Grace resolutely accepted the task. She held the small figure to her and spoke aloud to it. “Yes, I shall name you, little owl,” she said. “Let me think a bit about it, or maybe even the Goddess herself will tell me what you should be called.”
And she had no doubt that the Goddess would speak.
CHAPTER 6
Grace’s days in Balat’s cabin that winter were pleasant ones. She was content to heal, doing very little as Balat insisted; playing with Dya, her owl figurine, learning Balat’s strange language and even becoming comfortable with the eerie Hava. Some days, when the chill wind clattered around the outside of the cabin or snow fell in silent cascades, Grace was only too content to stay in with Balat and play their learning games. On those days she felt a childlike peace that was idyllic. At other times, though, when the cold winter sun shone bright and Balat took advantage of the clear weather to attend to outside chores, Grace became anxious over her uselessness and looked for work to do. Those were times when a driving purpose seemed to come out of a back corner of her mind, and she seemed to sense more than remember a need to be busy, to do the Goddess’ work.
The first time she felt strong enough to really work, she took advantage of Balat’s absence and cleaned the little cabin with a frenzy inspired by guilt over her days of useless play, and exhausted herself to the point of collapse. When Balat returned, his surprise over the cleaning was swept aside by his concern for the weak and crying girl on her cot. Through tears of exhaustion and her broken command of his language, Grace tried to explain to him how all work was sacred to the Goddess, and that Grace had not done near enough of it since her illness. The look of anxiety in the gray eyes stilled somewhat after Balat assured himself Grace had done no more than overextend herself, but he sat beside her and took her pale face in his hands.
“Look at Hava.” He instructed her in slow, simple words, using gestures to reinforce her tentative knowledge of the language. Obeying, Grace looked where he pointed at the high corner that was Hava’s place and saw that the owl had a feather in one talon. Long and slender, the feather was not his, but had belonged to some gentler bird that had become Hava’s prey. Now the owl toyed with it, snatching it out of his own talon’s grasp with his beak, waving it about, then taking it again from beak to talon. He was wonderfully unselfconscious in his play.
“Is Hava of the Goddess?” Balat asked Grace.
She returned her gaze to him, perplexed, wondering if perhaps she had not understood the words as he intended. At first it had been difficult for him to make her understand his word for Goddess, She not being an object he could simply point to. He’d made several large gestures, trying to indicate that the Goddess was All, but Grace had been unable to draw together his meaning. Then, inexplicably, the sense flowed into her mind like a gentle tide from without and she knew, without knowing how, what he was conveying. The process was wonderful in its subtlety and Grace was both humbled and accepting of this latest gift. She was delighted and grateful that the Goddess saw fit to speak to her now, and accepted the revelation trustingly. If Balat could have asked her how it was she understood such an abstract idea so quickly, she could not have told him. Her lessons continued with a new sense of purpose after that.
“Is Hava of the Goddess?” Balat now asked her again.
“Of the Goddess? Yes, he is,” she said haltingly. “The light of the Goddess shines in him.”
Balat nodded, certain now she understood. “What is it he does?”
Grace glanced back at the bird, still unsure of Balat’s aim. “He plays ... with a feather.”
“He plays? And he is of the Goddess? Will She require him to work twice as hard tonight when he hunts in order to make up for his time at play?”
“Oh, no,” Grace answered immediately, then contritely understood. Balat saw it in her face.
“Hava is an owl, created by the Goddess. He often plays. You are a young girl, also created by the Goddess. You also play.” Balat’s voice softened. “There is nothing wrong with work, for it is truly of the Goddess, but there is nothing wrong with play, either, Grace. You do not have to act unnaturally to please the Goddess. You please Her by being your young self, as Hava pleases Her by being an owl. Do you understand?”
Grace thought she did. Some of the less concrete phrases were still hard for her to follow, but she felt that she understood the idea Balat was trying to get across. There was an old anxiety in the back of her mind that pressed upon her thoughts, but she recognized that what Balat said felt true. The truth had a largeness to it, an all-encompassing rightness to it, while the niggling anxiety felt small and mean. She turned from the anxiety and folded herself into the trueness.
