DEAR READERS

Okay, so some of you like the prologue (A Girl and her Father), & some of you aren't so sure. But I've always been a little uncertain I wanted to give away so much right from the start. The other day I was inspired, & decided to change the prologue to this one. I will use the other prologue for a later book in the series (probably book 3). Please let me know what you think of this new prologue! And try to forget what you knew from the other one...

XI.

XI.

“Will you make her your blood daughter at festival this spring?” Zhe-myrrha asked after the frozen season had set in. She was visibly with child now, and tired from the tending of her home and little ones. When it became too much she slogged the path that joined the two fields and let the children play together while she rested and exchanged news with Rushe-kih.

As always, the dugout was filled with mouth-watering aromas. Rushe-kih was putting silver strings to the fire for smoking. The fish, named for its narrow body, made a dish Zhe-Myrrha always craved—pregnant or not, and nobody smoked silver strings quite as well as Rushe-kih. Out of the brine she scooped them one at a time, laying them across a greased rack to dry. Earlier batches were already smoking in the fire. Zhe-Myrrha drew in one luxurious breath after another.

“We have mentioned it,” Rushe-kih answered. Zhe-Myrrha waited, accustomed to the time Rushe-kih always took to warm up to personal subjects. Zhe-Myrrha had always regarded Rushe-kih as rather too private, and wondered if it was a trait common to all Behrowain—an extension of their frosty climate, perhaps.

“Hem feels we must be cautious. He is still anxious about finding her parents.”

Zhe-Myrrha frowned, “So that is what these recent journeys are about? Surely they would have been looking for her, if…there were any parents,” Zhe-Myrrha probed Rushe-kih’s face, but her neighbor guarded her feelings too well. “And in these journeys—what has Hem found out?”

“Not a thing,” admitted Rushe-kih, “There are no children missing.”

“And Zicahla—has she remembered anything from her past? Has she dropped any clue to where she might have come from?”

“When Hem asks her who she is, she answers him, ‘Zicahla.’ When he quizzes about her parents she looks at him like he’s crazy. It’s as if her life began under that tree. It is what she believes. And I think she is happy here with us.”

Zhe-Myrrha detected Rushe-kih’s pleasure in this admission. “You know, when it happened—at first I assumed we’d take her in. I knew Oriah would agree to it. I wasn’t sure how you felt about children. But you seemed to want to keep her here,” Zhe-myrrha scooped a chunk of silver strings from a rack Rushe-kih offered her, still sputtering from the fire. “Mm!” she smacked.

Dividing the batch in two parts, Rushe-kih scraped the larger portion into a flat clay pot and fit a lid on top. Securing it with twine and then wrapping it in thick hide, Rushe-kih set it before her weary friend. Zhe-Myrrha’s eyes lit as she laid a hand atop the offering in grateful acceptance.

Lifting her eyes to nothing in particular, Rushe-kih sighed, “I have no idea where she came from, or why she was under that tree when the vamfloria broke out, but I can’t imagine our life without her. I hold my breath every time Hem comes in from another journey, fearing someone has claimed her. But so far, no one.”

“It had to be traumatic for her, poor little soul. Pshah! It was traumatic enough for the rest of us. I imagine she has some type of fever blocking her memory,” Zhe-myrrha mused.

“There is nothing wrong with her mind,” Rushe-kih insisted firmly, situating a new rack in a dull part of the fire. A burnt log collapsed; a gust of ash and spark singed Rushe-kih’s face. She retreated in her awkward gait and eased into the rocker, rubbing her sore eyes. “Zicahla has no idea how strange her coming about is. As far as she’s concerned, this is how all children come to their parents.”

“And how are you getting about on your new foot?” Zhe-myrrha changed the subject. Up to this moment she had been careful not to gawk at the rough hoof that Hem had carved. It was not graceful, but seemed to aid Rushe-kih.

“Oh, It’s not so bad as it looks,” Rushe-kih gazed at it with some affection. “It helps me keep my balance anyway, so I only need my cane to get about.”

“And your foot? Is it still as if…” Zhe-myrrha hinted.

“The burning?” Soon after the tragedy Rushe-kih had complained that her foot still nagged her as if it were still attached, but in the fire, burning. The sensation had never left her. “It is about the same, only I am getting more accustomed to it. But now that it has healed a bit around the bone I expect some improvement. If I hadn’t had Zicahla with me the pain would have been unbearable. She lifts my mind above it. And if I ever feel sorry for myself, I just think what might have happened if I hadn’t done it.”

“We’re all indebted to you,” Zhe-myrrha nodded.

“No debt. Zicahla is payment enough. I’d have gladly given both feet for her.”

