by Sharon Hinck
A day on the ocean had mellowed Brantley’s mood. “We’ll get there while the subsun is still high. A fine way to catch your first glimpse of Windswell.”
“You love your village.” I wondered if I’d feel the same when I was reunited with my family in Undertow. What would it feel like to have a place to belong that wasn’t the Order?
“A fine place. Until the day soldiers came for our girls.” His voice darkened.
My spirit tensed, wishing to hold back this story. Yet I had to know. “What happened?”
“He wouldn’t let them take his daughter. I don’t blame my brother for fighting. I would have done the same if I hadn’t been out to sea that day. Still it was foolish. They ran him through and tossed him in the sea.” Pain rasped in his throat. “Going up against a stronger force only ends in tragedy for everyone.”
No wonder he held disdain for my plans. He had wisdom born of experience. I squared my shoulders. I had truth born of the Maker. “Nolana said that . . . wait, what is her true name? Brianna never told me.”
“Orianna. A tiny bundle of mischief, much like her mother. An amazing woman.” His voice warmed with affection when he spoke of Bri, and an odd pang jabbed my heart.
“Cole loved her from the time we were all younglings. Everyone does.” Navar dipped sharply, and Brantley threw an arm around my waist to secure me. “They’ll love you, too. Windswell will be grateful you helped Bri and Orianna escape.”
“Or they’ll hate me for being a dancer from the Order.” We’d hidden my background in our stops at other villages. Although a few people had guessed, no one had confronted me. We wouldn’t have that luxury in Windswell. Not if Bri and Orianna had reached the village safely and told their tale. They knew me for who I’d been.
“I’ll set them straight.” Brantley kicked a splash of water skyward, and the droplets seemed to laugh as they scattered.
His good mood was infectious and helped me put my worries aside.
“See that crooked pine?” he asked a few minutes later.
I shielded my eyes and turned to see where he was pointing. “That one?”
“Marks the edge of the bay. Windswell will be coming into view right around that bend.”
Navar glided down to the surface and sliced through the water, swimming rapidly. Brantley sprang to his feet. His eager posture made me wonder if he’d dive in and try to race Navar.
Windswell nestled beside a gentle cove that curved inland and protected the area from the larger waves that rolled in from the outer sea. Children frolicked along the shore, in and out of the water like playful frogs. Set back from the rim, neat cottages clustered under the shade of persea and citrus trees, and flowers dotted footpaths and yards. There were no constrained rows of containers like the gardens of the Order, but I’d started to appreciate the asymmetry of plants growing where they wished.
A late-day breeze tickled strands loose from my braid, and I struggled to tuck them back into place, eager to make a good first impression.
A small boy prepared to dive from the tangleroot, but spotted us. He whooped, and soon all the children stopped their play to watch us approach. A few swam out to meet us, while others ran toward the homes.
Navar held her long neck high and proud at the admiring oohs and ahhs of the children.
“We’re home,” Brantley said with a depth of warmth and satisfaction I’d never heard from him before.
I adjusted my cloak. Would he drop me on land and go off to fish? How would I explain my presence? Part of me smiled and greeted the children splashing near us, while the other part of me battled the riotous currents in my stomach.
A small girl jumped up and down. “Uncle Brant!” With her hair wet and darker from playing in the water, it took me a moment to recognize Nolana—no, Orianna.
We slid into shore, and Brantley sprang onto land. “There you are!” he called.
Bri’s tousled blonde hair glinted as she ran from the gathering crowd and threw herself into Brantley’s arms. She’d embraced him in Middlemost when he’d returned Orianna to her, but at the time I assumed she was his sister. Now I saw a different sort of love between them. Of course. After Cole was killed, she’d turned to Brantley for help. He was her hero, and clearly more. A strange regret pinched my heart.
Brantley greeted old friends from all directions, completely forgetting about me. I fumbled my way off Navar’s back, landing on my hands and knees on the tangleroot. As I stood, my foot caught in my cloak and I stumbled, drawing giggles from the nearby children.
