Hidden Current

by Sharon Hinck

Brantley blew on a spoonful of hot broth, then sipped it. “So this is just some long-lost manual for dancers?”

  Already, I knew it was far more, but I didn’t spare an answer. I kept reading.

  Brantley offered a bowl of stew, but I waved it away, too enthralled. Time vanished and the cottage disappeared as the story unfolded . . . of a Maker whose one command to His people was that they remember Him. The love and longing, joy and promise, sorrow and hope poured from the pages with the same heart I had sensed in the center ground. His existence now stirred less fear in me. His letter made it clear that although He was far beyond my understanding, He invited His little creatures to know Him. I longed to rush straight to the center ground and meet Him there . . . to tell Him I was sorry I hadn’t realized who He was . . . to thank Him for the dance, for the star rain, for flowers and bresh and breezes and all the things that had flooded me with a desire to thank Someone.

  I carefully turned another page and read the next section twice. I glanced toward the fireplace. Brantley sprawled near the hearth, long lashes resting against his cheeks, and deep steady sighs rumbling from his chest. I hated to wake him, but I couldn’t wait until morning to share this.

  “Brantley?”

  He opened bleary eyes, then shot upright, fumbling for his longknife. “What happened?”

  “Nothing. You have to hear this.”

  He sank back against the wall, drew up one knee, and folded his arms over it. With a groan, he rested his head on his arms.

  His lack of enthusiasm didn’t trouble me. My knees bounced, and I drummed my fingers on the table’s edge. “According to the letter, the Maker created the island to float in set currents. As it traveled over various areas, the roots of plants that reached to the sweet water drank from nutrients in each place to keep them healthy. And the world avoided major storms that stirred the ocean, because of the path it followed. And fish were bountiful as the island passed through their breeding grounds.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “That’s nice.”

  I rested one hand on the page and turned to him. “It makes sense. You’ve said that fishing has gotten harder every year. The storms have only grown worse since we were children. This could explain why everything has changed. The Order keeps the world turning in one place.”

  He stifled a yawn and worked his jaw side to side. “You mean the Order is the cause of all our problems? Now that I can believe.”

  I bit my lip and returned to the letter. “I don’t know. There are more pages . . .” Soon I was immersed again.

  Truth, truth, and more truth. The words crackled like star rain, flaring with brilliance and color and beauty. Varney hadn’t needed to warn me that I must keep the letter. Nothing would make me relinquish it now. There was much I didn’t understand, and I had enough questions to fill as many pages as the letter. Yet what I could comprehend brought new light to my understanding of my world, and my life, and the dance. The candle shrank, and I read as fast as I could.

  When I finished the last page, I closed the covers over the parchment, but my yearning continued to build. I longed to speak to the Maker who had poured out His heart in these long-forgotten pages. Brantley was asleep again, face boyish and peaceful at rest. I smiled, and drew his cloak over him. Then I tucked the letter beside him, where I knew it would be protected.

  Kicking off my shoes, I ran outside onto the bare earth. Varney was nowhere in sight. He must have traveled to a favorite fishing spot. In the dark of middle night, only the stars guided my steps toward the shore. Damp earth squished between my toes, as if embracing me. Now that I had read the letter and heeded His call, shyness paralyzed me. I glanced back at the faint light in the hut’s window, but then took a few more timid steps toward the shore. A fragile breeze swirled past, cooling my cheeks. How could I approach Him? Would His beauty and power destroy me?

  As I thought of the words of deep love that I’d read, I struggled for words. “To hear Your voice may undo me. But I will die loving You.”

  Should I dance? I shook my head. I’d learned to use dance to assert my control over the world. He had intended dance to be very different. To be a joyful response to knowing Him. I couldn’t use patterns to conjure His presence as if He were as malleable as a cloud or wave that could be steered.

  So I waited. The last of the clouds had passed, and no hint of wind stirred the sea. I’d never seen the water so still. The mirrored surface reflected millions of stars, tiny pinpoints glimmering like gems above and below. Star rain would be a fitting celebration of all I’d discovered, but the stars weren’t swelling and changing color.

