Ever

by Gail Carson Levine

  He may know what needs to be done better than Ursag. I say, “Kezi—”

  “I . . . will . . . go . . . to her.”

  “Why? Wait!” The sight of him will frighten her. But Puru has vanished. Although I jump on my swift wind, I can never catch up, because Puru’s travel is instantaneous. As I skim off Enshi Rock, I look down to see her. There she is, on the stream bank, still alone. Puru must have gone somewhere else first. Perhaps I can reach her before he does.

  My swift wind carries me into a thundercloud, as it has many times. I’ll be beyond the cloud in a moment. But the cloud changes into a swarm of bees. How could it?

  Although I flail my arms, the bees stay with me, buzzing and stinging. I’ve been stung before, but not like this. I close my eyes to protect my eyeballs. My wind carries the bees with me. I summon my whisking wind, but it can’t whisk them free.

  My skin burns, tightens, presses in on me. I am as squeezed and swollen as a blister. I scream. My howling wind joins in, the yowl streaming behind me but not drowning out the furious bees.

  The buzzing and stinging stop. I squint down at myself between bloated eyelids. My throat is raw from screaming. The bees are growing, flattening, changing—

  Into spiders! Hundreds of spiders! I swipe at them, but they cling. My whisking wind fails again. The spiders are spinning thick webs across me. My voice is silenced as threads cross my mouth.

  In my terror, I lose command of my swift wind. I’m spiraling I don’t know where.

  36

  KEZI

  NIGHT FALLS. I SIT on the stream bank, knees drawn up to my chest for warmth. Olus’s stalwart wind surrounds me, although there seems to be no danger. After a while I curl on my side, listen to the water, and close my mind to the future.

  Birdsong wakes me. The call of one bird is twee-tee-twit, sounding in my ears like twenty-six twenty-six twenty-six, over and over, numbering my remaining days.

  Olus should have returned by now.

  The sun has warmed me. I drink from the icy stream. My teeth ache, but the water is delicious. A breeze rustles through the canopy of leaves in the woods behind me. Olus’s breeze. I wonder if he sent it to tell me he’s on his way. His stalwart wind still curls around me. I know by the roses.

  I’m hungry. A few yards downstream is a plum tree loaded with fruit. Pushing worry away—about Olus, about me—I dance to the tree. When I shake the trunk, breakfast rains down. I crouch and collect plums in the lap of my tunic.

  The stream parts around a wide flat rock. Holding my tunic out, I step stones to reach it. On the rock I sit and eat, dropping pits in the water. When I’m finished, I take Olus’s ball of wool out of my waist sack. I wind one end a few turns around my finger.

  The birdsong ceases.

  “Kezi . . .”

  I jump up. Olus’s wool falls into the stream and is carried away.

  A man wrapped in orange linen stands under the plum tree. Is he a man or only man shaped? Is there flesh under the cloth?

  Olus’s stalwart wind should take me out of danger, but it does nothing.

  “I . . . won’t . . . hurt . . . you.”

  If a desert could speak, it would have his voice.

  Might this be Admat, the cloth covering his invisibility?

  Toes and the top of a sandal peep out from under the lowest linen strip. Five ordinary-seeming toes and toenails give me enough confidence to stammer, “W-who are y-you?” I bow my head, then raise it to watch him.

  “I’ve . . . come . . . to . . . help you find your destiny. Perhaps you can become a heroine.”

  His accent is the same as Olus’s. I hear helb and berhabs.

  “I . . . am . . . Puru. . . .”

  Buru is probably Puru. I wonder if he’s another Akkan god or a true masma, an evil one, making himself sound Akkan. I hop stones to the opposite bank. “Did the god of the winds send you?”

  “The . . . god . . . of . . . fate does no one’s bidding.” He vanishes and reappears at my side.

  Aa! I back away. A branch cracks under my foot.

  He advances.

  “Olus will return soon,” I say. And blow you away.

  A raspy chuckle. “Not . . . soon. . . .”

  Olus! “Why not?”

  “He . . . is . . . undergoing . . . his trial for you.”

  “To become a champion?”

