“Forgive me, my children,” she cried. “It is the only way.”
Flung free from her skull, An’she and Mu’sha tried to console their mother, but it was no use. She lay against the land, frozen in sorrow, now unable to see her children or her world. She did not move. She barely breathed.
“We must stop what did this,” An’she said to his sister. “We must make it right.”
Mu’sha agreed, and together they set off across the land, determined to hunt down what had corrupted the hearts of the tauren and caused their mother’s despair.
As they traveled, word of the Earth Mother’s sorrow and the twins’ journey to save her from it was carried on the winds, and soon they were met by a party of tauren.
“Be mindful,” Mu’sha cautioned her brother as the shu’halo advanced. “We do not know if they have fallen prey to the madness.”
But as the tauren drew near, it was clear that though they had been touched by the darkness, they had not been taken by it.
“We can trust them.” Mu’sha sighed in relief as she lowered her bow.
A tauren woman at the head of the caravan called out to the twins in greeting.
“Radiant An’she. Luminous Mu’sha. We have heard the despair of the Earth Mother, and it has made our hearts heavy. We come to offer what aid we can.”
An’she looked to his sister in surprise. “After what has happened, our mother would not want them to risk so much. And it is our duty to protect them.”
The tauren who had spoken for her people called out once more. “Please, hear us. Like you, we are her children. We live on her lands. We hear her whispers on the winds. We call her elements. We feel her light, her love, in you. And we defend our family.” The tauren turned as a wagon was drawn forth.
Mu’sha and An’she leaned in to see what the tauren had brought before them, then leaned back in shock.
Laid against a bed of long grass rested a baby. The child glowed blue with life and light, kin to the spark that burned in both Sun and Moon.
“We found the baby alone in the fields,” the tauren explained. “We approached a watering hole to rest, but before we could drink, the water receded to cradle this little one here.”
At that, the baby opened their eyes and began to wail.
The sound bore into the twins and pricked them in the same way as their mother’s sorrow. That is when they recognized the child for who they were: the single tear their mother cried had fallen to the earth, and from it had sprung another life.
Mu’sha took up the child in her arms, and the babe quieted. “They are our mother’s light,” she said to her brother. “They are our family.”
“What shall we call them?” he asked, poking at the newborn curiously.
“Mother will know,” Mu’sha explained. “Let us take them back to her.”
“What of the shadows?”
As the last word was uttered, a stillness fell over the plain, a silence most unnatural.
An’she readied his blades.
Mu’sha drew her bow.
Together, they waited and listened, guarding the tauren and the babe.
And then the shadows struck.
The darkness was like a beast, reaching with its slithering grasp, seeking to tear and sunder. An’she stood strong as the mountain and fought with the ferocity of fire. Mu’sha evaded quick as the wind, flowing in and out of the shadows’ reach like water. The tauren called forth the elements to aid in the battle.
Where the light of Sun’s blade burned, the shadows retreated. Where Moon’s glimmering arrows struck, the whispers evaporated. Together, Sun and Moon began to beat back the darkness that threatened to choke the land, the summoned elements chasing it back toward the recesses of the world.
“We are winning,” An’she cried, raising his swords to the sky.
He did not see the reaching shadow until it was too late. It lashed out, aiming for his heart.
“Brother!” Mu’sha loosed an arrow.
It found its mark, cleaving the darkness in twain, but not before An’she was struck. He fell, grasping at his side, his blood welling between his fingers.
“Like you, we are her children. We live on her lands. We hear her whispers on the winds. We call her elements. We feel her light, her love, in you.”
Mu’sha threw herself down beside him and sought to bind his wound with water and wind, but no matter what she did he continued to bleed.
“The wound is too great,” she said. “I cannot heal it. Maybe our mother can—”
“Do not leave me, sister,” An’she begged.
“I will not.” She stayed at his side, and instead sent her plea on the wind.