“Yes, Balat,” she said with conviction. “I see now.”
Balat looked pleased, and relieved. “Healing is also the Goddess’ work and you still have some of that to do. You won’t push yourself like that again, will you?”
“No.” She smiled, and the trueness she felt inside radiated out of her eyes, lighting her small, pale face like a flame. Balat had not seen such a look on her face before. He wondered about it.
“I will make you some soup,” he said, getting up, “and then you must rest.”
“Yes, Balat.”
That evening when she closed her eyes to sleep, Balat noticed that the light in her face softened a bit, but only a very small amount.
That winter was the most extreme Grace had ever experienced. Although her memory of the time before her sickness was blurred at best, she knew she had never seen such snow and wind or felt such cold. Most of her days were spent insulated inside the cabin although later, as she regained her strength, Balat would acquiesce to let her go out for a bit on bright days and she would feel the strange bite of the season.
She came to understand, and later to see for herself, that the colony of Balat’s people was composed of a group of cabins like his, most occupied by several generations of family. When she was strong enough to venture out into the cold, she could see the little wooden cabins crouching at the feet of the tall trees. Sometimes, from the little distance that set Balat’s cabin apart, she could hear voices of other people as they went about their daily industry.
She felt reluctant to meet those others. Hilar, the woman she had seen her first day conscious, came occasionally to Balat’s cabin and clucked and fussed over both he and Grace as though they needed caring for, when in fact they took care of all their own needs. Grace, through naively objective eyes, saw that Hilar invaded the cabin with a purposeful and martyred air, quizzed Balat on whatever important matters she feared he might not be attending to adequately, then became short and snappish when it was obvious her concern was unnecessary. At that point she would fix both Balat and Grace with a suspicious stare, then bang out of the cabin, presumably to go someplace where her efforts were more appreciated.
The attitudes of the woman were beyond anything Grace could understand. It seemed incomprehensible to her that any female could carry on so unnaturally. In halting tries, she asked Balat why Hilar acted that way.
Balat smiled and shrugged with a hopeless humor. “She was not born with a Goddess-sensitivity,” he answered patiently, often having to stop and explain or redefine words. “The Goddess does not come to her, so she reaches for the Goddess through her worrying and tending. It is all she knows how to do.”
Grace mulled that over quietly to herself. She supposed, as most men were not sensitive to the Goddess but some few were, that there must be a minority of women also less sensitive than their more often occurring sisters.
Sometimes Hilar brought one or two of her grandchildren with her. Balat explained that she lived with her daughter, her daughter’s husband and several grandchildren in one small cabin. Perhaps in an overly concerned attempt at introducing Grace to others of her own age, she towed the youngsters along with her. One girl, Molina, probably several years younger than Grace, only stood and stared as if dumbstruck, or hid behind her grandmother’s skirts. She seemed
to visibly fear Balat, as if he might turn her into an insect.
“I have a small magic,” he explained to Grace later, “and the child fears it. She is very young.”
A grandson of Hilar’s named Tarr was not so fearful. Older than Grace by several years, he was more bold and stared at her with an intensity she found uncomfortable. She noticed he watched Balat closely as well, although he did not seem inclined to enter into conversation with either of them.
“He, also, is in awe of my magic, I think,” Balat said. “I’ve noticed him watching me, as if he might learn the secret of it. But he is more interested in learning the secret than in learning the craft.”
So Grace’s reluctance to meet others in the colony was colored by this strange behavior of Hilar and her kin. Were many in this colony so un-Goddess like, so unnatural? Balat said no, but Grace was not eager to find out. She kept close to his cabin, even as the days lengthened and the wind blew less.
