No. Día felt it. She knew it. She might be saved – but she would have no miracle.
Winshin smelled her weakness like blood from a gut-shot deer, and closed in for the kill. “Or could it be that you’re just a deluded little girl playing dress-up – that you’ve lived your whole life in ignorance – that all your devotions and pieties matter nothing to a god who has saved his favorites and left you here to live or die or crawl back to your church and spend the next fifty years trying to seduce him with your shrivelling virgin cunt!”
“No,” Día said, aloud this time – but it was a weak, wavering word. Come get me, Mother Dog, please come get me –
“No?” Winshin repeated. “How do you know that? Did God tell you so? Did he speak with you personally? Is he any more real to you than this knife?”
Día’s first instinctive glance at the blade betrayed her.
“Then scream for help,” Winshin said, “and let that be your gift to me. Scream, and confess that the god of the Northmen loves only the Northmen. Scream, and admit that he holds your dark face and mine equally in contempt. Scream, and let me hear that you are afraid of me.”
Día was afraid. She was absolutely terrified of the mad, wicked woman before her, and even as faith told her what became of those who renounced God’s name, reason assured her that this was not going to be like Halfwick lurching at her in a clumsy rage: Winshin was a veteran warrior with a deadly weapon, and any fight she started here would end in one second, with that blade somewhere in Día’s body.
And Fours was waiting.
Día swallowed, took a breath, and opened her mouth. “I –”
“Please your pardon, ambassador,” said a soft, thickly accented voice at the door. Winshin whirled, affording Día a view of a small, hooded a’Krah man standing there, offering his wrists out in the traditional bow. “For you I have a message.”
In the time it took Día to blink, Winshin made her manners, the knife disappearing in a single courteous flourish. “Well, I’ve taken up too much of your time already. Thank you for a lovely discussion, ambassador – do have a safe trip home.” There was nothing but pleasantness in her face as she turned and walked out, leaving Día no room for doubt: Winshin had finally taken her pound of flesh.
Which left Día, standing there in the corner like an unruly schoolgirl, and the a’Krah man at the door, who was even now straightening to regard her with a mischievous gleam in his dark eyes, his hood falling back to reveal his baldness – and his dark skin brightening to a pale blue-white.
Día stood there, helpless to understand. “... Miss du Chenne? What are you doing here?”
The old mereau answered with a sharp-toothed grin – which just as quickly turned to a scold at this most obvious question. “Why, coming to get you, you ungrateful ninny! What, did you think I was just going to keep wandering about naked in broad daylight? Now collect your things and let’s be on our way – U’ru is waiting.”
Día didn’t move. She didn’t need to. The world was already swaying under her feet.
“Día?” Miss du Chenne’s voice took on a note of concern – a single deadly pinprick of compassion. “What’s wrong?”
Nothing, Día said. It started as a word, emerged as a moan, and ended with a cry – with Día buckling, covering her face, and sobbing helplessly into her hands.
“Well, I never!” said the oncoming patter of footsteps, punctuated with a damp hand at her arm. “What happened to you, girl? What’s the matter? Did you think we’d left without you? Come here, come down here this instant – you have the Sibyl’s nerve, crying where I can’t reach you...”
But although Día folded herself down to sit with her old teacher, weeping freely into her lap, she had no answer – no name for the thing that had burst inside her, skewering her insides on a hundred thousand mirror-glass shards.
IRABEI WAS GOING to miss her doll.
She was getting to too old for it, she told herself. It was time to start thinking of other things – of the work proper for the young maiden she already was, and the bride she would someday be.
But it was impossible not to be sad as she stood there in the giving-line, clutching Blueberry Lady in her anxious, sweaty hands. She hurried to memorize the soft beaded contours of that little woolen dress, the crinkle of the corn-husk body underneath, the slightly blurry blueberry-juice smile that Father had painted and repainted over the years. As the line moved forward, she frantically savored the little burned spot on the doll’s foot, where Irabei had once left her too close to the fire, and the cherry stain that had never quite come out of the back of her skirt, and the indentations of tiny toothmarks on her head, from when Irabei had teethed on her.
But it was still her turn far too soon. Irabei kept her posture straight and her face serious, striving to appear composed and mature as she followed her mother’s example: walking forward with solemn purpose, repeating the sacred words of gratitude, and setting her doll into the growing pile of gifts in the pit before the dead man.
He was naked, of course, sitting cross-legged in a great pile of wildflowers – violet harebells, scarlet paintbrushes, and white nodding onions. He had been positioned to lay forward over his lap, his freshly-washed, brushed hair flowing freely down his back, still kinked from having been plaited. He had his arms out and upturned in the ashet, and as she caught side of the twin slashes across his wrists, one cutting through the mark of the atodak to show the end of his service, Irabei was at once fascinated and frightened – and glad she couldn’t see his face.
It was still hard to leave Blueberry Lady there with the body of a stranger. But Irabei understood that this was a different, more special kind of funeral. The man had willingly given up his life in service to the a’Krah people – and so each of the people would give up something for him.