When the Earth Mother heard of her children’s peril, she shook herself loose of her grief. Great was her sorrow, but her love for An’she and Mu’sha was deeper still. She could not see the way, but the waters called her name and she followed. The winds pulled at her hands, guided her swiftly to find her Sun and Moon
“An’she!” she called. “Mu’sha!”
“Mother!” Moon reached for the Earth Mother’s hands, pulling her to her side. “An’she is hurt!”
When the Earth Mother knelt beside the twins, her fingers found her son’s face and were wetted by his blood.
“I cannot close the wound,” Mu’sha cried.
“But you are keeping him alive.” The Earth Mother hugged her children, relieved to have found them and surprised to find they were not alone.
Mu’sha presented the babe to her mother. “The shu’halo found them lying on the plain, crying out as you did, birthed from your tear.”
The Earth Mother held the little one in her arms and was pricked by the light of joy once more. “Lo’sho, do not despair.” As she rocked the baby, she asked her children what had become of the darkness.
“We drove it back for now,” An’she answered.
“But the shu’halo are still not safe,” Mu’sha said. “It will return any moment. What are we to do? An’she is wounded, and I cannot fight.” For if she and her healing light strayed too far from her brother, he would surely die.
The Earth Mother turned toward her Sun and Moon. Though she could no longer see, she remembered clearly the vastness of her creation, the wonder and life, and the destruction in the wake of the shadows that had come to devour it.
“You are right,” the Earth Mother finally said, her voice heavy with sadness, for she knew what must be done. “The shu’halo, my shu’halo, are free but tainted. They will draw the shadows to them unless I do something to contain them.”
“Mother, no,” the twins protested, but she quieted their storm, as she had with the elements so long ago.
“I must. And you must take to the heavens, forever this time. From there you will see all. From there, your light will chase away whatever traces of shadow I cannot hold. An’she, do not stray from your sister. Stay in her sight always so she may tend your wounds. Mu’sha, follow him closely. You will be his secret strength. Here.” The Earth Mother touched her nose to the child in her arms, then pressed Lo’sho into Mu’sha’s hold. “Take them with you. They are young yet, and untouched by the darkness. Teach them, my children. Teach them my ways. Teach them to care for and protect the shu’halo and this world as I have taught you. And let them know that they have my love. You all do.”
The Earth Mother hugged her children close to her one last time. She kissed their faces as she had when they were younger.
“Take care of each other, and have courage,” she said when they began to weep. “For I am with you, as I am with all my children. Always.”
And so Sun and Moon returned to the heavens, taking with them the new babe.
Her heart heavy, but her conviction firm, the Earth Mother called the elements to her for the final time.
She summoned the rage of the fires. The rush of the winds. The strength of the stones. The push of the waters. They came to her, and with their aid, she stretched herself across the world. She bowed to embrace th
e lands one last time. She threw her arms wide to lay paths for the shu’halo to follow. She bent her ear to hear the winds as they carried the prayers of her children. And with her chest pressed to the earth, she let the beating of her heart dig deep once more.
Here she rooted herself. Here she would make her stand. Here she would hold the shadows fast. Here she gave all of herself for her creations, never to rise and walk the land again, all to make the world safe for them.
Seeing their mother’s sacrifice, heartbroken Mu’sha bade the breezes lift their mother’s words so the shu’halo could hear. She pulled at the tides and the whispering winds so they would always be able to find her voice and follow it. An’she, with his fierce light, shone across the lands so the way would be clear. Together, they took their eternal post, as young Lo’sho watches and listens to the lessons of their siblings, hearing in them the wisdom of their mother:
“Where there is darkness, you are my light. When the shadows rise, you stem the tide. Be neither troubled nor tired, nor ever afraid, for in each other you shall always find me. You are stronger together, but you are never alone.”
Beneath the now ever-present glow of her Sun and Moons, the Earth Mother’s essence cradles the world close, listening to all that happens. With her body she beat back the darkness. By her love, the world was made safe. While the light may be gone from her eyes, the warmth of her heart is undying.
