by Sharon Hinck
At last I cornered Morra once again. He was the first I’d met, so we had a small connection. Perhaps if I pushed harder, he’d be able to help.
“You said the convening would give us answers, but I’m more confused than ever. Please. Tell us how to get to the sea.”
He rubbed his eyes. “You be having trouble seeing?”
“No. Not ‘see.’ Sea. The ocean.”
He laughed. “You be a good spinner of tales. Be that your gift?”
I raked a hand through my tangled hair. The snarls caught and added to my headache. I wished now that I hadn’t used my headscarf to bandage Brantley’s scraped hand. “I’m not a storyteller. But I am out of patience. Is there anyone who knows why the trees let us in but not out? Anyone to tell us how to free ourselves from this place?”
He rested a hand on my shoulder. “You be too full of care. When the rest of us leave, you should spend another night. Some be needing more help from the Gardener to be at peace.”
I pulled away from his touch and crossed my arms. “I don’t want to be at peace.” Not if it meant being an empty-headed child sleepwalking through life.
He dusted his hands. “Untrue. All seek comfort.”
“Some things are worth discomfort.” How could I get any straight answers out of him? “Think of it. You stayed up all night and walked here all day, though you were exhausted. You chose discomfort to come to the convening.”
His eyes lit. “A riddle. But we must.”
I looked at the amiable but vacant faces eating their breakfast feast. “Why? What happens if you don’t come to the convening?”
His brow wrinkled. “I know not. Ask another.”
I limped from campfire to campfire until I found Trilia. She no longer held the little girl. I hoped she had found the child’s parents and not just abandoned her. “Trilia, you’re a leader among your people. I’m sure you can help me. What happens if you don’t come to the convening? Morra couldn’t explain to me.”
A dark cloud settled over her, and I almost rejoiced to see a mixture of annoyance and disquiet touch her features. Anything but the numbness that painted the others. She sank to the ground and patted the spot beside her. I sat with straight legs, stretching forward and easing the soreness from the rigors of the past days.
“Fine. If that is the only way to stop you from pestering everyone. I’ll retell the tale.” Trilia stared at the water. “Long ago, our people created beautiful things but grew too attached. We built bonds with others that were too long-lasting. Jealousy, greed, possession became rampant.” She shivered, even though the full warmth of both suns poured down on us. “Violence and destruction infected us all. So the Gardener gave us an answer.”
“But he—” I bit back my words. I wanted to argue, to tell her about the Maker’s love, His plan for those He’d created. A life so much better than the numbness the Gardener offered. Yet my disagreement could push her away, and I didn’t want to risk interrupting her story. This was the closest I’d been to learning how this world worked.
She rested back on her elbows and smiled blandly up at the dazzling light. “As the vines be twining us, we be connected. All one. No person more cherished than another. We are free to be makers of all that is beautiful. By attaching to all, we detach from the pain of love and longing, of bonds and vows.”
My heart recoiled. “What art is worth making apart from love?”
She turned toward me. “You visited our village. Were not the buildings and music and sculpture and dance of the highest beauty?”
I rubbed my forehead. A fair question. “The work I saw was gorgeous. Beyond anything my people have made.”
“So, what be your concern?”
I had no answer and didn’t try to stop her when she sprang up and stalked away. Only weeks ago, I would have agreed with her. Sacrificing everything to create my art had been the central truth of my life. If the novitiates of the Order had discovered a means to disconnect our hearts fully from all attachments, we would have welcomed it. To our detriment. For most of my life, I hadn’t realized the pain and emptiness that came from pursuing dance apart from the Maker of all beauty and truth.
I flexed my feet and pointed them a few times, pushing against the soreness in my bad ankle. My conversations with these people kept going in circles. And at the moment, I had a more urgent problem. Our journey to the convening hadn’t given the answers we’d hoped for, and Brantley and I needed to decide what to do next.
Except Brantley hadn’t returned.
