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.