At that moment Ahr-tyr stormed in with Manut tucked under her arm.

“Where’s Zicahla?” Zhe-myrrha asked.

“She’s run out to the shed again to watch eggs for the thousandth time. I didn’t want to bundle Manut all up again!” Exasperation. “It’s not like they do anything! I’ve told her they won’t hatch for at least another month. Why does she go out there all the time! Pshah!”

Ahr-tyr had been terribly excited by Zicahla’s coming. A friend the next field over! But the reality of Zicahla tempered her enthusiasm. She’d had to wait the longest time before Zicahla could manage the simplest conversation. Manut could speak better! And then when Zicahla could talk, she developed this obsession with the staultrich eggs. Ahr-tyr wasn’t allowed out in the winter; Zhe-myrrha was always afraid she’d catch fever.

“Rushe-kih lets Zicahla stay out there all day!” she once tattled, but Zhe-myrrha had only responded, “Rushe-kih hasn’t been a mother long. She’s never had to nurse a child through the fever. She’ll learn.”

But nobody understood the cold better than Rushe-kih. She’d fashioned a little coat and hood for Zicahla out of the thickest bearskin she’d saved from her country. It was much warmer than the wolfskin capes or kufak clothes worn in the Trinnenlands, where no sacred bear made its home. Rushe-kih never worried about fever or chill. And when Zicahla showed such interest in the staultriches, Rushe-kih was still more pleased, thinking, “She’ll take over the herd when Hem and I are too old.” And in ways like these Rushe-kih already regarded Zicahla as her daughter.

Zicahla was still in the shed when Zhe-myrrha and the children had disappeared over the powdery white hilltop. From the dugout door Rushe-kih called, “Zicahla! Zicahla!” Instantly the furry little bundle appeared. Stamping across the field and back to the warm dugout where she shed the bearskin, she helped Rushe-kih set out a meal of smoked silver strings.

X.

It is merciful that time is not linear. In truth, time is not a course to be run: beginning, middle, end; but rather a presence which abides with us in cycles and spheres, and inside us as awareness. For some time is a trap, for some a prison, yet all escape its bounds. A smell and a taste flood the soul with reminiscence—and what is that but a journey backward in time? A moment of exceedingly great joy slows or even stops time. Some say the end of time is death, but life is as a circle, and death is not death-and-the-end, but resurrection, and new spring. Likewise, the flow of time is not fixed and steady, but rather it travels in variables: fast and slow, backwards and forwards, stops and starts. And for every creature which is born and born again, time is both friend and foe.

And so it was for Rushe-kih that nature changed its course. Zicahla arrived deep in the Trinnen autumn, just as time was sweeping over Rushe-kih with broad and bitter strokes. Having denied her of motherhood and cheated her of her destiny, time now set out to print its mark upon her. Her black hair once wavy now hung lifeless in braids gray-flecked, and the curves of her breasts and hips evened out with muscles she’d developed working the fields alongside Hem. But enter Zicahla, bringing with her rebirth and healing, and new destiny. Now Rushe-kih was a young mother in the spring of life. Her eyes recovered the faith they’d lost so long ago to dry fever and doubt. Her lips smoothed to easiness and joy. Even her voice was girlish and laughing again. To all who knew Rushe-kih it was clear: in the vault of her eyes a bright new star had appeared, and that star was Zicahla.

IX.

Ahr-tyr was as good as her word. The next evening Zhe-myrrha, Oriah, and the children stopped by with a new warm tunic for the girl. Rushe-kih recognized immediately the homespun kufak fibers dyed red, a difficult shade which Zhe-Myrrha was famous for.

“There she is!” Oriah exclaimed when he spotted her scampering behind Hem on his way in from the shed. “Look at her, out and about!”

“She’s recovered then?” Zhe-myrrha inquired, “Back to herself?”

“Zicahla is doing very well,” Rushe-kih reported proudly, “She’s still a bit wobbly on her feet, but she’s getting around better than I am, for sure!”

“Zicahla?” Zhe-myrrha asked, “Is that her name? She remembered?”

Hem explained, “That’s the name Rushe-kih has given her for now. It appears the girl has lost her memory, although perhaps she’s from a distant tribe and speaks a language we don’t know. But she is catching on quickly.”

“Eggs!” Zicahla squealed.

“That’s right, child,” Hem smiled gently and announced, “Yesterday, Solee layed! Thirteen beautiful eggs this year, all smooth and strong. A goodly clutch!”