  Another chuckle and no answer.

  Olus will be safe. He’s a god! But I’m frightened for both of us.

  If this Puru is lying, Olus will come.

  “Olus . . . doesn’t . . . know . . . how you can reach Enshi Rock, but I do.”

  “You can help me?”

  Puru’s head swivels from side to side. “No . . . one . . . can . . . help you, but I can tell you how to attempt it.”

  “How?”

  “You . . . must . . . go . . . beneath the volcano.”

  “I want to go up, not down.”

  “You . . . may . . . rise . . .” His linen finger points up. “. . . only by descending.” The finger points down.

  I wish I could see his face.

  “You . . . must . . . go . . . to Wadir, to the world of the warkis.”

  “I’ll be dead soon enough!”

  “If . . . you . . . seek . . . immortality, you must visit Wadir.”

  But Wadir is in the west, not under a volcano—or so I was taught.

  “Come.” He walks into the woods.

  I don’t know what to do. Olus! Admat! Olus! I don’t move.

  He turns. “I . . . can . . . leave . . . you. It is of little importance to me. You must decide.” He waits.

  A bunting perches on his head, raises its pale throat, and sings. The bird isn’t afraid of him.

  “I’m coming.” I can stop at any time, and I don’t have to do what he tells me to.

  He’s on a narrow path. I follow several paces behind. He sets his feet with care, seemingly unaccustomed to walking. The linen, which is skirtlike down to his knees, shortens his steps.

  We walk for hours. The rhythm of our slow march and the scent of roses put me into a trance. The moon rises. My twenty-sixth day has slipped away.

  37

  OLUS

  I CAREEN THROUGH THE air trussed in spider thread. My slitted eyes peer from the gray web into the night sky. I call on my winds, but my commands are wrapped inside with me.

  Threads circle my throat, pressing into my windpipe. I suck in air between my teeth.

  My fingernails scratch the webbing on my hands. These spiders spin with ropes of iron! I continue to scratch. My fingers curl. My nails cut into my palms. Spiders spin my chin to my chest. Mount Enshi is below.

  My stomach lurches. I am dropping, plummeting. I crash down. Hear a splash. Feel pain slam through my back. My upper and lower teeth clack against each other. My eyes descend into their sockets.

  38

  KEZI

  PURU STOPS. I BUMP into him and leap back. In the moonlight I see his hand circle the thin trunk of a mulberry bush. He pulls. The bush, its roots, and the earth around them come up easily.

  A tunnel is revealed. Rough rock stairs descend into the mountain. Beyond the top few steps the darkness is complete.

  Puru yanks a branch off the mulberry and raises it toward the night sky. A star deepens to orange. The branch begins to burn, brightly at first. Then it dims but doesn’t go out.

  “Your . . . torch . . . will . . . give light until you reach Wadir. Olus’s wind will depart as soon as you enter the tunnel. It cannot flow underground. If Olus follows you to Wadir, he will lose his powers and no longer be a god. He’ll be mortal, like you.”

  “He mustn’t follow me!”

  Puru thrusts the glowing branch into the ground.

  “Are there gods who are still gods in the underworld? Is Admat there?”

  “I . . . have . . . never . . . been to Wadir. When you arrive, you must pluck a feather from a warki.”

  The warkis have wings? Under a mountain?


  “The . . . feather . . . is . . . essential. Pluck it quickly. Do nothing else. Eat nothing. Drink nothing. The warkis will want to keep you. If you remain long enough to sprout feathers, you’ll be there forever.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  His voice becomes even raspier. I can barely make out his words.

  “Fate . . . may . . . be . . . thwarted.” He’s silent. Then, “I . . . long . . . for . . . a happy outcome.”

  I’m not sure I heard him correctly. “Please, Puru, did you say . . .”

  He’s vanished.

  I sit down with my back to a tree, several feet from the tunnel mouth. I picture the warkis as skeletons with wings and try not to imagine becoming one of them.

  Eventually I fall asleep. In my dream Mati bends over her loom. Pado counts the servants’ wages. Nia sits outside our door. Aunt Fedo approaches her, while the asupu scatters dead mice up and down the street.

