She let go of her hold and abandoned herself to the wind.
Youlin opened her eyes suddenly. Something had gone wrong. Something had changed. Through her connection to Shakre she’d been able to see, as if through a thick fog, what Shakre saw. She’d even shared some of the woman’s thoughts and feelings, though only distantly. As a result, she knew that the villagers were close by and she’d seen the way through the burning forest to intersect with them.
She also knew that Shakre had let go. If they did not act fast, they would lose her. Her breathing had stopped and she looked curiously insubstantial.
“Help me,” she ordered the other Takare. “Focus your strength. The wind is taking her away.” As they did so she felt her hold on the Windfollower strengthen and then she began to pull. At first nothing seemed to be happening and she wondered if they would lose the outsider woman now. But she was not a woman who liked failure and so she gritted her teeth and poured herself into the effort. The wind was like a dog that would not let go of a bone, but now Youlin had a good grip and she was not going to let go either. Every time she pulled Shakre toward her people, the wind pulled her back the other way. How long this went on she did not know, but all at once the wind let go and Shakre came back to them.
Youlin opened her eyes. Shakre’s face was gray, but she was breathing again, albeit shallowly.
“She’s back.”
One by one the Takare released their hold on Shakre and stood. Some grimaced. Others held their heads. All of them were weakened by what they had just been through.
“Was it only more time lost?” Rehobim demanded roughly. He was breathing hard. “Did she find them?”
“I know where they are,” Youlin said. “I can lead you to them.” She looked down. Of all of them, only Werthin still remained crouched beside Shakre.
“Go,” he said. “I will take care of her.”
Following Youlin, the Takare left at a trot.
Twenty-six
Werthin leaned in close to Shakre and called her name. He rubbed her hands between his and called again. Her eyelids fluttered, and then her eyes opened. But she did not look on him. Her eyes were unfocused and it seemed he saw clouds floating in their depths.
Werthin stood, unsure what to do, and looked after his kinsmen, disappearing into the smoke. “I do not believe Rehobim will return this way. I believe he will find a reason to miss us.” He looked down at the still form of Shakre. “He hates you. More than makes sense for what you have done. The way he looks at you…it is as if you bear a secret about him, something he cannot have others knowing. I believe he would kill you if he could.” He looked to the south, through the smoke, past the scarred land and the toppled trees. “I think we must make our own way down.”
Stooping, he lifted her in his arms. Her body felt strangely light and he had a sudden, irrational thought that she would dissipate in his hands, that she was smoke rather than flesh and blood and she would drift away from him. It was as if the wind had blown something out of her and now there was only this shell left. He began walking, trying to ignore the tremble in his limbs that attested to his own weariness.
Was part of her still with the wind? he wondered as he walked. Was she still trying to find her way back? Not knowing what else to do, but desperate to help her, he began talking. Maybe the sound of his voice would guide her.
“You must return to us, Windfollower.” He frowned. “That name no longer fits. You no longer follow the wind. You mastered it, made it serve you. I name you Windrider.” He stumbled, but managed not to fall. How weak he was now, and yet how strong was his resolve. This woman had saved his people; he would not fail her. “Your people need you more than ever before, Windrider. Rehobim is right. We must fight the outsiders. To do otherwise is to become like Jehu. But you are right too. If we fight only with hatred, we will lose ourselves. Just as we did before. This is not just a battle for our lives. It is a battle for our spirits. We can lose one. The other is too precious.”
After that he spoke to her of other things. He spoke to her of her home and the people she knew as family. He spoke of the endearing things they did and the annoying. He spoke in their voices, imitating them. It was something he had always been good at and often around the fire at night he had entertained the children with his ability.
And, over and over, he called her name. “Shakre. Windrider. Come back to us. Your people need you.”
Most of the time she lay still in his arms, but at times she fought him, though there was no strength in her struggles. Her head snapped side to side and her eyelids fluttered, and he saw nothing of her in her eyes. Several times she cried out and even spoke, but the voice was not her own and the words were in a language he had never heard, a language he did not think was human. At times she wept, and a wordless begging came from her as she sought to convince him of something he could not understand. Once her eyes opened and fixed on him. They were a milky gray and clouds drifted across them. Her mouth opened and she began to curse him in what he guessed was the language of the wind.
But he did not let go. He held on to her, and he talked. He carried her through the close of the day and into the night, through fire and smoke, upheaval and explosion. Then he carried her in the darkness, through a nightmare landscape of flame and breaking rock. Many times he had his way blocked and had to back up and go around, try a different way. He lost his sense of where he was, only that he must keep going. Somehow, though he stumbled often, he did not fall down. Somehow he found the way through the destruction and at last the edge of the Plateau stood before him.
Dawn was just breaking off to the east, visible through a break in the clouds of smoke. Fires burned fiercely behind them and to the west a massive lava flow poured off the edge, spreading destruction in the valley far below.
Shakre drifted in the clouds. They were thick and gray and unending. They wrapped around her and filled her being and she could no longer remember who she was. There was no time. There was no self.
