“What? Oh. I don’t know.” She blushed. “I suppose so, if neither you nor Okta have seen Ávrá.”
Kalek, concerned that he was remiss in his duties, thanked Birtá, then hurriedly retreated, balancing the tray of food she had given him.
When he pushed open the apothecary door, he found Okta dozing by the fire. Kalek unburdened himself of the tray, then shook his mentor’s shoulder.
Okta blinked below bushy brows. “I was enjoying my nap,” he groused.
“Has Lejá come to see you?” Kalek asked.
“Yes,” the old healer yawned.
“Then I do not need to attend to Ávrá,” Kalek said, conscious of a strange relief.
“What does Ávrá have to do with Lejá’s quickening?” Okta asked.
“Birtá told me Lejá was looking for me on Ávrá’s behalf,” Kalek explained. “Has Ávrá been to visit you?”
“No one has been here since you left,” Okta said, sitting up in his chair. “Did you bring me the nail?”
Kalek reached into his pocket, pulling out the nail which he dropped in Okta’s outstretched palm. “I also brought you food from the kitchen.”
Okta stood and stretched, then walked to the work bench. He inspected the food with vague interest.
“Should I go?” Kalek asked.
“Go where?” Okta mumbled, moving beyond the food to where the mortar and pestle sat.
“To see Ávrá.”
Okta picked up the pestle. “If she is need of a healer, then, yes.”
Kalek hesitated. “I thought you might like to go.”
The old healer shook his head, grinding the alder bark in the mortar’s deep bowl. “I wish to work on my ink supply,” he said. “I have many notations to make and I am out of ink.”
On his way out the door, Kalek reminded Okta to eat.
When he did not respond, Kalek stopped and turned. “Did you hear me?”
Okta looked up. “Yes. Yes. You brought me some food. It was not necessary. But thank you, Kalek.” The old healer smiled, then busied himself with the remaining ingredients before him.
Kalek left Okta to his work, a seed of resentment taking root in him. He did not mind caring for Ávrá, but he did not want to see Lejá. Not now. Now when he knew that she would be returning to her Origin to give birth. He did not trust himself to keep the pity from his eyes. Another reason why Úlla’s reprimand had battered his conscience. He knew that his heart-pledge to Aillun was not the real reason he had kept his solitary ways after Irjan’s death. It was because he could not face sending a nieddaš to her death. Because that was what birthing had become.
Kalek rounded the corner leading to the kitchens, mulling over his conversation with Úlla. He wished to have the final word. But it was a callous and empty desire. He would not give voice to his true fears. Not to Úlla. Not when she likely shared them.
Just then, Kalek saw Lejá coming toward him from the other side of the latnja. Even at this distance he could not miss her flustered bearing.
“Kalek.” Lejá breathed out his name as if relieved to see him.
“Birtá said you were looking for me,” he said, aware that a fog of guilt continued to cloud his ability to think.
“Yes. Ávrá is unwell and bade me find you. But I missed you at the forge and then Birtá mentioned you were returning to the apothecary.” Lejá drew a long breath, her swelling belly rising to Kalek’s attention.
“I was on my way to see Ávrá,” Kalek said, looking everywhere but at the nieddaš before him. “Did she say what ailed her?”
Lejá shook her head. “She is resting in the weavers’ quarters. She began to work early, but felt ill. I had her lie down.”
Kalek nodded, then gestured for Lejá to lead the way. He realized too late that, by walking behind her, he would be forced to witness the sway of her body, unable to avoid the thought of what awaited her. Anxious to escape this, Kalek plunged ahead, passing Lejá in a couple of strides, saying, “I will go ahead so you may be at ease.”
With each step, Kalek widened the gap. Yet, he could not outrun Lejá’s future with this kind of cowardice. He stopped, his heart racing, to wait for Lejá to draw beside him, then with an abashed smile he resumed walking at her steady, slower gait.
“Ávrá is blessed to have friends who care for her,” he said, trying to find something to fill the space between them.
“She is usually the one who cares for us,” Lejá said, unaware of Kalek’s struggle. “I think she misses being a guide mother. As I do.”
