Walls of Wind and the Occasional Diamond Thief Boxed Set

by Jane Ann McLachlan

  Afterwards there was music made by clacking stones and sticks and thin reeds with holes that produced a whistling sound, but I was exhausted and returned to our cave. There would be plenty of opportunities to observe their customs, and I had had enough strangeness for now. Being an emissary was more difficult than I thought.

  In the morning the guard was gone from the entrance of our cave. We wandered into the valley and found left-overs from the previous night’s banquet. Many of the cave-dwellers were already breakfasting on them. I was careful to choose only from the baskets of fruit. While eating, I wandered over to a Bria who I judged to be about my own age despite his smaller stature. Swallowing my mouthful, I said: “My name is Tyannis.”

  I meant to show my willingness to learn to speak with him, but I wasn’t prepared for the look of surprise that crossed his face and his grimace as he covered his mouth with his palms, as though trying not to laugh aloud.

  “Tyannis,” I repeated, patting myself on the chest, then pointing to him I asked, “What’s your name?”

  This time he doubled over, unable to control his laughter. I looked around and those nearby were grinning also. Didn’t they understand? Perhaps they had no language at all. I’d seen them gesture to one another, but the Bria who cared for our wounded had ignored my attempts to communicate. How would I teach these people anything if they didn’t even have a language?

  Just then, a Bria toddler bounced in his parent’s arms and, reaching toward me, burst into a high-pitched lisp of meaningless baby-talk. At once the entire group burst into loud laughter. When it subsided, the parent turned to me, his face a mixture of embarrassment and mirth, and with exaggerated slowness signed to me what was obviously an apology.

  An apology to the poor primitive who spoke baby-talk.

  My ears twitched with embarrassment and I turned to leave. The Bria I’d first approached touched my arm. Composing his face as best he could, he signed to me. I stared at him, neither speaking nor moving for fear of becoming the butt of their humor again. He patted his chest as I had done and signed again.

  Did he expect me to share a sign language with him, as though we were joined? Would those around us be shocked to see me presuming to do so? But he was watching me, waiting for a response. Hesitantly, I pointed to him then mimicked the movements his fingers had made.

  He grinned with what looked like approval and signed again, slowly, letting me see a slight correction in the placement of first and third fingers. This time I signed his name correctly. Glancing around nervously, I was rewarded with a wide circle of smiles.

  I signed my own name, “Tyannis,” as I would have signed it to Saft’ir. The young Bria signed it back directly and looking up I saw others signing my name also, Ghen and Bria alike, nodding encouragement.

  They’re teaching the savage to speak, I thought incredulously.

  ***

  Shebabeth, the young Bria I had befriended on my first day here, climbed with me out of the valley. We followed the mountain trail up around towering boulders, then downward again. Rounding another boulder, I saw a stone wall in the valley below us. I led the way toward it.

  There was a small tower at the corner, which I climbed in order to look into the walled enclosure. At first I thought the ground inside was covered with snow; it was as white as the distant mountain peaks I could see from my cave. Then something moved and I leaped back in shock. The ground was a mass of sleeping Broghen!

  After a moment I calmed myself and edged forward on the tower platform to look again. Some of the Broghen inside were quite small, probably born during the past stillseason. The eldest appeared no more than three years old. According to Saft’ir, even from birth these creatures were vicious killers. I imagined the carnage among them when they awoke.

  “Broghen are killing Broghen,” I signed. Shebabeth looked in surprise at the young Broghen.“No,” he signed.

  “Broghen are awake. Broghen are fighting.”

  “No.” Now he regarded me with surprise, but I was too frustrated to care. I understood their sparse signing now, after only a few weeks among them, but it was impossible to ask a question in their language, which had neither past nor future tenses, let alone the conditional. If there was some subtle sign of the interrogative, I’d seen no indication of it. Nor any other indication of curiosity. They lived entirely in the visible present.

