Shards of History

by Rebecca Roland

  “The Jeguduns are not your enemies,” the exile said. “Outsiders—they call themselves Maddion—have dammed the river. They want us to attack them. Right now they can’t enter the valley, but once they have a Taakwa, they will be able to. Then they’ll kill any Taakwa who gets in their way and enslave the rest. I have proof contained in the Jegudun feathers hanging from my neck. If you simply hold onto them, you’ll see for yourselves.”

  “It’s Jegudun magic,” one of the men in the circle shouted. “There is a curse on those feathers. This exile is trying to snare us in Jegudun magic so we won’t fight the creatures.”

  Other voices rose in assent. The men shifted forward, as if to attack the exile.

  The clan father stepped between the exile and the crowd and raised his hands. “Step back, step back.”

  The men fell silent and moved back. Malia let out the breath she’d been holding.

  “You can’t spare this exile,” a man in the crowd said. “I know he was once your uncle, but he means to hurt us. He’s a Jegudun sympathizer.”

  “Yes,” said another man. “He should die.”

  Voices rose again in agreement like angry bees buzzing.

  “Quiet,” the clan father called out.

  The voices died immediately.

  The clan father turned to the exile for a moment, then returned his attention to the council. He clasped his hands behind his back and said, “It does seem as if this exile is a Jegudun sympathizer. As such, and given that he’s already an exile, I’m afraid I have no choice but to sentence him to execution.”

  Oh, no. Malia couldn’t wait any longer. She ran into the village center shouting, “Jeguduns! Jeguduns!” Inspired by the men’s council, she added, “They’re getting ready to attack us.”

  All eyes turned on her. Some of the men began running towards her. Behind them, the exile raised his arms, cut rope dangling from his wrists and a dagger glinting in one hand. The clan father stood before him, his back to the freed exile.

  Malia needed the exile to be free, but not at the expense of the clan father’s life. She opened her mouth to scream a warning.

  * * *

  Rasmus stood with his hands tied behind his back as the men’s council faced him. He felt like an injured rabbit caught in the midst of a pack of hungry coyotes, and leading them was his nephew Slawell. The bitter smell of their fear and hatred filled the air. This trip, him risking his life, had led to nothing.

  Then Slawell turned to him and winked just before facing the men’s council and announcing Rasmus’s execution.

  Rasmus kept his face carefully neutral even as his pulse raced. What was this about? Then Slawell clasped his hands behind his back and pointed to his dagger, hanging behind his back from a leather strap. Slawell meant for him to escape.

  Just as Slawell finished speaking, a young woman burst from an alley, waving her arms in the air and screaming about Jeguduns coming to attack. Rasmus took advantage of the men’s diverted attention to slip Slawell’s dagger free and slice through his bonds.

  Slawell kept his gaze forward as he spoke in a low voice only Rasmus could hear. “Knock me down. Keep the dagger. Get out of here.”

  Rasmus hesitated. He wanted the blow to look convincing, yet he didn’t want to hurt his nephew. The young woman’s eyes widened as she took in Rasmus’s raised arm, and she appeared about to yell something, maybe a warning to the other men. He brought his fist down on Slawell’s temple hard enough to leave a mark, but not hard enough to do harm.

  His nephew crumpled to the ground. “Go,” he hissed, then closed his eyes.

  Rasmus snatched one of the torches so he’d have a second weapon and sprinted to the nearest alley. Shouts echoed from all over the village. The men who had been running towards the young woman now raced after him. She turned and disappeared into the alley she’d come from.

  The men wouldn’t be able to catch him before he escaped the village, but several of them were much younger than he and could probably catch him before he reached the woods. And if they caught him, his nephew wouldn’t be able to save him a second time. He drove his legs to move faster until they burned. He zipped through the alley, the torch casting dancing shadow monsters all around, then burst into the open. He ran a few more steps, then turned to face the men following him.

  * * *

  Malia choked on her scream as the exile hit the clan father on the side of the head. It didn’t seem a particularly hard hit, but the young man fell to the ground. Then the exile grabbed a torch and ran to the nearest alley. Villagers shouted a warning to the men racing towards her. They immediately turned and ran after the exile except for one who went to the clan father.