With the help of my stick, I pushed to my feet and walked along the lakeshore. Here, inland, the water was far more placid than the ocean’s frightening waves. As placid as the tranquil expressions on everyone’s faces. Yet the scent of honey and citrus wafted toward me. This was no basin of rainwater, but a fragment of ocean surrounded by land, and it could still swallow me if I fell into its depths. I eased a few paces away from the shore. If only a stream wound from this lake toward the rim. My swimming ability was weak, but I’d take the risk if it provided escape. Perhaps that’s what Brantley was searching for, though I couldn’t see any break in the surrounding slopes.
Scanning the water, I found nothing of Brantley, so I lifted my gaze to the opposite shore. There he was. He strode up the hill and disappeared into a break in the trees that appeared to be a path. My throat tightened. Was he leaving without me? I forced a slow breath. He would never leave without his clothes and knife. Maybe he was searching for an escape route. I limped back to his possessions and settled on the ground to wait.
A man strolled past. “Hungry? I have extra.” He offered a broad leaf that held roasted fish.
“Thank you.” I accepted the food, though I wasn’t hungry. I would rebuild my strength so I’d be ready for our next step. Without so much as a sideways glance, the man ambled away as if we hadn’t spoken. I felt invisible.
As I ate, I glimpsed Brantley’s tiny shape again, then watched him slip in and out of view as he investigated the far side of the lake. At last, he dove back into the water, as fluid as a stenella at play. Strong arms propelled him across. Water glistened in his hair, and confident energy poured through his torso. But the usual light in his eyes seemed flat and lifeless, as if part of him still hadn’t awoken.
He hefted himself onto the tangleroot not three feet from where I sat and grabbed his tunic, blotting his face, then dressing. He pulled on his boots, still not acknowledging my presence, not meeting my gaze. When he reached for his longknife, I grabbed it. That would get his attention.
One of his eyebrows rose in question.
“It’s time to make a plan, Brantley. We can’t stay here any longer.”
He shrugged. “Plan whatever you like. I found a path to explore.”
I scrambled to my feet. “That’s wonderful news. Did you find a stream leading away from this lake? Could we follow it to the rim? Navar may be waiting for us.”
He snatched the knife from me. “Didn’t look.”
Maker help me. Would I have to do the thinking for both of us? My heart stuttered. He would shake off the effects, wouldn’t he? I didn’t dare believe differently, the idea too horrific to accept. I’d treat him like the Brantley I knew, and eventually he would be. I leaned toward him. “Let’s take that path. Perhaps we’ll find a more helpful village.”
He frowned. “Do what you will.”
Then he strode away at a pace I would never be able to match, around the lake toward the path he’d discovered on the far side.
My mouth gaped, and pain tore through my heart, almost as bad as the brutal ache when I feared he would never wake. Surely he was teasing. Taunting me to keep up. He’d done the same when we’d fled the Order—challenging me in ways that seemed harsh. But his intent had been to help us make ground. Maybe this was more of the same.
I hobbled after, but when he broke into a jog along the shore, I recognized the futility of trying to catch him. I stood and watched Brantley in his great rush to be rid of me. When I t
urned back, the number of villagers had shrunk. Others were eating last bits of breakfast, rinsing their hands at the water’s edge, and gathering bundles. I hurried to Morra, who was closest to me. “Wait. Where is everyone going?”
“We be returning now,” he said cheerfully. “Fare you well.” And he strode up the hill, pausing at the top to look back at me. At least he offered that much acknowledgement, unlike Brantley. Then he turned and headed into the woods.
Sudden emptiness filled the hillsides around the basin of the convening. Last hints of smoke wafted upward from fires that had been extinguished. Masses of stray vines, moss, and other foliage withered along the edge of the lake. A bitter scent rose as they rotted and sank into the ground. I quickly moved away from the reminder of the night’s events and the Gardener’s threats.
