The Ash of Eth

DEAR READERS

2008-05-24T09:41:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-05-10T15:07:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-05-06T02:29:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-05-05T02:28:00.001-07:00

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.

2008-04-28T13:19:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-18T07:52:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-04-18T07:51:00.000-07:00

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.”

DEAR READERS

2008-04-11T15:59:00.001-07:00

I want to thank you all for your good insights & comments. I know I haven't been posting regularly, but this is not because I haven't been working, I can assure you! As I reached the end of chapter 1 with this last post (VI.) I went back & worked out a few bumpy spots. I have therefore edited all posts up to this point to reflect these changes. You don't have to go back & re-read them all, (unless you want to), but you should be aware that I have changed the name of one character from Jemeh-fir to Jezura.

Thanks again! And enjoy as we move onward...

VI.

2008-04-11T15:46:00.001-07:00

They discussed the matter one evening, hunched in a circle over their late meal prepared by Jezura, whose cooking, in Hem’s guarded opinion was unpalatable. Mechanically he dipped the corner of his flatbread into the bland and lumpy paste, brought it to his lips, and swallowed. He noticed that Oriah talked much and ate little, but his own reticent disposition made it difficult for Hem to refuse second and third helpings without causing offense. It seemed that each time he mopped up the last morsel with his flatbread Jezura was beside him, ladling out another portion.

“What a change to cook for a man with a real appetite!” Jezura reached for the pot. “Pshah! Rushe-kih, you’d better get all the rest you can!”

Hem grunted, unable to mask his exasperation.

Suppressing a grin, Oriah intercepted the ladle, “Ah, but Jezura dear, perhaps it’s an empty plate he’s wanting. A man’s belly can only hold so much!” He turned to Hem, “Jezura mentioned that you took a stault in to the village today to ask around about the child,” he said.

Hem sat back, relieved at the change of topic. “Yes. I rode in this morning. I visited the ancients, ours and yours, and told them of the outbreak. They send us their well-wishings. I also appeared at the Court of the Elders to inquire about missing children.”

There was pause before Rushe-kih asked from her pallete, “And--?”

“There are no village children unaccounted for.”

“We could take her in, of course,” Jezura offered slowly, “Ahr-tyr has asked if the little girl can move in and be her sister.” Sitting at her mother’s side, Ahr-tyr smiled.

Hem disapproved, “We cannot make any plans for the girl. She must belong to somebody! Children don’t appear out of nowhere, least of all in a bed of vamfloria. We must locate her parents and return her.”

“But what if they died in the vamfloria?” Oriah speculated, “Perhaps she belonged to a rimer, and the weed consumed them.”

“Possible,” Hem agreed, “But we’d have found some trace of them, surely. Besides, rimer’s children don’t run around wearing rubies.”

It was true. As unexplainable as was the girl’s appearance, her attire only left her rescuers more baffled: an ankle-length linen undergarment, shredded and bloody, and around her neck an amulet on a leather thong. Jezura had discovered the hidden ruby when fingering the delicate carvings on the wooden cover. Passing the stone from one to the next, they gazed at each other, astonished.

When the stone fell into Hem’s hands he stood and said simply, “She is somebody.” He left the room and returned empty-handed. When he’d gone to the village later, Hem had taken the tunic, hoping it would provide a clue to her identity. He’d left the jewel behind. He thought it best to keep that a secret, in case a fortune hunter might claim the girl out of greed.

“There’s no need for discussion,” Rushe-kih interrupted, “When the girl comes to she’ll tell us where she’s from.” That seemed reasonable, and the group agreed.

But later that night as Hem stretched carefully beside his wife on the pallet they shared, Rushe-kih contemplated, “Hem, don’t you think this child could be the one Olee-fuku promised me at that choosing ceremony? He said I’d be a mother, and I’ve always believed.”

“Rushe-kih, children don’t appear from nowhere,” Hem maintained, “She must belong to someone.”

“I feel it so strongly, Hem. She was meant to be here. I knew it as soon as Oriah said there was a child in the weed.” Rushe-kih assured herself. “There was a spirit with me, whispering what I must do. It told me what I had to do to save her. You know I would never have done that on my own.”

“I know you are not an impulsive woman, Rushe-kih,” Hem spoke. “It is not like you to act so rashly. I believe you must have had a spirit.”

“Oh Hem!” Rushe-kih breathed, comforted by Hem’s belief in her. “The girl was given to us from the earth. She is the Zicahla. Mender of our world,” Rushe-kih shuddered. “But I do not know what that means.”

“We’ll see,” Hem was cautious, “We’ll see when she awakens. But I must warn you do not get attached. It could end up being a great disappointment in the end.”

V.

2008-03-12T11:18:00.000-07:00

“You’re back,” Jezura squeezed her hand. “How are you feeling?”

Rushe-kih forced a smile. Looking down she saw the lump of only one foot beneath the blanket. “Where is the little girl?” she asked.

Jezura stepped back to reveal a net strung across the wall opposite. Over it was draped a shaggy white bed mat. The child rested beneath a woven blanket. Her skin had regained some of its copper color, but was black and hollow around the eyes and pale at her lips. She’d been washed and a long braid lay on either side of her head.

“She’s pretty,” Ahr-tyr said, “I plaited her hair.”

“It’s a very nice job,” Rushe-kih said. “She’s all right then?”

“She’s breathing regularly,” Hem said, “But she hasn’t woken yet.”

Rushe-kih pushed herself up, “I want to go to her.”

