Walls of Wind and the Occasional Diamond Thief Boxed Set

by Jane Ann McLachlan

  Ghen are communal by nature, and choose to live together. But Gant’i and Yur’i and Saft’ir seemed to have redefined their community. I, personally, thought we were doing neither them nor Rennis and Tyannis any favor by letting them stay together, but no one on Council wanted to risk seeing Rennis return to the state he’d been in when Saft’ir died.

  I looked across the closed Council room and caught Rennis watching me. When I blinked acknowledgment, he came and sat beside me.

  “What do you think?”

  “I hope it’s not true.”

  He looked aside, then in a lower voice murmured, “I bore two of them.”

  “Rennis—” I began, then stopped. There was no consolation for any of us. Willingly or not, we nurtured the seeds that became destructive monsters, as well as those that became the builders of civilization. And unleashed them both on Wind. Much as we told ourselves we were responsible only for our small corner—this peninsula of civilization we’d created—we knew that all of Wind should matter to us.

  “We all feel the same,” I said, touching Rennis’s hand gently. “But the wind blows on and we must keep our footing.” It was a platitude, but it’s also the way life is.

  Igt’ur and Samm’ar returned then and the meeting continued.

  “The other possibility,” Council Chair said, after Chair Ghen had spoken, “is that we are not alone.”

  There was a brief hush while everyone took this in.

  “There are other Bria on Wind!” Perallis spoke across the room, expressing all our awestruck thoughts.

  “And other Ghen, perhaps,” Council Chair agreed. “But we know nothing about them, if they even exist. We must proceed cautiously.”

  I breathed out sharply, making a low whistle of disgust. What had we to fear from any Bria? It was clear from the expressions around me that the other Bria councilors felt as I did. The Ghen among us shifted on their benches, uncomfortable. Had I become too complacent through my association with Igt’ur? My childhood memory of watching Ghen training came vaguely back to me. I’d been frightened then, maybe I should be now.

  “There are strange Ghen involved, as well as Bria,” I heard myself saying. “Ghen can be violent.” I didn’t mention the Broghen. We were frightened enough, we needed some time to come to grips with that news.

  “What is proposed?” Perallis asked.

  “A Ghen expedition to the south, as soon as stillseason ends. If that turns up nothing, another next year, heading north into the mountains.”

  “The trip south is more dangerous,” Rennis objected. “Why not go north, first?”

  “We have to know,” Council Chair said gently.

  If there were no white Broghen discovered in the South, they couldn’t have come from our birthings. Rennis knew that as well as any of us. But if there were... if our Broghen offspring, presumed sterile, had found a way to multiply... Breath of Wind, it was unthinkable! No one was eager to have such a terrible thing confirmed.

  “This will come forward at the first open Council meeting after stillseason,” Council Chair continued. “It will be referred to as another Ghen exploration trip; nothing more. It should be passed with as little discussion as possible.”

  We all understood; we were part of the terrible secret, now.

  “Agreed?”

  I touched my breath with my hand and slowly raised it into the air, to show my consent. There were no dissents.

  It wouldn’t be difficult. The Ghen were frequently going on explorations. We Bria looked at their maps and their reports and shrugged, occasionally commenting that they learned about Wind to avoid learning about themselves. I understood from Igt’ur that Ghen, in turn, found Bria too self-reflective.

  “While we’re here,” Rennis spoke up quickly, “I have a request to make.”

  “Rennis, can it wait? We’re all a little overwhelmed, and it’s stillseason...” Council Chair began.

  “It’s important,” Rennis turned to face the councilors sitting around the room. “As you all know, Gant’i’s child, Yur’i, is not strong. He can’t participate in Ghen training. Even when he’s watching, the dust kicked up by the others hurts his lungs.”

  “Rennis—”

  “This has to be settled. He’s being harmed!”

  One would have thought he was fighting for his own child. The fact that it wasn’t, that it was a Ghen child, made his concern shocking, and all the more compelling.