Lejá paused. Kalek listened to the other sounds around them. Conversations. Laughter. The squeak of a handcart. The clack of someone playing stones. He listened to everything else other than Lejá’s labored breath.
“But all things change,” she said. “Do they not?”
Kalek winced, briefly questioning if he should return to the apothecary for his herb pouch. But that was weakness masquerading as prudence.
Lejá and Kalek climbed the stairs to the weavers’ level, their steps in time. The boards creaked with the strain. Kalek found himself alert to Lejá’s wheeze and slowed. She, however, continued ahead, as sure of herself as he was unsure of himself.
Kalek followed Lejá into the weavers’ quarters. The looms stopped their shifting staccato. Nieddaš and boaris peeked around the wooden looms to exchange glances before resuming their warp and weft.
“She is lying down in the back,” Lejá said, sitting down at a silent loom where the dark shades of what she wove deepened from blue to purple to black in the dim corner.
Kalek thanked her with an overly formal bow of his head, then walked to where Ávrá lay, covered in furs, her eyes closed.
Kalek knelt beside the nieddaš and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “Ávrá.”
The nieddaš’s eyes fluttered open.
In spite of his discomfort, Kalek made himself smile. Ávrá turned to him. He smoothed back the hair plastered to her forehead. He was reminded of rye pushed to the earth after a hard rain.
“You have a fever,” he said.
“I felt weak, as if I could not stand,” she croaked, pushing off her furs as if they would soon suffocate her.
“Let me see your tongue,” he said, as he felt along both sides of her jaw.
Ávrá stuck out her tongue. A thick white coating covered its pink surface. Kalek leaned back. The nieddaš’s eyes avoided his.
“Nothing serious ails you, Ávrá. You just need some rest. Some uulo tea should help.” Kalek placed a hand to her arm. The warmth of her skin made him unexpectedly aware of his gesture.
Ávrá seemed to sag into her bed with relief. “I was afraid that . . .” Her words dropped off.
As he waited for her to go on, Kalek observed her hands tightly clutched before her.
“I was afraid that my time had come,” she said in a rush. “I am one of the oldest of the nieddaš.” She paused, looking down at her hands. “I know there are some beyond my age, but few. My time cannot be far off and I thought . . .”
“And you thought this was it,” Kalek said. He shifted uneasily where he sat. His mounting distress made him anxious to find any excuse to flee Ávrá’s side.
Ávrá nodded. The lank strands of her hair stuck to her feverish cheeks and long neck. A neck he had just touched. Kalek moved to get to his feet, overwhelmed by a sense of hypocrisy.
Ávrá’s hand shot out to him, then withdrew to her lap.
“Please do not misunderstand. I wish to be an oktoeadni and become almai. It is just that . . .”
Kalek made himself look into Ávrá’s wide, shining eyes where he saw everything he did not wish to confront.
“You are frightened you will not return,” he said finally, his voice a whisper.
Ávrá nodded, her eyes now shut, even as her fingers twisted the edge of her shawl.
Kalek shut his own eyes, fending off the images: Aillun, the dead upon the battlefield, Irjan, the despondent boaris he saw every day.
&nbs
p; The lump in Kalek’s throat felt like a stone. He swallowed and opened his eyes.
“Ávrá, there is no shame in your fear,” he said, placing his hands upon hers, stilling them. “It is just and right. I share your fear. We all do.”
Kalek noticed that Ávrá had bitten her nails to the quick. Tender, swollen skin pushed against the dried blood at the corners.
He knew he could no longer hide and let Okta carry this burden.
“I wish with all my heart the world Outside were safe. But it is not.” Kalek broke off, hating to say what needed to be said. He inhaled and tried again. “The journey to your Origin will be more than a test of your ability to stay within the Song. It will be a test of survival.”
Kalek looked up in time to see Ávrá’s face drain of all its color, and he berated himself for his clumsy effort as he endeavored to go forward. “It is true, we need the mánáid returned to us if our kind is to continue, but none of us wish it at the price that is asked.”
Ávrá nodded, a tear escaping her brimming eyes.
Kalek pulled the nieddaš into a hasty embrace, unable to bear further witness to his hapless counsel.
