Blood Indigo

by Talulah J. Sullivan

  “—what answered was neither what she nor Brother Moon expected. Sometime, wandering solitary is goodness, but it also can attract trouble…” The storyKeeper’s voice trailed to a hum. The drums followed, still whisper silent.

  Another tug to Anahli’s blanket, this one fierce. She started to shift out of Chogah’s reach, turned.

  But Chogah was gone. Instead Madoc stood next to her, still tugging.

  Have you yet seen Tokela? he signed. He’s not been here all thisSun.

  Anahli tucked her chin sideways in negation. As Madoc’s mouth opened as if to protest; Anahli laid two fingers there and pursed her lips towards the storyKeeper.

  Sure enough, the drums began to speak deeper, sonorous warning.

  “Ai!” The storyKeeper’s exclamation started low, throbbed up into a raptor’s cry, wavered away. “Ai,” she said again, soft, echoed by many throats. “Ai, my People, and with that answer came Other. With the coming of Brother Moon’s longed-for company came Other. With the birthing and Fire came Ša’s siblings. And with them…” She waited.

  “Came Other!” It drifted like a sigh through her listeners. Anahli closed her eyes beneath the power of it.

  Chogah was right. It wasn’t told this way in duskLands’ caverns. But neither did it have to be, no more than Anahli’s heart had to agree with Chogah’s. Or her dam’s. Or her sire’s.

  “You know of what I speak, my People. We remember. We shall always remember and never forget. When Stars answered the Beloved One’s call, they brought forth not just one, but two small companions for our Brother’s loneliness. And in the doing, Stars also brought the tall ones. Not the tall ones from across Sea, not Matwau, who are unlike yet like to us save in their hearts, which covet Grandmother’s bounty. Remember and never forget the outland ones unlike any we’d ever seen or known: milk-grey, their hides; sparked pale as polished silver, their eyes. All the hues of Other. Ones that, it is said, looked nothing like to any beings even on Grandmother’s belly. Remember! They came with our Moon’s siblings and, once stranded, Shaped themselves to swarm over our Land, to twist Her and make Her theirs. Remember, my People, and never forget.”

  “We remember!” an elder called, and it was echoed by many throats against the shadow-laced cliffs, as the storyKeeper’s eyes blazed.

  “They came into our Land.” She stood, spun in a whirl of bright-hued skirts and scarves and finery, in a thunder of drums. “We made the Dance. We drove them away.”

  Drove them away because we could. Then. Anahli’s thoughts etched like Fire against Dark. Because we were Grandmother’s children, with Her, able to defend Her. We truly were Alekšu’ín. Not reduced to a few charlatans whose only service is to hide in shadows and purge their own.

  “We Danced. We chased the Shapers into the forbidden places, held them to a truce. Held our own to account for what our Grandmother suffered beneath the Winnowing brought to Her.”

  Across the gathering, Anahla saw Inhya. Her eyes gleamed, darksight flickers from shadows and…

  Something else. Something… culpable?

  What blame could hearth-chieftain a’Naisgwyr lay upon herself?

  Just as Inhya met her gaze, Anahli looked away, found Madoc still beside her, swaying and caught up in the storyKeeper’s spell. The drums, winding up as their storyKeeper spun and sang, stopped as she halted, holding up a fist.

  She opened it. A handful of stonetree berries fell, bouncing and rolling across the ground.

  “Ahhh,” the gathering answered, including Madoc, and Inhya—though the latter seemed more rote than real. Aylaniś had moved to stand beside her, speaking low. Palatan was not there—likely away with Našobok, Anahli thought with a roll of eyes. Then Aylaniś found Anahli, gaze narrowing.

  Where have you been, first daughter?

  I’m here now. Anahli looked away.

  “And as did stonetree standingKin scatter ša’s berries upon Wind and Earth, so did we. Some of our People wandered far and wide, with only the Broken Stave and our animalKin to guide us. Some of us stayed put, to better guard our ways and places, while others wandered so far as to nevermore gather in First Running. We honour those with us, and those away from us. All of our People, scattered seeds across Grandmother’s belly, to grow and protect Her as She grows and protects us.”

  The storyKeeper dropped her arms. The drums started again, booming against the cliffs.

