by Sharon Hinck
“Good. Keep doing exactly what you’re doing.”
Brantley nudged the raft against the shoreline, lifted himself onto land, and loaded our supplies.
“Wait. I don’t . . . I can’t . . . too soon . . .” My lungs didn’t have enough breath to get out my protests.
After slipping into the water beside me, Brantley propelled the raft along the shoreline with powerful kicks. “Let me know when you get tired.”
What if my grip weakened?
I should have let him teach me to swim weeks ago.
I should have learned to float without a raft before setting out.
I should never have left the Order.
That fickle thought pulled me up short. When challenges loomed, I couldn’t second-guess the path that led me to this point, especially when my Maker had guided the journey.
I rested my cheek against the edge of the raft and embraced the sensation of milky liquid carrying me. My legs found a rhythm, not unlike performing a pattern. Repetitive movements quieted my worries, and I lost myself in the pure focus of swimming and pushing the raft.
Much later, a touch on my back startled me. I pulled my head up, which made my legs sink beneath me. I panicked and tugged too hard on the raft.
“Easy there.” Brantley pointed to a large, tilted tree. “See that tree? We’re almost there. The cove is around this outcropping.”
I filled my lungs, which helped me float in place. “Let’s keep going.”
He grinned. “You continue to surprise me.”
His respect fueled my determination, and I stretched out and resumed kicking.
As we entered the bay, no children frolicked in the water. Smoke wisps drifted from a few chimneys, but otherwise the village appeared deserted. We propelled the raft closer. One slight figure sat on the tangleroot with his back angled toward us, so intent on something in the water he didn’t notice our approach.
We aimed his direction.
“No!” Brantley suddenly released his grip and dove under the water, swimming like an arrow.
I clung to the raft, nudging it forward in uneven jolts, while trying to see what had upset Brantley.
As I drew near, a dark stain coated the surface. Brantley swam through the discolored water and threw his arms around the listless shape floating near shore.
Navar!
I fluttered my legs, rushing to reach them.
“I tried to send her out.” Brantley’s apprentice, Teague, replaced a soggy bunch of moss, briefly revealing an ugly gash in Navar’s side. “A few days ago a new band of soldiers arrived. They were rounding people up. I thought to ride her out until they left. But they saw me. I meant to signal her to flee, but got confused.” Misery ran rivulets down the boy’s face. “They threw a spear.”
I stroked Navar’s supple hide. Was she gone?
Her lids lifted halfway, but her violet eyes clouded like heavy fog, and then sank closed as she shuddered. A deep moan reverberated through the water.
Anguish carved dark shadows under Brantley’s eyes as he stroked Navar and crooned to her.
Teague covered his face. “This is my fault.”
Without turning from Navar, Brantley took time to comfort the lad. “It’s not your fault.”
I pressed my lips together, fighting back tears. Of course it wasn’t Teague’s fault. He was not the person who had drawn the soldiers’ ire to this village. The fault was mine.
Navar sank lower in the water, only a small hump of her back breaking the surface. Winged fins extended from her sides, not for glorious flight but as a last effort to stay afloat. Without their support, it appeared she would sink into the depths. Her long neck held none of her usual energy, but stretched out along the water. Her eyes flickered a few times, glassy with pain.
I fluttered my legs, easing the raft closer.
Navar’s agony reflected in Brantley’s eyes, dark blue storms brewing in their depths. “Does Fiola know?” he asked Teague. “She might have a cure.”
The apprentice reached for another handful of moss and passed it to Brantley. “She fled with the others. Most of the families scattered until the soldiers left, and some are staying away until they’re sure it’s safe again.” Teague’s neck corded, tension traveling down his arm to his clenched fist. “They were demanding more girls.”
“And the village leaders refused?”
Teague’s chest expanded and he nodded. “To a man. They took arms and stood together. Since the patrol was small, the soldiers backed down and left. But families with girls hid them, fearing the men would return with reinforcements. Otherwise Fiola would be here to use her herbs on Navar.”
