by Tia Reed
“Timak. Timak.” She could neither see nor hear him, but that meant little with this child. “Clear leaves to the east.” She pulled a handful of foliage off a branch and let it drift to the ground. When sticks tumbled past her, she sighed her relief. A single ray of sunshine seeped through, and lit a weedy tuft. The ogre roared, and bolted. She reached over, took hold of a thin branch with a bush of leaves at its end, and jumped. The branch cracked into a stomach-lurching sag. Light chose that moment to burst through the canopy. It speared through the hole they had cleared and sprayed the ogre. He froze. His hair and skin paled. As the sun pierced more holes, it illuminated a pile of rocks where the ogre had stood. When screeching monkeys clambered over it, she worked a cautious way down past the snapped branches. The monkeys scattered at her step, allowing the prominences in the rock to assume a form: a bulbous nose, jagged teeth, fingers on a hand.
Timak clambered down and crept very close to her side. He picked up a rock and tossed it at the statue. Nothing happened. It was all the reassurance he required. His head nodded, his eyelids drooped. She ushered him back to the hollow bole. They crawled inside and, wrapped in each other’s arms, fell asleep.
* * *
Sian carried the last bundle of sage to the mouth of Ishoa’s cave, and hung it to dry from one of the ropes which ran the length of the rock. She couldn’t remember so happy a morning, talking to an even-voiced, reassuring companion. Ishoa was just like the other women when she did not wear her feathers and paint, only smarter, and much, much nicer. The sun-shadows needed to draw out, and out, and never end. She lingered a moment, breathing in the summer scents of the shrubby hills, naming them as patient Ishoa had taught her.
The soothsayer was tucking parrot feathers into her sap-brown hair when Sian went inside. “Did you take the herb tea this morning?” Ishoa asked as she threw a handful of seeds into the fire.
“Yes,” she answered, breathing shallow to avoid the thick smoke waving up to the ceiling.
“Then you will go to the pond this afternoon.”
Sian hung her head, blinking the tears from her stinging eyes. Ishoa was the one person who might care about her last attempt to cross the ledge above Meeting Field. She had to be the one person Loyt had not blabbed to.
“Bring back what you find there,” Ishoa said.
Sian waited. If she waited long enough, Ishoa might understand something was wrong. The cricket chirps dragged on. The embers crackled. Her wary breath grew sharper. It didn’t do any good. The soothsayer stared through the flames with her sightless eyes, not blinking, not moving a muscle.
The trance was scary, but Ishoa would soon come back from the Spirit Realm. Disappointing her would raise a terrible guilt after all the soothsayer was doing for her, but Ishoa would forgive her.
The trance was sacred. The Spirits would punish her with fits if they were the ones who decreed she must go. Sian hated she had no choice but to leave the one safe place in the village. Perhaps Erok would come if she said Ishoa bid her go. She paused at the entrance to the cave, looking down over the narrow path with its loose rocks and prickly bushes. She could hear murmurs from the village. Esa’s baby was crying again.
“You will go by yourself,” Ishoa said.
Sian jumped, and peered into the dim cave. Ishoa had not moved. “What should I bring?” she asked.
What you find, Ishoa’s voice sounded in her mind.
Sian dawdled on the track back to the village, trying to ignore all the butterflies in her empty chest. She zigzagged through the longhouses without meeting anyone’s eye, out to the broad trail along the west side of Meeting Field which led up into the forest. When she had to step from the trees onto the narrow ledge, her legs cramped. The other children scampered on and off the ledge and up and down the slope like the grazing goats, but no matter how hard she blinked, the drop off the ledge stayed dizzying steep.
She took a deep breath. Ishoa wanted this. Ishoa would not wish her harm. The others, maybe, but not Ishoa. She took one step out, and then another. Step by step, she crept along the path. It was hard work, making sure she balanced, and she wasn’t used to long walks. She was a few paces along and her legs were too tired to keep going.
“Hoi! Where are you going?” a voice called.
As she whipped her head around, one foot slipped over the edge. She grabbed at the rock in panic as her body pitched back. Loyt was watching from the tree line, his face a mixture of horror and indignation.
“You’re not allowed, Sian. Come back, you’re not allowed.”
