Children of the Wolves

by Jessica Starre

  “Ay,” she said.

  Even so, Jelena happened to agree with Bertha: a summer of mourning, a season of grief.

  • • •

  Though it was early morning, the sun blazed down already as the people gathered in the courtyard again, this time for the funeral of the little trueborn girl. This time Jelena stood next to Amy and didn’t look at Viktor so that she would hear no more lectures from Michael.

  As he turned toward the assembled villagers and began to speak, a voice called his name from across the distance. Michael stopped and narrowed his eyes to see who summoned him. Jelena turned to look.

  The runner lifted a hand. “Michael,” he called again. “Quickly, quickly. Another is about to be newlyborn.”

  Michael’s face went ashen. He glanced at the assembled crowd and waved Cara forward to finish the funeral service. He reached for Jelena’s hand. “Come along,” he said, heading in the direction of the caves.

  “Michael,” Jelena said, pulling on his hand. “Hold on. Who will be its protector? Shouldn’t that person come with us?”

  Michael stopped suddenly enough to rock back on his heels. “Jeremiah! Jeremiah, stop!” he called to the runner. The runner obeyed, stood panting as they caught up to him. “Go back, summon Teresa,” Michael said.

  “Teresa?” Jelena questioned, shocked at his choice.

  “No one else who has been newlyborn in the last few years has awakened yet,” Michael said crossly. “Charmaine has just finished her service and wants to partner with Rufus.” Jelena realized that Teresa was not his first choice but that she would have to do. He turned back to the track that led down to the caves. Jelena stilled him with a hand on his arm. He wheeled impatiently but she spoke before he could get a word out.

  “Michael, you’re supposed to be this one’s protector, aren’t you?” she said, the knowledge dawning with a wrench. “That’s why you didn’t stop to think, or to ask the elders, whom to bring.” Here, now, proof of the burden of her selfishness.

  “Jelena,” Michael interrupted. “I am your protector. One newlyborn, one protector. That’s the way it works, that’s the way it has always worked.”

  “But I don’t need — ”

  “I haven’t been released from my obligation yet,” Michael said curtly. “Now come on.”

  The words struck like a fist to her stomach. If she hadn’t been so selfish. If she hadn’t been afraid that Michael would partner with someone else as soon as he was released of his obligation to her.

  She was crying freely by the time they reached the approach to the caves. Michael gave her a glance but said nothing as he ducked into the entrance. A tall woman in white robes stood just outside, awaiting them. Something about her shimmered with nerves. If the woman hadn’t been schooled to appear serene, Jelena would bet that she’d have been wringing her hands.

  “By all that’s good, you’re here,” the caretaker breathed. “This way.” She lifted a lantern from a bracket on the stone wall, turned and led them down a narrow passageway. The walls glistened wetly; the ground was slippery under their feet. Jelena barely remembered being newlyborn here, brought through the stone passages into the light. She remembered a whirl of color and movement and sound, nothing that made much sense, either now or at the time.

  The chilled air smelled dank with the musty stench of rotting things. She shivered as she made her way down the passage in Michael’s wake. The tunnel branched and the caretaker plunged down the western passage. Hurrying now, hardly able to contain herself, the caretaker reached the end of the tunnel two steps ahead of Michael and flung open a steel door. Jelena gasped as she saw the smooth steel interior of the room, the endless rows of glass enclosed cubes bathed with yellow light. On one of the cubes, a light pulsed green. In here, the air was less cloying but just as cool. A metallic tang hung in the air. Jelena gradually became aware of a low hum of energy sources.

  As Jelena walked down the main aisle between the rows, she saw that within each cube a person slept. The cubes stretched far into the darkness of the steel-clad cave. The caretaker stopped at the cube with the pulsing green light. Jelena assumed the pulsing green light meant the inhabitant was about to be newlyborn. Those in cubes bathed in yellow light still slumbered. She caught her breath as she realized that the makers had probably intended for the saved to be newlyborn all at once — or at least within a short period of time of one another. Because there could be nothing haphazard about this collection of saved. How carefully organized and well-equipped the room was. It was only their newbirthing over years that didn’t make sense. Something had gone wrong with the technology and they hadn’t been newlyborn according to the makers’ plan. The thought felt like heresy but it also excited her. It explained so much.