  “Dance, my People! Dance dreams, Dance memory, Dance all the tomorrows, in this Land of Dawn’s first glance!”

  Silence after she had finished, then voices lifting joyously into the dark: open and noisy appreciation for the storyKeeper’s art, all making welcome to the festival of First Running.

  “Kammalo has the finest stories!” A whoop from Madoc made Anahli jump; she’d forgotten he was there.

  “She is a fine storyKeeper indeed.”

  An impromptu gambol was starting around the drums: children skipping, others circling, open dancing for all upon thisdark.

  “I bet you won’t dance with me. You’re oških.” Madoc spun the last word out, altogether close to mocking.

  “If ever I would, the way you ask ensures I won’t.”

  “Tokela would dance with me.”

  “Ahlóssa of one idea, aren’t you?”

  “Hah?” Madoc’s eyebrows did their own gambol.

  “Tokela, Tokela.” Anahli pitched her voice high as Madoc’s, and a’io, with that distinct whinge along its edge. “Surely Tokela’s oških himself, above dancing with whingy ahlóssa.”

  “Take that back! I tell you he’s not!”

  Blinking at the overreaction, Anahli held up her hands and started to turn away.

  “Anahli. I missed greeting you earlier.” A hint of reproof slid through Inhya’s voice; enough to halt Anahli and turn her.

  Just beyond Inhya stood Aylaniś, expressionless, her powerful arms crossed.

  “Ah.” Inhya placed a light hand on Anahli’s arm, stroked the gifted blanket’s nap. “I see someone has made welcome for you already. Then let me have the honour of taking you to your new den. See, even now the other oških retire to their places.”

  True enough. First Running’s firstdark catered to little ones and elders; for oških it meant time to share tales, gain new playmates, polish and preen finery for the upcoming games and Dances. Anahli slid her eyes to her dam.

  “I will see you nextSun,” Aylaniś said, quiet. “Našobok is here.”

  “Of course,” Anahli replied, just as soft. No matter that he thinks of you—of all of us!—as less than nothing, ones to be left behind… yet you and Dada both jump like beckoned fleethounds when he does bother to appear!

  Aylaniś seemed to ken the thought as if spoken, started to protest. Instead she swallowed the breath and turned away.

  And for half a heartbeat, Anahli wanted to follow. Cling to her dam as if she were still ahlóssa. Go with her, see…

  “Come along.” Inhya’s tone brooked no nonsense. It was easy to obey, take the extended hand and meet her hearther’s eyes with a nod.

  “Aška?” Madoc was still there, still the ahlóssa of one idea. “Tokela’s nowhere to be found.”

  That hint of strange and culpable… ai, it was altogether close to grief, which trembled the strong hand in Anahli’s and lingered in Inhya’s bodytalk.

  “No doubt he’ll return by Sun’s rising. Until then?” Inhya slid her chin towards the drums and the other children.

  Madoc might be game for many challenges, but not this one. He gave a dramatic sigh and sauntered away.

  SO MUCH better, that Anahli would be taking the Spawn’s place.

  The drums still spoke to the dark and what elders remained, telling soft tales about Fire’s lingering grace. The ahlóssa had been herded some time ago to the sleeping dens.

  Yet Madoc lay wakeful therein, trying not to look at Tokela’s very empty bedshelf. Trying, and failing. The light of Brother Moon and His siblings angled down from the high window near to the curve
d ceiling, and set full relief across where Tokela usually slept, spilling over the rest of the slumbering inhabitants of the ahlóssa den.

  The Spawn’s place was also empty—and for other reasons than normal. In this much Madoc had cause to celebrate; he wasn’t on the bedshelf edge with the Spawn’s toes nigh in his tail-split. For even when he shoved back, the Spawn would just end up there again. Even if Madoc complained to his dam, she would smirk and shrug and tell him he was perfectly capable of moving to another place. To remember his cousin was little, and from duskLands where families slept together in wide and well-bedded hollows.

  For thisdark at least, Madoc’s shelf was his own again, and the Spawn with his family. Fine, it was an ugly name, so Madoc wouldn’t use it aloud. At least, not to Anahli, who was much more interesting than her Spawn-y little brother.