And though the shu’halo are no longer what they once were, she will never forsake them. For they are her children, and her love and wisdom will always be there to guide them.
s that all your catch?” asked Onaaka. The young tuskarr carried a huge emperor salmon himself, the heavy fish balanced across his broad shoulders. It had been expertly speared behind the head. Blood from the wound was trickling along its pectoral fin and dripping inside the collar of Onaaka’s oilskin, spoiling the white fur trim of the coat underneath.
“You go first,” he added. “The catch master will have to call his second to weigh my catch.”
Taruka didn’t tell Onaaka he was getting blood on his prized inner coat. She hoped it would spread all down his back and prove impossible to clean. He was always trying to belittle her, perhaps because she was the smallest kalu’ak—as the tuskarr called themselves—who had taken on the demanding task of fishing, central to both family and clan life. Onaaka had been born the same day under the same constellation as Taruka, though they could not be less alike. Onaaka was set on making a name for himself, and Taruka was struggling to be seen at all.
She stepped forward and lifted her own string of spotted yellowtail onto the block of ice carved that morning to hold the day’s count. Taruka had caught seven fish, but even all together they would not add up to one-quarter of Onaaka’s huge salmon.
Kattik Sharktasted—who had retired from daily fishing when he lost an eye, one hand, and a leg to a shark—grunted and nodded, his tusks very yellow in the afternoon sun. Taruka wished he’d clean them, like everyone else did. They were so yellow she couldn’t even see the deeply etched clan and family symbols.
“One knot,” repeated Kattik. “Maybe one day you will get more. But not today.”
The catch master lifted the string of fish to expertly assess the total weight and laid it back down on the ice before selecting the cord in Taruka’s colors—blue, blue, green, red, yellow—from the three dozen on his counting staff, one for each of the active fishers in the clan. He tied a single knot in the bright, multicolored cord, a record of her day’s catch, adding to the three that were already there. Most of the other cords had many more knots.
“One knot?” asked Taruka. She tried not to show her disappointment. The tuskarr shared food equally, but a catch above the basic requirements earned knots, which could be traded within the clan for luxuries and new tools or weapons, or exchanged for coins if they needed to trade beyond their own small group of families. She was aiming to earn five knots, which would be enough to get a bolt of kite silk for her sister, Unka, from the old hoarder, Warrak. Unka was an energetic child and desperate to repair and fly Taruka’s old kite.
“One knot,” confirmed Kattik. “Your fish are small, and three have early gill rot. They will only be good for soup.”
Taruka stared at him. He stared back with his left eye, dark, deep-set, and unblinking. His right eye was a bare red socket of scar tissue. Both eyes were largely hidden under massive eyebrows that were twice as bushy and dense as anyone else’s. Everything about Kattik was huge. Eyebrows, moustache, tusks … and a sense of his own importance.
“Show me the gill rot,” she said, pointing to the fish, trying not to reveal that she was standing on the tips of her toes. They were still silver, out of the water for less than half an hour. She had trailed them in her net behind the boat. Their eyes were clear, gills red. There was no sign of the dull, fibrous growths that indicated gill rot.
“One knot,” repeated Kattik. “Maybe one day you will get more. But not today.”
His tone suggested he didn’t believe that day would ever come, and he gestured for her to make way for Onaaka.
Taruka seethed, but there was nothing she could do. She picked up her fish and carried them to another massive block of ice a dozen paces away, where Larati was busy filleting fish, throwing the finished cuts back to her assistants, who were packing them between layers of ice in sealskin baskets. The clan was getting ready to travel to Kamagua, a kalu’ak town and major stopping point in their nomadic peregrinations. Most of the mothers, adolescents, and children were to go across the ice and needed lots of food laid down in the seal-drawn sleds, in case of delay caused by bad weather or some other incident. The heartier tuskarr fishers were taking their boats—a shorter passage that should only take a few days, and they could catch their own food on the way.
