanged loaded looks.

  ‘Where?’ their father asked.

  ‘Driftwood Beach,’ Ronnyn supplied. Eager to be gone, he backed up the rise. ‘Come on, Da.’

  ‘Asher?’ their mother whispered.

  Their father turned a grim face to Aravelle and Ronnyn. ‘You two stay here.’

  ‘But Da–’

  ‘But nothing. Do as you’re told.’

  Ronnyn was surprised and hurt. Their father never snapped at them. Stung, he watched their parents hug and kiss. Their copper hair mingled in the breeze, their love a bright shining thing that warmed his worried heart.

  ‘Douse the fire, Sasoria,’ Asher said. ‘And keep the children inside. There might be more than one.’

  Ronnyn caught Aravelle’s eye. From her expression it was clear that she didn’t understand either. They had been warned to run and hide if anyone came to the island, but this was different; the fisherman was injured and needed their help.

  As their father set off, their mother turned towards the cottage, saying, ‘Come in, now. Dinner time.’

  Ronnyn and Aravelle protested vehemently, Vittor less so. He was used to being excluded.

  ‘Ronnyn, bring Vittor and Tamaron,’ their mother ordered. ‘Vella, bring Itania.’

  Aravelle picked up their little sister, while Ronnyn took both his brothers’ hands.

  The cottage was dim and smelt of oregano and chicken. Only this morning, father had killed a belligerent young rooster that had pecked Itania. Roast chicken was a treat. The aroma made Ronnyn’s mouth water and his stomach rumbled.

  His mother hurried to the fire, throwing sand on the hearth to put out the flames. ‘Close the shutters, Vella, then light the lamp.’

  Aravelle put Itania down and reached for the fish-oil lamp. The moment the toddler’s feet touched the reed matting she made for the door.

  Aravelle thrust the lamp into Vittor’s hands and ran after Itania. Ronnyn followed. They caught their baby sister just outside the door. Itania laughed and wriggled, delighted with the game.

  Ronnyn ignored his little sister’s giggles, fixing on his big sister’s face. ‘We were the ones who found the man. We should go help Da.’

  Aravelle nodded. She deposited Itania inside the cottage and shut the half-door.

  ‘We’re going to help Da carry the man back,’ Aravelle announced through the opening, and they took off.

  Their mother called them, but they ignored her. Ronnyn had never disobeyed his parents in his life. It made him uncomfortable but, at the same time, he was determined. He felt the fisherman was his responsibility, his and Aravelle’s.

  They took familiar paths, running from one side of the island to the other in the growing twilight. By unspoken consent, they did not to try to catch up with their father, but paced themselves, jogging for a bit, then walking briskly.

  Ronnyn was sure Da would see reason. He’d need their help to carry the man back, and it would be dark soon. For the second time that evening, they ran through the pines and negotiated the dunes on the far side of their island.

  Only a sliver of sun hung above the horizon by the time they neared the top of the last dune. The sky had been scoured of clouds and, behind them in the east, the first stars had already appeared along with the eager small moon.

  ‘Wait.’ Aravelle caught Ronnyn’s arm. ‘Let me handle Da.’

  He nodded. Now that they were here, he felt nervous.

  At Aravelle’s signal, they knelt just behind the lip of the dune where they could watch the beach unseen. Their father wasn’t tending to the injured man. Instead, he paced up and down, running his hands through his hair, which had worked loose from its plait.

  ‘What’s Da doing?’ Ronnyn whispered.

  Aravelle nudged him and pointed. ‘Lucky we moved him.’ The sand where they’d found the fisherman was under water now.

  As though he’d made a decision, Asher turned and strode over to the injured man.

  ‘Now he’ll help him,’ Aravelle murmured.

  Their father sank to kneel in the sand beside the fisherman. He placed his hands around the man’s throat and put his whole weight into throttling him.

  Unable to believe his eyes, Ronnyn reached for Aravelle. They watched in horrified silence as their father killed a defenceless man.

  ARAVELLE FELT HOT, then cold, then sick. She didn’t recognise the stranger who’d just strangled an unconscious fisherman. This killer was not the gentle, laughing father who’d taught her to mix inks so she could capture the line of a wind-bent tree in a single brush stroke.

  The stranger, who wore her father’s face, released the dead man’s throat and sat back on his heels, staring blankly at what he had done.

  ‘Why?’ Ronnyn whispered, tears falling down his cheeks. He turned to her as they crouched behind the crest of the dune. ‘Why, Vella?’

  She had no answer.

  A sob escaped Ronnyn. She slid her arm around his shoulder and pulled him close. The movement attracted their father’s gaze. He lurched to his feet and strode up the dune towards them, his expression thunderous.

  Stunned, Aravelle could only stare as he bore down on them.

  ‘I told you not to come. Why did you follow me? Why?’

  He hauled them to their feet, although they were almost as tall as him now. Aravelle twisted out of his grasp and darted away.

  When Asher released Ronnyn, her brother fell to his knees and flung his arms around their father’s waist. ‘I’m sorry, Da.’ A sob choked him. ‘I’m sorry.’