  She whirled and shot out of the alley and towards the woods, her only thought to make sure the exile didn’t get away from her. Her feet hardly seemed to touch the ground as she raced along. Her travel bag slapped against her back with each step. When she reached the tree line, she spun around a trunk and looked behind her.

  The exile had his back to her as he faced the men pouring through the alley. Fool, you can’t fight them all. But he didn’t. Instead, he held the torch to the dried grass. Wide swatches of fire stood between him and the village. The flames took immediately, fed by the grass and stoked by the breeze. The men stood on the other side of the flames, shouting. Trotting backwards, the exile kept the torch to the ground, swinging it wide. Several of the men broke from the group and ran back to the village. The others split and fanned out to either side of the flames, apparently intent on following the exile.

  The exile flung the torch aside, then turned and ran for the woods. He, and all the answers he held, was about to escape. Malia couldn’t let him disappear. She ran after him.

  He reached the tree line and slowed as he ran straight up the slope. The fire wasn’t far behind, licking up grass as it headed for the wood, its angry crackles and hisses filling the air. Shouts echoed faintly from the village. Their homes would be safe, but not their crops. Malia winced at the thought of the villagers facing a food shortage.

  Two or three strides from the exile, Malia opened her mouth to call out to him. Before she could make a sound, he whirled, the dagger arcing towards her.

  Malia backpedaled, slipping in her haste. Her arms spun, trying to catch her balance, but she fell back. The dagger whistled through the air where her face had just been. She landed on her tailbone, her teeth clacking together at the impact.

  The exile’s eyes widened at the sight of her. “Who are you?”

  Malia’s mouth was suddenly too dry for her to form words.

  His gaze darted to her necklace then back to her face. “You’re … a clan mother?”

  The two feathers probably had him confused. She worked enough spit into her mouth to speak. “No. But I heard what you said about the Jeguduns and the Outsiders. I believe you.” Her hand went to Tuvin’s feather. “This one came from a friend.”

  Down the slope only fifty paces away, a tree cracked, flames rising from it like a huge torch. It cracked again, then fell with a crash. The fire engulfed trees and brush. Smoke rose in a swirl, dancing as the wind tugged at it. The glowing wall of fire marched up the slope.

  “We have to move,” Malia said.

  The exile held out a hand. She grasped it, and he pulled her to her feet. Then he tugged her up the slope.

  Malia dug in her heels. After the Selu fire, the women’s council—and the fire’s survivors—had made sure everybody knew exactly what to do in case they were caught in the same situation. “No, we have to go this way,” she said as she pointed north, parallel to the fire. The exile opened his mouth to protest. Malia quickly spoke over him. “Trust me.” A strange sensation had settled over her. She felt like two people simultaneously, one panicked and wanting to run mindlessly, the other strangely calm, thinking through the problem.

  He nodded and let her lead them north. They had a chance to reach the outer edges of the fire. It would travel up the slope faster than it would expand s
ideways.

  To their right, the fire roared and howled like an angry beast. It was maybe forty paces away now and closing in. Smoke began to drift across Malia’s vision. The acrid smell of the fire grew heavy, and the air was hot.

  In front of them, a deer burst into their path. One eye, the whites showing all around, focused on them for a moment. Then it dashed down the slope. It hesitated at the fire’s edge. The hesitation was enough for the fire to lash out and engulf the deer. It screamed, the sound strangely deep and guttural.

  Malia’s legs began to burn with fatigue. Still, she pushed on, propelling her and the exile forward as fast as she could.

  They raced through a clearing, the fire thirty paces away now. They would be free of it before it swept across the slope. The pain in Malia’s legs eased, and renewed vigor filled her. They would actually escape.

  Out of the haze before them appeared five men from the village. They stood in a line, spread along the slope, blocking their escape. All five aimed their bows at Malia and the exile.