  Except for one.

  From amid the stars, a glow of light lengthened out on the horizon—a human shape clothed in the glow of a million stars. Like a herder riding his mount, the brilliant column approached, but no stenella supported this figure. His feet traveled over the water.

  My breath sped to rapid gasps. Collapse to my knees? Bury my face? Run? But I didn’t want to look away.

  “Come,” He said in a voice like wind stirring in the pines.

  Knees buckling, I stumbled toward the edge, balancing on the tangleroot underfoot. Every fiber of my being longed to hide, yet also craved His closeness.

  “Draw near.”

  Quaking, my arms reached forward. Another inch and I’d tumble into the dark water.

  “Who are You?” I asked, my voice trembling.

  “You’ve heard my voice before.”

  This couldn’t be the same voice I’d heard in the center ground, so large and fierce and terrifying. His words now were gentle as a lullaby.

  His eyes sparkled from the midst of the light, and He smiled. “I am the Thunder and the Whisper. I am your Warrior and your Tender. I am your Maker, your Keeper, your Dancer. And you are Carya of Undertow.”

  “Carya?” I gasped. The stray word I had scratched onto a corner of parchment, not knowing what it meant. The long-forgotten name exploded into my heart.

  “Your true name, given in love by your mother.”

  How could the Maker of our entire world care about one small dancer? My voice fractured. “You know my name?”

  “I know you.” The figure of light glowed even brighter, warm hues wavering outward. “You are mine. Draw near.”

  There was no stenella to ride out to where He waited. I couldn’t swim. I had nothing to help me float. Surely He didn’t expect me to plunge into the sea?

  Bathed in the warmth that came from His light, those arguments fled.

  I pressed through my foot, stepping forward onto the water that shimmered like polished marble. As my weight came down, the surface softened slightly, and rebounded, supporting me step after step, like the buoyant daygrass on the edges of the center ground. I ran forward the last few paces, throwing myself into His arms.

  His arms caught me and lifted me, lifted us both. We soared upward. Deep, joyous laughter surrounded me. Beneath us, Varney’s shack became a tiny smudge among the night-coated trees, and still we rose. The coastline spread out below us, and villages we had visited in past days. It should have been impossible to see much with only the stars for illumination, but the Maker’s glow helped me see clearly. The island grew smaller beneath us. Paths that had taken us weeks to travel wound inland. Then the Order came into view, a dark stain in the center of the lush world. Even from this distance, even safe in the arms of the Maker, a shiver rippled through me, along with relief that I’d left that tortuous place far behind.

  As if I were riding the primary sun, I saw the entire island, our world turning stagnantly in a vast ocean. Far out to sea, stenella glided, unfurling their fins before disappearing into the depths. Other strange and larger creatures swam languidly. Swirls of clouds gathered and parted, revealing what might have been another island thousands of miles from our world. The Maker’s heart beat with love so powerful, I felt it throb through my veins. Now I loved the world too. Each plant, each creature, and each amazing and difficult and suffering person.

  In
a blink, we stood on the shore again.

  “I showed you the vastness of the world; now I give you a new name. You are Carya of Meriel. No longer of one village or form or designation. You will share Me with all.”

  The outline of the figure beside me wavered. I could see Him, but even with trying, couldn’t take Him all in. I must be dreaming. Perhaps I was sleeping at Varney’s scuffed table, head in my arms, exhausted from reading deep into the night.

  The Maker reached out, and I placed my hand in His. His grip was tangible and ethereal at the same time, in a way I couldn’t comprehend. “My little dancer, will you carry my love to all the people of Meriel?”

  I beamed. How could I do anything else? The joy flooding me would make me burst if I didn’t share the news. All those years of thinking we were alone . . . struggling to control the world through our perfection. The truth was glorious. I would tell everyone I knew.