  “I’ve spoken to Savannis,” Rennis continued, “And he’s agreed to let Yur’i attend storytime. I need permission to send him to Bria school, as well. He’s bright and capable despite his physical weakness. He has a right to learn a useful trade.”

  I had to admire his timing. At any other meeting his request would have been scandalous, but after the news we’d just been given, it was greeted as but another quirk of Rennis’s.

  When Rennis paused Gant’i spoke, putting the request to the Ghen councilors himself instead of having Council Chair sign it to Chair Ghen. We Bria listened, further surprised by the implication that Rennis and Gant’i had discussed together the needs of Gant’i’s youngling. The Ghen would be shocked. They’d think he had no pride, to be asking a Bria to help him raise his youngling.

  Perallis rose to speak, the muscles in his face settling into a disagreeable tightness. Before he could begin, I jumped up and asked, “Is this what Yur’i wants also?”

  Might as well shock them thoroughly, that even the child was consulted. But hadn’t I always said I believed in freedom of choice?

  “Yes,” Rennis said without hesitation.

  I turned to Council Chair. “I suggest, when making this decision, that councilors keep in mind we might soon be presenting our city with the existence of an entire community of strange Ghen and Bria. Their customs will be very different from ours. And yet, we’ll be seeking peace and understanding. Isn’t that what we all want?”

  While Council Chair signed my words to Chair Ghen and he translated them, I looked around the room, meeting the eye of every councilor.

  “If we cannot allow a Ghen child into our schools, to learn Bria stories and Bria skills, how will we open ourselves to complete strangers? Or do you intend to shun those others when we find them? To keep our distance, pretend they don’t exist because they do things differently?

  “Rennis and Gant’i’s request isn’t a problem: it’s the beginning of a solution. We have to prepare our children for something we never thought to face—another civilization.”

  I chose my words with care. The councilors would do our city no good if they left this room with visions of chaos haunting them. Better to present a choice between making new friends or retaining the status quo. I only hoped we’d be so lucky as to have that choice. How ironic that I, so intolerant and prideful in my youth, should be the one now to encourage tolerance and calm.

  Rennis looked at me in surprise and gratitude. I hadn’t always been supportive to him. But he was given to such intense emotions and religious musings, I often didn’t know what to say or do. This, at least, was a clear-cut, practical issue.

  “You speak as though it was certain that there are other Ghen and Bria. We have no proof of that,” Perallis said.

  “Do you prefer the alternative?” I asked, subtly reminding them of the implications of the Southern expedition. My insinuation secured the vote of every Bria in the room.

  There was, however, argument among the Ghen. But it was already clear that Council Chair and Chair Ghen agreed with me. Rennis was lucky Darillis, lying in denial at his home, was not already in that seat.

  “There will be opposition,” Council Chair said, “But we have a duty to think of the future, and try to prepare our people for it. The wind moves on and we must keep our footing. Whatever your personal feelings about this issue,” he glanced at Parallis, “I urge you all to remember the good of our city demands that we face the coming wind.”

  ***

  “What’s this about a Ghen child attending Bria school?
” Anarris paced before me, too upset to sit down for the interview he’d requested. “And I hear that Savannis has accepted him into storytime!”

  “It’s a change,” I agreed, “as was the addition of an unjoined Bria seat. I’m for change, aren’t you?”

  This slowed him down. “What’s Council’s aim in this?” he demanded, hovering near the chair.

  “Savannis makes his own decisions. As for attending Bria school, the child is weak, he can’t participate in Ghen training. Perhaps he can become a useful citizen in other ways.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “That Ghen can be useful citizens? Consider it an experiment, then.”

  “You’re a cunning politician, Briarris. I don’t say you’re dishonest, but nothing you do serves only one purpose.” I was pleasantly surprised by his perceptiveness, but acknowledging the compliment at this time would serve no purpose. The fact that I wasn’t insulted annoyed him.

  “You’ve been completely converted, you know that? You used to want Ghen out of our Bria city!”

