by Sharon Hinck
“Better an enemy who declares his intent than one who hides behind a mask of smiles.” Brantley spoke in a low growl, but Morra overheard him.
The young man clapped his hands. “Beautiful! Such a saying would be making a good song. Say it again.”
Brantley rolled his eyes and stalked ahead. Morra’s face fell, and I offered him an apologetic smile. “He’s frustrated. We both are. We don’t understand why the barrier let us in and now won’t let us leave.”
Morra barked a laugh, but when I didn’t join in, he studied my face. “You aren’t crafting a funny tale?” Pity formed in his eyes, changing them from vacuous to almost concerned. “Stayed overlong at your village’s convening too many times? I’ve heard tell. There be stories. Or perhaps the opposite be true? You’ve missed a convening? You have that look about you.”
My head drooped. Nothing here made sense, and I didn’t know how to solve this puzzle. And now Brantley was striding far ahead, an angry cast to his shoulders as he brushed past shopkeepers and a girl hefting a basket full of rabbits.
“Hurry along to the furrier,” Morra said to the child. “Else the welfen beast will find you and pick your bones clean.”
The child paled and raced away, but Morra chuckled as if they’d shared a harmless joke.
“Is she all right?” I asked.
“Aw, she’ll be fine. A cute one like that, some of the cloth makers be looking after her so they can dress her up and show off their wares. And tiny fingers be good for the weaving. Now give me another of your strange stories.”
“Morra, we haven’t been inventing tales. We truly come from far away.” How much should I tell him? Would he understand our urgency if I explained that our home might be drifting out of sight this very moment? “If we can’t reach the sea soon, it will be very bad for us.”
The youth glanced down at my bandaged leg and offered his arm. “The convening is a place where questions be put to rest.”
I accepted his help and limped alongside as we tried to catch up to Brantley. “How far is this convening?”
“It be a half-day journey for the fittest to reach the lake.” Morra shot another look at my ankle. “And you . . .”
“I could manage. But we really can’t head farther inland.”
Ahead of us, Brantley stopped near a home that hosted a miniature garden. Flowers were planted in ways that created pictures with their colors. To one side, they shaped the outline of a crimson butterfly with green spots. Brantley’s chest rose and fell in deliberate breaths, and his eyes were closed. He was probably reciting the names of rim villages or every subspecies of fish to get his temper under control.
“There be no answers for you here.” Morra held on to a tone of sympathy for a moment longer. Then he tossed back his head and laughed. “So throw off your concerns and play until the morrow.” He noticed a young chestnut-haired woman outside one of the cottages and called a greeting. After jogging to her, he grasped her around the waist and spun her. They laughed and headed down a path toward the orchard, their heads bent together. With Morra’s vibrant auburn and her glistening red-brown hair, they looked like a crackling fire, sparking with life.
I had almost achieved a sensible conversation with Morra, but clearly I’d stretched his attention as far as it would go. I rested a hand on Brantley’s shoulder.
He flinched, but then his back muscles loosened a bit. “Something isn’t right here.”
“Perhaps. But everything can seem dire when it’s unfamiliar. What would a visitor to Meriel think if they happened upon the Order?”
“You prove my point. There are dangers here. We have to get out.”
I ran a hand through my hair. “Say that ten more times and see if it changes anything.”
He finally turned to face me, flashing a crooked smile. “Was I this cranky when we traveled across Meriel?”
I grinned. “Far worse. And me?”
“You bore every hardship like a soldier. Confused and irritated me to pieces.”
My smile widened. “You underestimated the strength of a dancer.”
He offered his arm. “I underestimated the strength of this dancer.”
His words warmed me, once again fanning the spark of hope that perhaps we could find a way to connect our lives in spite of our differences. But as he led me down a path to the clearing, I sobered. So far, my efforts to part the trees or to understand the people had failed. When we reached my forsaken net of fruit, I released his arm. “Give me a bit of time alone. I want to talk with the Maker.”