The men looked anxiously at Jezura, “Not yet, friend. It’s all settled. I’m staying here a few days to watch over you and the little one, and you are to stay in bed until your blood comes back.”

No amount of arguing could change the situation. As one trained in medicine, Rushe-kih knew Jezura was right. At least she’d finished her harvesting. She lay back and watched the girl from her bedside, unable to peel her eyes away. Where had she come from?

It was no coincidence that Rushe-kih had dreamt about the choosing ceremony the morning after the vamfloria disaster. It had never left her mind all these years, although her fate seemingly had not lined up with destiny. Still, she’d never given up hope. After all, hadn’t Olee-fuku given her the name Rushe-kih-zicahl after interpreting her river-clay prints? Hadn’t the elders annointed her to be the future Behrowain queen when they learned that her name meant “She raises from the dust the one who mends worlds?

How her people had marveled as they’d left the fire that night so long ago! Rushe-kih remembered their sayings: “No doubt the girl will bear a future chief judge! Olee-fuku was right to betroth her to Chief Endroyim.” Although only twelve years old, Rushe-kih had felt swollen up in awe at her own name. To raise someone from the dust had something to do with childbearing, she knew, but she didn’t know about mending worlds. Her mother mended their clothing every melting season, so Rushe-kih brought the question before her later, as they were falling asleep.

“Before the clan of the chief judges was begun, we all lived separate and in tribes,” her mother had explained, her voice a solemn whisper in the darkness of night. “The Behrowain of the north. The wild mountain Zoolewain. The Rikkawain who live in fire. The Trinnowain and the Kinnowain, who have always been enemies, and the far away Lakkewain. Everyone looked for themselves, and some did better than others. Then came Juz-Uah Ha, who brought brotherhood and united us together. He became the first Chief Judge, the mender of all the tribes.”

Rushe-kih’s mother pulled the quilt close to Rushe-kih. “See this quilt. It is made of many pieces, each different. Separated, the pieces are useless. But sewn together it is a strong shelter.”

The rest did not need to be explained to Rushe-kih. How the tribes were mended together through royal marriage—one wife from each tribe, united in a royal family. All her life she had been prepared in case she was chosen. And now this prophecy—that she would be the Behrowain queen, married to Chief Judge Endroyim. But more than that—a child she bore was also destined to be chief judge over all the tribes. Mender of the world.

The name had been more than just a prophecy to Rushe-kih; it was a promise. More potent became the promise when Rushe-kih contracted dry fever the summer before her wedding to Endroyim. She’d recovered after three months of blindness, but everyone knew that women could not bear children after having dry fever. Mor-moring was sent in her place, and Rushe-kih was instead apprenticed to the village medicine woman. But healing was not Rushe-kih’s gift, and while her helpfulness was useful to Po-puli-ah, the old woman never passed the medicine stick to her.

Rushe-kih had returned to her mother’s tent, humble and quiet with the hardness her life was becoming. No man expressed interest in her, and without a calling her life had no purpose. At first she shared in her mother’s womanly tasks, but living this way made her feel like a wingless eagle. Finally, she decided to make her own tent where she could tend her own fire.

On her own Rushe-kih thrived, and if she had not been lonely she would have lived out her life there in her Behrowain village. She would never have found her gift. But she was dreadfully lonely without a man or children to nurture and watch over.

At this time there was an old woman in the village named Fok-hakki, whose three children had all died many years before of the dry fever, and whose husband, named Moki, was an invalid. He had almost died of the fever along with his children, but miraculously recovered after the magi administered to him. His legs, however, had not regained their life power, leaving him a burden to Fok-hakki, who loved him and never complained. But her time finally came and she died, leaving her gnarled old man behind.

When something like this happened, and a helpless person was left with nobody to keep him alive, the elders would call upon a villager to accept the individual into their tent as part of their family. But before the elders had time to meet, Rushe-kih took matters into her own hands. The very day Fok-hakki had been buried in her rock tomb, Rushe-kih appeared at the tent of Old Moki holding a platter of seasoned fish and flat bread. Again the morning after, she arrived with a dish from her fire. The elders raised their eyes, but said nothing.

Under Rushe-kih’s care Moki seemed to gain strength. His eyes acquired a luster that nobody in the village ever remembered seeing. More and more the neighbors saw him through the door of his tent, sitting upon his pallet without even a pillow to hold him up. Watching for Rushe-kih, the angel who had brought light back into his tent.

If the arrangement was pleasing to Moki, it was even more satisfying for Rushe-kih. She found that it was nothing to add a little more fish or flour to her bowl, and in this way her heart was filled. Before long she was cooking for the lone woman at the edge of the village who had a baby and another child, and whose adventurous man had met some accident and had never returned. And after these, an old man and his woman who’d grown so blind she burned her hands while cooking. All these Rushe-kih brought to her table. From earliest light until dinner Rushe-kih cooked and delivered her meals. And for the first time since she’d been anointed the Behrowain queen, her life had purpose.

Then, on a particularly frigid day a traveler stumbled into their village. The Behrlands saw few visitors. A band of rimers came to preach in the summer, but they seldom stayed more than a few weeks. After the first of September the Behrlands were too cold for anyone but the most experienced voyager. Hem came in November seeking the family of Mo-shing, a companion he’d been traveling with who had fallen and died. Hem was sick and near to death himself. The elders sent him to stay in Moki’s tent through the winter, and in this way he met Rushe-kih.