I inched closer. “Alcea leaves speed healing, at least for humans. They might help.”
Brantley waved a hand at Teague. “Run to Fiola’s cottage and see what you can find.” He barely spared me a glance, obviously blaming me. He had every reason to hate me. If he’d never met me, soldiers wouldn’t have targeted Windswell. Villagers wouldn’t have resisted. Navar wouldn’t be dying.
Eager to be helpful, and perhaps also to escape Navar’s suffering, Teague raced away, his lanky legs eating up the ground.
Alone with Brantley, I wanted to apologize for the Order, for the soldiers, for Navar’s horrible wound. Nothing I could say would make a difference.
Instead I released the raft and wrapped my arms around Navar’s neck, cooing into her floppy ears. “I’m sorry. Keep breathing. You’ll be all right. We’ll take care of you.”
By some instinct, my legs bent together, rolling through a motion in the way Navar used her body to propel through the waves.
Maker of Meriel, teach me a new pattern. Teach me a dance of healing.
I forgot my fear of the water and turned in place, copying the movements I’d seen Navar perform. Releasing her, my arms unfurled like her side fins. I stretched my neck and reached toward the sky, then dove under her languid head and emerged on the other side. My movements echoed all the strong and graceful ways Navar had always danced through the water.
Brantley held compresses against his stenella’s wound and paid no attention to me.
If nothing else, perhaps my swimming could distract her from the pain.
Navar lifted her chin, her luminous gaze following my movements. After finishing the stenella pattern I’d created, I stroked her soft withers and side. She inhaled deeply, lifting higher in the water.
I crawled onto my accustomed spot near her neck. “Yes, sweet Navar. Be whole.”
Brantley pulled away a fistful of moss and gasped. Craning my neck, I looked back at the gash in her side.
The edges had drawn almost together. Fresh hide grew across the wound. Navar swiveled her neck and twisted to look. She nuzzled Brantley’s chest and shoved him aside. A bewildered whistle rose from her throat, and then a joyous gurgle.
Brantley paddled back a few feet. He shook his head, then brushed his fingers across Navar’s side. His expression swung from utter joy to a frown that could only mean disbelief. Lifting his head, he met my gaze. “I keep seeing things I can’t accept.”
I hugged Navar, then crossed the small span of water to clamber onto shore. “Sometimes the hardest things to believe are the ones most important to accept.”
He circled Navar, checking for any other injuries, then pulled himself up to sit beside me. “Thank you. Will you watch her? I need to find out if anyone knows where my mother and Bri are hiding. I’ll speak with any leaders still in the village.”
“I won’t leave her side.”
He stood and dusted moss from his hands. “Looks like the time to oppose the Order is now, doesn’t it?”
He strode away before I could answer. Another wriggle of unease twisted through my chest. The Maker had asked me to bring truth. I longed to undo the damage the Order’s lies had brought our world and hoped the Maker would reform their methods. Brantley was trusting in a military opposition. The thought of war horrified me. Would it come to that?
Navar bl
eated and rested her chin on the edge of tangleroot where I sat.
I stroked her long ears. “I’m worried about him too.”
Brantley received reassurances about his family from the village leaders, and left messages for them. After restocking supplies and assuring that Navar was fit, Brantley and I abandoned our flimsy raft and resumed our accustomed places on the stenella’s back to ride onward along the rim. I sat astride, whispering endearments to our mount, while Brantley stood behind me, scanning the shoreline.
“Next stop Undertow at last.” Brantley shifted his balance and signaled Navar to glide. “Sorry it’s taken so long to keep my promise.”
“No one could have predicted all that’s happened. I wonder what we’ll find.”
“Hopefully more strong arms to march against the Order.”
My legs clenched against Navar’s side as she glided above the waves. “That’s not what the Maker—”
“Enough.” Brantley threw his voice against the wind. “If the Maker had cared enough to stop the Order, I’d consider following Him. We agree that the Order must be stopped. You do it your way—”
“The Maker’s way.”