Balat, she saw, was closely connected to the Goddess. When he milled his grain in a marvelous little stone invention that required only the turning of a crank, he always took a handful of the refined grain and placed it out on a large rock for the Goddess’ forest birds. And when he baked the thick, coarse bread, he always sprinkled a bit of the flour in the fire as an offering, and he whispered small prayers to Her often as he worked. When Grace began to help in some small duties around the cabin, she wondered at his prayers—was his Goddess different than hers, requiring different words?—and finally composed her own prayers, partly out of words that seemed to swim to her from her past and partly out of the feelings of her heart on that given day. If she expected Balat to question her rituals or even disapprove, he did not, and they often sat at table to share a meal, each speaking to the Goddess in his or her own way. For Grace there was a curious comfort in that, saying different words to the same Goddess, and she felt very close to Balat.
He seemed much different to her now than he had when she first stirred from her illness. Then, she had thought him large and looming, almost shuffling in his age and size. Now he seemed infinitely more agile than that; shorter, slimmer, and wonderfully dexterous. Although aged, he had a timeless quality about him, perhaps the light in the watery gray eyes or the artful manipulations in the gnarled, knotty fingers. He seemed very old and yet very fresh; wise in years yet still childlike in wonder. Grace developed an enormous respect and fondness for him in what seemed a very short time.
One morning after Balat had returned from what Grace assumed was his regular morning salutation—she had taken to saying her own morning welcome to the sun while still wrapped in blankets, her offering of respect directed toward a small chink between logs where the sun came in—he came and sat beside her on the cot. Hava flapped rather clumsily on Balat’s shoulder and sat there tending his feathers while Balat talked.
“Tomorrow the people will come here,” he told Grace.
Feeling that reluctance again to meet others, Grace sat up attentively. “Why?”
“Tomorrow is a holy day. The sun will rise in the place where the Goddess tells us winter is over and spring is coming. It is a day of ritual when we see what omens the Goddess may show us about the coming year. Everyone will be there, and it will be best for you to meet them. They are probably more curious about you than you are about them.”
“I am not curious about them at all,” Grace said, her adamancy fueled by unease.
“That’s what I mean,” Balat smiled. Then he leveled a commanding look at her. “You stand outside at the corner of the cabin and watch them when they work. They are only people, not wizards. They won’t hurt you.”
Grace shivered under some kind of memory-feeling of having people—lots of people—wanting something from her, something she did not possess. The source of the feeling was unclear, but it distressed her all the same.
“They want nothing from you but to see you, hear you speak our language with your strange accent, and welcome you.”
Grace might have been surprised that Balat knew what she feared, but somehow was not. She chuckled at his humorous referral to her “accent.” “You are the one with the strange language,” she said. “The language of my people ...”
Grace’s voice died away and Balat waited quietly. She realized then that he had never asked about her people. And he wasn’t asking now.
“My people,” Grace began again slowly, “are ... are ...”
The memories would not come. She had blurred images in her mind, people, buildings, landmarks, but none of it came to her clearly. And around it all, unease, distress—fear. She wanted to remember but didn’t want to, as well. Balat sensed her discomfort.
“Until you know your people again,” he said solemnly, “my people will be yours, if you wish. They will accept you as my charge.”
Somewhat defeated by her inability to remember, Grace accepted. “All right. I’ll meet them tomorrow. You must tell me what to do. I don’t want to offend.”
Balat smiled. “Please the Goddess and you will not offend. Your heart will tell you what to do.”
The next morning Grace was awakened before dawn by Balat moving purposefully about the cabin. Hava sat on his shoulder but flapped agitatedly whenever Balat stopped suddenly or changed direction. As Grace watched him sleepily, Balat went from one thing to another—the strange markings on the wall, the stick with feathers tied to it, the large rocks on the floor—and held his open palms over each. For a moment, he waited silently before each, his face quiet and open, then he moved to something else. Grace saw him collect the stick, then put one of the smaller, fist-sized rocks in his tunic pouch. He took Hava onto his arm and stared intently into the bird’s eyes, and when Hava climbed resolutely back up to his shoulder, Balat seemed satisfied, and came to awaken Grace.
“I’m awake,” she told him, throwing off the bed covers.