When Rushe-kih brought her winter stew, Hem was wrapped in a fur on a pallet shaking with fever, his skin a fragile shade of white. In her quiet manner, she lifted his head and spooned in the stew. After that he stopped shaking and fell into a long and even sleep. The next day she brought a seasoned meat with roots and bread. Again he was too weak to feed himself, but color crept into his face with each bite. Then she brought flat bread spread with a thick layer of spicy fish paste, which brought the spark back into his eyes. In two weeks Hem was walking about, without an ache to complain of.

Then the whispering began. Perhaps Po-puli-ah should have passed the medicine stick on to Rushe-kih? Hadn’t Rushe-kih more than proven her ability to heal the sick?

To anyone who cared to ask, Hem swore that Rushe-kih had indeed healed him with her cooking, and then his eyes would mist, because as his body became whole so had his heart, and while was returning spring to the Behrlands Hem was falling deeply in love. Moki told Rushe-kih’s mother and father, who brought her into their tent to discuss her feelings. Marriage to one of another tribe was not forbidden, although it could be complicated. But for Rushe-kih there was no answer but yes. Buried beneath her calm exterior, Rushe-kih had developed tenderness for this traveler.

“After all, Mah-ti,” she said to her mother, “Wasn’t I prepared to leave our tribe when I was engaged to Endroyim? Who knows but my prophecy will still yet come to pass?”

And so Rushe-kih was wed. And before the planting season was over Rushe-kih turned her back on the home of her birth to travel to her husband’s inheritance of the southern plains. But the couple remained childless, in spite of Rushe-kih’s ache for motherhood. In spite of Olee-fuku’s prediction at the choosing ceremony so long ago. In spite of the promise Rushe-kih had trusted all these years. Now listening to the fluttery breathing coming from the tiny bed across the room, Rushe-kih wondered if she was finally seeing the fulfillment of the prophecy.

“You’re back,” Jezura squeezed her hand. “How are you feeling?”

Rushe-kih forced a smile. Looking down she saw the lump of only one foot beneath the blanket. “Where is the little girl?” she asked.

“She’s pretty,” Ahr-tyr said, “I plaited her hair.”

“It’s a very nice job,” Rushe-kih said. “She’s all right then?”

“She’s breathing regularly,” Hem said, “But she hasn’t woken yet.”

Rushe-kih pushed herself up, “I want to go to her.”

Rushe-kih’s mother pulled the quilt close to Rushe-kih. “See this quilt. It is made of many pieces, each different. Separated, the pieces are useless. But sewn together it is a strong shelter.”

Then the whispering began. Perhaps Po-puli-ah should have passed the medicine stick on to Rushe-kih? Hadn’t Rushe-kih more than proven her ability to heal the sick?

“After all, Mah-ti,” she said to her mother, “Wasn’t I prepared to leave our tribe when I was engaged to Endroyim? Who knows but my prophecy will still yet come to pass?”

IV.

2008-02-23T09:05:00.000-08:00

Rushe-kih stood in the row across from the head magus. Keeping her eyes respectfully downcast, she stole a glance at him. Feathers stretched like a halo from just above his eyebrows into the moonlit sky. The name he’d been given when he’d become a magus was Olee-fuku, meaning “moon feathers.” His round face, caked with the ceremonial paste, resembled the full moon. The paste had dried and crumbled around his mouth and in the deep lines of his forehead. Beneath his gray tunic, his body was broad, but bony from the frequent fasts he was called on to endure. This choosing ceremony, one of the most important he would conduct during his ministry, would end a fast of forty days. Rushe-kih had also been fasting in preparation, although because she was a young girl only seven days were required. The Behrowain believed that females were innately more spiritual than males, even magi.

Olee-fuku held up the choosing staff wrapped with consecrated feathers, the tip, a smoldering ember. Slowly, deliberately he passed it over the head of each girl in the row. Rushe-kih was the third from the last, and as it passed over her, it popped. A cinder landed on her forehead, but it didn’t hurt and she didn’t rub it away. She remained perfectly still, even as the wrinkled hands of the magus rested upon her. His eyes narrowed. Closer his face came, inspecting her hair, her eyes, the palms of her hands. He pulled her closer to the fire and motioned her to stamp in the cold river clay. He knelt to examine the footprints. A long time he knelt, and Rushe-kih grew nervous. She saw her mother watching from the other side of the fire, her face pinched in anticipation.

Then magus arose with eyes full of wonder, and he spoke. But rock magi speak quietly, and his words were drowned out by a voice singing in the distance. Rushe-kih turned to see a line of rimers approaching, led by a small girl. She had purple stars below her eyes, and vamfloria vines dragged from her ankles, but her voice rang clearly in the night:

Bindili-hiyi, Bindili-hiyo

Bindili-hiyi, Bindili-yo

At your feet, the dust there lies

Tells a story of the earth.

Hiding there is man’s demise

If his pride exceeds his worth!

Once Ee-loyi, God of Life

Brought the springtime in his wake.

Man-nah, too, his pretty wife—

Th’ two of them this world did make.

Bindili-hiyi, Bindili-yo

This land they made for Nono’s sake.

Nono was their lovely daughter,

She could spin the stars like thread.

Brought Rup-tinyon’s cup of water;

Took him to her marriage-bed.

Th’ bride and her ambitious spouse

Ee-loyi and Man-nah blessed,

Raised their hands and uttered vows

Bestowing earth from east to west.

Bindili-hiyi, bindili-yo

The children swore their love was best.

Seasons passed and Nono’s father

Waited for their thanks to come,

But the children didn’t bother

And instead the givers shunned.