She tried to keep her mind on that as she filed past him and took a seat with her family on the grass beyond. Later there would be a great feast, with dancing and smoking and gossip. For now, everyone was silent, save for the repeating of the ritual words, and the occasional shriek and babble of the babies.
So as the air cooled and the sun set, Irabei watched the gift-pit fill with offerings from the twin streams of people filing past the body: tools and weapons and intricate carvings from the men’s line; pottery and clothing and beautiful jewelry from the women’s. The lines crossed just once, when Yeh’ne and Suitak met before the dead man. Her face was haggard and swollen from crying, but she betrayed no other feeling as she traded her new baby for her husband’s knife, cut off her hair with one sharp sawing motion – Irabei gasped to see it – and tossed her braid into the hole. Then she cut a tiny lock of the baby’s hair and bent to set it in the dead man’s open hand. Suitak threw in the knife, returned his cradleboarded child to her mother, and then the three of them went into the crowd together.
Irabei had heard that the dead man was Yeh’ne’s brother. She knew for a fact that their family’s house had been eaten by the sinkhole. And although none of the adults seemed to have a straight answer, the story circulating among the children of Atali’Krah was that the man had died fighting the giant horse-monster who had come to wreck the city. Irabei’s one glimpse of that terrible creature had been more than enough to convince her that the atodak had earned his hero’s funeral.
So she inwardly thanked him for his service, and tried not to think about Blueberry Lady as To’taka Marhuk came forward to light the fire.
There would be talk about that tonight. A shame that a man had died so selflessly, and so young – a travesty that his own marka did not even attend his funeral. As the people rose to their feet, a single sideways glance at Yeh’ne’s frozen, hollow stare told Irabei everything she needed to know.
There wasn’t much she could do about that. But as the fire kindled to life, and the people began to sing the grieving song, she clutched her mother’s hand, and tried to make up for it by adding her voice as tuneful and beautifully as she could.
In the
springtime of happiness, you were with us
In the summer of toil, you were with us
In the autumn of plenty, you were with us
In the winter of grief, you left us
The twilight air soon filled with sweet pine smoke as fire spread through the stacked wood under the gifts, the heat making a shimmering mirage of the great stone Giving Hands beyond. They had been damaged in the earthquake – two of the fingertips had broken away, and there was a crack running up through the left wrist. But the Eldest had inspected and declared it still sound in spite of that, and now – for the first time since Irabei’s family had been called to Atali’Krah – the ancient supplicating hands would lift up an offering.
In the springtime of your memory, we honor you
In the summer of your house, we sustain you
In the autumn of your people, we follow you
In the winter of the world, we will join you
The fire leapt up brighter, making odd smells as it began to eat the gifts, and Irabei’s eyes watered as much from the smoke as from the thought of her doll burning up.
But then there was a disturbance, a parting of the assembly as someone new came forward. Irabei stretched and ducked, trying to see between the forest of arms and bodies, even as discordant whispers snuck through the air behind her.
“Who is that?”
“Surely it’s not –”
“He wouldn’t dare.”
Irabei didn’t recognize the new man, or have any idea how he could be so brazen. He wasn’t one of the Marhuka, because he wore no holy cloak, and he wasn’t one of the people, because he’d brought no gift, and he wasn’t the dead man’s missing marka, because that disgraceful truant was a child, and Irabei understood at her first glimpse that the person striding towards To’taka Marhuk was a man.
Not a very splendid one, to be sure. He was terribly frail, almost gaunt, and looked as if he hadn’t slept in a week. His clothes were rumpled and ill-fitting, and his plaits hung unevenly at his shoulders, as clumsy and lopsided as if he’d never braided his own hair before. But he moved with sober, single-minded purpose towards To’taka, leaving a ten-foot-wide swath of parted people behind him, their wary eyes meeting each other as the song faltered.
The man made the ashet. The fire burned brighter.
He spoke words that Irabei couldn’t hear. The parted people hesitated.
Then To’taka bowed to him, and stepped aside to let the new man lead the song.
Irabei had no idea what had just happened. She couldn’t begin to understand it. But one look at Yeh’ne’s solemn, uplifted face dissipated her doubts, and she was relieved to see the parted people close back in together, assuring the new man’s place among them as they sang with renewed vigor and harmony.
We will be with you as you leave us
We will be with you as you go
We will be with you as the nights grow long and lonely
We will keep you always with us
And as the new man held out his arms to harness the song, the power of the assembly flowed through him, shaped and wrought and focused to a single noble purpose. The body of the atodak rose gracefully, walked through the shimmering sacred smoke, and climbed up to rest in the great stone cradle of the Giving Hands – a hero of the a’Krah raised up in honor by the united, undying gratitude of his people.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE LONG WAY HOME
SOMETHING WAS SHOVING Elim’s shoulder.
“... UP, I said...”
And kicking his ribs.
“... you son of a...”
And slapping his face.
“... god damn you, if you don’t...”
And when he felt his head drop back down, his eyes snapped open all on their own – just in time to show him a livid, absolutely furious Sil Halfwick readying another strike.
“– you whoreson obstinate son of a bitch, GET UP!”