  39

  OLUS

  I AWAKEN TO SMARTING skin. My back is soaked. Some liquid must have seeped into the spiderweb. My knees are folded against my chest. I hear the slap of water against . . . a riverbank? Kezi’s stream bank?

  The water is a few inches deep. I open my eyes. The lids are less swollen. It’s still night or night again or dark as night.

  “Kezi?” My voice is muffled, but the webbing across my mouth has loosened.

  No answer.

  Fear tightens around me.

  I call for my soothing wind, but it doesn’t come. I call for my mighty wind, but it doesn’t come. Come! Any wind!

  My god’s power has deserted me. Bound, and I have nothing.

  How much time has elapsed? Might Kezi’s month have passed? Is she— Will I never—

  My hands are spun into fists, but the spiders are gone. Perhaps their departure loosened the threads. I straighten my fingers, pushing against the resistance of the web. I scratch at my left forearm. My nails break through the webbing and expose a little skin. Frantically I scratch. My fingers stick to my arm. Muscles straining, I pull my fingers away, trailing strands that thin and finally snap.

  Someone groans—a deep, male groan. A man is curled next to me. There may be others. What horror have I landed in? I peer around.

  I’m in a well! In a spiderweb in a well.

  I am panting. I close my eyes and imagine the sky.

  My winds haven’t deserted me. They can’t come underground. If I can climb out, they will be mine again.

  I open my eyes and scratch the webbing again, gritting my teeth, making myself be patient.

  The man moans. I see that he and I are alone here. I can do nothing for him unless I am free. Eventually I peel the spider threads from everywhere I can reach. They clump into sticky gobs that I shake into the water, where they sink and then bob to the surface.

  The man wheezes. I turn to him and wince. My back hurts!

  The man’s hair is bloody, his eyes closed, his left ear and cheek submerged.

  I know him. He is Kudiya, whom I last saw building a hut near a new well.

  We’re in the new well! Could this be my trial to be Kezi’s champion? Is saving Kudiya what I must do?

  The rocks that line the well are wet. Water is trickling in. Tiny rivulets stream downward.

  I pray the well was built with care. If not, it could collapse and bury us. I picture the rocks working loose, crashing down.

  I close my eyes until I am calmer. Then I pull Kudiya onto my lap and rinse the cut on his head. The blood continues to flow.

  He’ll die. The well will cave in. I’ll be immured with his corpse.

  His eyelids flutter. I don’t know what light he’s seeing by, but he gets out, “Olus . . . my . . . vision.”

  “Can you stand?”

  He shakes his head. “Leg.”

  I raise his tunic. His right knee is twice the size of his left. It must be broken. He won’t be able to climb out.

  “Help!” I shout, tilting my head up. Someone can throw us a rope. We’ll be saved! My voice echoes against the rocks. “Help!”

  He coughs. “Gone. . . . Baby.” He huffs out the story. A child has been born in this hamlet’s brother village. Everyone has gone to celebrate. They will be away for days.

  The well wall seems to pulse. I imagine pythons oozing between the rocks, winding around me, squeezing me.

  I find something nearby to stare at, something not frightening, an inch of Kudiya’s threadbare tunic. The wall is not pulsing. There will be no pythons.

  “Fly . . . me. . . .” Kudiya smiles. “God . . . winds.”

  “I’ll have to carry you.” I support him as I stand. He’s twig skinny and shorter than I am. The water reaches our ankles.

  Ah! The low water means that not very much time has passed since Kezi and I flew over. Her month isn’t over. Somewhere she’s still alive.

  I arrange Kudiya’s arms around my neck. “Hang on.”

  He hugs me as tight as the spiderwebs, tight as a python, strangling me. He’s turned into a python!

  I throw him off.

  He’s only Kudiya, but he’s lying facedown in the water. In my madness, could I have killed him? The rocks press in on me. I sway, catch myself, spread my legs for balance. The rocks are not pressing in!

  I squat to raise him. He lives! He sputters, coughs up water, and sags against me. I put his arms around my neck again. “Not so tight.”