  With a groan, their father knelt and hugged Ronnyn. As they wept in each other’s arms, tears blurred Aravelle’s vision. Asher lifted an arm, beckoning her, but she shook her head, unable to reconcile the fisherman’s murderer with the man she knew to be her father.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Ronnyn drew back to search their father’s face. ‘Why did you kill him?’

  ‘He was one of the Mieren,’ Asher said, as if that explained everything. ‘He would have betrayed
us. I had to protect my family.’ Asher came to his feet as though fighting a great weight. ‘We must bury the body. Can’t leave it for the wild dogs.’ He gestured into the hollow between the dunes. ‘Dig a grave down there.’

  And he strode down the other side of the dune to retrieve the fisherman’s body. Ronnyn went to dig the grave.

  Aravelle followed, but she felt disconnected from reality. A noise like the crashing of the waves filled her head, drowning all sounds. The strange sensation did not ease as they dug the grave with their bare hands and tipped the man’s body in.

  As their father carefully arranged the dead man’s limbs, the wrongness of it made Aravelle hot and furious. Again tears stung her eyes. ‘Why honour him in death?’

  ‘He was someone’s father, someone’s son.’

  Aravelle stared down at the husk that used to be a person. She’d helped her mother pluck the rooster for dinner. It worried her that once life was extinguished, people were just so much dead meat.

  ‘But why kill him?’ Ronnyn asked. ‘We could’ve asked him not to tell anyone about us.’

  ‘Mieren can’t be trusted,’ Asher stated. ‘Why do you think I sail to another island to trade the sea-boar ivory? I don’t want the trader knowing where we live. He makes a big profit on our ivory because he knows I don’t dare take it to anyone else. Only greed keeps his mouth shut. No...’ Asher gestured to the dead man. ‘Greed would’ve opened the fisherman’s mouth. Someone would’ve paid him to find out about us. Then word would’ve reached our old brotherhood and, before long, we’d see a boatload of silver-haired warriors come to take us back to the city. They’d punish your mother and I for running away. They’d send you boys to a sisterhood to rear because you’re pure T’En.’ His breath left him in a sigh of defeat. ‘It’s why we ran in the first place. So we could keep you, Ronnyn.’

  Asher pulled him close and hugged him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Da,’ Ronnyn whispered.

  Their father drew back, hands on Ronnyn’s shoulders, face earnest. ‘Nothing to be sorry for, son. It’s not your fault you were born T’En. It’s not your fault your mother couldn’t bear to give you up and I couldn’t bear to see her hurt. It’s no one’s fault that Vittor and Tamaron were also born pure T’En. And now this new baby, who knows what it will be...’ He rubbed a trembling hand across his mouth. ‘So no one must know about us.’

  Ronnyn nodded.

  They could not go back. They’d always known this. That was just the way it was.

  Righteous indignation filled Aravelle. No one would break up her family, not while she lived. A fierce love and determination filled her.

  But, at the same time, her father had killed a defenceless man and that was wrong.

  Asher studied the sky. ‘Getting dark. We must bring rocks to stop the wild dogs digging up the body.’

  So they collected rocks. It took four trips before their father was satisfied. All the time, the evening’s events kept going around and around in Aravelle’s mind. Try as she might, she could not see an alternative. Her parents’ old brotherhood must never find them; Mieren could not be trusted. Their father had to protect them.

  Yet... ‘Doesn’t feel right to kill a helpless man,’ she muttered.

  Their father stacked the last rocks on the grave, then stood up and wiped his forehead. ‘You know I grew up with Mieren before going to the city, but I never told you why I left. When I was thirteen, the people of my village broke into our house. They killed my parents and set fire to the cottage. I would have burned to death, but I jumped out the attic window, fought my way through them and ran across country to the city.’

  ‘Oh, Da...’ Ronnyn whispered.

  ‘These were people I’d known all my life, yet they turned on us. You can’t trust True-men.’ He grimaced. ‘It’s late. Time to go home.’

  By the time they reached the far side of the island, both moons were up, bright enough to cast shadows. With all the shutters closed, their cottage was a dark shape against the silver sand. Unless a fishing boat came into the little inlet, they would not spot it, or their father’s boat.

  Asher stopped. ‘Vella, Ronnyn, promise me you won’t tell the little ones what happened today. I don’t want them growing up in the shadow of fear.’

  ‘I promise,’ Ronnyn said immediately.

  ‘Of course.’ Aravelle found it easy to make the promise. She wished the fisherman had never been washed up on their island, or that he’d been dead when they found him; anything to relieve her father of the burden that stole the laughter from his eyes.

  ‘Good.’ He hugged them both, but she remained stiff in his arms.

  She couldn’t help it. For all that she understood the necessity of killing the injured man, she couldn’t accept it.

  When she pulled away, Asher did not comment.

  Six-year-old Vittor must have been watching; he threw the door open. ‘You’re late. Ma made us wait and I’m starving.’

