“I’m going to get one,” Joren said. “If I take one to the priestess, maybe she’ll change her mind.”
“The priestess never changes her mind.” Urvara couldn’t believe that Joren would be so foolish as to take a turtle. “Besides, the turtles are in water.”
“Not that one.” Joren pointed to a turtle that was resting on a large rock beneath his branch. “It’s dry from sitting in the sun.”
Before Urvara could say anything more, Joren leaned down to grab the turtle. She held her breath. His fingertips brushed the top of the turtle, and it pulled its head and feet inside the protection of its shell.
“It’s too far down,” Urvara said, relieved. “Let it go.”
“I can get it,” he said, inching out a little further on the branch.
“Don’t, Joren, leave it. She won’t change her mind.”
“I failed today, by making you go first, and by speaking out in anger. I have to redeem myself in the eyes of the priestess, even if it doesn’t change anything.”
He reached down again, this time wrapping his legs around the branch and letting go with both hands so his whole body dangled down toward the turtle, which was still hiding in its shell. He picked it up with both hands and curled back up to the branch. Urvara let out a sigh of relief as he grasped the branch once more, holding the turtle against his hip with one hand.
The turtle poked its head out and snapped a big chunk out of Joren’s hip. He flung it the turtle into the river. The motion set him off balance, and his legs slipped loose from the tree branch. He fell. Most of him landed on the rock, but his feet were in the river, washing away. He screamed and pulled his legs up against his chest.
“Don’t move!” Urvara yelled. She jumped down from her perch, landing so hard that her feet squashed into her ankles. It didn’t matter, she could reshape them later. She had to get to Joren before he tried to stand up on his slippery half-melted feet, otherwise he’d fall for sure. She climbed up the tree and wrapped her legs around the branch, as Joren had, but she didn’t dangle down. She kept her body snug against the branch and reached down with just her arm.
“My feet, my feet are gone,” Joren whispered, staring at the slimy mess at the end of his ankles. “Urvara, I wanted to be brave.”
“You are brave,” Urvara assured him.
“No, the priestess was right. You’re the brave one. She chose well.” He pushed himself onto his knees and reached for Urvara. They clasped hands, and she pulled him up. The tree let out a horrible creak, and the branch sagged under their weight. She let go of one of Joren’s hands to steady herself.
“It won’t hold us both,” Urvara said. “You hold the branch, and I’ll move back towards the trunk—”
There was a crack and the branch lurched sideways, closer to the river. She tightened her grip on Joren’s hand. He was off balance now, with the branch off to one side of his rock. She reached out to him with her other hand. They’d have to be quick once he was on the branch; they’d only have a moment before it gave way.
“You’re right,” Joren said. “It won’t hold us both.”
“I won’t let go of you,” Urvara said.
“I know.”
Joren reached up with his free hand, but instead of grabbing for the branch he grabbed his own arm, just below the shoulder, and squeezed until his fingers sank deep into his flesh. She wanted to scream at him to stop, but suddenly her throat went dry as dust. Joren cut all the way through his flesh and hung there for a moment, holding the end of his own arm. Then he let go. His body splashed into the water, sending up droplets that burned against her flesh. She still held his hand, too light with only the weight of his arm behind it.
The river tore Joren apart. Flesh-stained water spread outward from the spot where he fell, and then the river washed even that last trace of him away.
“No,” Urvara whispered. She clung to the branch so tight that the pattern of its bark cut into her flesh. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the place where Joren had melted, as if somehow her gaze could bring him back. The branch creaked beneath her, and only then did she inch backwards, out of the tree and down to the safety of the riverbank. She cradled her brother’s arm against her chest.
“He was brave!” she yelled towards the temple. “He was brave, and you made him foolish. You made him do this. But he was brave.”