  He grips me just as before. I think him a python again. I tear his arms apart, make sure they are arms, and keep myself from dropping him. “Not so tight!”

  Better.

  Between the rocks are plenty of handholds and footholds. I step out of my sandals, rise on my toes, and stretch. My fingers find their places. I will do this.

  But the rocks are too wet. My fingers slip and slip again.

  I put Kudiya down. His chin slumps onto his chest. His every breath is a gasp. He won’t last long without aid from someone who knows how to staunch his bleeding and set his leg.

  I shift my position. The pouch at my waist brushes my hip.

  My knife!

  I pull it out and stab it between two rocks over my head. It holds my weight. Can I grip the rocks with my fingers and toes for long enough to move the knife? I can!

  I hang Kudiya’s arms around my neck and insert the knife again. Instantly the drag of him on my shoulders pulls it out. I try a narrower space with the same result. Another attempt. Another failure.

  Over and over I stab the rock wall.

  40

  KEZI

  IN THE MORNING I awaken with a dry mouth and gnawing hunger.

  The sky is clear. Above is Enshi Rock, and next to it—much smaller—is the daytime three-quarter moon.

  I wonder if Olus is still undergoing his trial. It comes to me that his trial must be, or must have been, his worst fear. He would be shut in somewhere.

  Could he be trapped eternally?

  If he is being brave, I must be too. I approach the tunnel, then back away. First, food and water. If I mustn’t eat or drink in Wadir, I shouldn’t leave this world hungry.

  Twenty minutes later I find a brook. I drink and drink. Tiny fish abound in the sparkling water but slip between my fingers. After half an hour I see a big carp swimming lazily my way.

  Out of habit I pray, Thank you, Admat!

  I catch it with my hands. It struggles, but I hang on. On the ground, it flops about as I drink again, more than I want.

  While I’m with the warkis, I’ll search for Admat. The holy text says he is visible in Wadir. If I find him, I’ll beg him to let Pado break his oath and to send a sign that my family and Nia will understand. Only Admat can grant me an ordinary long life in Hyte with Olus.

  I carry the fish to the tunnel and use the glowing branch to light a fire. When the fish is cooked, I tear into it. The morning is almost over.

  Holding the branch high, I enter the tunnel. As soon as I descend a step, the scent of roses is replaced by a smell of mold. Olus’s stalwart
wind has wafted away.

  41

  OLUS

  I LOWER KUDIYA TO the ground and prop his back against the rock wall. The water laps at his chest. His lips are parched. We’re in a well, and he’s thirsty, and I’ve failed to notice. I cup my hands and bring water to his mouth. He’s unable to drink, but I moisten his lips.

  Climbing is possible only without him. If I leave him, I won’t become a champion. He’ll die and Kezi will die.

  Above is a coin of blue sky. Perhaps someone has noticed Kudiya’s absence and has returned from the brother village. I cry out for help. No one comes.

  The rock wall is pulsing again. No, it’s not.

  I’m certain the well is smaller than it was when I landed here. It will shrink and shrink until I am plastered against Kudiya, crushing the last life out of him.

  He cries, “Mati!” and tries to stand. “Mati!”

  He’s delirious. I ask him anyway, because I am half delirious myself, “Kudiya, is the well closing in on us?”

  Eyes wide, he looks around. He pants, “Yes.”

  He thinks so too!

  “Mati!” he shouts.

  I pace the diameter of the well, toe to heel in the water. Five feet. I pace again to be sure I counted right. The water swirls around me.

  Four feet.

  I pace again.

  Five feet.

  Four feet.

  Three feet!

  Five feet.

  I can’t stop counting.

  Five feet.

  Four feet.

  The well is playing with me.

  Five feet.

  Four feet.

  I need to know if the well is shrinking. It’s the fact I need most.

  Five feet.

  My ears are drumming.

  Four feet.

  42

  KEZI

  SOMETIMES I HAVE TO crouch to continue down the stairs. Sometimes the tunnel ceiling is so high that I can’t see it, not even when I raise my branch, which glows steadily. The air is cool and wet and sad. I feel I am breathing in and out sadness.