Then one day Ee-loyi burst

Onto the field at creeping dawn,

Where once his seeds and cubs he’d nursed,

Expecting welcome in their song.

Bindili-hiyi, Bindili-yo

The God of Life was ne’er more wrong.

There Rup-tinyon proudly stood

With all the creatures he’d enlisted,

Ordering an attack for blood,

His eyes ablaze, his grim lips twisted.

Then came Nono from behind

Craving all her father’s glory,

Power-thirst in her eyes shined;

Her voice was rude, drunk with euphory

Bindili-hiyi, Bindili-yo

The children in their greed were blind.

Ee-loyi, his heart enraged,

Withstood blows from th’ ungrateful,

Then a battle he did wage,

Terrifying, dark, and hateful.

From his finger shot a beam

Which consumed the rav’ning couple,

Burned them into ash, it seemed,

Wasted there, a heap of rubble.

Bindili-hiyi, Bindili-yo

Thus began our grievous trouble.

For Ee-loyi is God of Life

And could not wield a stroke to slay,

And so transformed to seeds of strife

Th’ rebellious children were that day.

Blown by wind in all directions,

Wicked seeds hide in the dust,

Cursing all, their last election,

Proof that ruin follows lust.

Bindili-hiyi, Bindili-yo

Ee-loyi’s anger there was just.

Man walks earth once tilled by gods.

Their vengeance is not yet atoned.

Ee-loyi sent the wicked pods

An endless penance we bemoan.

Bindili-hiyi, Bindili-yo

The God of Life, death’s yield has sown.

Rushe-kih opened her eyes. The dream was swept away, and in its place she found Jezura, Oriah, and Hem peering down on her. Behind them Ahr-tyr was still humming the rimer’s vamfloria legend. Rushe-kih recognized her voice as the child’s in her dream. She smiled weakly.

III.

2008-02-20T09:41:00.000-08:00

“What did it get? One of your staults?” Jezura lifted a glowing ember from the fire circle with long-handled tongs. In her rush she dropped it twice before getting it to the keeping pot.

“No. It must’ve been a goat. Hem thinks it’s probably two, judging from its size.”

“You’re lucky you found it before nightfall. Who knows how far it could have spread by morning? Just imagine if it had gotten to the barn.”

Rushe-kih shuddered and fell silent as she remembered the mound of creeping ivy at the foot of the willow.

“Mama, are you going to fight off the vamfloria with Da?” Ahr-tyr asked eagerly from the corner where she knelt, wrapping baby Manut tightly in a bunting.

“No, but I must take the medicine bag in case Da gets hurt. Help me gather the medicines from the room!” Jezura said briskly. Rushe-kih bit her tongue. Her own bag was always stocked, hanging on the door in case she had to run to help a neighbor at the last minute. Jezura was less organized.

“Do you know the rimer’s song about vamfloria?” Ahr-tyr asked Rushe-kih, disregarding her mother’s request.

“I’ve heard it before,” Rushe-kih responded, scanning the room for stray herb bottles.

“I know it by heart. Mama sings it with me.” She began singing:

Bindili-hiyi, bindili-hiyo

Bindili-hiyi, bindili-yo

“Did I ask you to preach to Rushe-kih?” Jezura burst into the room, her hands full of vials. “Honestly, child! I thought I asked you to help me gather these up. Da might need them!”

“I was looking for them while I sang!” Ahy-tyr said huffily. She turned about the room half-heartedly, looking at Rushe-kih to defend her while she continued the song in a small voice.

“Jezura, I’m sure I have everything we’ll need in my bag. You needn’t go to the trouble...”

The harried woman sighed, “True. I’m such a disaster. It’s just…”

“I know you haven’t completely recovered from your illness last fall. I don’t judge you, dear friend,” Rushe-kih said as gently as her heart could allow her. It seemed as if Jezura moved in slow motion as she twisted her shawl over her shoulders and hugged the children good-bye. Ahr-tyr’s song continued as Rushe-kih and Jemeh-fir finally pounded down the path toward the road.

“What are you thinking?” Jezura panted alongside Rushe-kih’s long strides.

“The rimer’s song Ahr-tyr was singing. It’s been a long time since I thought of it.”

“Oh?” Jezura raised her eyebrows in surprise. She’d always assumed Rushe-kih and Hem were religious. “I guess when you have children you’re always teaching them. You want them to grow into good people.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Rushe-kih hid the offense she felt from Jezura’s slight. Her neighbor couldn’t know how she’d longed for a child. In silence Rushe-kih quickened her pace. Jezura fell slightly behind.

“That dratted fever. I can’t keep up with you. Go on ahead, or you’ll hate me for keeping you back. I’ll be right behind you!” Jezura breathed heavily. Rushe-kih looked back in gratitude before trotting ahead.

She reached the field as the sun was sending its last brilliant streams of light through the distant v-shaped Praythian canyon. Oriah was thrusting a torch into the ground, filling the writhing bed of vamfloria with yellow flickering light. An anguished grunt from deep under the leaves stabbed Rushe-kih's heart with fear. The sprawling bed was deeper now and completely covered Hem’s hunched form.

“Hem?” she gulped, looking at Oriah.

“He’s in there. He’s already been stabbed a few times, but he says he’s okay. He thinks he’s getting very close to the source.”

“A goat?” Rushe-kih’s voice quivered.

“Perhaps. It’s bound pretty tightly. Hem hasn’t cleared enough to tell.”