My travel companion glanced back, and his open, joyous expression dimmed. “Bri, you’ve already met—”
“Why’d you bring her here?” Brianna’s sharp gaze cut me in two. Then she addressed the wider group. “She’s a dancer.” She spoke the title as if it tasted of poison.
My worst nightmare. The warm friendly faces around us closed up like the petals of a morning glory at nightfall. Murmurs spread, all in dark tones.
I pressed my hands over my chest and felt the reassuring bundle of the Maker’s letter. I wasn’t here to seek their love. I was here to offer them the Maker’s love.
“Hello. My name is Carya of Undertow,” I said.
“Teacher!” Orianna tore herself away from Brantley and ran to me. I scooped her up into a hug. When she raised her head, she grinned at the gathered villagers. “She looked out for me.”
Brantley walked back and stood beside me, facing his friends and family. “She helped them escape. She’s no longer with the Order.”
“Well, where will we put her?” Bri’s eyebrows pulled together. “She can’t stay with you.”
I wanted to roll my eyes. Brantley and I had traveled alone together for weeks. Fear for my life had overcome any squeamishness about propriety. Besides, as a dancer, I had long ago renounced the possibility of romance.
“Grandmother will keep her.” Orianna pointed to a cottage set deeper into the woods. “That way.”
The girl took my hand and drew me forward, but I paused in front of Bri to offer reassurance. “I won’t stay long. I have a message to bring, but then I’ll be on my way.”
Her glare didn’t soften.
Brantley frowned and spoke in a low voice. “I told you not to cause more danger for this village. Just keep quiet. Once I find out the situation here, I’ll take you on to Undertow. Then you can do what you want.”
I understood his concerns, but I could never ignore the task the Maker had given me. Especially here in Windswell where the letter had been protected for generations. They deserved to be the first to celebrate its rediscovery.
Before I could argue, Brantley turned away and asked one of the men how often soldiers had come through town, and how they’d hidden Orianna. As the child tugged me out of earshot, he was getting an update on the fish herds. Now that he was home, it looked like nothing would pry him away again. And after I defied him and told the village about the letter, he’d be even less likely to help me find Undertow.
“Teacher, look.” Orianna released my hand and performed a beautiful fern pattern turn, humming a melody while she moved.
Instinct made me stiffen, ready to object. Music, carefree movements outside the Order, bare feet padding along uncovered earth—all were taboos that I’d been indoctrinated against for years. Then I remembered how much of my training had been shown to be false. I smiled and joined her in the final turn. “You remember.”
“Ah, this one can’t stop dancing.” An older woman leaned against her doorframe, bent with age, but with crinkles fanning from her eyes. “Come away in. One of the younglings said Brantley brought a guest. My name is Fiola.”
“I’m Carya of Undertow. Orianna thought you might have room for me for a few nights.”
Orianna grinned, and tried a high-spirited kick. “Grandma, she was my teacher once. The only nice one.”
“Of course. My granddaughter told me all about you.” Fiola took my arm and led me into her neat cottage. Wooden plank walls stretch
ed toward the thatched roof as if they were living trees supporting their branches. Dried herbs hung in tidy bundles high in the rafters. The arms of the chairs were worn smooth from years of use, and woven cushions invited guests to sink down for a rest. Shelves held pottery dishes and mugs, and colorful jars of elixirs or preserved food. The room exuded the same generous welcome as the grandmother’s face.
She guided me to a rocking chair near the hearth. “I’ll roll out an extra ticking, and you stay as long as you like. I’m ever so grateful you looked after Orianna.”
“The Order should never have taken her.”
Fiola presented me with a mug of tsalla, then settled into a chair beside me. Her pale eyes turned to me, tears welling. “I clung to Cole’s body until the soldiers carried him away and tossed him in the sea like garbage. I thought my heart couldn’t possibly beat any longer. Losing him and my sweet granddaughter was too much to bear. But then this little one returned to us.”
Orianna scrambled onto her lap, and Fiola pinched her cheek. “Off with you now, and let me get to know Carya.”