“Zicahla, why not take Ahr-tyr out to see the eggs?” Rushe-kih pronounced slowly, gesturing. “Ahr-tyr. Eggs.” Zicahla beamed as she caught the meaning, and she motioned Ahr-tyr to the door. Out they bolted, hand in hand.

“Indeed, she is a quick learner,” Oriah said, “Whoever she is, she’s no fool.”

The grown-ups ambled outside to the back porch and watched the girls as they reached the shed and slipped inside. Streams of morning sunlight blazed on the dewy grass. A breeze rich with the scent of mountain pine filled Rushe-kih with sudden and complete gratitude. Never had life felt so complete, so filled with purpose. Strangely, it was as if it had always been so, only her missing foot and the scorched ring around the bare tree beyond the shed reminded her otherwise.

VIII.

The time for Zhe-Myrrha and her children to return home had arrived. As they prepared to leave Zhe-Myrrha scanned the dug-out, with dark brows scrunched over her eyes in worry.

“We’ll return tomorrow and visit,” Zhe-Myrrha’s anxious gaze fell on the foundling sitting on the rocking chair near the stove. Now that she had awoken the net had been taken down and Hem had assembled a small pallet in its place in the corner. “If you need anything—anything at all, you know I could stay another day or so.”

Rushe-kih gathered herself up as straight as she could stand, “I will be fine, Myrrha, you will see. You must go home now and take care of your own man and your children. Don’t fret you on our account.”

“Yes,” Zhe-Myrrha smiled. “Well, anyway. We’ll be back just the same. I’m sure Oriah will be curious about the girl. ”

“I’ll come over tomorrow and bring her a present,” Ahr-tyr promised.

Zhe-myrrha pulled her towards the door, “Pshah! Silly girl, you don’t tell someone when you’re going to give them a present!”

“But I don’t want her to go away before we come back!” Ahr-tyr protested.

“Don’t worry,” Zhe-myrrha marked Rushe-kih and Hem from the doorway, “I have a feeling she’ll be here a good long time.”

“Hurray!” squealed Ahr-tyr, throwing her arms into the air, “Maybe this year I’ll get a sister and a friend!”

Hem closed the door behind them and assisted Rushe-kih back to her bed. The girl followed behind and sat beside Rushe-kih. Pulling on Rushe-kih’s sleeve, she pointed toward the door.

“Zhe-myrrha, Ahr-tyr,” she began, and pointing at Hem she continued, “Hem.” She touched Rushe-kih again as she recalled, “Ah-ni.” She stopped. Tentatively she pointed at herself.

“Yes? And what is your name?” Hem prodded.

With eyes questioning she jabbed at herself again.

“I don’t think she remembers it, Hem. I think she wants us to tell her what her name is,” Rushe-kih whispered. Rushe-kih laid her hand on the girl’s chest. “Zicahla,” she pronounced, her eyes boldly to meeting Hem’s.

The girl gazed down at Rushe-kih’s hand. She sucked in slightly and smiled, “Zicahla.”

DEAR READERS

I just changed the name again--it's now Zhe-myrrha. I think I like it, so it will probably stick. And now...chapter 2...

VII.

From the very beginning Rushe-kih was stubborn about caring for the foundling herself. On the crutch Hem had made for her she hobbled from her pallet to the fire to add this or that to the pot Zhe-myrrha started each morning. Then back to the unconscious child to spoon a draft between the girl’s parted lips. When Zhe-myrrha insisted she rest, Rushe-kih returned to her pallet only to pick up her sewing needle. With unsleeping eyes glued upon the child, Rushe-kih produced a quilted jacket and leggings almost by magic.

Zhe-myrrha threw her hands up in the air. “You are positively the worst patient I’ve ever nursed!” she teased. “What am I doing here anyway? I’m not on vacation, you know!”

“Definitely not on vacation!” snapped Ahr-tyr from her corner where she folded cloths for poultices, occupied little Manut, and carried out the other tasks required of her, all the while keeping her own inquisitive watch over the mysterious girl. As the curious raccoon is drawn to mischief, so Ahr-tyr was attracted to crises. A very tragedian was young Ahr-tyr, and inspired by the drama unfolding before her eyes. Now it had always seemed to Rushe-kih that Ahr-tyr must have come from the womb singing, for indeed Ahr-tyr could out-chant any rimer, and so it was natural at this time for Ahr-tyr to sing of vamfloria. And sing she did. At least a dozen times a day. Rushe-kih suffered it patiently.

Zhe-myrrha, on the other hand, took comfort in the psalm, evidently pleased by her daughter’s devotion. “It’s terrible, isn’t it, that Nono brought this grief upon us,” Zhe-myrrha commented one morning while clearing breakfast. Ahr-tyr had just concluded the psalm for the second time.