He scanned the open space before the village. “Agreed. I want to make another search of the barrier, and you should rest your leg. I’ll keep you in sight. Call out if you need me.”
I waved him away and sank to the ground, letting my torso relax forward over my legs. The familiar stretch brought relief to the aches that my back had gathered. My lopsided gait caused more than the burning in my tendon. Every joint in my body pinched and complained. The intent of hobbling was to ensure I could never dance freely again, and the punishment was horribly effective. I unwrapped the bandage and massaged the scarred skin, rotating my ankle gently as Ginerva had shown me. Without her help, I’d not be walking at all. Her salves and ministrations kept my ankle from tightening into a useless lump. She’d also advised me to rest my leg, but that wasn’t going to happen today.
Brantley’s figure shrank into the distance as he examined the edge of the woods, poking at underbrush with his longknife from time to time. Clouds hid both suns, casting a heavy shade over the clearing and village. I rewrapped my ankle and drew my feet close. Maker, can You show me what we should do? We can’t travel inland. We can’t get through the barrier.
Clouds hid both suns, casting a heavy shade over the clearing and village, yet still I turned my face toward the sky.
Did we make a mistake in coming here? Meriel seemed to be suffering so much that I thought You had provided this opportunity. But if You provided this, why are we trapped now? How does this help anyone?
Hopelessness rolled through me, even as a strong wave rippled the pliant ground, rocking. Strong gusts swept inland from the sea, and the whispering of the dangling tree limbs rose to a loud chorus. But I heard no direction from the Maker. A storm was brewing. This must be the expected bad weather Morra’s friends had been arguing about.
I slid off my thin leather shoes, flexing my toes a few times. At least here was something concrete I could do. I rose awkwardly, but then found my beginning stance. Leeward pattern might be the best choice to coax the storm back out to sea. I glanced toward the village. A few people gathered near the bonfire pit, and others roamed the orchard and paths into the village. Yet they all ignored me with a disinterest that was so complete I felt invisible.
My toes curled into the soft daygrass, and I rode another swell, the earth as gentle as a mother’s arms. I smiled and closed my eyes. No drums lifted the rhythm for me, so I clicked my tongue. Tee, tah, tah, tum. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tum. With the beat established in my head, I began the steps. I lunged and pressed my arms against the sky, as if pounding a huge door with both hands. I spun in a tight circle, hands pushing the hint of storm away. Small running steps came next, and my bad ankle made the movements uneven and awkward. I fought to shut out my frustration and pain. One lesson I’d learned as a dancer: give full focus to the work. No room for self-condemnation or doubt. No distraction.
Above me, the gusts tossed the branches again, then swirled upward. Soon the heavy, threatening pressure of the air lifted and dissipated. I continued to dance, sensing the leading edge of the storm curling and retreating out to sea. The clouds thinned and tore like much-washed fabric, allowing both suns to beam down. I finished the pattern with a shudder of exhaustion, welcoming the warmth and light on my face. I glanced toward the village. No one paid the slightest attention to me. I should be glad. Yet a part of me wished for some sort of acknowledgement. The effort had cost me, and no one even knew.
I sank back d
own, chiding myself for my selfishness. The Maker gave us the dance to serve others. “Thank You,” I whispered. “Give me a heart like Yours that gives without demanding anything in return.”
I took a lenka from the net and savored the fruit, resting my ankle and watching Brantley explore the barrier trees to the furthest edge of sight. He doggedly spent the afternoon checking and rechecking for any signs of a path. After I’d rested, I tried dancing a pathway again. Neither of us had any success.
As the primary sun sank beyond the village, more people gathered in the clearing. Bonfires blazed, kettles of stew simmered, and musicians took up places on the stage. The crowd grew until it seemed the entire village had assembled.
The small group from the meetinghouse stood on the platform, and the older woman called out. “We be leaving for the convening tomorrow!”
A cheer rose from the villagers.