  Would Shebabeth have shown me these Broghen if I hadn’t led us this way? He hadn’t led our walk, but he’d also made no attempt to guide me in another direction, which he could easily have done. Would I have to stumble blindly onto everything I learned about these people?

  My mind teemed with questions I couldn’t ask. Why were these young Broghen here, being fed and raised in a stone pen? They were obviously drugged by the same poro seeds given to help Kur’ad rest, but they must wake from time to time to eat and defecate. I looked around for more pens.

  “Adult Broghen are here.”

  “No.”

  Did that mean that they didn’t keep adult Broghen, or that there were none in this pen? Probably the former. Whenever possible, these people preferred the evidence of their senses to the subtleties of language. If there had been adult Broghen, Shebabeth would have shown me their pen.

  “Broghen are freed.”

  “True,” Shebabeth confirmed, “Teralish frees Broghen.”

  I marveled at the compassion of these rough people, who took such care of even their monstrous progeny, ensuring that they at least reached adulthood safely.

  “Teralish takes out Broghen poison fangs,” I signed.

  “Ghen take out Broghen poison fangs in ceremony.”

  “Tyannis sees this ceremony.”

  He shrugged, which I’d learned to take as denial.

  I was disappointed. I had come to believe this community was an example of complete equality. Except for the biological requirements of Bria pregnancy and Ghen hunting eyes and claws, they appeared to cooperate in all aspects of their lives. They spoke one language and shared their caves according to family bonds, not species bonds as we did. They farmed and cooked and reared their children jointly. I’d even seen Bria and Ghen journey together into the mountains to collect the leaves, seeds and roots they used as herbs and medicine. Perhaps that was why they’d shown little surprise to see me in the party of foreign Ghen.

  For my part, I felt accepted here as I never had in my own city. My upbringing with Yur’i and Saft’ir, which created such a rift between me and my city peers, had helped me to accept their sign language and their intermingled lives more easily than Koon’an and his Ghen warriors could. They were a primitive model of my own family.

  I told myself to stop making assumptions. No doubt there would be many surprises before I knew everything about their customs. Perhaps Saft’ir and the others would be invited to the Broghen ceremony and could tell me about it. I didn’t like the thought of being once more denied something merely because I was Bria, but it seldom happened here and besides, I was a guest. I accepted Shebabeth’s response without argument.

  ***

  I meant to tell Koon’an about the young Broghen, but when I got back to our cave after my walk with Shebabeth, Koon’an was in a heated discussion with the rest of our group.

  “We’re leaving,” Saft’ir signed when he saw me.

  “No!”

  “Yes, Koon’an has decided.”

  “I won’t go!” There was still so much to do! I was just earning their trust, learning their ways. I hadn’t begun to teach them. If we left now, would they even remember me when I managed to return? They lived so much in the present. And I might not be allowed to return at all.

  “Tyannis, if we don’t go now, we won’t make it home before stillseason. The journey’s dangerous enough, without traveling in stillseason. Koon’an’s right. We have to leave now.”

  “We could stay, and leave when stillseason’s over.”

  “And let everyone at home believe we’re dead? Besides, Koon’an was orde
red by Council to return before stillseason. There are Broghen in our forests and these are our best fighters. They’re needed on the wall.

  “Koon’an already knew about the Broghen! He must have guessed at what we’d find here. Surely you were supposed to do more than greet these people and leave?”

  “We were to try to convince them, if we found them, to release their Broghen on the other side of the mountains. Koon’an tried. Their leader, Teralish, wouldn’t listen. He won’t talk at all to Koon’an. Perhaps he doesn’t understand. Council will have to decide what to do next.”

  “If we stay, if we get to know them and show them a better way to live, we can teach them how to avoid having Broghen. We don’t have Broghen.”

  Saft’ir hesitated. Then he signed, “Koon’an has orders from Council. We will obey them.”

