Forsaken Island

by Sharon Hinck

  He noticed my gaze and opened his mouth. But instead of speaking, his jaw snapped shut and he strode ahead. He blamed me. He blamed me for all the loss.

  I sucked in a sharp breath and stumbled. Morra grabbed my elbow. “You being all right?”

  Brantley didn’t even look back.

  You would think that after the days of hiking I’d endured back on Meriel—and the lengthy journeys to various villages I’d accomplished on this world—this half-day journey would be tolerable. Yet these were the worst hours of trudging torment I’d ever experienced. Wimmo didn’t have Trilia’s knowledge of herbs, but she did find a few plants to crush and apply to my wound. Morra shaped me a second walking stick. With two canes to support my weight, I was able to keep up a bit better, and Morra could bound ahead and gather fruit for the group as we walked.

  I wanted to pray, to listen for the Maker’s voice, but exhaustion and misery clouded my mind.

  Hours later, Brantley hung back to where I took up the rear of our small group. I stared at the ground and tried to move faster. My weakness would only make him loathe me more.

  He settled into a steady stride beside me and sighed. “It’s so different this time, isn’t it?”

  That brought my head up. “Than what?”

  “When you challenged the Order. Power. Wonders. Success. The whole world split open.”

  Sweat beaded on my temples, so I stopped to take off my cloak and stuff it into my pack. “It wasn’t my power. You know that.”

  “I know. More than most. I saw what He did. But where was He this time?” His question didn’t hold the bitter edge I’d expected. Just a confused sadness.

  I thought of the hillside flowers that bloomed for a scarce minute. Of the vast seas and the mysteries that we couldn’t know. Of the ache in the Maker’s heart for His lost people. The images swirled through my fatigue.

  “He never left us,” I said, my voice breaking. “But I don’t understand either . . .”

  Brantley’s arm wrapped my shoulders, and we both stopped. He gathered me into a close embrace.

  My efforts to stay strong crumbled. I sobbed against his chest. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want this to happen.”

  “Shh.” He patted my back as if he were comforting his niece after a bad fall. “We’ll bear the pain together, dancer.”

  I lifted my chin and studied his eyes. Ocean hues sparkled as sunlight cast green tones through tree leaves. Clear, open, and none of the resentment I expected. “Can you truly forgive me?”

  Creases formed across his brow. “Forgive you?” Then his eyes widened. “You think I blame you?”

  I dropped my gaze.

  He gave me a gentle shake. “You give yourself too much credit, dancer. I was the one who wanted to explore this world. I was the one who called Navar. For pity’s sake, you saved me when the Gardener had turned my heart to stone. I owe you—”

  “But you walked on ahead. You . . . left me.”

  His hand found my chin and tilted it up. “I thought you needed time. To think, to pray.” He shrugged. “And truth be told I had my own thoughts to give the Maker.”

  The corner of my mouth lifted. “Have you told Him those thoughts?”

  “You best believe it.” Tendons flexed along his neck.

  Passion and grief still stirred in his heart, but he didn’t blame me. He didn’t hate me. Breath filled my lungs. “We can move forward.”

  “Together,” he said. “Besides, perhaps now the Maker has allowed a gap in the rim. That’s why I’m making haste. I want to see if anything has changed at the border of the green village.”

  I gasped. “Could it be possible?”

  He chucked my chin. “Let’s go find out.”

  As we entered the green village, we passed the exquisite homes, the creative gardens, and the paths lined with vibrant shops. Men and women milled around, but without bustle and chatter. I was glad for the quiet, because my head throbbed in tempo with my injured leg, and now and then my vision swam with little flecks of light. Around me, the effect of the Grand Convening blanketed everyone with listlessness. I wanted to test a few conversations, but first we had to check the rim.

  Brantley’s pace quickened until I couldn’t keep up. “Go ahead. Run,” I told him.

  “I’ll be right back.” He raced past the last row of homes.

  When I reached the clearing a few minutes later, he was striding back toward the village. One glance showed me that the tall rim trees stood fast. The vines were as thick and unrelenting as before.