“I was so afraid it would be Solee. She’s so close to laying. But she was in the barn when I saddled Win-fir.”

Oriah wrapped another pole with greased rags. He would be ready to hand them into Hem as soon as the source was located. The animal would have to be completely burned to kill the plant.

“Jezura fell behind?” Oriah grunted as he worked.

“Yes, she’s coming. I was too anxious,” Rushe-kih explained.

“She never recovered from her fever,” Oriah worked carefully, peering into the bed to listen. “And you know she’s pregnant again.”

“Pregnant? Again? What news at such a time!” Rushe-kih smiled genuinely, but inside her heart was swallowed by envy. She had never put the hope behind her of having a child, although her years of childbearing were almost passed. She couldn’t hear the joyous news from other women without feeling a squeeze in her heart.

“The torch! Oriah! I think I’ve got it!” Hem’s muffled shout came from near the tree.

“Be careful. I don’t want to send Jezura back a wounded husband to nurse while she’s sick,” Rushe-kih warned.

“Don’t worry, I’ll drag Hem out in a few minutes, and we’ll watch the weed writhe before Jezura is in sight.”

Oriah’s smile brought encouragement to Rushe-kih’s heart, and she watched hopefully as he boldly entered the weed. He walked quickly to avoid being caught by the groping vine. The plant had easily doubled in size since Rushe-kih had left, and within a few steps Oriah was out of sight, covered in leaves. She heard him cry out in pain as the plant shifted around him.

Vamfloria thrived on blood, especially human blood. One human could keep it alive for days. Rushe-kih dropped to the earth beneath a torch and watched as more of the thirsty red blossoms opened. She wouldn’t be able to stay so close for long. They’d sense her and send out shoots her direction.

“Oriah! Hem!” she shrieked after several moments had passed. A trace of smoke ribboned its way out of the thicket where Oriah had gone. The torch had gone out. Something must have gone wrong.

“I’ve got him!” she heard Oriah respond, a grimace in his voice, “He’s losing blood!”

Rushe-kih shrieked, “Hem!” Without thinking she grabbed a torch and plunged closer to the vine.

“He’s all right, Rushe-kih! He’s alert, just weak. Don’t worry.”

But Rushe-kih had already stepped into the bed.

“I’ll bring him out again,” Oriah assured her. “It’s just going to take a little longer. We didn’t expect this.”

“I’m coming in!” Rushe-kih cried, and a thorn pierced her ankle. She couldn’t stifle her scream.

“Rushe-kih!” a thin voice. “Rushe-kih, listen to me! Turn around. I’m all right. You hear? I’ll be all right. Get out. Go back to the dug-out. This’ll be stronger vamfloria than we thought. You’ve got to get out before…”

Rushe-kih paused as Hem’s voice trailed away. Already a leaf had touched the stab wound and a marvelous warm tingle was spreading up her leg.

“Do you hear me?” Hem cried, “I’ve got the source. Rushe-kih, go back to the dug-out and get a poultice going. It’s not a goat. It’s a…” his voice faltered.

“Hem!” Rushe-kih cried, as a second thorn stabbed her. “It’s not a stault! I counted!”

“No! It’s not a stault.” She heard him struggling with his knife, hacking at vines, breaking the source loose.

“Do you need another torch? I saw Oriah’s go out.” Rushe-kih called in the silence. Her leg was beginning to feel weak, and her mind was clouding.

“No, Rushe-kih,” ordered Oriah, “Listen. You’ve got to get us a goat.”

“A goat? What do you mean? You can’t give it more! You’ve got to burn it, whatever it’s got!”

“Rushe-kih, we can’t burn this,” he struggled. “It’s a…” he could not say any more. Rushe-kih imagined him collapsing below the vines, thorns draining his blood from him, weakening him so he could not finish. A wave of panic pushed her closer.

“Hem!” she screamed.

“It’s a..”

It dawned on her. He wasn’t fainting, he was crying.

“Tell me!” Rushe-kih screamed.

Oriah’s voice took over, “It’s human. It’s the body of a child.”

Rushe-kih caught her breath. If they did not burn the source the plant would continue to feed. The only way to kill the plant was to poison it by burning its source. But Hem was right, they could not burn a child.

She looked into the thick ivy and then back behind her, where the sharpened axe lay within her grasp at the edge of the bed. Another thorn pierced her ankle. She was now a source too. In that moment she knew what she would have to do. She did not question it, and only delayed long enough to pluck several of the leaves nearest her, taking care not to puncture the sacs. When her pouch was filled, she tossed it away, seizing the axe and aiming the blade at her leg just above the ankle where the three thorns were sucking. Then she raised it high above her head and gulping, brought it down decisively, chopping her foot off with one clean blow. The foot jerked and fell limp before the first wave of nausea struck. Rushe-kih doubled over. The ground spun, a blur of ivy and dirt. She tried to yell out, but bile choked the words in her throat. Two arms caught her from behind and yanked her out.

“Jez--,” she swooned, looking up from the ground, “Burn it. Hurry. Burn my foot. It’s the only way to save them.”

Jezura picked up the torch from where it had fallen. Carefully she lowered it into the mass of leaves and popping flowers. A sizzle sounded as the foot caught fire. A small blaze erupted.

Rushe-kih pulled herself further from the weed and collapsed. Looking behind her she saw the wide stream of blood flowing from her leg to the bed. The thick smell of it had alerted the weed, and a few shoots were growing toward her. But the poison had already entered its system, and the shoots crawled slower and slower. Rushe-kih watched as black lines spidered through the vine and they shrunk back.