Giddy music spun through the air, along with laughter. Folks brought out bowls and spoons and helped themselves to the stew, sitting on the sun-warmed daygrass to eat.
Brantley crouched beside me. “The only path I found is the one leading inland. Any ideas?”
Before I could answer, Morra jogged over to us. “You be here yet? I’m glad you stayed for the revels. Will you be traveling with us on the morrow?”
After feeling invisible, his acknowledgement tugged a smile from my lips. “Tell me about these revels.”
“The night before the convening, we all share what we make.” His auburn mop of hair caught light from the flames as he tilted his head. “So what will you be contributing?”
Brantley and I gave him blank stares.
Morra frowned. “Be you thinking you’ll attend the revel and not participate? Would hate to tell you what happened to the last guests who failed to offer their work.” He shuddered. “Tied to a tree and kept from the convening, they were. When we returned, the tree had sent branches straight through them.”
He delivered this horrible tale with a grin, so I couldn’t figure out if he was serious. Still, the threat hung heavy in the air, and my stomach sank.
Laughter and animated conversations from the nearby festivities spun toward the sky as long shadows of subsunset painted the ground near where I sat. With my back propped against a barrier tree, I looked up at the young man who had seemed amiable a moment before.
“Well?” Morra’s easygoing features darkened along with the dusky sky as he loomed over Brantley and me. “What be your offering?”
I managed an uneasy laugh. “We have nothing to give, but we don’t need to join your revels.”
The brewing tempest overhead had blown out to sea, but now a different sort of storm gathered in Morra’s eyes. “But you have joined us. You be here.”
Brantley rose from his crouch beside me, stepping closer to the young man. “We’ve spent the entire day attempting to leave. We aren’t here by choice.”
The portly bearded man from the meetinghouse strode up behind Morra and clapped him on the back. “What be this lingering away from the feast? Time passes.”
“Merely asking what these guests plan to offer.” Morra’s chest inflated, and he met Brantley’s threatening stare with one of his own. “They claim they won’t contribute.”
The low angle of the subsun deepened the glower of the man’s eyes. “What lack of courtesy is this?”
I maneuvered to my feet and rose to my toes and then lowered to my heels, hoping the customary greeting would mollify the men. “No lack of courtesy intended. We aren’t familiar with your customs.”
The bearded man boomed a laugh. “Customs? I care nothing for customs.” His humor bled away, and his tone turned sinister. “But no one dishonors the revels and convening.”
I cast a helpless glance at Brantley. A tendon flexed along his jaw, a sure sign his temper was fraying. We were outnumbered and had no way to escape, so we needed to do all we could to avoid a confrontation. I picked up our pack. “What do people share? I have a cloak, and we have a few saltcakes.”
The older man leaned back and scratched his head. “We have no need of your . . . possessions.” The word dripped disdain.
Brantley growled low in his chest. “Then what do you expect us to share?”
Morra chuckled. “Your poetry—”
“Poetry?” Brantley sounded as if someone was choking him.
“Or song, or sculpture, or fashion.”
My companion’s hand slid toward his knife again. “Wait,” I whispered and stepped in front of him. “Morra, give us a few minutes to discuss our choices.”
“Make haste, the feast begins.”
The two men headed toward the nearest bonfire.
“Now what?” Brantley pinched his forehead, then tried to rub the frustration away. He only succeeded in smudging dirt across his skin. “We should never have come to this forsaken place.”
Forsaken. The world had cried that word. Maybe the Maker had provided more direction than I’d thought. Perhaps we were here for a reason. “I memorized some of the Maker’s letter. I could share that.”
“I don’t know. These folk seem odd enough without telling them the history of our world—”
“And you could play a tune on your whistle. Don’t shake your head. I’ve heard you. If a melody keeps them from turning on us, it’s worth the effort.”
Brantley’s face brightened. “That gives me an idea.”
A woman approached before I could ask what scheme he was plotting now. “We begin. You must be joining the circle.”