“Hmm?” Rushe-kih looked up from the dainty jacket on which she was quilting the figure of a fox guardian.

“The psalm—vamfloria?” Zhe-myrrha motioned toward Ahr-tyr, “If Nono and Rup-tinyon had only shown gratitude—if they hadn’t become greedy and fought with Ee-loyi, there’d never have been such a thing as vamfloria. But they did, and as such they become vamfloria, and we all suffer.”

“Nono was a bad daughter,” Ahr-tyr moralized, “Vamfloria is a reminder to us to be good and grateful for what our parents give us, right Ma-maki?”

“That’s what the legend tells us,” Zhe-myrrha nodded.

“If it weren’t for that bad Nono, you’d still have your foot. Are you cursed too now?” Ahr-tyr asked indelicately. Zhe-myrrha hushed her.

“Honestly, Ahr-tyr! Think before you open that mouth of yours! The things you say…” she scolded,

“It’s all right. I’m unscathed.” Rushe-kih joked and then, eyeing her friend cautiously, she added, “I’m not offended, because, to be honest, Myrrha, I don’t practice the rimer’s way.”

“Oh?” Zhe-myrrha absently dropped a piece of flatbread in the fire. In a stream of fragrant smoke it crinkled away into ash. “Didn’t the rimers make it to your country then?” While Rushe-kih had lived over twenty years in the Trinnenlands, Zhe-myrrha knew her friend clung to the Behrowain way of life. It wasn’t just Rushe-kih’s nasal accent and green eyes that set her apart, but the tunics she wore were adorned with northern symbols and underlacings, so that even from a distance one could tell she was a foreigner.

“I don’t remember ever seeing rimers when I was little,” Rushe-kih recalled, “But they came more and more in the years before I married. I listened to their stories and I considered them. But I never converted.”

Ahr-tyr gasped, “You’re an unbeliever?”

Zhe-myrrha fell silent. “Where do you think vamfloria came from then? What is its purpose?”

Rushe-kih knew that the rimers taught that all of earth’s creations existed for a human purpose, even if only to teach a lesson. But she’d been taught otherwise. Vamfloria was neither good nor evil. It lived as all organisms do, in a manner consistent with its own measure of creation, having as much claim to life as the sacred bear, or man, for that matter. Certainly the plant was dangerous, and with the other Behrowain children she had learned to respect it as well as to how to defeat it. But she’d been taught nothing of a vindictive god burning his child out of retaliation.

“Purpose? I don’t know. I don’t suppose the magi of my village spoke of any particular purpose. I remember them saying vamfloria was something between animal and plant, and that it too has a place in this world.”

“You don’t believe in the curse then?” Ahr-tyr was dumbfounded.

“Ahr-tyr, I think I hear Manut waking up. Go check on him please. Now.”

Rushe-kih sensed dismay in Zhe-myrrha's voice and remembered that in the flatlands magi had poor reputations. Ahr-tyr snorted twice in displeasure at having to leave such an interesting discussion. She stalked out the room.

Gently Rushe-kih reasoned, “You’re a mother, Zhe-myrrha. I’ve seen the way you and Oriah look at your children. Do you believe a parent would do what Ee-Loyi did, no matter how willful that child was?” Rushe-kih sighed, “I cannot. Least of all, a perfect parent—a god.”

“I don’t think of it like that,” Zhe-myrrha responded, “I cannot hope to comprehend the actions of a god. They are above us. It’s the lesson that’s valuable, that greed will be punished. That’s why I teach Ahr-tyr the psaltery. And she loves to sing…”

“Don’t worry,” Rushe-kih spoke reassuringly, noting a hint of defensiveness in Zhe-myrrha’s words. “I would never dream of undermining your teachings. I don’t know why I even brought it up today…”

Zhe-myrrha touched Rushe-kih’s hand, “It is nothing between two friends such as we are. It’s just that…it surprised me. I just assumed you believed as we do. And Hem—he grew up here in the flatlands. What does he think of your unbelief?”

“Oh,” Rushe-kih chuckled. If Zhe-myrrha only knew! “Hem has his ways. His own beliefs. He has received the Ash, you know.”

Zhe-myrrha’s eyes rounded and her jaw dropped. “The Ash! The Ash of Eth?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t believe it!” Zhe-myrrha breathed, “We are practically sisters these ten years; you’ve nursed me through the births of my two children, and yet I never knew these things about you! When did Hem make his journey?”

“Oh, long ago before we met. It’s what brought him to my country. One of his companions died on the journey—a Behrowain, and Hem brought the news to our village.”