  He laughed, stepping aside to reveal the dinner table. The roast chicken sat on the feast day plate and a gift sat in front of Ronnyn’s place. ‘Ronnyn’s twelve today!’

  Aravelle blinked. How could she have forgotten? The little ones shrieked with excitement and ran over to hug Ronnyn.

  Their mother laughed and looked to their father. But Aravelle noticed how Sasoria’s expression sobered when she saw their father’s grim eyes.

  Unaware of this, Vittor led the little ones back to the table and helped them onto their seats.

  ‘Wash up. Then we can have dinner.’ Sasoria pointed to the back door and the rainwater barrel.

  ‘We’ve already washed,’ Ronnyn said.

  ‘Your voice.’ Concerned, she touched his forehead. ‘You’re not hot. Is your throat sore?’

  ‘His voice is breaking.’ Asher smiled proudly.

  Their mother laughed and caught Ronnyn by the ears, pulling his face down to hers to kiss both his cheeks. ‘Silly me. Of course it is.’

  Ronnyn grinned at Aravelle, his forehead crinkling in a way that could be earnest and endearing but which tonight she found annoying. He was pleased with himself, as if he’d done something clever.

  She sniffed. It wasn’t like any of them had control over what they were – male or female, Malaunje or T’En.

  Ronnyn unwrapped his gift – one of Da’s shirts made down, and a fish-gutting knife of his own. Ma and Da hugged him, then she and their mother served up the evening meal.

  It was all very normal, and all very subtly wrong.

  Nothing was said about the fisherman. The little ones were tucked into bed and the kitchen cleaned, and still nothing was said.

  Their father waited while she and Ronnyn climbed up the ladder to the loft above her parent’s bed, and then he doused the light. There was no point in burning precious lamp oil unless there was work to do, but Aravelle wished she could have sat up; she could not sleep.

  She lay awake for a long time.

  At last she heard her father’s low voice as he told her mother what had happened. His harsh sobs carried clearly, along with their mother’s reassurance.

  ‘You did the right thing, Asher, the only thing.’

  ‘I know. But... sometimes I wonder if we did the right thing, breaking the covenant. What will we do when–’

  ‘Hush.’

  Restless, Aravelle pushed the down-filled quilt aside and crawled to the window, set in the sloping roof. She opened the shutter, welcoming a shaft of moonlight. It illuminated Tamaron and Vittor’s sleeping forms, and reflected in Ronnyn’s watchful eyes.

  Silently, he joined her at the window. There was enough moonlight to see his features clearly.

  Without a word, they slipped out onto the shingles and crouched there, balanced against the steep pitch of the roof, hugging their knees. For a while they said nothing, letting the slight breeze lift their hair and play with their nightshirts.

  The double full moons illuminated the bay and sands. Moonlight silvered Ronnyn’s white hair, reminding
her that when his gift started to manifest, his hair would darken to silver. And then he would be different from her, more than her.

  She’d been born Malaunje like their parents. It hadn’t mattered when they were growing up, but now that she thought about it, she resented it fiercely. According to their mother, no one knew why the majority of their race were born Malaunje and only some were pure T’En, heirs to the gifts. But this divided them, and it had driven their parents to run away.

  ‘Da had to do it,’ Ronnyn said. ‘I’d do it to protect us from the Mieren.’

  Aravelle knew he was imagining himself the leader of a great brotherhood, protecting his people. All their lives they’d played games based on their mother’s stories of the T’Enatuath – games of honour and bravery – but, since she turned thirteen last winter, the games had grown hollow as it dawned on her that one day she was not going to meet her warrior over the next dune.

  Would she ever know the love their parents shared?

  ‘Do you think we should tell Vittor about the hide?’ Ronnyn asked. Their father had built a hiding place, in case the Mieren came to their island. ‘What if we were captured and he was left–’

  ‘If he was left alone on the island...’ Vittor would not survive. She couldn’t bring herself to say it, so she started again. ‘If we were captured, I’d want all of us to be together.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  Aravelle heard the catch in Ronnyn’s voice, and knew he’d understood what she’d left unsaid. ‘You notice Da didn’t tell us to run to the hide if the brotherhood’s T’En warriors come.’

  Ronnyn went very still.

  ‘Because they’d find us.’ Aravelle could not hold it in. ‘They’d sense us with their gifts. We’d have no protection from them.’

  ‘Perhaps it would not be so bad if the brotherhood found us,’ Ronnyn said slowly. ‘Perhaps they wouldn’t be angry with our parents.’

  Aravelle glared at him.

  He shrugged. ‘Hueryx didn’t sound so bad. He was kind to Ma.’

  ‘How can you say that? Even if he’s nice, the brotherhoods are bound by the covenant. They’d have to give you, Vittor and Tamaron to a sisterhood to rear, and I wouldn’t see you until you were all grown up. By then you’d be proper T’En, and you’d refuse to acknowledge me...’ Hot tears stung her eyes, strangling her words. The tears she hadn’t shed over the dead fisherman cascaded down her cheeks. Horrible, harsh sobs wrenched at her chest.