Elim’s first flinch jerked him the rest of the way into wakefulness – into a world of curses and beatings and confusion and such a deep god-awful malaise that he could just as easily have been back in Fours’ barn again, ruinously hung over and freshly made a murderer.
But he was here, lying on the ground at the root of a mountain in broad daylight, frantically mustering up the wherewithal to stave off the next blow. “Going,” he grunted, his voice as thick as winter mud. “I’m going – just wait a tick...”
“Good,” came the acid reply. “Then you’ll have no difficulty catching up.” Sil rose and left without so much as a backwards glance, his boot-heels rapping a receding tattoo as he stalked off down the rocky trail and disappeared.
Which left Elim to push himself blearily up to a sit there in the middle of a pleasant mountain morning, the sun shining, the birds singing as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and wondered what the hell had just happened.
UNFORTUNATELY, HE GOT no closer to finding out. Sil just kept on like that, walking a quarter or a half or even a whole mile ahead, and he didn’t stop for anything.
Which left Elim limping on behind, doing his bare-footed best to keep up. He followed along all that day as the foothills leveled back out into miles of rolling, scrubby red-brown earth. He followed across the bridge that spanned the great river, its endless gray-green rush trapping a fishman’s bloated body in the hollow of a rocky spit. He followed down the wide, broken highway, marveling at how the vast fire-blackened wastelands to the south were already sprouting with tiny green shoots of new life.
Elim would have liked to stop and see more of that. He would have liked to try and find the remains of their wagon, or the dug-out little ditch where he and the Sundowners had survived the night by the toasted skin of their teeth. He would have liked to pause there and picnic with someone, just sit back and savor the new hints of greenness together.
But his native friends were all gone – dead or sick or just plain wrecked – and as for Sil...
Elim had no idea what had happened to the kindly fellow who had helped him down from the mountain yesterday, or even to the garden-variety irritable one he’d traveled with on the way out from Hell’s Acre. All he could think of was what he’d said on that last morning they’d spent together – about how the two of them were cursed men, and nothing was going to get better for either of them until they hiked up that mountain and dealt with it.
Elim thought he had gotten clear of his curse. Maybe Sil was still working on his.
He would have asked about that, if the sour-faced son of a bitch would slow down long enough to let him. As it was, all Elim could do was try not to let the distance between them get any wider – and when it was getting dark and he couldn’t keep up any more, Elim hollered ahead at his partner one last time.
“Sil, you bastard – stop! Just stop, will you!”
But he was so far ahead – hardly more than a black blot on the darkening horizon – that Elim couldn’t tell if he’d even heard, never mind listened.
Not that he could do anything about it, regardless. After days of pushing himself past his limits and smashing through all manner of new ones, Elim was spent, wrung out – just hopelessly stove in. His last act was to walk a little ways off the road, flop down, and pass out in the dim hope that tomorrow wouldn’t find him waking up alone.
PROGRESS WAS SLOW, to say the least.
U’ru could only carry them at night, and Hakai couldn’t sit a horse, nevermind walk, and Shea had to rest in water.
But as they came down the mountain, Shea was glad to see that the last of the Many – Bombé, as it turned out – had decided that yes, in spite of everything, it wanted to go home. And U’ru, who was never so happy as when she had her arms full of babies, was perfectly delighted to add one more puppy to her pile.
So they took the long way back to Island Town, following the All-Year River north and then east to Limestone Lake, where Shea was irrationally disappointed not to find any trace of Henry Bon. As one-night stands went, he had been a good one.
&nbs
p; But after they made it across the great dry stretch from Limestone Lake to the Calentito River, and sent Bombé off to start the long swim home, Shea and U’ru were left with just their two human charges, neither of whom were much for company. Hakai was coming back an inch at a time, and all Día wanted to do was sleep.
So the mother and the mereau sat together by the riverbank as the sunset made warm, bright ripples in the current, watching their fosterlings enjoy a few last restful minutes before it was time to move again.
Don’t fret, Water-Dog. She will feel better.
To Shea’s unfocused eyes, Día was a black shape on the ground, curling around Hakai’s muddy gray-brown. Like a weanling puppy with a hot water bottle, his peculiar sleep-terrors seemed to abate when he had someone else lying beside him – a comfort that Día had been glad to provide.
Of course, Shea answered. She hadn’t been able to get much out of Día herself, as every question yielded the same complaint: she was just tired, and wanted to go home. But U’ru had raised enough children to know a distressed worldview when she felt it. This had been Día’s first time leaving the nest, and if it had been more difficult than most... well, she was cloistered to begin with, and had probably seen more of the world in the past week than in all her nineteen years combined. It would have been a hard coming-of-age for anyone.
But you’re still sad, U’ru said. It was neither a question nor an accusation.
Shea glanced over at the Dog Lady’s soft features, and made no effort to deny it.
Of course she was sad. Sad to see Día so distressed, no matter how inevitable it was. Sad to know that Fours wouldn’t get his daughter back, at least not as she’d been before. More than anything, Shea was sorry that she couldn’t give her any real help or comfort – that she not only didn’t have the girl’s trust, but didn’t even know her well enough to understand what had gone so wrong.
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