Zhe-myrrha was still reeling, “I’d heard there were still a few who went looking for the Ash. But I never imagined I’d ever meet someone. Is it true? All that they say—does it give him powers?”

Rushe-kih smiled, glad that their differences would not drive a wedge between them after all, “I don’t know whether you’d call them powers. More like gifts. A heightened awareness—he has dreams…”

“Hex and vexes!” Ahr-tyr appeared at the door holding a puffy-eyed Manut, still groggy from sleep.

“Watch your language, young lady,” Zhe-myrrha began, but fell off scolding when she followed Ahr-tyr’s gaze. There, in the hanging net, the foundling had opened her eyes and was calmly taking in her surroundings. In one instant, Rushe-kih was bounding across the room, numb to the pain shooting up her body.

Rushe-kih lowered herself to the side of the net while Zhe-myrrha hovered above. But for the harsh bruises beneath the child’s eyes which had yellowed and the copious puncture marks which had faded, nothing was altered. The fragile head sunk into the pillow, two thick dark braids spilling out from opposite sides. But now two round eyes, as soft and green as sage gazed back at them.

“Welcome back, Little One,” Rushe-kih whispered, “Don’t be afraid. We’re friends.” Rushe-kih radiated a smile as comforting and bright as sunlight. Encouraged, the girl returned the smile.

“Those eyes, Rushe-kih—she’s just like…” Zhe-myrrha gasped. While lighter eyes were common among the northern tribes, Zhe-myrrha had never seen another human like Rushe-kih.

“Who are you? Can you tell us your name?” Rushe-kih prompted, but the girl only responded by examining the scars on her arms. Distress fleeted across her brow. She raised an arm toward Rushe-kih questioningly.

“Yes,” Rushe-kih murmured, taking the arm and caressing it, “You’ve had quite a scare. You were caught in a bed of vamfloria. Do you remember that?”

Naïve, the girl smiled again.

“Vamfloria. Do you know what that is, little one?” Zhe-myrrha asked, but the girl only smiled on. “I don’t think she hears us. Maybe she’s deaf.”

Just then Hem slammed the front door, and the girl’s jump made it clear that she could indeed hear. All watched as Hem crossed the front room and stopped at the door to the bedroom.

“She’s alive!” he said.

“Of course, alive!” snorted Rushe-kih.

“I mean, awake! She’s awake!” he corrected himself, and recovering from his shock, he crept in for a closer look. “Has she said anything? Who is she?”

“She hasn’t spoken yet; she’s just now awoken,” Rushe-kih answered without taking eyes off the girl.

“Well, ask her where she came from then,” Hem coached.

“I’m not sure she understands our speech,” Rushe-kih said.

“Rushe-kih, try speaking Behrowain,” Zhe-myrrha suggested, still captivated by the child’s eyes.

Rushe-kih asked a few hopeful questions in the northern language without result. Rushe-kih sighed and lifted the girl’s tiny hand. “Let’s see if this works,” she said, holding the hand and pointing it at Zhe-myrrha. “Zhe-myrrha,” she instructed.

Zhe-myrrha patted her chest, “That’s right. I’m Zhe-myrrha.”

“Zhhhe-mmmyyyrrrrha,” Rushe-kih drew out each syllable, “Can you say that?”

The child drew in her breath. “Zhe-myrrha,” she repeated slowly in a soft, scratchy voice. Immediately her audience burst into cheers.

“That’s right! I think she understands!” Hem clapped Zhe-myrrha on the back.

Next Rushe-kih pointed to Ahr-tyr, who had wormed in behind her, still holding her brother. “Ahr-tyr. Aaahrr-tyyyrr. And Manut. Can you say that?”

“Ahr-tyr and Manut,” came the response, to the delight of everyone.

“Hem,” Rushe-kih moved on confidently.

The girl now pointing independently. “Hem,” She pronounced with a smile, as applause rang out again. The girl next pointed her finger at Rushe-kih, who was sitting so close that the tiny finger pressed against her breastbone.

Rushe-kih hesitated. “You can call me Ah-ni,” she said in a motherly tone.

“But that’s not…” Ahr-tyr contradicted. Zhe-myrrha shushed her.

“Ah-ni,” Rushe-kih repeated.

A glimmer of awareness. “Ah-ni,” the girl said reluctantly at first, and then repeating with more confidence, “Ah-ni.”

“That’s right,” Rushe-kih beamed, squeezing the tiny hand. “Ah-ni. It’s a term in my country for caregiver. Like a nurse,” Rushe-kih explained. “She can call me that until…” Rushe-kih held Hem’s glance, “Until we find who she belongs to.”