  I wanted to tell him I’d learned something over the years, and it was a shame he hadn’t. But he could make things very ugly. His voice might encourage others, even beyond Single-by-Choice, to speak up also. Not that that wasn’t already happening; I’d had a stream of objectors through my office since the Council meeting. But they were, for the most part, more easily mollified than Anarris. I had to find a common ground with him, before the whole issue exploded.

  “Perhaps I haven’t changed as much as it seems,” I said. “When I was young I questioned traditions, and I’m still doing so. You and I are alike in that.” I paused. “You’re making my neck ache.”

  He sat down. “Savannis is old. He’s out of touch with young Bria. But he just tells stories. It’s Bria school we’re more concerned about.”

  “I’ll tell you sincerely that I supported this motion because I want to encourage Bria to be less rigid, more open to change. That’s the truth, Anarris. One small Ghen child in our schools won’t make any difference to Bria who don’t wish to join. But if Ghen, and older Bria, too, loosen their hold on traditions, it can only mean less pressure on your members.”

  “I don’t believe you’re doing it to lessen the pressure on single Bria.”

  “It will be a result anyway.”

  “Why are you supporting it?”

  Why indeed? I was almost talking myself out of it. After all, I wanted young Bria to join. I was tempted to ask him if he truly wished to depopulate our city. However, I wasn’t an individual having a discussion; I was Council Relations.

  “There is one thing I have never believed in,” I said at last, “and that is the use of force.” It was true in my past, and true of my present views. I hoped that nothing in our future would change it. “If you believe that Bria should freely choose their lifestyle, show it by granting this young Ghen the same freedom. You’ll gain respect for Single-by-Choice if you do.”

  He agreed, though he wasn’t happy, and he left threatening to “watch me carefully” in future. Nothing new there.

  When he had gone I rested my head against the back of my chair and closed my eye, weary beyond words. Were our traditions holding us back, or were they the only thing still holding us together?

  Like most Bria these days, I found Savannis’s stories of the past tedious and mostly irrelevant. But because of them, I was able to recognize our present in the past, and to imagine our future from the present, strange as that sounds. Because of the sense of time his stories had given me, I had learned to conceive the decisions that must shape that future.

  The trouble was, every future I envisioned led to the destruction of our fragile civilization.

  Sight

  (Savannis)

  I began to sway slightly as I slipped into the sing-song of the storyteller.

  “...Then the Creator, looking down on Wind, on its rough, rugged mountains and bottomless seas, its windy tempests and sudden, lethal stillnesses, its dark, tumultuous forests where wild beasts prowled by day and monsters hungered in the night—then the One who made Wind sorrowed to see His world so bound in barbary. He placed the gentle Bria in its midst and whispered “tame my Wind” into our ears. And, so we would not perish before nightfall, He made the fierce and fearless Ghen to need us.”

  By the time I was half-way through, they were saying it word for word with me, the customary chant with which I began storytime settling them down. How many times had I repeated the creation story to fidgeting children? Would it be anything more to them than meaningless words most would forget before they were out of childhood? To their parents, I was the Bria Voice of Wind, their spiritual adviser, but to the children, I was the storyteller.

  Leaning heavily on my walking stick, I rose to my feet, forcing my stiffening muscles to support me. It was time to draw the story of our city for them.

  “Matri says I’m too old for your stories.”

  I stopped in the middle of explaining how Heckt’er, with the Creator Wind’s help, built the wall above our peninsula. “Is that what you think, Pandarris?” I asked.

  “Matri says I should be spending the time on my schoolwork.”

  Briarris would think so. As a child, he had had little use for tradition, even less interest in the past. Now his younglings, like him, were focused on the future, and only respected what could be proven. “How will you help our people, Pandarris, if you don’t build upon the learning of history?”

  “Matri says it isn’t history, it’s myth. Anyway, I’m going to discover something new, something no one else knows.”