The girl skipped to the door, then turned back. “See you later.” Freckles lifted with her grin, and she ran outside.
“Are you hungry? I haven’t made supper yet, but I could stir up a batch of something for you.”
Her ready welcome reminded me of Ginerva, but Brantley’s mother was older, with bird-thin bones. Instead of a fluff of white hair, her head was crowned with a thin gray braid. Her smile was lively, but she looked too frail to lift a spoon. The suffering of Windswell had clearly taken a toll on her health.
“No, please. Don’t go to any trouble. It’s just lovely to be on land again.”
“I’m sure it hasn’t been easy for you. What does a dancer do, who leaves the Order?”
“Mostly runs and hides.” My cloak suddenly felt as if it were weighted with the water of a dozen rainfalls. I shrugged it off, but that didn’t help. My shoulders still felt heavy. Her question reminded me of the mission given to me, and that I didn’t know how to begin.
Her chair creaked as she leaned back. “Well, thank the Maker, He got you out of that place.”
My head snapped toward her. Her mention of the Maker reminded me how Orianna had spoken of a grandmother who taught her about the Maker. Gratitude expanded inside my ribs like a deep breath. Somehow, the Maker had prepared a way and guided me to a person who still remembered Him.
I reached inside my tunic, unbound the letter, and pulled it out. “You know the Maker?”
Her eyes drooped. “Most are too afraid to speak of Him. They dismiss me as a foolish old woman, so I’m not a threat.” She tapped bent fingers to her heart. “But it hurts me here. Hurts me to see what our world is becoming, how we’ve forgotten Him.”
“This will help.” I handed her the bound parchments.
She opened to the first page, rubbed her eyes, then held the letter out at arm’s length, squinting. “Can’t make it out.”
I scooted to the edge of the chair. “It’s the Maker’s letter. Passed down from Varney’s grandfather.”
She straightened with a happy gasp. “I thought it had been lost. Varney, that scamp. I remember when he was a boy—such a nervous sort. Should never have gone to him. What’s he been doing with it?”
“He hid the letter away. Never showed it to a soul.”
She shook her head, then stroked the page, tears welling in her eyes. “What was hidden will be revealed. What was lost will be returned.”
“After I read it, I . . . this sounds impossible to believe, but I . . . I saw Him. The Maker. He asked me to bring these words to the villages.”
She clutched the pages to her chest. “But you can’t take this with you. If anything happens to you, to this letter . . . we can’t let it be lost again.”
After nearly falling into the ocean earlier in the day, I’d had the same fear. “Could we make a copy for you to keep, before I travel onward?”
Fiola gripped the arms of her chair and pushed to her feet, scurrying to a cupboard on the wall. She pulled out two small pieces of parchment and a willow pen. “We’ll need more.” She pressed one finger against her pursed lips, then brightened. “There is one in our village who was always the best with reading and writing. You’ll need to win her over first. She’ll have more parchment tucked away and could even help with the work.”
“Wonderful! Who is it?”
“My daughter-in-law. Brianna.”
My throat constricted. The woman who loved Brantley and despised me.
During the next two days, Bri rebuffed each of my attempts to speak with her. With no source for parchment, the hours I could have spent copying the letter were wasted in fretting. Brantley, worried by the low stores of provisions at Windswell, busied himself with fishing and training Teague, a young lad who wanted to become a herder. He also took time to catch up with friends, and, I noticed, spent long hours with Brianna. He repaired thatch on her roof, stacked firewood, and loaded her smoker with fish. The villagers welcomed him at every threshold, sought his company all day and invited him to sit by the fire at night. I was happy for him, but part of me held a dull ache. While I caught glimpses of him enjoying time with everyone else, he avoided me.
One morning, I slipped outside moments before the primary sunrise, leaving Fiola snoring in her bed, and walked to the water’s edge, barefoot. I’d taken to touching the earth freely, no longer afraid of the voice and eager for any words from the Maker.
True to habit, Brantley stood on the shore patting Navar, studying the horizon, and preparing to head out for fish.