  Brantley forced a grin and turned me away from the sight. “Let’s find Trilia and see if she has something to ease your leg. We’ll rest a few days and then head back to the lake and start building our home.”

  “That’s a . . . good . . . idea . . .” Light faded from my sight, and I searched the sky for the clouds that blocked it. My head felt strangely heavy. No clouds overhead. Odd that under a clear sky shadows shrouded my vision. The land rocked beneath my feet, and my hands reached out as it came up to meet me.

  “Carya? What’s wrong?” Brantley’s voice was far away but full of so much caring that I smiled as darkness settled over me like nightfall.

  “That man of yours sure does fuss.” Wimmo’s voice pulled my eyes open. Baby Makah cooed, and she jostled her. “I sent him to find orange tubers for soup. That’s what you be needing. Overtired you be.”

  I pushed up to my elbows. The soft raised pallet cushioned my body. Windows let sunlight into a spacious room. A low table and a few chairs rested under embroidered tapestries. A bowl of water rested on the floor. Wimmo wrung out a cloth and blotted my forehead.

  “What happened?” My voice came out hoarse, and I cleared my throat.

  “I be knowing that walk were too much for you. I said the same to Harba. You be sleeping for days.”

  “Days?” I sat up fully, grabbing my head when the room spun. “That’s not possible.” But my dry throat and light-headedness attested to the truth.

  “Finally!” Brantley’s exasperated voice burst from the doorway. He dropped a basket of tubers and charged across the room. “Don’t ever give me a scare like that again!”

  Life coursed through my veins, and I opened my arms to him.

  “My babe needs feeding,” Wimmo murmured as she headed for the door. She scooped up the basket. “I’ll be making some soup.”

  Brantley eased me from his tight hug and studied me. “Are you truly all right?”

  I rubbed my throat that still felt dry. “Fine. Truly.”

  He grabbed a pitcher from the table and poured a mug of water. “Here.”

  Dull rainwater trickled down my throat, and I grimaced.

  He grinned. “Thought you might like it filtered, since that’s what you’re used to.”

  “Not anymore.”

  He obliged me with a fresh mug of seawater. The citrus tang woke my tongue, and sweetness coated my throat. Brantley watched me, his eyelids heavy. With the sleeves of his tunic rolled up, his bare forearms revealed ropey muscles and the glow of years in the sunlight. I rested my hand on his arm, marveling at how translucent and pale my skin looked beside his. We were so opposite, as different as two people could be. It would take a lifetime to understand each other. But judging by the relief and love in his eyes, we would enjoy every day the Maker granted us.

  “How is everyone in the village?”

  Brantley winced. “The same. I guess they are waking up a little. Morra and Harba have been talking to everyone they can.”

  “And stirring up trouble.” Trilia stepped into the room.

  I held my breath. Before the Grand Convening, we had pulled her away from the lake’s rim. But who knew how much damage the Gardener had done during that long night.

  Trilia’s eyes held some of the vacant glaze I’d learned to expect from the villagers, but she rose and lowered on her toes and smiled. “Can’t be remembering much, but seems we haven’t had such excitement in many convenings.”

  I
swung my legs off the raised pallet to the floor and reached my hand to her. “You must keep your people away from the next convening. They’ve forgotten what true excitement can be.”

  She frowned, the fringe of her white hair lowering over her brows. “You be quite the spinner of tales. When you’re better, I be listening.” She turned to Brantley and handed him a bundle of herbs and bandages. “Keep her off her foot for a time.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but Brantley spoke before I could. “I will.”

  After Trilia withdrew, I touched Brantley’s face. “You look tired.”

  He snorted. “Why didn’t you tell me how poorly you were feeling?”

  “I didn’t know. Truly. I just kept pushing and pushing.”

  “We could have rested. You could have let me carry you.”

  I poked him. “You should talk. When did you last have a good meal or some sleep?”

  He looked away. “So we’re agreed. We both need some rest.”

  “Where are you staying? For that matter, where am I?”