  The other children looked at him admiringly, impressed with his boldness. A familiar weariness fell over me. Where among this generation would I find someone to take my place? There was a stridency about them all. Even the younger ones, downy curls barely covering their skinny limbs, were not immune. They wriggled restlessly as I told my stories, their feet twitching with impatience, ears pitched to the sounds of the busy city around us.

  “Tell us something new,” three-year-old Tyannis demanded and the others nodded eagerly.

  At their age, I remember watching Larissis, the storyteller who taught me, with a hushed intensity, my little hands itching to grab onto his stick and draw the pictures with him. Only young Yur’i, the Ghen child, watched my stick that way as I drew pictures in the sand to illustrate my stories. But his interest was merely interpretation. Being Ghen, he could barely hear my Bria voice. I would have signed to him, but it was hard enough to persuade parents to send their children to storytime with him there; I didn’t want to upset our customs further. Even the children were affected by the growing chasm between Bria and Ghen; for the most part, they ignored him.

  By now I’d watched Tyannis translating my stories for Yur’i long enough to know their family language. I wondered how many of the children had begun to pick it up, while pretending not to watch. It was a beautiful sign language, full of liquid movements and gentle touches; almost a dance, although less so when lame little Yur’i was signing.

  I glanced toward Yur’i now. He was urgently poking Tyannis, his womb-parent’s child, who pretended not to notice. I eyed Tyannis sternly.

  “Yur’i says we have to know the past in order to live together,” he said, guiltily.

  Pandarris gave a low whistle of disgust. The other children looked embarrassed. No wonder Tyannis hadn’t wanted to pass on Yur’i’s comment. Guilt by translation.

  “There is no foresight without hindsight,” I said, into their silent denial.

  How could I teach them to be less dominated by the present moment? It was in our very nature. Daily I drew stories in the sand, telling them, as they watched the wind blowing away my drawings, that the past must continue to live in their minds even when it is gone. But they learn nothing from my stories. I sometimes imagine that we are all drawn in sand.

  Did I remember to tell them the story of Riattis, who gave her life to save Ghen when night lightning stru
ck the Ghen compound and burned almost a third of the city, one hundred stillseasons ago? Of Garn’ar, who led twelve successful hunts, risking his own life to keep us alive the year callan disease killed most of our Bria livestock? For a brief while Bria, too, became flesh-eaters in order to survive. Surely I told them. Didn’t I?

  No matter, I told their parents, and what good has it done? Ghen and Bria grow more estranged each passing season. They have forgotten that the Creator bound them together, blending their mutual need into something greater than either species alone. Soon their estrangement will tear our city apart. I see it, but I am helpless to prevent it.

  “Savannis?” I looked down at little Tibellis, tugging on my hand timidly. Caught daydreaming again.

  “That’s enough for today.” I shooed them away. So weary, so overwhelmingly weary. No wonder I sometimes have trouble holding onto my train of thought. Does it matter? Every group of youngsters turns further from what I am trying to teach them. Wind over Wind, help me to teach them how to see beyond the present moment, before they lose their future with their past.

  I looked up to see that Yur’i and Tyannis had stayed behind. Tyannis was gazing wistfully after the others scattering to play, but stayed because of Yur’i. Tyannis is a loyal one. Perhaps...? No, he hasn’t the patience to be the Voice of Wind. He wants a life of action, not words.

  Yur’i stood close to me, where I could lean on him to pull myself to my feet. I suppose being lame himself gives him some insight into the infirmities of age. I reached for him. My fur was thin with age and I had to be careful not to cut myself on the rigid scales across his shoulders and back. He motioned to Tyannis and the two of them helped me up the steps into my home.

  “Thank you.” Now that we were inside, I signed directly to him, without waiting for Tyannis to interpret as he did during storytime. The others teased Tyannis about it. Not in front of me, but I could see by his wariness toward them that they had done so. Perhaps I should sign to Yur’i in front of them? Such a break from tradition. Which traditions should I guard and which discard? How can I know?