  From the back of the cave I heard a deep moan. Kur’ad’s bandages were being changed by Meliath, the same young Bria who’d been attending him since we arrived. Shebabeth had told me that Meliath would mate with Kur’ad when he was well. I heard another groan, followed by garbled shouts, as though Kur’ad was still fighting the Broghen that had wounded him. In the weeks we’d been here, Kur’ad had not regained lucidity, except for these periodic screams, calmed only by more of the small poro seeds. I tried not to wonder what nightmare he’d endured before the white Ghen found him and brought him here.

  “I need to talk to Koon’an,” I signed, when Kur’ad’s cries subsided. Koon’an and some of the other Ghen had learned a bit of the native sign language, but they refused to sign to me, so I was still forced to use Saft’ir as a translator.

  I tried to draw Koon’an aside for such encounters, to avoid the derisive amusement of the mountain people when they saw our Ghen communicating with sounds. I’d discussed it with Saft’ir in our own sign language, and he’d tried to tell Koon’an. Koon’an understood, but knowing and feeling are different. Koon’an couldn’t feel embarrassed about speaking, any more than he could feel comfortable signing to any but a mate.

  “What will you do about Kur’ad?” I asked Koon’an, through Saft’ir, “and Brod’ar and Sim’en? They can’t go on such a long trip.”

  Brod’ar and Sim’en, who’d been wounded in our last battle with the Broghen, had healed well in the time we’d been here. They’d be able to accompany us, but they’d slow us down. If Koon’an was worried about stillseason, he wouldn’t want that.

  “They’ll stay here,” Koon’an replied. “Teralish has indicated that they will be welcome. When Council has decided what to do, I’ll lead another expedition up here. They can return with us then.”

  “I’m staying here with them.”

  “Less likely than wind in stillseason.”

  “I’ve already made a Bria friend here. I could get to know their ways, teach them ours.”

  “No.”

  “You don’t have Council orders for me. If you did, they’d be to let me stay and learn more about these people, to increase our chance of reaching a peaceful agreement. We have to consider what’s best for our city. You’re needed back there, but I’m more useful here.”

  Koon’an turned away sharply. I didn’t press him. By his silence he was admitting I was right, although he didn’t like it.

  When they left a few days later, they carried my written record with them. The part I had feared, had dreaded, was losing Saft’ir. But when I went to him the morning they were preparing to leave, he told me he wasn’t going.

  “But you’re the recorder.”

  “Rennis can read your written record and sign it to Yur’i, so he can typeset it and print it for the Ghen.”

  “Koon’an agreed to that?”

  “I told him we were joined.” He held his hand out to me. “We would have joined anyway, this stillseason, wouldn’t we?”

  When I was silent, he added, “I couldn’t go to Festival Hall without you.”

  At once I reached for his hand. Of course no one else could have him. “I want to be joined the way these Ghen and Bria are: for life,” I told him.

  “The way your parent and mine are.”

  “More than that. I’ll be the one who bears your second youngling.”

  Now it was Saft’ir’s turn to be surprised, to hesitate.

  “You don’t know what’s involved.” The look in his eyes even more than his words, unnerved me. But then I imagined him going to the home of another Bria, living with him for five years... Unthinkable!

  “Ocallis is carrying Mant’er’s second son. Am I less steadfast than he is?”

  He looked at me for a long moment. “I’d like that, Tyannis, but I won’t hold you to it. Remember that.”

  ***

  Shebabeth was pleased that I stayed. He taught me the chores that made up his life: how to cultivate the communal garden and which section belonged to each cave; how to dry and use the spices and medicinal plants that grew along the mountain slopes; how to wrap meat and vegetables together in broad cappa leaves and bury them under the cooking fire to roast slowly. By now I was accustomed to their eating habits, but I wondered how Bria from our city would respond to these flesh-eating Bria.

  One day Shebabeth took Saft’ir and me to collect poro seeds and the healing leaves applied to wounds. A strong wind came up, and with it a small whirlwind, blowing twigs, leaves and stones in a circular frenzy. It swayed and darted in a ring about us and then continued on its way. Shebabeth grinned broadly.

  “Wind accepts strangers,” he proclaimed.