Voices called to her from the clouds. They sang and whispered and laughed. They drew her and she longed to join them. They were free. Nothing weighed them down. They went everywhere, saw everything, and none of it mattered. No more fear or pain. No more worrying about the fragile lives of those she loved. She could be with the voices in the wind. It was the only logical choice.
She reached out to them.
But something was wrong. She could not go to them. Something held her. It angered her and she tried to push it away. When it would not go she fought it like a mindless wild thing. Still it would not release her. She cried and begged it, explaining that she had a new home now and she must go to it.
None of it worked. Her bonds remained and at last she ceased struggling against them and fell limp. Gradually it occurred to her the nature of her bonds.
They were words. The words were carried on a voice. The voice spoke her name.
Shakre.
It was heavy, that name. It was a burden she did not want. But now that she had heard it, she could no longer avoid it. It settled over her like a weighted net and she could not get free of it. Trapped, she stopped trying to flee and turned towards the voice that spoke her name.
Windrider.
All at once her world came crashing back. With a cry, she fell from the heights and slammed back into the earth. Lost and afraid, she opened her eyes and a soft, distant glow greeted her. It was the sunrise and her family needed her. She began to cry.
Werthin became aware that something had changed. He looked down on Shakre. Her eyes were open and she was looking at the sunrise. The clouds were gone.
“Is it you?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Welcome back.” All at once she felt a great deal heavier, as if some essential part of her had only just then returned. He realized how tired he really was and set her down.
“Thank you,” she said.
He inclined his head.
“Did it work? Are our people safe?”
He pointed. To the east a line of people could be seen making their way down the side of the Plateau.
“I believe that is them.”
Shakre stared at them for a while and felt something lift in her heart. She realized something else then: the Plateau had stopped moving. Tu Sinar’s death throes had stopped. “What is next for us, I wonder?” she said.
“I don’t know,” Werthin said, sitting down with a sigh. “But I need to sit here for a while.”
It was the middle of the day before Shakre and Werthin stumbled into the Takare camp. The camp was in the forest at the edge of a broad meadow that sloped down and away to the south and the east. Rehobim was the first one to see them. Tired as she was, Shakre did not miss the look in his eyes, a look that was quickly hidden. Disappointment? Anger? She couldn’t be sure, but she did know he was not happy to see her, not that it was a surprise.
The survivors—and she was pleased to see that most had made it—crowded around her, many speaking at once, patting her arms, shoulders, touching her hair. It was as if they needed to reassure themselves she was real. Tears filled her eyes and she thought that she had never realized how completely she had become a part of them.
When finally they let her go and stepped away, all that remained was Elihu, standing an arm’s length away from her, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears.
“It is good to see you again, old friend,” he said softly. Then he came to her and hugged her.
Shakre breathed in the warm smell of him and suddenly she was crying and shaking uncontrollably. “I thought I’d lost you,” she said.
He pulled back so he could look into her eyes. “I heard you were the one who was lost, in the wind.”
She took a deep breath. Even then she still did not feel wholly herself. “It was the only way I knew to find you. And then you started to go the wrong way.”
“I never knew you could be so pushy,” he said with a slight smile.
“And I never knew you could be so obstinate.”
For a long moment he looked deeply into her eyes in the piercing way he had. “Have you truly returned to us?”
She shook her head. “Not completely. I feel…hollow.” She looked up at the sky. The wind was moving the tree tops. “I cannot close it away from me. Not the whole way. It echoes inside me. It doesn’t like that I have eluded it. It still wants something from me, though I do not have any idea what.”
“It is alien to us,” he replied. “We cannot truly understand what drives it, what it hungers for.”
Shakre leaned against him, savoring the feel of his solidity. “It does not feel as hungry down here as it did on the Plateau. But I still feel its fear.”
He laid his head against hers. “The plants are different down here as well. They are not as aware of themselves. They are sunk deeper. But they fear as well.”
“The poison is not as strong, but it is still here.”
“It is a beautiful land,” Elihu said, gesturing.
Ash drifted around them like black snow, coating the ground and the plants, and there was smoke in the air, but it was still beautiful country. The trees were tall, thick and luxurious in their foliage, mostly pine and fir, but generously mixed with oak, beech and cedar. The grass in the meadow was thick and long. Nearby a small stream flowed and in the distance, across a small valley, was a large stone cliff face wrapped in ivy.
“Life here does not fight so hard for survival,” Shakre said.
“The hunters have already found game and we won’t lack for food tonight,” Elihu added. It was then Shakre noticed the large fire burning and smelled the meat roasting over it. Her stomach growled and Elihu chuckled. “Riding the wind makes you hungry I see.”
“So does going for a day without eating,” she added. She stopped him when he started moving toward the fire. “Stay for a moment yet with me,” she asked. “Much is coming and I wish to hold onto the moment for a while longer.” She did not have to explain further. Elihu understood her. He always understood. So he leaned into her and they stood close together, closer than they ever had before, and merely looked on their people.