Dozens of villagers were now clustered near the stage. Others lounged near the bonfires. We were the last outliers. I smiled. “Of course. Where should we sit?”
She frowned as if I’d asked her how to breathe or where the sky dwelt. “Where you wish, of course. Amid the revel.”
Brantley shrugged, and we followed the woman toward the group. Cooperating with the rules was problematic when no one explained them. As we reached the nearest bonfire, a child grabbed a bowl and spoon from a stack nearby, scooped up some stew from the cauldron, and offered it to Brantley. He sniffed it suspiciously, then tried a bite. His sour expression cleared. “Maybe this isn’t such a miserable place after all.”
The child offered a bowl to me, but I shook my head. I’d eaten my fill of fruit all day. Besides, anxiety stole my appetite. What happened to those who shared a gift that didn’t meet the standards? Images of my years in the Order flashed through my mind. Harsh punishments. Brutal critique. Cast off. Hobbled.
The dull ache in my tendon flared a warning.
We settled onto the ground. I tucked my injured ankle into my lap and gently rubbed it through the bandage. Would they understand the Maker’s letter? I could dance one of the patterns instead, but those were designed for a group of dancers—dancers at their peak and whole. I couldn’t do them justice. If this world had no patterns, I would hate for their introduction to be the sight of me limping about, creating shapes out of context.
I chewed the edge of my thumb, silently reciting what I’d memorized of the first pages of the Maker’s letter. Brantley could well be right. The story of how Meriel was created may be meaningless to the people of this world.
As I grew tenser, Brantley relaxed beside me. He leaned back on his elbows as a woman took the stage. She lifted a pot of wildflowers, arranged so the colors built to a cascade of brilliance. The group cheered and waved their hands in the air. I mimicked their gesture: a rolling of the wrists as if stirring the air overhead.
Harba, the angry man we’d met in the morning, sauntered to the center of the stage and turned, showing off a long robe with patches of shimmering fabric. At first I thought the garment was formed of random remnants, but as I looked closer, I saw a complex pattern to the positions of each piece. I gave an appreciative gasp and joined the cheers and hand waving.
Next Trilia told a story—much of which I couldn’t follow—about a lake and a convening and two newly recollected who found each other and had a child, but a wel
fen beast stole it away. Trilia mimicked the gibbering cackle we’d heard the first night here while everyone shivered in mock fear. What a horrible story. Yet, unlike me, everyone around seemed delighted and entertained.
Then a lanky teen recited a poem about a harbinger. A creature from the sea who signaled the arrival of . . . something. I couldn’t quite follow.
My head throbbed from concentrating on the lilting accents of each presenter, the foreign words, and the concepts that I didn’t understand. Yet each performance was warmly welcomed, and I admired their work so much that when Morra came and offered his hand, I rose eagerly.
He helped me up the stairs to the stage. Faces gazed expectantly from between the bonfires. Where I’d estimated dozens of villagers before, now it felt like there were hundreds, thousands, all leaning forward and waiting. I swallowed, my tongue turning to baked clay.
From the side of the stage, Morra cleared his throat and gestured. With so many people taking a turn to share, lingering was clearly not appreciated.
I coughed, trying to get my dry throat to produce sound. “‘One day as I danced to the music of the waves, the voice of the Maker spoke. He called me to record His words so that future generations would remember His great love.’ So begins the letter the Maker gave us. ‘He set our world amidst a vast sea, and directs its course . . .’”
A hiss of whispers broke my concentration. People turned to each other, gesturing, frowning. Morra rolled his eyes and shook his head, then beckoned me to exit. As I limped off, only a few hands lifted and twirled, but far more murmurs of displeasure circulated the clearing than the few feeble cheers.
Brantley shrugged. He could have gloated, reminding me that he’d warned the people here might not understand. Instead, he bounded past me and took the stage, brandishing his whistle. He played a brief bouncing tune. A cheer rose up, and every hand spun enthusiastically. But before he left, he played a few loud, slow tones. A code like the ones he used to call or direct Navar.