Gods help me, he thought, praying for guidance. Kalek shifted Ávrá to rest his chin on her head, his arms tightening around her, as much for his comfort as hers.
“It is not wrong to wish to have as much time as possible,” he said, listening to the looms’ clatter and shush weave regret into both the fabric and the Song of All.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
AGAINST HER BETTER JUDGMENT, Dárja had let Okta shoo her out of the apothecary. He said he needed to be alone to concentrate on his writing and that she should be with her friends. Now, she perched self-consciously beside Ravna and Tuá who were nestled together on woolen cushions in a corner of the gathering hall.
“There are a dozen rabbit pelts and four deer skins waiting for you by my table,” Tuá said.
Ravna sighed, then smiled. “That should be enough work to keep my mind off these dark hours.”
Úlla rubbed at the long, black smudges on her palms. “I never lack for work,” she said pointedly without looking up.
Birtá waved from across the latnja, and Dárja rose expectantly to greet her, doubting even Birtá’s kindness could sweeten Úlla’s presence. Still, she teased out a clean linen cloth from her pocket.
“Here,” Dárja said, handing it to Úlla.
Úlla faltered, then reached out to take the cloth. “Your Olmmoš is turning out to be a hard worker,” she said, wiping her sooty hands.
“He’s not my Olmmoš,” Dárja said, regretting now that she’d offered the nieddaš the cloth.
Úlla looked up through her lashes. “Oh, that is right. He is just the offspring of your bieba.”
Dárja sprang to her feet, her clenched fists at her side ready to wipe the smirk from Úlla’s face. A tug on her tunic drew Dárja’s attention to Tuá’s pleading eyes. She sat back down, but continued to glare at the spiteful Úlla, who had always taken pleasure in tormenting her.
“I have never harmed you,” Dárja said, her frustration getting the better of her, “but you act as if I have.”
Úlla tossed the now-dirty cloth onto the floor at Dárja’s feet. “Blind as always,” she sniffed.
Dárja opened her mouth to protest, but Ravna spoke instead. “We are here for Lejá, not your petty squabbles.” Her normally soft voice had an edge to it that invited no argument.
Chastened, Dárja apologized.
Úlla said nothing.
Birtá rushed up to the now-quiet group, beaming, “She’s coming,” she said in a sing-song voice.
The nieddaš all looked over to see Lejá accompanied by Ello. Linked arm in arm with Lejá, Ello appeared to be sharing a good story because Lejá was smiling and laughing.
“She’s telling one of her bawdy jokes,” Birtá said with a laugh.
“It comes from being around all those rutting animals in the field,” Úlla said, either unable or unwilling to find a kind word to say.
Ravna shushed her as the two nieddaš reached the group.
“Come and sit between us,” Tuá said, motioning to the low cushion wedged between herself and Ravna. Lejá, already far into her quickening, looked doubtful. But with Ello and Birtá’s assistance, she plopped down between Ravna and Tuá, flushed by the effort.
With everyone settled, an uncomfortable silence descended on their group. Dárja searched for something to say, then blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“That’s a lovely shawl, Lejá.”
Lejá brushed the contour of her shoulder. “Ávrá wove it for me.”
“Where’s Ávrá?” Úlla asked, her earlier sullenness seemingly forgotten.
“She is not feeling well,” Lejá said.
An uncharacteristic reticence once again took hold of the group. This time Dárja had nothing to offer.
“Here,” Ravna said, retrieving a fur bunting from the floor. “For the baby.”
“And Birtá and I made you dried reindeer meat,” Tuá spoke up.
“That’s not fair,” Ello said, dismayed. “I can give her nothing from the farm. Unless you want garlic or an onion.”
Lejá blushed. “Your story was quite enough.”
“Will you be sharing that story?” Birtá asked.
Lejá shook her head. Her dark springy curls bounced merrily.
Dárja kneeled before Lejá, holding out a leather pouch. “I made you tinctures for strength and healing. There’s also a balm for your belly,” she said. Then, feeling suddenly shy, she withdrew to sit across from Úlla.