He broadened his stance as Navar caught a gust and swayed. “And I’ll do it my way.”
I gnawed on my lower lip. Maker, could You meet with Brantley as You did with me? If he could see You, I know his heart would heal and he would trust You again.
The ache in my chest came from more than fear about my mission. I also felt a deep concern for Brantley’s pain and anger, a level of care that I didn’t want to analyze. Yet no matter how much I cared, I could no more change his heart than I could make the suns move backward in the sky. Once again, I needed to practice trusting the Maker.
In spite of my eagerness to reach Undertow, I wished Brantley would keep Navar on the surface. Each time she caught an updraft and rose toward the sky, my legs trembled from the effort of gripping her sides. Vertigo made the ocean spin beneath me, and I took to closing my eyes each time she left the water. Even with Navar’s speed, we had to make camp on the shore two more nights before drawing close to Undertow.
The last afternoon, as we rode a strong updraft and soared above the sea, Brantley pointed out landmarks that told him we were near what I hoped was my home village. Tension built in my muscles, and my eyes strained for my first glimpse. Would I recognize any landmarks? Would there be people who remembered me? Perhaps the father whose shoulders I’d remembered riding?
“You keep edging forward like that, you’ll fall right over Navar’s head.” Standing behind me, Brantley chuckled, but the warmth in his tone revealed sympathy for my eagerness.
What had once been a tiny clue, a word on a scrap of parchment, had grown to be a vivid hope. After being deferred by so many interruptions, my hope had only expanded. Would the village look like Windswell with neat cottages and flower-bordered paths? Soon I’d meet the family from which I’d been ripped away. What unique skills did they have? Were they landkeepers or herders or healers?
Happy fantasies played across my imagination in glorious color.
“Oh, no.” Brantley’s gasp pulled me back to reality. He sank to his knees behind me. “It can’t be.”
I followed his gaze toward the shore as Navar coasted down and sliced a landing on the water, carrying us within sight of a devastated village.
Burnt tree trunks rose like vicious pickets guarding an ash-strewn clearing. Only skeletons of homes remained, all gray and mottled and deserted. Carrion birds gathered in a tight row on the ridgeline of one cottage, cawing at our arrival. No hint of human life remained in what had once been a large village.
My hand found my throat. “This must be the wrong place.”
His grip tightened on my shoulder, trying in his own way to offer comfort. “Wait here.”
As soon as Navar reached the shoreline, Brantley leapt onto the rim and strode through the ruins.
I ignored his command and followed, my bare feet soon coated with cold ash. Deeper inland, we came to a large structure that still had partial walls. Brantley stepped inside the longhouse, then quickly returned, shaking his head.
“I told you”—he coughed—“to wait with Navar.”
The odor of burnt and rain-soaked wood carried from the building and stopped my progress even before Brantley blocked my way. A scarred sign dangled from what had once been a doorway. I could make out the carved name, Undertow.
“What’s inside?” I advanced one more step.
He drew me back toward the waterside clearing. “Nothing but ruin.”
Pain lanced through me, and I fell to my knees. Charcoal dust stirred around me, dead and dismal as my ruined hope. “My people. . .” I gasped and covered my face, tears already splashing onto the earth.
“This was the work of the Order.” Brantley stood stiff, his back turned to the ruins. “We have no choice. We have to rally the villages to fight. You see that, don’t you?”
I hurt too much to see anything. Maybe he was right. Maybe there were no more options. Maybe in time anger would burn in me like it did in Brantley, and that would give me power to fight. But right now I felt only lost and as empty as the charred buildings. The Order had been my life. When I’d given that up, I’d clung to the fragile anticipation of finding a new place to belong, of reuniting with my village and family. To come this far . . .
I looked at my empty palms. What could I cling to now?