“So, you’ve been watching me,” he chided good-naturedly. “Did you learn anything?”
That had not occurred to her. “No.”
Balat only smiled to himself.
Bundled against the cold, Balat and Grace stepped from the cabin onto crunchy, crystalline snow. Grace could see her breath form a frozen cloud in the air and the cold stung her nose. The snow was hard and crunchy on the surface but when Grace bore all her weight on one foot the crust broke and dropped her several inches to harder ground. They had barely walked around the cabin when she was already exhausted.
“Ahead the snow is trampled down and not so deep,” Balat told her. “Walking will be easier there.”
In the pale, pre-dawn light, it seemed as if the whole world glittered with rose-colored crystals. Above the trees, layers of high, thin clouds streaked the dark sky and blushed delicately, their soft rose light caught and echoed by the crystalline snow. The huge trees around them were starkly black; the sky was a deep, indigo blue, and everywhere else was the delicate color of morning. It was the most beautiful day Grace had ever seen.
A stillness flowered inside her; all the anxiety that had clamored for attention earlier melted away. She felt the hand of the Goddess lay gently upon her head, and she bowed under the weight of it. Her body felt warm with quiet elation; she no longer felt the bite of the cold air. Ahead, the small sounds of other feet on the snow came to her, but the unconditional acceptance of the Goddess was like a white light that blazed so brightly it burned away all other concerns. Attuned to the presence of others coming closer, Grace raised her head and met them with quiet assurance.
They stopped a few paces from Balat and Grace, standing by in a ragged circle. Although the light was still dim, Grace could see a pleasant curiosity on some of their faces.
Balat put a hand on Grace’s head and the feeling of his human hand occupying the same space as that of the Goddess’ divine hand sent a shock of emotion through her. She trembled, but if Balat felt it he took no notice.
“This is Grace,” he intoned to the gathered people. “She is my shakar.”
Eyes widened in the
glowing pre-dawn light and a few quiet prayers were uttered. The words were spoken quickly, in muted whispers, and died away through the trees with a silent vibration. Grace saw it all, accepted it all, acknowledged it with a calm that surprised even her because it felt so natural. Whatever path the Goddess had set before her, her feet had taken their place upon the start of it and she found it the place she was meant to be. The sky wheeled above her exactly as it should because she was where she was supposed to be; the universe pulsed away in infinite waves exactly as it was meant to because she was in the place that was hers. All of life flowed out of her as if she were a wonderful cup that filled and emptied and filled again. A memory came to her of a clear stream running off of black rock and she enfolded the image in the emotions pulsing through her. She was the stream, the rock, the trees, the clouds. She was the people, the universe, and they were she. She trembled with the awesome, liberating vibration, then bowed her head and said a prayer of thanks to the Goddess for such a special blessing, then said a small offering of welcome to the people. When she raised her eyes, they were all looking at her with a new respect and blatant awe. Balat slid his open palm from her head to her back and motioned her toward a path through the trees. She walked alongside him silently.
The path they trod was less traveled than the one they took to meet the others; only one set of footprints had broken the snow, first in one direction, then the other. As they walked, Grace could hear the muted steps of the others behind them. Ahead, the trees thinned, and the glow of dawn was brightening across the sky. The forest was alive with an expectant thrumming that was almost palpable.
In a clearing, Balat stopped. Measuring with his eyes, he walked about a bit and tramped the snow at a particular spot. When the place was level to his liking, he faced the horizon and raised his hands. One held the stick with feathers; one held the fist-sized rock. Hava flapped clumsily on his shoulder as he reached skyward, but Balat seemed not to notice. Veins of raw crystal glittered dimly in the rock and echoed back the color of the sky. The clouds were burning now, fire-red and flame-orange. They drifted across the horizon like streams of brilliant smoke. Grace was reminded of tinder-dry summer days and even the sharp bite of the air seemed dry and hot. The snow that lay all around seemed out of place. It was as if she dreamed of fire and although awake, looked with open eyes through the vision of the dream and saw fire burning atop the snow.
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