Navar noticed me first and tossed her head with a wide grin, shaking droplets onto Brantley.
Brantley spun, and when he saw me, his eyes narrowed. “You’re up early, dancer.”
I offered a tentative smile. “I hoped to catch you before you left for the day.”
“I’m busy. The sooner I restock supplies for the town, the sooner I can see you on your way.”
I blanched. He truly couldn’t wait to be rid of me.
He must have seen the hurt in my eyes, because his strong posture sagged and he softened the harsh edge to his voice. “Every day you’re here puts Windswell in danger. You do understand that, don’t you?”
“It’s you who doesn’t understand.” Frustration tightened my muscles. “The Maker’s letter is important. It—”
“Fine. Leave the letter here and one day when there’s less risk, folks who are interested can pass it around.”
“But that’s not what—”
“Rumors have reached the village of soldiers approaching from the midrim. I promised the patriarch I’d bring in one more herd of fish, since food has been so scarce, but time is fleeting. Now, if you’ll let me get to my fishing, we can leave tomorrow.”
“Not until I—”
He bounded onto Navar’s back and with a terse signal of his hand, she raced away, although she twisted her long neck to send me an apologetic glance.
I sank to the spongy tangleroot, dangling my feet in the milky water, water that stretched into infinity. I’d accomplished nothing here, and I’d run out of time. Brantley would drag me from the village by force tomorrow morning. Somehow I needed to share the letter. The people of Windswell had the right to know its contents.
I hurried back to the cottage, where Fiola was rising. My words tumbled out, full of confusion and frustration as I told her Brantley’s plans. “And Brianna won’t help me find parchment. She won’t even talk with me. And even if I found a handful of people to listen, there’s so little time. And . . .”
Fiola smoothed my hair back from my face. “Take a breath, little one. I have an idea. Why don’t you start the morning fire? I’ll be back soon.”
She hobbled out slowly, wrapped in a cloak against the morning chill.
I appreciated her kindness, but there seemed little she could do. I tended the hearth and pulled herbs from a clay pot and set them to steep in a kettle near the flames.
“I’ve asked the patriarch to give you an audience with the village assembly. We usually meet once a week, but I explained you may not be here that long. He will send out word for everyone to gather just before the primary sunset.”
A thrill of hope shot up my spine. “I can read the message and let the Maker speak for Himself.”
She nodded and poured a mug of tsalla, then sank into her chair. Her rapid errand had left her breathing heavily. “And Brantley usually doesn’t return from fishing until the subsunset, so he won’t be here to interfere.” Regret clouded her eyes. “That boy has been the joy of my life, but when he thinks he’s right, arguing with him is like holding back a tidal wave.”
I hid my disappointment. I had hoped after all our adventures together, Brantley would support me in this vital moment. But Fiola was right. Perhaps he’d only try to stop me. I summoned the last of my confidence. “Maybe if the assembly hears the letter, they’ll let me stay and make a copy.” And maybe when others accepted the truth, Brantley would finally listen, as well.
Outside the longhouse in the soft glow of the subsun, I held the Maker’s letter in one arm, and smoothed the fabric of the new tunic Fiola had made for me. No more clumsy peasant dress to tangle my ankles, or stained and torn dancer garb to remind others of my past. The caramel-colored fabric over new clean leggings gave the freedom of movement I preferred, yet helped me fit in with rim villagers. I hoped my appearance would disarm the folk when I spoke, at least enough so that they would let me share what the Maker had told me.
As I approached the steps leading to the entrance, Brantley emerged from the nearby woods. He was back early! His sudden appearance kindled a tiny hope in my heart. With him standing beside me, I’d have a chance to gain an open-minded hearing.
Brantley gripped my arm and yanked me away from the longhouse. “Fair warning. I’ll do whatever I must to stop you. Stirring up our village will only lead to harm.” The words gritted out, harsh as the rough stone that formed this building on the inland border of Windswell. They scraped over my heart, leaving a raw wound and brutally extinguishing my flicker of optimism.