Her leg throbbed.

“Jez—quickly, some cloths,” she tried to point, but was too weak. Jezura flew across the field. Looking into the darkness, Rushe-kih spotted the gentle eyes of Win-fir watching from the bushes. Oriah must have left him there, and he’d watched everything.

“Where are they—Oriah and Hem?” Jezura asked timidly, afraid, as she returned with a dampened sheet. She folded it and gently wrapped it around the stump of Rushe-kih’s leg. It quickly turned red.

“My bag is hanging on the back door. I have a bottle of cane pepper, it will stop the bleeding.” Rushe-kih said weakly. “Oriah and Hem will be coming out of the weed and bringing another worse off than me.”

Jezura looked questioningly, but Rushe-kih motioned her away. Her foot was now just a red, hot coal, but Rushe-kih knew it was enough to damage the weed. It might take time, but it would kill it in the end. She heard Hem and Oriah’s voices and guessed that with the weed weakened, they were able to cut away the vine and free the child.

The child. Who was it? Oriah and Jezura were the only other family this far from the village, and both of their children were accounted for. The lake children never came this way unless they had been invited. Rushe-kih strained to remember if a company of rimers or rock magi had been rumored to be coming through. Sometimes they would have a young boy with them. But she had not heard of anyone coming.

Jezura returned with the bag and set it on the ground. She sat close beside her friend, and rummaged through the contents until she found the familiar red powder.

“I think they’ve almost got it free. They’ll be coming out any minute I’m sure,” Rushe-kih spoke reassuringly. “They’re both all right.”

“Oh Rushe-kih, what have you done?” Jezura asked. “Your foot for the life of a stault? Pshah!”

“Not a stault. A child…” Rushe-kih shuddered, and her eyes met Jezura’s.

“Who?” Jezura asked.

Rushe-kih did not answer. She watched as Jezura opened the soaked sheet and tossed it away, where the weakened plant would not smell it. It landed where Win-fir nested in the brush, and he jumped. Jemeh-fir flinched.

“It’s just Win-fir. Oriah left him there. Poor boy, he saw it all.” Rushe-kih screwed her eyes shut, anticipating the sting of the pepper. Jezura rummaged in the bag for the roll of cloth Rushe-kih had prepared for wounds. She poured out a thick layer of the powder and arranged it on the ground near Rushe-kih’s leg. Then gently, she picked up the leg and eased it down on the cloth.

Rushe-kih’s body was gripped instantly with pain, and she cried out, but she did not move her leg. Tears stung her cheeks as Jezura continued wrapping the bandage tightly around the leg. The weed was receding steadily now, hissing its way into the flames. A rustle announced that the men were closer now.

“Rushe-kih! Do you have your medicine bag?” Hem asked. “We’ve got her. It’s a little girl. And she’s breathing. She’s still alive.”

Jezura made to stand up, but Rushe-kih pulled her closer. “Don’t…don’t say anything about this yet,” she whispered, “They think I threw in a goat. But I was afraid—there wouldn’t be time.” Painfully Rushe-kih made to rise.

The blaze from the last torch lit Hem and Oriah as they emerged from the weed. Several thorns still clutched them, but as they walked the weakened plant pulled away and the thorns dropped out. Mutilated, Hem dropped to the dirt mound beyond the tangled vines. Behind him, pushing forward, Oriah walked straight and strong, carrying a small bundle still covered with portions of vine.

“Let me see her,” said Rushe-kih, her voice husky with suppressed emotion. She cleared away the plant from the child’s face. The skin was delicate, almost bluish from the loss of so much blood. Her lips had turned black, and dark purple crescents sunk beneath her eyes. From her dark mop of hair a dozen vines hung like dead snakes.

Jezura gasped in shock and fell back. “It could’ve been Ahr-tyr. She’s almost the same size..” She turned and retched.

Calmly, and almost without a trace of pain, Rushe-kih took the child into her arms.

“We must gather any leaves still alive. I’ve a pouch filled, but we will need more—enough for a strong poultice, and for tea. Enough to last two weeks at least.”

Her voice was serene in the night. Hem had never heard such unreserved love in it before.

II.

2008-02-18T16:22:00.000-08:00

Rushe-kih remembered the first time she’d seen vamfloria. A neighbor woman had discovered a patch outside her dug-out. While the men had gathered to fight the weed, the mothers watched with their children at a distance. Rushe-kih’s mother had pointed out the wide-eyed carcass of the doe entangled in the vine. “See that?” her mother had spoken in the choppy Northern tongue, “Vamfloria! Never forget what it looks like. The waxy leaves like upside down hearts. The open red blossoms. Run far away! Never touch! If you do, it will catch you,” she had knelt down, and Rushe-kih had felt her mothers eyes penetrate her own, “And if the weed catches you, you will die, just like that deer!”

It wasn’t until years later, after Rushe-kih had been apprenticed to the Behrowain healer, that she’d learned any practical uses for vamfloria. When dried, the red blossoms could ease the worst of pains. But vamfloria outbreaks were as rare as they were dangerous, and few knew to gather the flowers before destroying the plant. Even those who knew the weed’s virtues thought twice before risking their lives to save a blossom. Vamfloria performed its work of death quickly, whether it held man or animal. Yes, it was better to destroy the weed as soon as it was discovered. Rushe-kih wished she could stay to help Hem, so that he wouldn’t be alone as he faced the weed. It was dangerous. She must hurry.