She limped home on her mangled feet, carrying what was left of her brother. At the edge of the village, she stopped beneath an old abandoned cabin and leaned against one of its thick wooden stilts. She could see the stain where the floodwaters of spring had risen halfway up; the bottom half of each piece of wood was the color of flesh mixed with water. The color of Joren in the river.
It was nearly dark by the time she arrived home, and Mama stood waiting in the doorway. Urvara climbed the ladder slowly, and pulled herself onto the porch with her one free hand.
“Urvara,” Mama said, “Your feet! And where—”
Urvara couldn’t answer, she only held out the arm.
“Joren? No. It can’t be. Dziko! Dziko, get out here.”
Papa came to the door. He looked at Urvara, then took the arm from her. He turned it over and over in his hands. Urvara waited for him to say something. To blame her for not watching over her brother, to ask her what had happened. But instead he said, “It’s my fault. All my fault.”
Urvara followed her parents inside. “You have to remake him.”
“Oh, Urvara, we can’t,” Mama said. “There’s so little left.”
“I don’t need to grow,” she said. “You can give him the clay you would have given me. We’ll all be smaller, but—”
“That isn’t Joren. It’s only an arm.” Mama paced around the cabin, walking circles around Papa. He stood motionless, staring down at Joren’s arm and mumbling to himself.
“But he was brave, Mama,” Urvara pleaded. “At the very end, he was brave. You have to save him.”
It wasn’t Mama who answered, but Papa. “We have to try.”
Mama shook her head, but she got out Papa’s turtle shell bowl, the one that that had held Joren’s lifewater. “The shells are only supposed to be used once.”
“One shell, one life, for the gods must have balance in the world,” Papa said. “But we aren’t trying to make a second life. It is the same life, and the same shell.”
Urvara took Papa’s shell and carefully fetched water from the barrel at the center of the village. Not a few drops, like on a growing day, but half a shell’s worth.
Mama and Papa worked all through the night, tearing flesh from themselves to make a new head, a new body. It took longer than making a baby, since in summer a child must have arms and legs, hands and feet. Urvara offered to help, even to give some of her flesh, but Mama wouldn’t let her do it. “It’s not the way of things,” she said. Papa gave the most—both of his legs. He insisted, because it was his fault.
It was nearly dawn when they had finished. Mama waited for Papa to bow to the priestess, to seek her blessing once more for their son, but Papa made no move to pray. Instead, he spoke the name Joren, and breathed the first breath back into his son.
But what they had created wasn’t her brother. It was a baby as big as Urvara, with fully formed arms and legs that flailed and kicked.
* * *
The children of the first people were happy, all except the sister of the first priest. The others found mates and had children, but she withdrew to her brother’s temple and became the priestess there. She vowed to protect his people, because he had died for them.
The priestess watched over the turtles as the gods did, so the people thought she was wise and did as she commanded. She chose one child from every family to serve her in the season of autumn, to tend to the temple and protect the turtles. Many years passed, and the priestess became old and dry, but she did not die. And she never forgot the sacrifice of her brother, who gave his life to tame the rain.
* * *
Urvara stood at
the base of the mountain where the path split. To her right was the winding trail that led to the river. On her left were the stairs that led to the temple.
Jor, who she could not bear to call by her brother’s full name, sat in the middle of the path, tracing circles in the dirt. It made the outer layer of his flesh dusty and dry, but no matter how many times she chastised him, he never seemed to understand how important it was to keep his flesh clean.
She had to constantly remind herself that Jor was still young, not even old enough for his first trip outside. At the thought of Joren’s death her fists clenched so tightly her fingertips started to merge with her palms. She had half a mind to march up the mountain steps and show the priestess what she’d done.
Instead, she took Jor’s hand and led him to the river. It was their first time coming back here. The water level was lower now, and the deadly river looked peaceful, like a sleeping snake. A short distance upstream, she could see the tree that she and Joren had climbed, and the rock that he had balanced on for a brief moment before toppling into the water. The water was so low that the rock was surrounded by land on three sides. He could have fallen from it now without any harm. This time of year, the river was supposed to be patrolled by the temple guard, but it was deserted.