I limped up to the pine tree where Brantley and I had slept and retrieved my cloak. From this vantage, I watched Brantley reach the far side of the lake and disappear from view. Disbelief held my ribs so they could scarcely open or contract. This couldn’t be happening. The chatter of villagers’ conversation faded into the distance. A few birds caroled a greeting to each other as the suns rose higher. Then silence fell around me.
I sank to my knees, my shoulders trembling under the weight of solitude.
What should I do? Why had the Maker led me to this place and abandoned me? Why had I danced with such effort to hold back the Gardener’s vines? None of it had mattered. The villagers welcomed their renewed numbness. Brantley had been altered by whatever the Gardener had done to him. My struggle had been useless.
And now I was alone.
My other experiences of loneliness washed over me. I’d endured the early years at the Order after I was ripped from my mother’s arms and lied to—convinced I’d been given away happily as an honor. I’d faced the terrifying solitude of performing my final novitiate test before the panel of saltars. I’d wept under the stars as my mother’s breath left her in the woods near Undertow. And I’d confronted the High Saltar and all the dancers in the center ground, standing against their lies and the power of their patterns.
You forget so quickly.
The quiet voice in my heart was warm and compassionate, even as it offered a gentle chiding. Guilt swept through me, heating my face. In each of those times when I felt bereft, I hadn’t been truly alone.
“Yes,” I said aloud, startled by the sound of my voice. “I’m not forsaken. You are here. But I can’t see You. I’m so confused. How can I decide what to do?”
Ask. Listen. Wait.
The idea of waiting and listening to Him felt more challenging than my hardest technique class at the Order. Why hadn’t I brought a copy of the Maker’s letter with me? How could I have overlooked the importance of His words? That decision only highlighted how little I’d considered Him.
“Forgive me.” I lifted my palms. “Teach me to remember You. To walk with You. Not only when I dance but all the time. Show me what to do next.”
My muscles cramped, my hands trembled. Fears gibbered at me like the insects darting on the surface of the lake below. I resisted the ripples and waited until my heart stilled.
I longed for a map with step-by-step directions, much like the methodical form of the Order’s patterns. Yet this effort of waiting, of listening, drew me closer to my Herder and Tender. I strained to hear His voice.
Instead, a different voice called out to me.
“Where did you go?” a male voice called from the nearby trailhead. My heart leapt, then dropped. Not Brantley. Of course not. He had long since disappeared down the path on the far side of the lake.
Instead, Morra’s cheerful face scanned the tree line, lake, and empty hillsides.
“Over here.” I waved from where I knelt under the shade of a pine tree, and he jogged over to join me. Leaning heavily on my stick, I eased to my feet. “I thought you’d left for your village.”
He shrugged. “Started. Then kept seeing that picture. You standing here all alone. Didn’t seem right somehow. Besides, I been curious ’bout the red star rain village for years now. Never got ’round to visiting. It be the path your companion took. Want to join me?”
I could have hugged him but didn’t want to startle the young man. To have a travel guide would be a gift. Still, I held up my hand. “A wonderful idea. But let me listen first. I was asking the Maker about His plan.”
Morra scratched his head. “If it’s your plan, or my plan, be it not the makers’ plan?”
He had returned as a kindness to me, and I was only confusing him. I drew a slow breath for patience and framed an explanation. “The course we set may appear wise, but I trust the Maker’s wisdom, not my own. Or at least I’m learning.” Help me never again think of myself as maker. Help me listen to You, Maker of my soul.
The freckles across the bridge of his nose scrunched. “Sounds too complicated.”
I laughed, growing even fonder of the youth. “Life is complicated. More so when we call ourselves the maker apart from Him.” I turned aside, lowered my head, and prayed silently. Thank You for this unexpected ally. Should I go with him?
A gentle inner nudge prompted me to accept Morra’s offer. I was willing to stand alone if that was what the Maker asked, but it truly seemed He had brought me Morra as an answer.
I lifted my gaze and smiled at Morra. “Let’s go.”