  I was familiar with the way these people personified wind and water and rock, revering them as deities, and knew enough to answer, “Strangers thank wind.” I intended to teach them about the Creator Wind, and how He was more than the wind, but I had to know them better first.

  When Shebabeth was busy in his family’s cave, Saft’ir and I explored the surrounding area together. Saft’ir had his firearm in the cave we slept in, and we both had our knives. Even so, we always went out in the brightest part of the day, when Broghen slept. I took him to see the enclosure of young Broghen and told him what little I’d learned from Shebabeth.

  One day we went further than usual. Cresting a rock-strewn incline we stood looking down into a deep, hidden valley. Here, too, there were high stone walls, but these were loosely covered with thorn brambles and long, dried grasses, so that we couldn’t see inside. We could make out that a large area in the center had been left uncovered, but it was far away and the angle was wrong to look down into it. We descended to look at the structure more closely.

  A thick wooden door was built solidly in the middle of this end of the enclosure. It was bolted with three broad external beams, as though secured against an assault from the inside rather than from the outside. We tried to walk around the perimeter but it filled half the valley and the afternoon was lengthening. We had to return.

  That night I woke in the dark. I wandered to the cave entrance. The moon was almost full and I shivered in its cold light. I had dreamed of Saft’ir on the training grounds, engaged in mock combat as I had seen him what seemed like years ago, but was in fact only a few months before this trip. Two of his comrades had already left the field, leaving Saft’ir and one other against all four of the opposing team. The result was a foregone conclusion to all but Saft’ir, who circled and charged, kicking, grasping, butting, leaping aside and returning again and again.

  When his last teammate left the field it was three to one and Saft’ir had already taken the worst of it. He was barely standing and his opponents, who stumbled with exhaustion themselves, wept as they knocked him back.

  “Saft’ir, give in!” someone called from the edge of the meadow. But he fought on, perhaps not even aware of the terrible beating he was taking, until at last he alone remained on the field. He turned slowly around, looking through swollen eyes as though surprised, before he pitched face first to the ground, only then feeling his injuries.

  The memory filled me with a strange foreboding. I returned to the cave and pul
led my pallet closer to Saft’ir’s.

  In the morning, Teralish came to our cave. “Ceremony,” he signed. “Come now.” I stepped forward with the others, but Teralish motioned me back.

  “Ghen go alone,” he signed in the native language.

  The words sent a chill down my spine, but when Saft’ir and Sim’en and Brod’ar were instructed to leave their knives behind, Saft’ir grinned at me as if to say, you see? It’s a peaceful ceremony. There’s no danger, no need for knives. I was still jealous at being left behind, and gave him a cool good-bye.

  Evening came and the Ghen had not returned. I went to Shebabeth’s cave to pose to him another series of frustrating, inaccurate statements.

  “Ghen are returning.”

  “No.”

  I closed my eyes, leaning my head sideways across folded hands. “Sleep.” I opened my eyes, raising my head. “Awake. Ghen are returning.”

  He surprised me then. Perhaps he’d begun to imagine the meanings behind my strange comments. Taking my hand, he led me to the edge of the cave and pointed up at the night sky.

  “Moon is large,” I observed, gazing at the full moon.

  “Moon is small.” He cupped his hands in a semi-circle, looking embarrassed and confused, as though he barely grasped himself the concept he was trying to express in his inadequate language. “Moon is small. Ghen are returning.”

  Half a month. He expected well over half the adult Ghen to be gone for half a month?

  “Ghen are far away.”

  “Ghen are close.” Shebabeth pointed in the direction Saft’ir and I had walked a few days before.

  “Ghen are in valley, stone walls.”

  “Yes.”

  Knowing that they weren’t far reassured me and I slept more soundly. I woke refreshed and went with Meliath to work in our portion of the garden. The village seemed strange, too quiet. I began to worry, until I realized I was just missing the absent Ghen. How quickly I’d become used to living in such close harmony with them. I’d almost begun to think of the mountain Ghen and Bria as one species.