She gathered Hem’s coat and gloves, the pitchfork and the axe Hem had conditioned and put away just that morning. Peering into the barn she counted all five staults, including Solee. So it must have been a goat, she thought.

Calling Win-fir, she opened the gate. The half-bird sidled up to his mistress affectionately, his feathery head reaching down to nudge Rushe-kih’s cheek.

“Come on, Win-fir! There’s no time!” she ordered, as he, sensing her agitation, ambled through the door and across the dusty yard to where Hem was assessing the damage beneath the willow.

“What do you think?” Rushe-kih asked as she helped Hem into his coat and wrapped a soft hide strip tightly around his face and neck, leaving only a crack for him to see through.

“It’s been here all day, I guess. Hiding in this shade, near as I can tell. Any staults missing?” he asked.

“All five accounted for. Must have been a goat,” Rushe-kih answered.

“Probably eaten by this time. Goats are small bait for vamfloria. Might be two. Hurry with Oriah, I’ll be needing him to hold the torch.”

Shrouded from head to foot, Hem moved closer to the sprawling vine. Rushe-kih knew it would sense his presence eventually. When it did, the vine would snake around him and pierce him with its thorns. His coat would not save him from these starving daggers; that was a pain he must endure. Rather, he wore the coat to shield against the waxy leaves, which each held a sac of oil. One drop of this oil and pain turned to pleasure. Thoughts of danger vanished even as the body was drained of its blood. If vamfloria was a killer, its weapon was seduction.

Rushe-kih pushed away the thought and nudged Win-fir firmly down on his front knees. Swinging her leg over his feathery round back, she held tight to each folded wing and balanced as the stault rose back onto his four legs. Directing him forward, she braced as he picked up speed.

Rushe-kih held tight as Win-fir’s long downy neck stretched out and back in rhythm. Staultriches were not creatures known for speed or balance, and Rushe-kih had to concentrate to keep from slipping off Winfire’s slanted backside. He slowed as he rounded the bend halfway to Oriah and Jezura’s. Feeling her push against his wings, he urged his clawed feet forward. Before the cabin was in view Rushe-kih glimpsed Oriah working in the yellow fields, and guided Win-fir off the path.

“Hey there, Rushe-kih!” Oriah called as Rushe-kih rode up and dismounted. “What brings you out this way?”

“Come quick, Oriah!” The words gushed from her mouth. They had spun round and round her head, making her dizzy and anxious. “It’s vamfloria! An infestation! Hem is already working in it, but he needs someone to hold the torch. There’re already dozens of flowers, and it’s growing up the tree.”

Oriah knew that vamfloria growing into the branches of a tree only heightened the danger, as the shoots could grow downward and attack from above.

“I’ll be on my way,” Oriah threw down the basket he was holding, “Just as soon as I gather my coat and things, and talk to Jezura…”

“There’s no time! Take the stault and go now! I’ll fetch Jezura, if she can bring her medicine bag and help. I’m worried for Hem. He’s alone.”

“I’ll go now then. Jezura can leave the baby with Ahr-tyr,” Oriah said as he mounted the heaving stault, “Jezura has him weaned now, and Ahr-tyr is getting to be quite the little mother. I’m sure she’ll be happy to help.”

“Speed, good Oriah!” Rushe-kih wished he’d stop boasting about his children and go. She knew he was proud of his growing son, but her worry for Hem gripped her heart with a strangle hold.

“Don’t worry, Rushe-kih. Hem’s faced vamfloria before, and so have I. We know what to do.”

He cued Win-fir, and they tore off toward the road, leaving Rushe-kih to run for the dug-out far across the field.

Part One: Rushe-kih Zicahl

2008-02-16T14:38:00.000-08:00

Every fall since her marriage, Rushe-kih cursed the late autumn sun. As a Behrowain, her stores were finished long before the Trinnen winter. Her dugout shelves filled with berry stamps and syrups, and pickled cauliflower. Netted sacks of dried herbs, mushrooms, and various sliced fruits, reached from earthen floor to ceiling. She had enough and to spare, which was her style. By next spring it would be used up, she was sure, for she had a generous nature, and few in the village had not served her reserves at their tables.

Once the last pot had been sealed and the final sack sewn up, she longed for snow. In her country freezing winds chafed ears raw and called for hearth fires almost all year round. The crackle and warmth of flames had always given Rushe-kih a feeling of comfort and security, of family all around you, eating together, telling stories, and waiting out the season together. She’d never regretted leaving her tribe and following Hem to his inheritance in the Trinnenlands, but every autumn she found herself weary of the sun’s persistent glare.

Standing with her back to it, she pulled the woolly bed mat from the limb where it had been drying. The craggy Praythian Mountains in the distance had been pink at dusk for a week now, which meant the weather was soon to change. In anticipation, she’d loosened the mat from its frame for one final airing. Observing his wife, Hem left his fields to chop the timber he’d been gathering all summer for the stockpile. Then he conditioned his axe and the other tools he farmed with, wrapped them in their hides and tucked them away on their high shelf in the dugout. He would have spent another week harvesting at least, but once Rushe-kih had decided fall was over it did not do to bring in anything more. He’d tell the lake children to come. They could take home whatever was left.

Walking through the fields, Hem dropped one last potato in his basket. His wife would not object to the offering for tonight’s dinner. She would roast them in the fire with a few carrots and onions. The roots made a hearty dinner with flatbread and goat’s cheese. Unlike his wife, Hem loved the autumn. He gazed across the field at Rushe-kih beating their bed mat against a trunk to fluff it. He loved watching her, feeling the rhythm to which she worked.