She flattened herself against the rock, squirming until her feet were secure. Loyt ran off, to tell Grandmam Vila or Mam, so she would get in trouble. Sian stared at the spot where he had stood. If she went back, she could pretend she had never tried to cross.
Bring back what you find.
She gasped at how clear Ishoa sounded in her mind.
She turned her head to the other side. She was halfway there. She had never crossed before. Mam and Grandmam did not want her to do this. Ishoa did. Taking a deep breath, she slid her feet over loose pebbles until they met the opposite hill. The climb through the pear trees was steep. She scrambled on all fours up over the grassy summit to the little pond the children splashed in.
The water was clear in its stillness. She could see the gelatinous puffers, all mouth, head and tail. One floated to the surface and sucked in air before hurling its tongue at the unsuspecting dragonfly that skimmed past her nose. As she leaned over to get a clearer look, the movement of her reflection caught her eye. She didn’t think she looked like that. Her hair was fair and combed, not dark and mussed up. She leaned closer. It was a boy she saw in the water, younger than her, and so sad. His eyes moved, and it was like he saw her.
She jerked back. But now the world was spinning, the ground was rushing up to meet her and the day was blackening to oblivion.
She was lying face up on the ground, dirt embedded in her hair and nails, too weak to move. She sobbed, because it wasn’t fair she had fitted again, not after she had drunk the herb tea every day, just like Ishoa said. It wasn’t fair she could not tell Ishoa the tea didn’t work, because the soothsayer would ask her about the fit, and this time it had been different. Oblivion had not come. Instead, she had dreamt of the little boy. She could remember every detail of his sorrowful face. Could have cried for him, for them both, had she any tears in her. She had sunk too low for that. So she wished the image would fade away, because he reminded her of her horrid self.
Looking into the sky’s dizzying heights while the wind cooled her skin and ruffled her hair didn’t help to bring back her strength, but finding animal shapes in the clouds meant she could stop thinking about the boy. The big cloud was moving fast, shaping into a bird, a parrot, no an eagle. She drew a sharp breath. No cloud animal had ever formed into a perfect image with speckled feathers and a dark, rolling eye. It was diving, diving, diving into the pond. She yelped and blinked. The shapeless cloud was tall and white, tinged underneath with grey. She rolled over, pushed herself onto hands and knees, and crawled to the water’s edge, daring herself to look. Dried leaves danced across the crest of the hill, but a stilling of the ripples sent her rocking back onto her heels. She couldn’t help being a coward, but she needed to see even if it meant she shook to her bones. She leaned forward. Only her own hated face greeted her in the water. She averted her eyes.
At the bottom of the pool, a white object gleamed among the stones. She dipped a hand in to retrieve it because here might be another prize for her basket. The bone fit snug in her palm. Sian tucked it into the fur pouch around her neck, and rose to return. On an impulse, she stepped into the pool to wash the dirt from her face and hands, and discovered it was fun to splash about. For the first time in a long while, she laughed. The strangeness of it stopped her. She gave in to it, laughing as she gave thanks to the water spirits. They showered her as she climbed out of the pool, ran over the ridge down the slope.
It was good the rain had
stopped and the ledge was dry or she might have stayed right where she was. This time her slow feet were more confident as they picked their way across. She kept her hand on the rock. At an excited shout, she looked across. Loyt was pointing, jumping up and down. Beside him, Erok was sucking on a blade of grass. The hunter’s wide-eyed surprise changed to thoughtfulness. When she stepped to safety, dripping water at his feet, she hung her head, expecting a rebuke.
“You have the feet of a mountain goat,” was all Erok said.
Loyt settled as his mouth turned down. She could guess he wanted Erok to scold her, and was glad he ran ahead. The hunter gestured to the comforting shelter of the forest path. Sian’s legs were so shaky, she had to walk slow. Erok walked right behind her until they passed Meeting Field. He left her there, to go hunt in the east.
Sian ran past the longhouses. The women tsked at her wet clothes and tangled hair.
“Ishoa wants me,” she called when Mam summoned her to a pile of grubby roots. She broke into a run for the cave, using a hand to swing around the hollow bole before she climbed the cliff path.