  “Of course! Parisa of Whitecap will be so thrilled. And I can find Nolana when we reach Windswell tomorrow. And I must wake Brantley. He needs to see You for himself. And then when we reach Undertow—”

  “Child, you will indeed travel the rim to remind people of what they’ve forgotten.” The voice that pulsed like dance drums but also seemed to well up from inside me now held a tinge of sorrow. “Then you must take the truth to the center of Meriel. To the Order.”

  All my warmth and joy rushed away, and like a landed fish, I struggled to breathe. I sank to my knees, cold with dread. “Not there. Please. I can’t go back there.” Didn’t He understand? The Order commanded obedience and fear throughout the world. They gloried in holding our island in place. If I questioned them, Tiarel would have me tossed into one of her wells to perish in the dark sea beneath the Order.

  “In time long past, the dancers who formed the Order sought to be a blessing, to unite and equip those with the gift,” He said.

  I shivered. “But they are causing harm. Breaking the world.”

  “Because they are broken. They need the truth to make them whole.”

  My heart trembled. “I can’t. Not me.”

  The world around me blurred into the background and the figure of light pervaded my vision. His words saturated my hearing like the swish of my own pulse in my ears as He spoke. “Don’t be afraid.”

  That was the hardest command to embrace. I tried to tighten my back muscles, to stand strong, but still I shook my head. “They won’t listen. Besides, I couldn’t even find my way back to Middlemost alone.”

  “You won’t travel alone.”

  “You mean Brantley? He won’t have any interest in helping with this.”

  I could barely make out a patient smile on the face that glowed so brightly. “I will be with you.”

  A little of my faith and joy returned. Hand in hand with this glorious and powerful Maker, everyone would be quick to hear. One glimpse of Him, and they would believe. “Will You carry me as You just did, or will we walk? Or run along the sea?”

  His hand touched my face, soothing as Ginerva’s balm. “I will guide you. What was hidden will be revealed.”

  Even as the words floated in the air and repeated in my mind, the figure of the Maker glided away, across the water and toward the horizon. An early arc of the primary sun sent glowing hues skyward, and then dimmed as His brightness slipped past it.

  “Don’t go!” I scrambled to the edge, ready to run across the water after Him. The toes of one foot pierced the surface of the sea and sank beneath. The water no longer offered support.

  I staggered back, barely preventing myself from tumbling into the depths.

  I crouched and scooped up water, letting it run through my fingers. It was mere liquid now. How had it supported my weight moments ago? A fish splashed, catching the spark of the rising sun. A few seabirds cawed and swooped out over the waves. The brilliant human figure disappeared past the horizon. Had it all been a dream?

  Hinges creaked behind me. Brantley emerged from the cottage, holding the Maker’s letter in one hand and rubbing sleep from his eyes with the other. “You’re up early. What did you find out last night? And why’d you leave this with me?”

  He looked grumpy and disheveled, and my heart sank. Here was my first challenge, my first opportunity to tell someone the message with which the Maker had charged me, and I didn’t know where to begin. He would laugh in my face.

  The lingering glow of the wondrous encounter coaxed me to set aside my fear, and I stepped forward. “It’s all true.” My words bubbled out. “I met the Maker. And He knew my name. I know it now. I’m Carya.”

  In the rising sunlight, Brantley’s frown drew lines of shadow across his forehead. “Were you awake all night?”

  “I . . . I think so. I finished the letter, then came out here to think. And He rode across the sea like the sun, and carried me to the sky above Meriel, and told me—”

  “A dream?” Brantley pressed the back of his hand against my cheek. “Or a fever? You don’t feel warm.”

  I placed my hand over his and met his gaze, willing him to believe me. “I don’t fully understand. But He spoke to me. He asked me to do exactly what Varney said: to remind the villages of the Maker.”

  Brantley’s worried eyes studied mine, and he blew out a frustrated huff. “You’re a distraction. And you’re naive as a newborn. But the truth is, I’ve gotten used to you. I don’t want to see you harmed. If soldiers hear that you’re reviving these old myths . . .” A thread of desperation wove through his familiar tone of irritation. “Don’t do this. Please.”

  The way his voice roughened almost made me believe he cared for me, even though he’d made it repeatedly clear he viewed me as a nuisance whom he’d only promised to help.