  “We’re upstairs at the central lodge—or whatever they call this building. I’ve been staying with Harba and Wimmo in their quarters. Between checking on you and their babe being up half the night, it’s no wonder I’m looking ragged.”

  “Ragged looks good on you.” My cheeks heated at my forwardness.

  He barked a laugh, and I was glad my flirting erased the last of the worry lines from his temples. I would happily spend the rest of my life coaxing laughter from him. A new thought hit me, so obvious I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before.

  “Brantley, how will we do a bonding ceremony? We’ve no matriarch to say the words. They likely don’t even have bondings here.”

  His thumb tweaked the side of my mouth upward. “Carya, did you think I’d not look into that? They haven’t done one in some time, but Trilia said she can speak the words over us, and the village will witness it.”

  “When?” The eagerness in my voice made me blush again.

  His chuckle nourished me more than the richest tuber soup.

  Reassured that I was recovering, Brantley finally allowed himself rest. My strength returned quickly now that there were no battles to fight or hikes to endure. My wounded ankle still made me limp, but the angry inflammation faded, and I needed to change the bandage less frequently. For the next few days, I spoke with Morra and Harba and Wimmo about the Maker. Together we all shared what we knew at the evening gatherings and in quiet conversations throughout the village.

  The morning before our bonding ceremony, Trilia bustled into my room. “Will you be wearing flowers in your hair? I’ll fetch some if you tell me the color you wish. And the musicians are ready with music for the revel after the bonding. I’ve asked the baker to be creating a tower of bresh with fruit inside. Unless you be objecting.”

  I blinked a few times. She was clearly recovering from the daze of the convening. “I love the little blue wildflowers that grow under the willows. But don’t go to so much trouble . . .”

  But she breezed out again. Wimmo brought me two robes with the wide sleeves that reminded me of butterflies. The first was a rich blue color—the day-before garment. The second was a pale silken robe, floor length with a high collar. She also gave me a basket of delicate threads of all colors. “You’ll be wanting to stitch your dreams along the hem.”

  At my confused look, she laughed. “I forget how strange you be. In our village, back when people bonded, the woman sewed her hopes in tiny pictures. Your people don’t do that?”

  I shook my head. “But it’s a lovely tradition.” After donning the blue robe over my tunic and leggings, I settled on the floor to design the embroidery on the robe I’d wear for the bonding. I licked the end of the thread and guided it through a needle. But what were my dreams? I began sewing, letting my hands guide me. Tiny stitches formed a small cottage on one sleeve hem. A man and woman decorated the other, and with warmth rising along my neck, I even dared to add a babe in the arms of the woman.

  But the entire lower hem mocked me. If I honestly depicted my dreams, it would be of Meriel, of Navar, of the tower, of Windswell, of family. And those were lost forever.

  Was it wrong to sew emblems of what was lost? As I debated finding Wimmo to ask her, I sewed tiny ocean waves in a neat row. They demanded a stenella, so I added one, gliding over the sea. A figure stood proudly atop her.

  Although I was excited and full of all the giddy love I’d never believed would be part of my life, wistfulness settled over me. I needed a break from figuring out the images in thread, and also needed respite from Trilia’s energetic organizing, so I slipped out to the open field and strolled toward the rim. I found the place where I’d once danced a storm away from the village. I touched the tree that Brantley had climbed trying to find a way out. So much had happened. So many surprises. Some hard, and some beautiful. An ache built in my chest. I’d always pictured our bonding happening in Windswell, surrounded by those we loved. Bri and Orianna, Starfire and Saltar Kemp. Ginerva and—I swallowed—Navar. I’d always imagined Navar watching from the water’s edge, chirping her approval.

  I leaned against one of the trees and stared at the village. Wisps of smoke wafted from chimneys, music rose from the musician’s hall. This island was my home now. Time to cast aside the grief. Time to begin our new life. We had a purpose here. Just as on Meriel, I could remind others about the Maker.

  As so often happened when my mind turned to Him, the ache in my heart swelled into gratitude instead of sadness. Suddenly I wanted to dance. Not for any purpose. Not to stir up fog, nurture plants, or chase away storms. But simply to celebrate the goodness of the One whom I served.