The soothsayer was sitting cross-legged on a rabbit fur by the fire. The shyness gnawed out Sian’s insides, and she hung back.
“What did you find?” Ishoa asked.
Sian tiptoed in, and gave her the bone. Ishoa fingered it, and smiled. “It is a precious gift. Did you give thanks to the spirits?”
“Yes, to the water spirits. I found it in the pond.” She bit her lip, guilty her thanks had been for her fun and not her find.
“It is from the neck of an eagle. The sky spirits deserve praise too.” Ishoa grabbed a handful of tiny, black seeds. “Sit.”
As Sian sat on a rabbit fur, Ishoa sprinkled the seeds into the flames. She thrilled a few notes that spun Sian out of the cave and into the heavens, where constellations twirled through the black void. The note ended. Sian slumped back into her body, only just remembering to give her thanks. She rubbed her sweaty palms on the edges of her fur. She didn’t know why her breathing was so heavy. The spinning had been like her fits. Like them, but not the same.
“Bring my box of bones and the little implement you find next to it,” Ishoa instructed.
The treasures were at the back of the cave, next to the pile of furs Ishoa used as bedding. The small box was inlaid with a pretty shell in rainbow colours. Carrying it was an honour, and Sian used two reverent hands to set it down in front of Ishoa. Ishoa opened it, ran her fingertips over the contents, and selected a bone that was similar to Sian’s.
“Do you see this rune?”
Sian nodded, bit her lip, and whispered, “Yes.”
“Carve the same rune onto your bone.” Ishoa’s free hand closed over Sian’s. “Take care. You will only have one chance.”
The firelight grew dim, and mysterious. The scent of seed and herb swirled out of its smoke. This was a soothsayer’s charge. Sian studied the rune. The spirits needed to help a damaged girl carve well. They did. Her fingers were deft. When she had finished, Ishoa traced the rune.
“It is a great work,” the soothsayer declared, feeling over Sian’s knee to her hand, turning it, and placing the bone on her palm.
Sian felt an unfamiliar stirring in her chest. Gentle as a ladybird, she returned Ishoa’s bone to the box. She started to put the one she had carved by its side. Ishoa’s unerring hand stayed her own.
“You must keep this close about you.”
Sian slipped it into her pouch. If she was lucky, it would protect her from fits. She looked outside and blinked. Night had fallen thick. She rose to leave.
“Sleep here, child,” Ishoa said, stoking the fire. “I could use the company, and you have need to learn more soothsayer lore.”
Alarm warred with her desire to linger. The spirit land was forbidden to all save the chosen and she, with her fits and cowardice, would never, ever dare to presume.
A rustle of wings brought a golden eagle to the mouth of the cave. It hovered, barring the way before it winged south. Sian sat back down.
“Tell me what you saw,” Ishoa said.
* * *
When Kordahla woke, her skin was prickling. She held her breath, ignoring the stick poking into her back so she could listen to dry leaves crack beneath feet. Timak lay fast asleep beneath a cobweb, his face serene. She reached over and roused him, putting her finger to her mouth. He huddled as far back as he could, a pointless move in the confines of the bole. Leaves rustled beneath her as she propped herself up, no louder than the rummaging of a rat. The footsteps stopped at the entrance hole. She pulled her legs in and tried to shallow her breath, tilting from the branch which poked through the entrance. It swung, clipping Timak’s knee before striking her bruised thigh.
“Ow!” She winced. They were revealed. The branch retreated. Voices spoke in a simple tongue. Human voices, she sighed to hear, though the narrow face appearing at the hole did not inspire trust. Its owner reached in and caught her ankle. Both she and Timak kicked out. The intruder barked, and had the sense to withdraw his hand. The broad, friendly face which took its place may have intended to mislead. She bit her lip, and looked at Timak. Her throat was parched, and they were weak from hunger. This stranger’s words sounded reassuring, and he kept his large hands to himself. They had no choice. She crawled out of the hollow, blinking in the full light of day. The two Hill Tribe men were waiting, spears clutched in hand, fragments of leaves sticking to their crude trousers and shirts. Their hems were embroidered with the bright geometric designs on the bags and reed bowls sold at the souk. The same design on the cuffs of the man the mahktashaan had slaughtered at the docks. She shuddered. For all she knew, the victim may have been kin to these men.