  Maybe they had all been meant to remember, just as the rememberer did. Maybe the need to be awakened had not been anticipated by the makers. That would explain even more. Jelena looked at the rows of cubes, more than she could easily count. What if some of them never stirred from their slumbers? It had never occurred to her that some of the saved might die before they could be newlyborn.

  “Here,” the caretaker said softly. Despite the fact that she spoke under her breath, her words jolted Jelena back to the present moment. The caretaker lifted the lantern high to shed light on the cube, then placed the lantern on a hook on the wall.

  A slender blonde man lay naked on a pallet enclosed in the glass cube. He shifted in his sleep and flung an arm out. Jelena shied back and cast a glance over her shoulder. The people in the other glass cubes remained still and unmoving. The caretaker went to a cabinet against the wall and extracted a woven robe and a thick blanket. She gave these to Jelena, then hurried down the aisle back to the entrance.

  Michael looked at Jelena. “You’ve never seen a newbirth before, have you?”

  “No,” she said. She remembered the ice cold, the nauseating fear, the disorientation, the weakness and the pain, oh the pain —

  Michael moved forward and clicked a switch on the cube. The glass top slid back noiselessly. Obviously the mechanic had had nothing to do with these cubes. His loud, noisy works banged and belched black smoke; the louder and dirtier, the better he seemed to like it.

  The blonde man seemed to feel the change in atmosphere because he clenched and jerked violently on the pallet, as if he had cramps all over his body.

  “Here she is!” the caretaker said happily, bringing Teresa into the room. Teresa’s eyes were wide and she had a sheen of perspiration on her upper lip from hurrying. The runner appeared behind her, breathing heavily and bearing a tray with a pitcher, a mug, a bowl, and a linen towel.

  “Here, dear,” the caretaker said, taking the robe and blanket from Jelena’s hands and giving them to Teresa, beaming at her.

  The blonde man stirred again. Michael stepped back, allowing Teresa to take his place. She hesitated, looking down at the man, then took a step forward and sat next to him on the raised pallet, setting the robe and blanket across her knees. Suddenly, the man shot to a sitting position, reeling. The caretaker slapped at the lantern, pulling its shield down and dimming its brightness. The man screamed in pain, as if being burned alive. Hackles rose on Jelena’s neck.

  The man screamed again and retched. Teresa grabbed the bowl off the tray, and held his shoulders as he vomited a clear viscous liquid repeatedly into the bowl. With a low moan, he flopped back onto the pallet. With no trace of distaste, Teresa cleaned her hands, moistened the towel with water from the pitcher, and wiped the man’s mouth.

  “No!” the man cried. “No!” He thrashed on the pallet, an arm flailing. Teresa ducked it with expertise, as if she had done this before, and said mildly, “I am here to guide you. I am here to protect you.”

  Jelena’s hand crept to her heart. She remembered hearing those words when Michael had said them to her in a low loving tone. She had clung to
his voice and his body as he guided her birth. She bit down on a knuckle, checking the low sound that tried to escape her throat. Here was the reason for the bond they shared, the reason they walked together and knew instinctively what the other left unsaid, or when one needed the other.

  The man on the pallet screamed once more, then began to cry. Teresa gathered him into her arms and held him, stroking his back as he cried. She reached for the blanket as he began to shake and wrapped it around him, holding him close to her. “I am here to guide you, Rodrigo,” she said. “I am here to protect you.”

  The caretaker smiled happily at them; the bonding was taking place without a hitch. It didn’t always go so smoothly, Jelena guessed. Then Michael turned to her and said, “Let’s leave them to it.” He grasped the caretaker’s hand and thanked her. Jelena followed him down the passageway and back into the sunlight.

  “How did she know his name was Rodrigo?” she asked. “Who told Teresa?”