Folding the mat over her shoulder, Rushe-kih turned to gather her basket, glancing back toward a willow at the edge of the field. Something caught her eye. She dropped the mat and her basket and ran for a closer look. In the late afternoon shadow, a tangled mass of ivy snaked its way up the willow’s trunk and lower branches. Vamfloria. Rushe-kih panicked.

“Hem! Hem!” she screamed, spinning around to find his figure approaching from the field. “Hem!”

She ran, scrambling in her scuffs over the raised rows of soil. By the time Hem met her, walking his long even strides, she was breathless and white, tears and dust staining her face.

“Hem! Hurry! Vamfloria! Vamfloria beneath the willow! Hurry!” she shrieked and sobbed at the same time.

Hem didn’t hesitate. He strode past Rushe-kih and toward the tree. “Bring me my thick coat and gloves and take a stault over and alert Oriah.”

In all their years together Hem and Rushe-kih had never faced vamfloria infestation on their side of the lake, but Oriah and Jezura had lost two of their Snowy Shags over the last decade from separate outbreaks.

“Buds?” Hem asked Rushe-kih who was running to keep up.

“Full blooms,” Rushe-kih answered, “Dozens. It’s already in the branches.”

“One of the staults must’ve broken out. Maybe a goat. Have you checked the shed?” Hem asked. If Rushe-kih wasn’t exaggerating, the outbreak was too large for a single fowl to be sustaining, even a larger half-bird. Of course, it could be a moose or deer that wandered in from the forest. Hem prayed.

“Not yet. I couldn’t tell what it’s on. It’s too deep. And it’s already up in the branches,” Rushe-kih repeated. She was thinking of the female stault—her favorite. She was close to laying and had been restless lately. Rushe-kih turned toward the shed, grateful to face away from Hem as she smeared the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hands. She didn’t want him worrying about her when he faced the weed. It would be risky enough without him having anything else on his mind.

A Girl and her Father

2008-02-12T09:54:00.000-08:00

A Girl and Her Father

I wonder about dreams. There's a forest in a dream I have sometimes. In this forest there is a long path which cuts through a mountain. It is winter; a cruel wind blows. The path is steep and icy. It winds up and up and ends abruptly at a wall of dense black rock. Without hesitation I walk through that wall--you know how it is with dreams--and find myself in the courtyard of a palace made entirely of ice. A fresh blanket of vapor shrouds the entire place, scattering as its inhabitants hustle about, settling back like carpet in their wake. In all directions are snowy peaks and fleecy clouds. The sky is halcyon blue.

I enter the palace unnoticed and make my way to the door of the receiving gallery. A quiet woman in a floor-length tunic pulls open a heavy curtain to expose a window no less than twenty feet high and thirty feet wide. Outside, the sunlight is stretched in evening hues of crimson and ochre across a stark expanse of snow. The woman’s leather scuffs brush the ice softly as she passes by me out the door.

I enter to find a raised platform, from which arises a glorious throne. The seat is occupied by a giant of a man. Perched upon the arm of the throne is an eight-year-old child. It is me. The man's arm holds me snugly about my waist. I am giggling, shaking my head to tickle his forearm with my long black curls. He laughs affectionately. My feet jam his thigh as I throw my head back and cry, “Papi!”, flinging my arms around his neck and burying my face in his fleecy cheek, kissing him.

When I am finished kissing and squeezing, he pulls back and produces a small wooden box from beneath his robe. He holds it gently beneath my gaze and watches as my expression changes from delight to curiosity. “The time has come, child, for us to talk seriously. Today is your birthday. You are of age now, and it is time for me to give you a lesson,” he says in a voice both husky with sadness, and gentle with love.

“But I already had my lessons this morning!” I smile compliantly.

“This is not a lesson like those Chir-tha gives you. This is far more important. This is a lesson you can never forget; it is your destiny.”

I knit my brow, mystified by Papi’s words.

“And so that you will never forget this lesson, I am giving you a present. Tonight at the feast you will receive many more presents, grand and beautiful. Those you may show anyone, and share with your friends and cousins as you always have. But the gift I give you now you must show no one. It is something you will always wear around your neck, so it lies over your heart. It will remind you of the words I speak now. It will remind you of your destiny.”

As he tells me the story I lean forward in attention. His hands flutter and dance as he speaks, motioning toward the window as he tells about the hidden pathway in the forest beyond the surrounding rock walls. I hear of brothers and battles, my eyes wide with fear. But my father’s words reassure me and my heart pounds with courage. The sun slides down the sky in the window as the story unfolds. Finally he slides open the front cover of the amulet and a tear-shaped ruby as big as his thumb falls out into my palm.

“Many tears have fallen in this battle, and many more will fall before you fulfill your destiny and reunite our broken world.”

“But what if I can’t do it?” I worry aloud, “What if I fail?”

“You must never forget who you are. You are my daughter. If you remember that, you won’t fail. And that is why I give you this gift. This is your key to the kingdom. This is what will bring you back to me one day. This is the tear to end all tears. Do you understand?” Tears fall from his eyes as he thinks of what is to come. Seeing my papi cry makes me cry, and I wraps my arms around his neck and slide onto his lap. We sit quietly together as the room darkens.

“I think they will be ready for us at the feast, don’t you?” he finally says, and we stand together.

“But, Papi, I don’t want to leave,” I whisper, gazing out the window at the cliff walls, so grand and protective. But my voice is so soft, and Papi doesn’t hear.