Brantley shifted his weight, backing away and then returning. I wanted him to leave so he wouldn’t see my despair. But I also wanted him to stay and tether me to life. I hunched forward as silent sobs wracked my body.
After a few minutes, Brantley knelt beside me and rested his hand on my back. The warm touch in the midst of the cold desolation slowed my gasps of pain.
When only a few forlorn sniffles remained and my tears ceased, Brantley helped me to my feet. “If anyone escaped, they may have traveled inland. We’ll look for a trail. At any rate, we’ll need a place to camp tonight.”
I nodded and shuffled behind him, my head drooping. When we passed the longhouse, I averted my gaze from the symbol of an entire village being completely destroyed. Fighting down nausea, I quickened my steps.
We crossed a field and entered a thicket of inland woods. “There.” Brantley pointed at signs only he could decipher. “I’m sure some of the villagers escaped. We may still find them.”
False hope was more painful than no hope. I closed my ears and my heart.
Maker, did You do this?
My fist pressed against the pouch at my chest.
Did You need to purge every good thing, every possibility from my life so that all I have left is this letter? Is that who You are? Crueler than the harshest saltar? Then why am I serving You?
As we trudged inland in the deepening twilight, I was grateful for Brantley’s silence. Absorbed in my doubt and pain, I bumped against him when he stopped.
“Listen,” he hissed.
Irregular murmurs floated on the air ahead. Not the steady mumble of water dodging around rocks in a stream or the chatter of a flock of starlings.
Human voices.
We crept forward, ducking from cover to cover, attempting to find the source without being seen. A thin voice rose, then broke off. A child. An infant cried, then quieted amid nervous shushing.
The sounds came from within a deep circle of pines. Thick branches draped from tight-spaced trunks, and propped-up limbs covered the gaps. A crude but effective shelter. We circled the trees and caught a flicker of light through a seam. A hint of smoke wafted toward us.
“They should be more careful. If we found them this easily, the soldiers—”
“Hold!” A lad near as young as Orianna sprang from a tree, landing in front of us and brandishing a tarnished sword he could barely lift. Rigid silence ended the murmurs from within the circle of trees.
Brantley raised his hands. “We’re friends. We seek the villagers of Undertow.”
T
he boy swiped a hand under his runny nose and let his sword droop. “No villagers left.”
A cough and rustle from within belied his words.
Brantley pulled me forward. “This woman is from Undertow. Wrested from her parents as a child.”
The boy chewed his lower lip and squinted at me. “Don’t know her.”
“I was taken before you were born. Held by the Order. I’m hoping to find my family.” My throat thickened, and I had to blink several times to remind my tears I’d given them too much freedom already today.
A wizened hand pushed aside the concealing branches, and an old woman emerged. Gray hair coiled above her neck, and she stood tall as the pines. “Pert,” she said sharply, “resume your watch.”
The boy clambered through the branches and out of sight.
“Your name?” The matriarch studied me.
I stared back. Could she be my mother? Her face triggered no memory. “I’m Carya of Undertow. Stolen from the village some fifteen years ago. At least I think this was my village.”
Even under the deepening shadows, the woman’s face paled. “You’re a dancer?” I should have been used to the suspicion and disdain—I’d heard it often enough over the weeks since leaving the Order. But coming from the matriarch of my home village, it crushed me.
I shook my head. “Not anymore. I’ve escaped the Order.”
She stared at me hard, skepticism darkening her gaze. “So perhaps it was you they were looking for?”
Horror contracted my ribs. Could all this be my fault?
Brantley put an arm around my shoulder. “We’ve witnessed other damage the Order’s soldiers have done, but they’ve never razed an entire village to the ground like this.”
“Not true.” She gazed toward the island’s center. “We had word that Foleshill was also burned.” Turning to Brantley, she asked, “And you? Who are you and what do you seek?”
“Brantley of Windswell.” His hand rested on his knife hilt. “I seek to destroy the Order and return our world to the villages.”