Morra squinted at the ground near my feet. “Your Maker be down there? I didn’t hear Him say anything.” Before I could respond, he shrugged in a display of disinterest and led the way down to the lake and around its shore. As my ankle loosened, my limp became less pronounced, and we made better time than I would have expected. My companion whistled a lilting melody.
When we reached the new trailhead leading away from the lake into the unknown, I hesitated at the threshold of shadows. Trees grew close together here, and rustling sounds hinted at animals in the underbrush. Or worse. Perhaps the limbs whispered secrets to the Gardener. Just how deeply had his power infected this land? Morra seemed unconcerned, but then he seemed unconcerned about everything. “Is it safe?” I asked.
“Be it safe or be it not, it’s the only path to the red rain village.”
Brantley had come this way. I squared my shoulders and followed. As I walked into the gloom, the tendrils reminded me too much of the convening. I distracted myself by praying for Brantley. Please keep him safe. Would the effects of the Gardener’s sleep wear off? I stumbled over a root and caught myself before falling headlong. Help me find him. If Brantley came to himself, he’d certainly return for me. What if he looked for me by the lakeshore? But what if his true self remained clouded? You wouldn’t let that happen, would You? Subtly, my prayers turned into a spiral of worry.
I paused and scanned in all directions. “Morra, you’re sure this is the only trail?”
Morra crouched and unearthed a purple-striped tuber from a pile of fallen leaves. He brushed it off and bit into it. “Want some?”
“We had tubers on my world—I mean . . . my village. None so bright, though.” I bent forward and found another. In my palm, the odd stripes wavered and pulsed. The tangy scent was enticing. Too enticing. I had little trust for the unknown plants on this island, especially after watching the Gardener use plants to change people. My appetite soured, and I handed the root to Morra. “Is this the only trail to the red rain village?” I asked again.
“So I’ve heard.” He chewed thoughtfully. “You come not from the red village? I’ve visited the blue and knew you not. Be you from the yellow, then?”
We resumed walking. Weary of dodging his questions, I opted for the truth, gently told. “I’m not from any of those villages. I’m from a completely other world: Meriel. Until we saw your island, we believed we were the only people adrift on the wide ocean. Brantley is a herder, so he trained a stenella—a sea creature—to help him gather fish. We rode her here and found your village.” I cast him a sideways glance.
Worry puckered his brow, an unfamiliar expr
ession on his normally cheerful face. “These tales you tell. They be not what we all know.” He frowned, and I could see his mind working. Then he did what he and others all seemed to do when confronted with anything challenging in this place. He shook off the effort to reason and tossed his head. “Matters not.”
He resumed whistling and striding ahead. I wanted to shake him and insist that many things mattered. They mattered greatly. Loved ones and home and purpose beyond ourselves. Instead I sighed and followed. Even through my shoes, I felt the chorus of the island again. Forgotten, forgetting, forsaking.
After several hours of traveling, the suns splotched new colors across the sky like dye on wet linen. Orange and pink blended into swirls of blue-tinged clouds. Around us, the trees cast wide shadows, and green leaves darkened in growing shade. As wind rustled branches, I heard echoes of the Gardener’s hiss, You’ll pay for your interference. I stopped, scanning the deepening woods that surrounded us.
“Almost there,” Morra said.
A faint mewling rose from a bunch of ferns off the trail. I froze. All day as we’d walked, I’d been hypersensitive to unfamiliar sounds. Morra had laughed off my tension, but that wasn’t reassuring. How could I trust his common sense when he had no care for anything—including our safety?
“Be your leg tired?” Morra came back to me.
“Listen.” I cocked my head. Now a plaintive wail drifted out. “Is it an animal?”
“I know not. Warm shelter waits right beyond the bend.”
The sound changed to a plaintive hiccupping cry. Whatever the creature was, it sounded small and wounded. I stepped off the path and pushed aside bracken with my walking stick. Edging around large ferns that grew almost to my shoulders, I stepped farther into the dark overgrowth. An incongruous flash of crimson caught my eye. Crouching, I bent aside another broad leaf.