  Madoc craned his neck to eye Tokela’s bedshelf yet again, as if its occupant might have snuck in whilst none was looking, then tried to calculate how long before the next adult passed by. Likely a while, since when Inhya had last come in, everyone had been asleep. Except Madoc, who had just pretended.

  His dam’s eyes had glowed, faint, as they’d swept the den then lingered upon Tokela’s bedshelf. Then she’d sighed, dropped the hide back across the doorway, and retreated down the hallway tunnel.

  Perhaps, Madoc considered, he should go hunt for Tokela. Or… since he was the eldest here, in this heartbeat, perhaps he should take his rights and seat himself in the window ledge. Look for Tokela that way. Always a challenge amongst the eldest of them, to shinny the wall and find the tiniest of footholds in the smooth stones, to sit triumphant and watch Moons and Stars skim across Sky… or, more often, clouds scudder and spill Rain across Grandmother’s ever-changing skin.

  Some say Grandmother was first amongst ones to walk both Earth and Sea, and we are her young, laid upon every beach…

  How many times had Tokela sat up there and told stories? Forbidden to sketch, what talk he’d rather express with graphite stub and nimble fingers instead crowded on his tongue, filled him with stories gleaned from the storyKeepers. And all the while his fingers would twitch, as if they longed to visualise what Danced behind his eyes.

  Madoc rose and padded over to the wall, started to climb. It was not easy, but neither was it impossible. Madoc took longer than he liked, but finally settled into the curved stone with a triumphant prop of feet opposite.

  His entire world lay at his feet: inner compound spreading out, a little valley bearing lodges and paths, the latter which disappeared into the upwards curves and bluffs. That swell of stone and thatch dawnward led to the tribal cooking pits. Several dogs slept along the well-swept pathways, one with several fowl roosted on ša’s hindquarters. The council den entrance, where the gnarled and ancient wyrh tree twins stood sentinel, culminating the path begun at the great entry facing River. Farther back, half settled into the curve and just past the stair leading up to Talking Bluff, hunched the den for the oških males. It might as well have been on little bronze Moon’s darker face for all Madoc was allowed to know—which merely made it all the more fascinating.

  Everyone had their own place, but the oških dens were their own world.

  The oških fems had their own den, of course—on the other side of the compound—but Madoc spared little more than a fleeting thought for them. They’d nothing to do with him, other than several who did their duties by the cookFires and liked to make his favourites: fish sides charred crisp, and fried sourberry cakes with thick cream. He’d plenty of ahlóssa companions who were fem, of course, but they turned into something else, somehow, when they went into the oških dens. Something powerful, and somewhat chancy. Fems didn’t have to hunt the fullness of their Changing; Grandmother had long ago bestowed life in them, to shed and gather in their own being. Whilst males had to track their Journey, chase and wrest the Changing into life.

  Or so his dam always said.

  Maybe Anahli would explain it to him. She didn’t seem so mysterious, after all. Less fem and more male, as if she were one of those who were of Changing Spirit. And much less the cipher than Tokela, who grew more puzzling with every Sun’s rising.

  Madoc glared at the oških den, wishing with all his heart Tokela wouldn’t go there, not yet, just stay with Madoc for a while longer. Then maybe, just maybe, if Madoc gave avid chase, he could wrest his own Changing into being. Catch up, so he and Tokela could walk their path and enter, together, that hostile place of separation, of change.

  Madoc rested his head against the curved sill, looked up to the crown of Talking Bluff. Perhaps he would see Tokela return.

  If he returned by that path.

  If he returned thisdark.

  5 – Into outLands

  “Go on!”

  “Another, Tokela! Another!”

  “There is nothing more to tell thisSun.”

  A collective groan from the small clutch of ahlóssa.

  “But, Tokela—stories never end!”

  “Grandmother! Tell us of Grandmother!”

  “Surely you all know who Grandmother is,” Tokela says, half tease and half chide.

  “We want to hear it again!”

  “Well. Grandmother. She is dam to all who traverse Sky and Sea, Earth and Flame and Spirit. We are her young, laid upon every beach. This is why we are, every tribe, every Clan, a’Khoweh’skaanumeki, Her firstPeople. ThisLand is Her, from her rump to her strong jaw; from one toe in marshLands to the opposite in iceLand mountains. Her bones and Spirit make us, body and blood…”

  Blood.