  “You don’t need to worry.” I pressed my hand to his chest, trying to offer reassurance. His strong and steady heartbeat rose like distant drumbeats, inviting me to the steps of a new pattern.

  “Well, I do worry.” A tendon flexed along his neck. “This course you’re on . . . you don’t understand the danger.”

  How easy it would be to leave the letter with Varney, find my family in Undertow, and live a quiet life.

  How impossible it would be to turn back, now that I’d touched the hand of the Maker, heard His voice of love, and ached with Him for the brokenness of our world.

  “I have to try,” I said, stepping back from Brantley.

  He thrust the bound parchment at me, as if it were a poisonous lanthrus plant. “I’m telling you, don’t take this on.”

  A part of me wanted to beg his help. Yet the road before me would be full of danger, and I didn’t want him to bear the cost of this calling along with me.

  And I hadn’t even told him the rest of my mission. If he knew that I would ultimately return to confront the Order, he’d probably send me to live with mad Dancer Subsun.

  “Brantley, if you had seen Him you’d understand. I could read the letter to you—”

  “I’ve got herding to do.” He stalked away.

  I understood his anger and frustration, but it still hurt. We’d built trust between us in our flight from Middlemost, yet now he wouldn’t even listen.

  While he and Navar were fishing, I used my old dancer hood scarf to bind the Maker’s letter to my chest beneath my tunic. The leather covers, my tunic, and my cloak would hopefully protect the pages from any weather.

  After breakfast, Brantley banked the fire and left a pot of fish soup warming beside it. “Doesn’t look like Varney will come back until we’ve cleared out. Ready?”

  Although exhaustion weighted my limbs and my eyes felt heavy and gritty, I nodded and walked outside.

  Brantley bounded to the shore and stepped onto Navar’s waiting back. “We should make it to Windswell by nightfall.”

  I managed a weary grin. “I’ve heard you say that before. You keep telling me we’re almost there, but then we aren’t.”

  He laughed, some of his dull anger toward me washing away. “Ready to try standing today while we ride?”


  “I’d better not. If I fell, the letter would get wet.”

  A cloud blew across his features. “Right.” He didn’t even offer his hand as I stepped onto Navar and settled into my place near her neck.

  We rode in strained silence for the first hour. The warm sun lulled me, and the repetitive swoosh of water brushing past soon had my eyelids drooping.

  Hands grabbed my shoulders and tugged me upright, and I startled awake. “Wha-a . . . ?”

  Brantley did nothing to hide his exasperation. “You were about to fall off.”

  The cloudy depths of the ocean stared up at me, and I shuddered. If I’d sunk below the surface, I would have died, but even more terrifying, the Maker’s letter would have been lost.

  Brantley lowered himself behind me. “Lean back. I’ll hold you.”

  With his arms around me, I surrendered to my exhaustion. In spite of his frustration with me, Brantley was a good man. A very good man, I thought muzzily as I drifted off.

  Sometime later, I was tempted to change my assessment. I opened my eyes and thought I was having another vision of flying over the world with the Maker. Then I woke fully and gasped. The ocean was a terrifying distance beneath us. I swiveled my head side to side, panicked.

  Brantley’s chuckle rumbled against my back. “Figured you wouldn’t mind letting Navar glide if you weren’t awake to see it.” He leaned forward and peered around to check my expression. “We’ll get there faster if we let her glide.”

  I swallowed, squeezing my legs against Navar’s back in a death grip, about to protest. Then I thought better of it. What good were my bold intentions of confronting the Order’s lies if I couldn’t show courage about smaller things? “Good plan,” I said, with only a small quaver.

  He patted my shoulder. “Atta girl.”

  Even terrifying challenges can become routine in time. Navar lowered to the surface, folded in her fins, gathered strength from the current, then soared again, expanding smooth wings and catching an invisible draft of air. The first few times, I fought back a scream. But soon I grew accustomed to her flights, and used the opportunity to scan the shoreline with a bird’s-eye view.