Jor tugged at her hand. When Urvara turned to look, he was pointing.
It was a small gesture, but as precious as a first word. He’d never tried to interact with her before. She stared at his finger, too small and thin for the season, despite Papa’s insistence that they use last of his flesh. Poor Papa. He’d lost his will to live when it became obvious that his breathchild was gone. He never forgave himself.
Jor pulled on her hand again. Urvara turned to look where he was pointing. There were three turtles sunning themselves on the shore. The first one lay low to the ground and the other two lined up behind it, each placing their forelegs on the shell of the turtle in front of it and arching their heads toward the sky. Joren had loved the turtles, and it was his arm that did the pointing. Urvara shook her head. She was holding Jor’s other hand, so of course he used Joren’s arm to point.
“Turtles,” she said, hoping Jor would repeat the word.
He didn’t speak, but his lips curled into a smile. He started towards the turtles, but Urvara pulled him back. He plopped down on the ground and went back to tracing circles in the dirt. It didn’t look any different than what he usually did, but Urvara could swear that he was sulking. She crouched down beside him.
“There’s water here, it’s dangerous. You have to stay with me. We’ll just find our turtle shells and go home.”
“Autumn is too early for turtle shells.” The voice came from behind Urvara. A young woman stood on the trail, her flesh engraved with the zigzag pattern reserved for the inner circle of those who served the priestess. Joren had whispered once of his dream, not just to be chosen but to be part of this highest class. From all those chosen, only eight were given this so-called honor.
The woman had a basket in one hand and a long walking stick in the other. “Hardly seems fair to come before the adulthood ceremony and take first pick. What if there aren’t enough?”
“What does a woman of the temple know of fairness?” Urvara asked. She stood up, and the woman gasped when she saw how small Urvara was. “You give us back the flesh we’ve lost, and we’ll gladly wait for the start of winter to seek our shells.”
“Urvara? I’m sorry, I didn’t—” the woman began. “I heard what had happened, but I didn’t realize. No one was supposed to be here when... Well, sometimes people come early and try to get the prettiest shells, and I thought that’s what you were doing.”
The woman’s face was familiar. It was Rhea, her childhood friend, almost unrecognizable now that her gaunt face was fat with the flesh of her parents.
“Want to save those pretty shells for yourself, Rhea? I bet you could fit a lot of them in that basket of yours.” Urvara couldn’t stop herself. Rhea served the priestess, and the priestess killed Joren.
“No. Absolutely not.”
Urvara expected her to storm off, but she didn’t. Jor had stopped tracing the dirt. She wondered if he could sense the tension in the air, the anger in her voice. She rested her hand on the top of his head and smoothed out a tiny nick in his forehead where some branch had scratched him.
“I’m sorry,” Rhea said again. “I didn’t realize it was you. There’s a place further downstream where the creek pools up in the spring. It’s dry now, and there are shells there.”
“How can you serve her, after what she did to us?” Urvara asked. “The priestess chose wrong from my family. She killed my brother.”
Without waiting for an answer, Urvara led Jor along the bank of the creek, downstream to where Rhea said there would be shells. Normally each person retrieved their own shell, but they were so close to the water’s edge that Urvara couldn’t let Jor pick out his own.
Several shells rested on a slimy mix of mud and clay, perhaps some of Joren’s flesh. With a long tree branch, she pulled two shells out of the mud and onto dry land. She picked them up and held one in each hand, showing them to Joren. The two shells were much the same, dark and smooth like Papa’s, one slightly bigger than the other. Looking at the remaining shells, Urvara could see why Rhea had been concerned about people stealing shells out of season—it didn’t look like there would be enough for everyone.
“Which one do you want?” she asked.
He stared at the shells, then scrunched down to look underneath. He made little swimming motions with his hands.