The short man, lean and dark of expression, advanced, his spear held out though not aimed. Timak’s arms circled her waist. She put her arm around him, and stood firm. A woman and a child – they would be unable to avoid any hurt these men intended to inflict. Unable, too, to fend for themselves among the growls, hisses and roars of the savage morning hunt. She thanked the Vae that the broad, fair-haired man, was no fool. Seeing where her gaze alighted, he stood the butt of his spear on the earth. When his companion responded with a shake of his head, and a raising of the lethal tip, she sidled closer.
“Please, water.” She pointed at the bladder draped over the broad man’s shoulder. He passed it to her. She gulped a mouthful, and gave it to Timak.
Waiting for him to swallow his fill was torture. Drinking deep rivalled porrin’s bliss.
The men’s noses wrinkled as she returned the bladder. What they must have thought of her and Timak, foul scum-tainted mud caking on their faces, tattered clothes and bruised legs!
The men gestured at the stone ogre, and started talking over each other, petering out when they realised they had no hope of understanding what had passed. A raindrop plopped on her head. The broad, fair-haired man looked up through thin canopy, and sucked one cheek. He could not have divined a scrap of worth of the grey sky but he ushered them past the leaf-littered ogre statue, down through the maze of scrub oak and pistachio trees. The pair of them pulled faces of impatience each time thorncushion snagged her hem or she lagged to catch her breath. Smirked each time she twitched, started or jumped at a bizarre click, a menacing grunt or derisive hoot.
“No further,” she protested, leaning on a rough trunk. Folding his legs beneath him, Timak sat against her, and hung his head.
A sudden patter of rain muddied a rivulet of scum on her cheek. It seeped into her mouth, and she spat.
The fair-haired hunter pointed through the trees. She shook her head. He was as heartless as his companion, to shrug and walk away. She eyed the darker man. His mouth wiggled in mistrust. Of them! His shrug mimicked his companion’s as he turned away.
She leaned forward, her heart quickening. Those men needed to come back. “Stop!” A twist in the track took them out of sight.
She jumped up and peered through the trees. A glimpse of bright thread was all th
at remained of them. “Stop!”
A lone wolf howled in despair.
She took Timak’s hand and ran. A sudden downpour greyed the air. She stopped, panicked, because she had no sight of them. It might have been foolish to assume the puddles forming along the faint track were footprints, but it was all they had to follow.
The rain stopped as abruptly as it had started. A flash of purple hem showed her the way.
“Wait!” The hunters at least turned when she trudged up and bent over to recover her breath. “Wait,” she pleaded as they walked on, forcing her and Timak to stumble along or brave the unknown dangers of the hidden twig-snappers alone.
Thank the Vae it was but a single chebel before the hunters stopped by a rocky stream in a damp, shady valley. She fingered one of the berry-laden cotoneasters which prettied the area, and moved to slip into the water. A spear dropped to bar her way. It startled her into stepping back. The broad man gestured for her to sit. She remained standing on her aching feet. No princess of Terlaan would be a meek prisoner to Hill Tribe men.
This princess imagined threat where there was none. The spears thrust into the water and impaled a wriggling fish. A moment later, they had skewered another. When ten fish flapped on the bank, the broad man grinned as he gestured toward the stream. She offered a shy smile before stepping in the cool water, glad to soothe the blisters on her feet and rub the stinking scum from her skin. The peaks blocked the worst heat of the sun, but the water was pleasant and she lingered.
She climbed out, relishing the stream of water out of her hair and clothes. Timak, scrubbed and standing straight in shoes one of the hunters had fashioned out of bark and vine, was gobbling a peach. The tall man looked over and drew out two words. His tone in a handsome courtier would have left her laughing, good-natured, and smiling to sweet effect. In a Hill Tribe hunter, it alluded to a threat. She hesitated, but he beckoned her to the fire they had lit, and held out a peach. She tried to eat with decorum, but her hunger drove her to devour the fruit. Her lack of manners might have marked her as common, but she licked every last drop of juice from her fingers while the fish smoked on waxy leaves. The hunter’s interest in her did not diminish, but his clucks were more amused than disapproving. She eyed him back as she ate.