  Malia could hardly believe what she was seeing. She blinked rapidly. No, they were so close to safety! She came to a halt, staring at the men. Death by arrow, or by fire? And if the arrow didn’t kill her, then she would at least be too injured to move and the fire would catch her anyway. Or maybe this hopelessness would crush her where she stood before an arrow or flames reached her.

  The exile yanked on her arm, dragging her back as the five men released their arrows. One landed in the ground beside Malia’s foot. She stumbled after the exile. A searing pain traced a line along her thigh. For a moment she thought the fire had lashed out at her as it had at the deer. But her skirt was torn, and blood trickled down her leg. An arrow had grazed her. She half limped, half ran after the exile.

  The villagers didn’t follow. They didn’t need to. The fire would finish what they had started.

  They couldn’t run the other direction. They didn’t have enough time. And at the pace the fire ate its way up the slope, it would catch them before they could escape that way.

  Malia’s thoughts spun crazily. She was about to burn to death. This wasn’t how she had pictured her life ending. She had imagined living to a satisfying old age and choosing the day she died, as many of her elders had done before her. Now, nobody would even know she had died.

  The exile spun her to face him. She swayed, her head growing light. She hadn’t lost that much blood, had she?

  “What now?” the exile said, desperation in his voice.

  He was relying on her. She steadied herself and nodded. The Selu women trapped in the fire had survived. So could she and this exile.

  They stood in a clearing about ten paces across. It would have to do.

  “Get that deadfall away from here,” Malia said, pointing at a dead tree that lay across the clearing. She coughed on the last word. Smoke thickened the air. Her throat and lungs began to burn as if the fire itself touched them. They had only moments.

  The exile lifted one end of the trunk and started dragging it out of the clearing. Malia fell to her knees in the center of the clearing and began scooping out handfuls of dirt and dried grass, tossing them aside, forming a shallow trench free of fuel for the fire.

  Hot air swirled around Malia. Sweat poured down her face and back and arms. She glanced at the fire, and found it nearly to the edge of the clearing and approaching fast. The air glowed red. She had trouble drawing a breath. Her eyes stung from the smoke, and tears began rolling down her cheeks.

  “Get over here!” she shouted, striving to make her voice heard above the fire’s roar.

  The exile fell to his knees beside her. The deadfall was out of the clearing.

  “Lie flat, face to the ground, and don’t move,” Malia said.

  She dumped the contents of her travel bag on the ground and laid on top of them, making herself as flat as possible. She pulled the empty bag over her hair, tucking the edges in as best she could, then pressed her arms to her sides. The exile lay beside her, leg to leg, arm to arm. Malia wormed her arm over his and grasped his hand, threading her fingers through his. He gave her hand a quick squeeze.

  The fire roared over them, at them. Wind and heat pummeled Malia’s back. She shut her eyes and kept them closed tight. She imagined herself melting into the ground, becoming dirt, so flat the fire would leap over her and leave her be.

  The narrow pocket of air just above the ground was clean and cool. It smelled of earth and Malia’s own sweat, and beneath that, the acrid smell of smoke which clung to Malia’s skin and hair and clothes.

  She started to tremble. The fire growled like a bear. It wanted to bat her around and bruise her body. She expected claws to tear hot streaks in her back, the fire to rip her apart, to devour her. She let out a sob, the trembling growing stronger. She fought the urge to leap to her feet and run.

  Then the exile squeezed her hand again. He spoke, his voice barely audible over the angry spitting of the fire.

  “It’s almost past,” he said. “Hold on.”

  She tightened her grip on his hand until it hurt.

  He said, “What’s your name?”

  Keeping her eyes closed, she turned her face slightly towards him. “Malia.”

  “I’m Rasmus.”

  Somehow this soothed Malia, knowing his name. No longer did she wait out the fire with a stranger. She waited with Rasmus. She repeated his name to herself several times.

  The sound and the heat abated. Malia’s trembling eased with it. She remained still until she was sure the fire had roared past them. Slowly, she opened her eyes and turned her head.

  Ash rained down around them. The trees down slope were blackened, as was the ground where the fire had touched tufts of dried grass. Malia rose to her elbows and looked up the slope.