“Well, fine gifts indeed,” Úlla said. She placed a dagger in a sturdy, leather sheath on top of the bunting. “To them, I add mine.”
The animated talk died as the nieddaš all looked down at the dagger.
“Úlla!” Tuá hissed.
Lejá raised her hand. “No, Tuá. It is all right. It is a beautiful gift.” Lejá smiled tentatively at her companions. “We all know there is danger Outside.” She picked up the dagger and unsheathed the blade. The sharp edge shone briefly in the candle light before Lejá put it back in its cover. “I pray I will not have to use it, but I will be grateful to have it if I must.”
Lejá bowed her head. Ravna and Tuá put their arms around her, and for the third time since they’d gathered, this group of once-cheerful nieddaš slipped back into silence. But Dárja knew what they were all thinking. She was thinking it now. Please let Lejá return safely from her Origin. We can’t lose another.
“Have you chosen a guide mother?” Birtá asked, her voice overly bright.
Lejá raised her head. She wiped her eyes, nodding quickly, then glanced at Tuá and smiled. “I chose you.”
Tuá hugged Lejá, holding her for a long time. When they separated, tears shown in Tuá’s eyes as well. “We will all love her!”
Dárja thought she’d go mad if she had to sit there one moment longer stuck between Úlla’s resentment and her own fears of what might happen to Lejá.
“Thank you for your kindness,” Lejá said as fresh tears welled. She scooted to the edge of the cushion in an embarrassed rush. “I am expected at the Chamber of Passings.”
Tuá, Ravna, Birtá, and Ello all helped Lejá to her feet. Only Úlla sat still with her arms wrapped around her waist, her sooty hands grasping tightly the folds of her loose tunic. As the goodbyes stretched into more hugs and tears, Dárja jumped up, bumping into Ravna’s back. She saw the stunned expressions of the nieddaš, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care what they thought or what they’d say. She had to get away. She had to find some air. She couldn’t breathe.
Dárja ran as fast as her feet would take her. She ran until her full heart pounded and her empty lungs burned. And then she ran some more, thinking she could outrun her worst fears.
By habit, Úlla’s feet carried her back to the forge, but her thoughts remained with Lejá. Her gift had been neither kind nor sweet, like Tua’s or Ravna’s. But she
meant it with goodwill and a longing to see Lejá return with her baby. They had heard the whispers. How the Song would no longer hide them at long distances. At first, she had dismissed the rumors because few had gone Outside since the battle, and none at any significant distance. Then the first two nieddaš had left for their Origin, but neither had returned.
A cold sweat broke out on Úlla’s skin, as her stomach revolted against the little food she had managed to eat today. Panic vied with regret in each hurried step she took. She should have become a biebmoeadni when it was offered to her. But Kálle was gone, she thought, her misery growing. I could not love a child and grieve his loss. But now it was too late.
Úlla entered the forge, stopping at the threshold, her stomach churning, her thoughts dark and unbearable. The other smiths had left for their evening meal, but Marnej stood with his back to her. His arms arced up high with an axe before he swung down upon an upended log. The sight of him put her teeth on edge. Úlla swallowed back the sickness that threatened to erupt, then wiped sweat from her brow and her neck. She had gone from cold to hot as her panic turned red with enmity. Why does he persist on coming each day when he knows I do not want him here? she demanded of the gods.
Úlla reached out for her leather smock, ready to find fault with Marnej. She regarded the wood pile beside him that reach as high as his shoulder, then looked to the coals that glowed yellow and red. Irritated, Úlla slid a leather smock over her head, then tied it about her waist, uncomfortably aware of the snugness. Fueled by anger, she stuffed her left hand into a thick gauntlet and drove a misshapen iron rod into the fire. With surety born of practice, she waited until the end glowed. Then she placed the rod upon the anvil where she brought down her short, stout hammer on it. Turn. Strike. Turn. Strike. Each blow released a bit of her anger, a bit of her anxiety.
When the tapering rod cooled, Úlla stuck it back in the fire again, eager for the glow to return, desperate for the chance to pound something. To shape something. To have control over something.
“I’ve finished,” Marnej said, coming to stand next to her. “There’s no more wood.”
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