The children ran and played in the stream, exclaiming over how warm the water was. People talked about the abundance, the wood that was so plentiful, the game that was so fat and slow. This was truly a different world.
Only a few took no part in it. Youlin, the Pastwalker, sat under a tree cross legged, huddled under her hood, speaking to no one. Pinlir sat sharpening his captured weapons on a stone. He was a stout man moving past middle age, his gray beard braided. The outsiders had killed his father, Asoken, the Firewalker, while he lay sick in his hut. Driven by rage, he had been the oldest to go with the war party while his wife, Birna, had remained at Bent Tree Shelter. Now she sat near him, watching him with a worried look on her face, but he seemed oblivious to her.
Rekus sat near the fire, staring blankly into the flames, his long arms wrapped around his skinny legs. Jehu stood off to one side under a tree, his arms folded around himself, looking like he was shivering. Rehobim stood at the edge of the camp, staring to the west, his sword gripped in his fist, as if ready to fling himself into battle at that very moment.
They were sitting around the fire that evening after eating when Shakre spoke up. “There must be other survivors.” There were nods. She was not the only person thinking of it. “Tomorrow we must begin searching for them.”
Her words seemed to anger Rehobim because he said, “Why don’t you ride the wind again and find them?”
Shakre hesitated, thinking about it. In truth, she still felt thin and insubstantial. She didn’t think she could go through that again right now and keep herself, but they were her people and if they needed her, she would do it. Before she could respond, Werthin jumped up.
“No!” he said. “You ask too much. It is too soon. She almost died. We cannot ask this of her.”
Rehobim stood as well. His face was dark. “I lead here. You do not speak to me this way.”
“Your hate has fouled your vision,” Werthin replied, not backing down.
Rehobim’s hands curled into fists and he started towards Werthin. But before he could close the distance between them, Elihu rose and moved between the two men.
“In the morning we will look for our people,” he said calmly. “You will see. We are a hardy people. There will be many others who made it off the Plateau.”
The two men stared at each other for a moment longer, then Werthin nodded and walked back to his seat. Rehobim stared down at Elihu. He was a full head taller and decades younger, but Elihu spoke with calm authority and Rehobim knew he could not ride over him. Not yet.
“In the morning we will go,” he said, and sat back down.
Then Pinlir stood up. Birna made as if to hold onto him, but he shook her off. He was holding an axe in both hands and his bearded face was fierce. “I will go west,” he said. “And any who wish to come with me. I will search for our people.” All present knew he meant to hunt the outsiders, but none said it.
“I will go west too,” Rehobim said. He looked at Nilus, sitting to his right. “You will lead a party east. We will find our people.”
“In the morning, then,” Elihu said, returning to his seat.
Who will lead our people? Shakre wondered. The Walkers were few and their authority diminished. Rekus had not even looked up during the exchange and Intyr sat beyond the firelight with her eyes closed. She looked at Youlin. The young Pastwalker sat to Rehobim’s left, but her dark eyes gave nothing away. They had lost their home and their ties to the past. Much was unsettled. There was war coming, and in war her people would likely turn to those who led the fight, which meant Rehobim. But he was rash and impulsive. His insistence on chasing after the outsiders who had attacked the village had left them divided when they most needed to stick together. Tragedy had only narrowly been avoided. Would they be so lucky next time?
Shakre slept poorly that night, troubled by a recurring dream in which she was flo
ating away while the Takare went about their daily lives, completely oblivious to her cries. Each time Elihu awakened her, holding her hand, reassuring her that she was okay. Now, standing in the predawn light watching the search parties prepare to leave, she felt exhausted, more tired than when she went to bed. The wind was no more than a light breeze, but it seemed to scratch at the windows of her mind and her skin crawled at its touch.
“Still you carry the night with you,” Elihu said. He was standing next to her, his hand on her arm.
“It’s the wind,” she admitted. “It frightens me. It is…inside me, and I am afraid it will never leave. I will always be at its mercy.”
“It is very soon,” he said gently, raising his hand to stroke her hair. “You are still weak. In time, maybe you will feel different.”
“I hope so. I don’t know how much of this I can take. It has always carried on, but it’s worse now. It never stops talking. I still don’t understand what it says, but I have this feeling, as if I’m about to, or that I did and just hid it from myself.”
“You do not want to hear what it has to say.”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t. You know, there was an old man who lived outside the town near where I grew up. He spent most of his time talking to something that wasn’t there, arguing with thin air, slapping at nothing. Sometimes he would weep for no reason or rave and throw himself down. People whispered that he was a Caller—one of those who can summon the wind—and said that it was the wind that drove him insane. They said it happens to all who listen to the wind eventually.” Shakre leaned her head on Elihu’s shoulder. He was so warm, so solid, so…there. “I am afraid that is how I will end up.”
“I have seen you talking to yourself before,” Elihu mused.
Guardians Watch Page 20