  His own, and that of something else… touching him, rank-smelling, and cold, and… large?

  Consciousness took Tokela with a sickening crash of senses. Sick-sweet upon his nostrils. Bark abrading his cheek. A hum, and a shadow crouched on the tree limb above him, bent with knife in hand…

  Tokela exploded into action. He twisted, kicked out. His foot impacted with something soft; he twisted again, clutched at tree bark, then air.

  Dropped like a stone.

  He hit, rolled, landed sprawled on his back and whacked his head against gnarled roots. It took a few attempts to breathe, let alone chase the sparks and shadows from his gaze.

  It was then he saw the Chepiś, still perched in the bow tree. The Chepiś had, it seemed, climbed to cut him free.

  Instinct demanded Tokela bolt up. Flee. His body, however, flat refused the order, limp and heavy as a weir full of water and sodden pulpwood. Even Wind denied his lungs full service, leaving only an emptiness thumping, painful, beneath his sternum.

  The Chepiś swung down from the bow tree; the same distance that had flattened Tokela was, for it, a mere hop. Worse, the Chepiś was holding Tokela’s copper knife.

  Tokela tried to lurch sideways. Tried to lever up to his elbows, to scoot backwards, anything.

  Failed miserably, again.

  Instead Wind filled his lungs in a sick-making, sudden rush. Tokela could finally move—and that merely to roll over just in time to vomit up everything not in his stomach.

  For some time he lay there, heaving and shuddering and mostly not there, and long enough for anything to have killed him thrice over and perhaps skinned him as well. Once he stopped heaving, he once more felt those chill, oversize hands pawing at him, pulling…

  Pulling him upright?

  A coppery glint beckoned from the corner of blurry notice. He fixed on it: his knife, placed next to him, and the only security in a world gone suddenly maddened as the Chepiś tried to pick him up. Tokela couldn’t stop shaking. He managed to drag his feet beneath him as the Chepiś started to turn him about. It knelt as it held him, its small, round eyes tinged with what might have been concern but seemed more consideration. Tokela refused to wonder; instead he wrested sideways, nearly toppled but at the last saved it, and snatched up his knife, backing away.

  Speaking its gibberish, the Chepiś reached for him. Tokela struck out, felt the knife make contact, didn’t wait to see if he’d done damage
but turned to run.

  Instead he went face-first into an immovable tower of cloth and something burning-hard.

  Tokela hissed, shoved back to find his eyes level with a filigreed metal clasp and a hide belt cinched about a blood-coloured tunic. Swallowing hard, he followed the line of tunic downward, to knee-high boots big enough to swim in. With another, nauseated swallow, he ran his eyes back up that fancy tunic. And up.

  It was one thing to know Chepiś were too tall. It was another entirely to be faced off against it.

  The second Chepiś raised its hands, thin fingers splayed. It might have meant it was weaponless, or surprised. Either way, Tokela was not about to assume it meant him no harm. Hide pallid as the first one, this one’s hair was dark, tied into a tail of tight, crisp waves. It made more of the unintelligible, flat talk. Tokela raised his knife, kept backing.

  A large grip enveloped his own, yanked his knife hand upward and held Tokela nigh onto his bare toes. And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

  Meanwhile the first Chepiś was speaking again, in the awkward way that Tokela could somewhat decipher. “It but scratched me. Moreover, the tunic is old. I wondered what could escape a pack of shigala—and would dare to stand them down, it would seem. But the little one is damaged, and those beasts have been too patient for their meal. See to it, Vox, since we have taken their catch.”

  The Chepiś standing before Tokela looked down at him with cool, flat eyes as another figure stepped into view. Broader, more muscular, a dusky shadow amidst the moon-pale Chepiś. Slowly, the Matwau drew a long knife.

  What nerve normally ran obsidian along his veins thoroughly deserted Tokela, leaving nothing more than the names with which that Matwau would dismiss their kind: little grubby animal, primitive, sgralka, painted dwarfling. Savage.

  Tokela’s eyes rolled up into his head, and the poisoned dark once more enveloped him, toppled him into its embrace.

  Shards.

  Bright-hot in darkness, flashes spreading, reaching; tendrils of light sparking within his skull, behind his eyes and down to his heart.