  The fire burned about twenty paces past the clearing, a glowing wall of red and orange. A few small flames licked at the base of burnt trees. The air reeked of smoke and burnt fir.

  Malia sat up and pulled the empty bag off her head. She patted her hair, probed at her scalp. Some strands had come loose and were singed, but otherwise her hair remained untouched by the fire. In fact, her body remained untouched by the fire. And yet, like the pottery she fired in kilns, something about her had changed forever. I’ve cheated death twice. Once when she was ill, and just now. How many times had she left?

  Chapter 11

  Malia climbed to her feet, wiping debris off her skirt and managing to smear some ash into the cloth instead. She didn’t want to look at the arrow wound, but she pulled her skirt up.

  Ash and dirt lay among torn, red flesh. The bleeding had slowed to a trickle. She probed gently at the wound’s edges, sucking in a sharp breath at renewed pain.

  Rasmus squatted beside her, his brow furrowed. “That needs to be cleaned.” He grabbed the hem of his pants and ripped a strip from them. Then he tied the strip over the wound.

  Malia bit her lower lip to keep from making a sound as the pain flared.

  “We should go,” he said.

  “Agreed.” She brushed dirt from the food, tossed it back into the bag, then shouldered it.

  Rasmus helped her to her feet and they started north at a steady pace. Malia wasn’t sure how long she’d be able to walk. Her leg throbbed, growing worse as they went along.

  Rasmus walked a half pace behind her, the usual spot for a man deferring to a woman. Interesting that his time in exile hadn’t erased that habit. Maybe he also wanted to be in position to catch her in case she stumbled.

  The fire quickly faded to their left as it raced up the slope. Now that the fire had passed, the woods were still and quiet. The trees held no leaves to rustle in the breeze. No animals moved through here. There was only the soft fall of Malia and Rasmus’s footsteps and their breathing.

  As they neared the end of the burnt area, Rasmus said, “Wait. Let’s make sure they’re gone.”

  Faint shouts from the direction of the village came to Malia. “They’ve probably gone back to
save the crops.”

  Rasmus winced. “It was never my intention to put their food source in danger.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re probably right. They’ve gone back to the village. At any rate, they’re not here.”

  They continued on. Malia found it a relief to be in the part of the forest untouched by fire. Still, the stench of it clung to her skin, hair, and clothes. She yearned for a bath. She would scrub her hair with soap, twice, and her skin, twice. Lavender soap would be nice. A deep pool with warm water would be so very nice.

  “How far do you think you can walk tonight?” Rasmus asked, startling her from her bath-related dreams. The smoke had further roughened his voice.

  Malia’s own throat hurt in response to the rasp of his voice. Although fatigue and pain had settled in her body, her mind zipped along with no signs of quieting any time soon. “I can walk a ways.” She hoped.

  “Good. We should put as much distance between us and them as possible.”

  “I heard you, back in the village, when you were talking to the men.” Her hand went to the feathers at her neck. “I believe you about the Jeguduns.”

  “You mentioned one was your friend.” He fell silent for a moment. “Where are you from?”

  “Selu. It’s south of here.”

  “Hmm.” Rasmus said nothing for a while, then, “And where did the other feather come from?”

  “I am … I was training to be my village’s next clan mother. But now—” She shrugged and pretended to study the fir trees to her left so Rasmus couldn’t see her fight to keep tears from falling. All that was over now. Dalibor had taken more than Tuvin from her. When her chin’s trembling stopped, she turned forward.

  “How did you come by your friend’s feather?” he asked.

  Her fingers twirled Tuvin’s feather. She had to remind herself that this man held Jegudun feathers of his own. He knew them. He would understand whatever she said.

  She didn’t think often of her father. He’d died shortly after Vedran was born, and her memories of him were wispy and faded. He’d been a serious man, like Rasmus, and large, also like Rasmus. But he’d been quick to comfort her whenever she’d fallen and scraped her knees or one time when a bee had stung her. That similarity, more than Rasmus’s ties with the Jeguduns, encouraged her to tell her story.