  Michael smiled at her. Amusement colored his voice when he spoke. “No one told her his name. She chose it. She named him.”

  Jelena stopped, cocked her head at him. “That explains how I got my name,” she said. “I couldn’t be a Linda or an Anna, could I?”

  Michael grinned at her again, took her hand, and walked with her out of the cave.

  Chapter Seven

  “So much,” Cara said, passing a weary hand over red-rimmed eyes. “Awakenings and deaths and newbirths. It’s difficult to keep up.”

  Jelena delivered the pot of tea to the table.

  “It has been very demanding,” Archibald agreed with Cara.

  Jelena thought, but didn’t say, So what have you done to meet the demands? It seemed to her that Michael bore the brunt of the duty. Exhaustion etched his face. He slumped in his chair, his legs stretched out on a hassock in front of him. As usual, Michael was the only outsider privy to the discussion of the council — well, and Jelena, too, because he was her protector.

  Irritation flared in Jelena. The elders would make a decision and hand it down to the tribe and then say the tribe had reached a consensus. But the elders hadn’t asked anyone. Except Michael. And despite her regard for Michael, he didn’t represent the thoughts and feelings of everyone in the tribe, either.

  “It is my belief that the trader was captured by a hostile tribe — probably the Sithans — and tortured. I have told you this.” Michael slanted a glance at Jelena. “At the time, I suggested wolves because I didn’t want to panic the people.”

  The eight elders didn’t respond.

  “We must prepare for war.”

  War. There, Jelena thought. It was said, he had said it. If the Wudu-faesten wanted to survive, they would have to face the truth. The silence, taut and heavy, hung over the room. And no one seemed to want to meet anyone else’s eyes.

  Cara darted a glance at Jelena. “Jelena, dear,” Cara said. “Perhaps you could find Rufus and let him know that Michael is occupied?”

  Jelena cleared her throat. She had been waiting for this opportunity. Usually to petition the elders, one had to go through channels and it could take quite a long time, but what she didn’t have right now was a long time. Her lack of action had already altered the world; Michael should now be protecting Rodrigo. He said they must prepare for war, but inevitably the burden would fall to him. So she was going to intrude; she was going to break with tradition.

  “Pardon me,” she said, and bowed her head. “But I am here to request a favor of the elders.”

  Michael’s booted feet hit the ground. “Jelena,” he said urgently, sitting upright in his chair. “No — ”

  Jelena rushed ahead, her voice louder than his. “With your leave. We have many concerns in our community. Potential war with a neighboring tribe, the violent death of the trader, the equally tragic and unexpected death of a trueborn, a newlyborn just arrived, a newly awakened member of the tribe — all of this has created unceasing demands on this council and on the pastor.” She paused and drew breath, stealing a glance at Michael, who had folded his arms across his chest and now sat staring stonily at her. She looked away and hurried on.

  “I was newlyborn seven years ago.” She swallowed hard. A lot of promise had come and gone since then. “No one has ever gone that long without awakening. Therefore, I believe we must assume that I am one of the unawakened.” She paused for a moment, as if to hear protests, but no one argued with her words. Not even Michael.

  “And so, accepting that I am unawakened, I ask that you grant this request. To release Michael from his vow to protect me, so that he might protect the community.”

  She thought the last sentence sounded rather well. Archibald leaned forward and said, “Jelena, that’s not Michael’s job — to protect the community. He is our spiritual guide, indeed, and he commands our riders as well. But he isn’t — ” Here Archibald stopped and glanced at Michael, who had a wry smile on his face. “That is to say, we can’t expect everything of Michael. We don’t expect it. We have others who — ” He trailed off and harrumphed into his mustache.

  “Look at him,” Jelena said softly, nodding towards Michael. “He is exhausted and torn in too many directions. Please, I ask you, let him be free of his duty to me.”

  Maurice glared suspiciously at Jelena. “You’re not asking this because — well, because you’d like to have a different relationship with him?”

  Michael glanced in Jelena’s direction with interest, one eyebrow raised in curiosity.