“Kattik says three have early gill rot and cannot be eaten,” grumbled Taruka.
Larati paused from her expert beheading, gutting, and filleting and stabbed her knifepoint into the ice butcher’s block, sending a spray of small chips into the air.
“Kattik is like the old stones,” chuckled Larati. “Unchanging. He dislikes anything new or young. You are both. Why not butcher with me? Better company and no splinters to be had!”
“He counted this as only one knot,” said Taruka. “One knot!”
“Kattik stinks worse than frozen seal dung thawed in spring,” said Larati, loud enough for Kattik to hear. Doubtless he would return the insult later; this was their usual practice. More softly she added, “But … no other catch master would give more. Some might not even give one knot.”
Taruka gave a tuskarr sigh—a long, whistling note through pursed lips, accompanied by a slump of her shoulders. She adjusted her rolled-up fishing net as it threatened to slide down to her elbow.
“I know,” she said. “I must catch more fish. Bigger fish.”
Larati nodded without conviction and took up her knife again, bringing the sharpened whalebone down in a decapitating blow on the fish before her. She used the flat of the blade to sweep the head into a basket by her knee and swung back to slit open the fish’s belly.
Taruka trudged away, knowing that even her friend Larati didn’t believe she could catch more and bigger fish. Everything was against her. She was shorter and slighter than most tuskarr. Unlike the other fishers, she could not row one of the bigger boats. Her craft was much smaller than most of the clan’s vessels, and to make up for her lack of rowing power, she sailed most of the time, which had unique advantages and disadvantages the others did not share.
Even worse, she had not been fully taught to fish by her father, as the others had been. Her father had died when she had just begun to go to sea to start learning with him. He had simply not returned from fishing one afternoon. Almost a week later, the mast from his boat washed ashore, the sails and rigging stripped from it and the ends splintered. Years later, Taruka had shortened the mast and stepped it in her own tiny boat. It was one of only two things she had left from her fathe
r, along with the memory burned in her mind of that one day she had, fishing with him. He had given her a line and hook, but she hadn’t caught anything and after a whole morning wanted to try a net or a spear, even though she was too small to lift either one.
“Taruka. It is not hook, net, or spear that makes a true fisher. It is the patience to use them well.”
An hour later she caught a huge sunfish and was almost dragged out of the boat, her laughing father pulling both her and the fish in at the same time.
But the next day Taruka had been invited to go kite-flying, and he had gone alone, never to return. She had taught herself to fish, watching the others, listening to their talk, and going out every day to learn through trial and error—a great deal of error when she first started. None of the other tuskarr would tell her about the currents or the places the fish gathered, claiming the teaching could only take place between a fisher parent and child. A few gave her hints from time to time and offered general but distant encouragement.
“I will catch big fish,” Taruka muttered to herself. “I will.”
She was repeating this litany as she kicked through the slushy snow to the camp, which lay in the sheltered vale some distance from the landing point, when she heard footsteps behind her. Thinking it was Onaaka coming to brag about his catch even more, she sped up, putting her head down and lifting her feet higher. Tuskarr were not built to run, but this was one thing where her lighter build helped.
“Ho! Youngling, wait for me!”
It wasn’t Onaaka. Taruka stopped and turned around, recognizing the scratchy voice of Harooka. The older tuskarr had nearly drowned once, and her voice had been permanently affected. Harooka was one of the oldest fishers.
“Wait!” commanded Harooka, puffing up. She had dyed her moustache blue, and her tusks were engraved with symbols Taruka didn’t know, quite different from the usual family and clan ideograms everyone else had. Marks granted for deeds of great distinction. Taruka had long wanted to ask exactly what they meant, but she didn’t dare. Harooka never talked about the symbols—and she was deadly with both a spear and her bad temper. “Have any of the others warned you about Lyquokk Strait?”
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