“Turtle shells,” Urvara said. “But the turtles don’t need them any more. Which one do you want?”
Slowly, he reached out to touch one of the shells, the smaller one. Urvara gave it to him, and he hugged it close against his chest. They walked back upstream and she steeled herself for another interaction with Rhea, but she had already gone. In her place was a lower ranking temple guard, his flesh marked only by a pair of parallel lines that wrapped around his arm. He nodded to Jor and Urvara as they passed. Rhea must have told him to let them take their shells.
She and Jor walked home. Urvara held both shells and helped Jor climb up the ladder and onto the porch.
“We got them, Mama,” Urvara called out as they came in. Mama rested on the bed, exactly where they’d left her, dwindled down to little more than a stunted torso with a head. She looked like the end of winter, even though the leaves on the trees had only just started to change color.
“Them? Two shells?”
“Of course, Mama,” Urvara said. “I helped Jor with his. We don’t have to do this now, you know. Jor and I will be small either way, and it’s only autumn.”
“My Dziko is gone, and my children are out of season. You should have taken just one shell, we’ve only enough flesh between the three of us for one adult. Take all my flesh, Urvara, and try to find a mate. I want you to promise me that you will take all of it.”
“Mama, I can’t,” Urvara said. That wasn’t what Papa would have wanted, and Mama hadn’t been at the creek to see how Jor was finally starting to communicate. Besides, even if Urvara took all that Mama had left, it wouldn’t be enough.
“Promise me.”
A knock came on the door. Urvara opened it and saw Rhea standing outside. “The priestess sent me to remind you of your duty. You are among the chosen.”
“I’d rather die.”
“I know,” Rhea said.
Urvara thought that Rhea might argue, but she didn’t. They stood staring at each other across the threshold.
“Can I come in?” Rhea asked.
“No.”
“Oh, let her in, Urvara,” Mama said. Then, to Rhea, “Stand where I can see you.”
Mama studied Rhea, and Rhea studied Jor. He sat on the floor with his turtle shell. He’d set it down as an upside-down bowl, which Urvara supposed was right-side-up for a turtle. He pushed it around the room, slowly, as though there were a turtle inside.
“She’s grown up very pretty,” Mama said. “Don’t you think so, Urvara?”
Urvara tried to see Rhea as a woman instead of just a servant of the priestess, but she couldn’t get past the zigzag lines that covered every inch of her flesh. Rhea did seem fascinated with Jor, though Urvara doubted she would want to be his mate. Her interest was more that of a mother looking at a child.
“I’m ready now,” Mama continued. “It’s time.”
“I’ll go,” Rhea said, finally realizing what she’d interrupted.
“Oh no, you wanted to come in,” Urvara said, “You can stay and see what your temple has done to my family.”
“Be kind, Urvara. Rhea is among the chosen, but she is not the priestess. My passing is the natural way of things.”
Urvara got Mama’s turtle shell bowl from atop the dresser and set it on top of Mama’s birthing table, which was pushed up against the wall beneath the window. She could see the temple, reddish brown against the gray stone of the mountain, with zigzag steps like the marks on Rhea’s flesh. Rhea made no move to leave. Urvara picked her mother up off the bed. She was so light. Her limbs were gone and her torso ended abruptly just below her neck.
“Do we have to—” Urvara began.
“Yes. It’s the right time,” Mama said.
Jor was a baby, no matter how big he was, and parents were supposed to stay until winter. “But I still need you. I can’t do this alone.”
“I never believed in the gods,” Mama said. “Dziko was always the one who believed in those stories. To me, these shells have always just been shells, and rain is only rain. There is no balance in the world, and I can’t believe in any god that would leave us here like this. But in these last few weeks, I found my faith. Your strength gives me something to believe. I have faith, in you.”
“Joren was the brave one,” Urvara whispered. “Not me. Never me.”
“Whatever you are, it’s enough.”
Beneath Ceaseless Skies #20 Page 2