  No one else was wandering on the revel field, and I didn’t see anyone on the edge of the homes looking my direction. Shyly at first, but then with more freedom, I danced the calara pattern—bowing like a soft reed. Then I broke from the pattern and spun, arms wide, face upturned. I let my heart, mind, and body all speak worship. I was a fragile butterfly, wings outspread. I was a minute flower, offering my tiny blossom for Him. I was a child, rejoicing in a garden with no ending.

  I love You.

  Was my heart speaking to Him, or His speaking to me? In that moment, it was a duet. Breathless, I slowed my movements and sank to my knees. Reaching forward, I bowed, laying down my losses, my grief, my longings. My back stretched, and my palms opened upward.

  “I’m Yours, and that is enough,” I whispered.

  I rose and continued to improvise new shapes with my arms, my torso, the tilt of my head. I faced the trees and vines and faltered, my gratitude challenged by the sight of the obstacle that trapped me. Could I thank my Maker even while looking directly and honestly at my loss?

  Yes. In His presence, even the most frustrating, crippling, imprisoning trial grew smaller. I opened my arms, accepting the bitter. I’d seen glimpses of the life to come, when all bitterness would be erased, and while I limped through this life, He would bring enough sweetness to help me endure. I swayed, leaning more weight on my good leg. I wanted to dance all day, but my ankle already warned me it wouldn’t support me much more. Still, I let that leg float upward, stretching with my arms as if pointing to the lofty dwelling of my Maker.

  “What are you doing?” Brantley’s voice behind me broke my concentration, and I fell off balance. My bad leg caught my weight, and I winced but managed to stay upright.

  “Sorry.” He grabbed my arm to support me. “You’re crying. Second thoughts?” Endearing insecurity colored his voice.

  I hadn’t noticed the tears that tracked down my face, and now I brushed them aside with a beaming smile. “Of course not. Just thanking the Maker for His blessings.”

  Brantley squinted past me and gasped. “Carya, look!”

  I turned to follow his gaze.

  A narrow path wound into the dark shadows of the rim. Thin, dangling limbs rustled, even though there wasn’t a breath of wind. The vines pulled apart even more, and
my eyes widened.

  “Come on!” Brantley grabbed my hand and half dragged me along the path.

  “Wait—” Was this a trap of the Gardener? The path could close behind us and prevent us from returning to food, shelter, people. Weren’t we supposed to stay here for the rest of our days to wait for the Maker to walk among these people? And why rush to the sea when our world had long since drifted away and we had no stenella?

  Brantley gave me no chance to form objections. He pulled me onward. The bracing citrus air hit my face as we emerged from the thick vegetation. The vast emptiness of waves and currents stretched before us.

  Yet all was not empty. I turned my head and froze, clasping my hands over my mouth.

  My heart pounded so hard I thought my ribs might break. I clutched Brantley’s hand, uncertain of my sanity. Off to the left, with perhaps half a mile of ocean between us, a huge island floated serenely. Tangleroot edged the shoreline, with willows and oaks rising gently from the sea. Beyond, meadows and wheat fields colored the midlands, drawing my eye upward.

  Meriel.

  Home.

  If I squinted hard, many miles inland, I could catch a glimmer of the white tower in the center and highest point of Middlemost. Partially around the curving shore, cottages nestled together, and smoke wafted from hearth fires. Judging from the river I glimpsed near the huddle of homes, I recognized Windswell. The mouth of the river was gently turning away from us as the island drifted. I gasped at the view of our world, so much more massive than the island we stood upon. This was a pebble beside a boulder.

  I caught my breath enough to gasp. “The dancers. They found a way. To move. Meriel closer. They didn’t. Let the current. Take them.”

  Brantley released my hand and rummaged in his pack, unearthing his whistle. He blew a piercing signal, so sharp I covered my ears as he repeated it again and again.

  A speck appeared from where the river had slid from view, then another. Brantley stepped right to the edge and waved. A handful of stenella sped toward us, each carrying a herder. One of them caught a gust of wind and unfurled his fins to float against the sky.