  “Certainly not!” Jelena flushed, embarrassed to her core.

  “Well, then,” Maurice said. “Well, then. Jelena, my dear, you do know what this means? No one has ever awakened once they’ve left the guardianship of their protector. You understand that you are binding yourself to a life — well, a life as something less fulfilling than it might otherwise be? With Michael as your protector, you are thought of as a newlyborn. With all of the rights and privileges of any tribe member.”

  “Yes,” Jelena said steadily.

  “But, if you have no protector, you become one of the unawakened. We try to be fair to the unawakened, as you know. We feed and clothe them and find a purpose for them, although they do not having a calling. But — it is true that some of the tribe feel that they are a drain on society.” Here he glared at Archibald. “And there is some bias. Plus the work is — well, it’s less interesting.”

  “I understand,” Jelena said, her voice still even.

  Maurice glanced around the table. His eyes stopped at each of the seven other elders, all of whom inclined their heads in agreement.

  “Then, as a senior member of this assembly, I hereby grant your request. You are now recognized as an unawakened, with different duties and obligations. Michael, you are hereby released from your obligation to protect the newlyborn Jelena, who has passed from that state to this.”

  Michael nodded once, his face strained. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t look at Jelena.

  “Thank you,” Jelena said, bowing to them once more, then turned and left the room.

  • • •

  She’d done the right thing, she knew it. She could tell by how quickly word spread through the community. It seemed she’d barely stepped outside the council room when Bertha came bustling up, saying she could use Jelena’s help in the kitchen.

  “But I sew,” Jelena protested. Indeed, she had intended to return to the weaving room to tell Amy that she’d finally been brave enough to do what needed to be done. Amy would have hugged her and consoled her and made a joke to see her laugh.

  “Not anymore, dear,” Bertha said kindly. “They’ll have someone else along doing that soon. Probably Rodrigo.”

  “But I — ” Jelena thought of the heavy embroidery threads the trader had brought back for her on his penultimate trip, bartering some of her tunics for the deep blues and burgundies, the flashin
g silver and copper. They belonged to the community, not to her. The chest she kept them in, carved by the carpenter the third year after she’d been newlyborn, also belonged to the community. They were hers to use, but they did not belong to her. Now it seemed as though someone else would have the use of them.

  “Cup of tea, dear,” Bertha said, as Jelena sank onto the bench against the kitchen wall. “Fix you up in no time.” She suited the action to the word. “Drink up now, then give me a bit of help here. Mind, I believe you did the right thing, no use pretending any day now you’ll reckon your pastself.”

  “Right,” Jelena said. Right. Yes. Exactly so.

  “You’ll be wanting to gather your clothes,” Bertha said, turning back to the big black stove. “Now’s the time, I’d say.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Teresa and her newlyborn will be taking over those quarters. I expect Michael will make a room in that meeting hall of his. We’ve got quarters off the kitchen. You’ll do fine here.” Bertha nodded toward the blackened oak door that separated the kitchen from the sleeping rooms.

  “Yes, of course,” Jelena said. It was the right thing to do, but she hadn’t quite realized that life would change so completely, or so quickly. Still, better to be realistic and get on with it. Her contributions would change, that was all. She might even be able to cook. Who knew?

  Following Bertha’s advice, she slipped outside so she could avoid going through the dining hall, and sidestep the questions and curious stares of the people she knew. Entering by the front door, she hurried upstairs to the quarters she had so recently shared with Michael.

  Her hands shook as she pushed the curtain aside and entered the sleeping alcove. All these years, Michael had been sleeping in the next room, right there if she ever needed him. But he wouldn’t be there anymore. She wondered how that would feel. She’d find out soon enough.

  She grabbed up her winter tunic and heavy woolen cloak, then rolled her boots and her thick woolen socks into the cloak. Her hands trembled as she opened the small chest that contained her embroidery thread and needles. She ran her fingers through the silks, like holding a rainbow in her hands. She sighed and closed the lid, setting the box aside.