by May, K. C.
She waited until Nuri left for the privy, and then she set down her knife, closed her eyes, and opened the Mindstream. She pushed past the frightening shadowy beings and the whispers that made her skin crawl and found Oram’s thread, following it into the past where she’d observed him the day before. As before, the Truth Sayers looked up at her as if she had a physical presence there. And as before, it unnerved her, but she focused on her task. She followed the thread of the soldier who’d volunteered the information about his cousin, found Gilon’s thread, and followed it.
He was sitting alone at a table in a tent, nervously drumming his fingers. Waiting. He appeared to be in his early to mid-twenties, a handsome fellow with a shaved head and face like all the warriors of Serocia, though she could tell by the stubble that his hair was dark. His hazel eyes darted to the tent’s opening every few seconds.
Jora wondered whether he’d already been contacted by the Truth Sayers and what they wanted. She took a few minutes to look backward in time, to see what precipitated his appearance in the tent. She saw him stand up, walk backward from the tent, led by another soldier, perhaps an officer, and from there to a gathering of other men who sat in front of a large bucket of water, sharpening their swords and chatting about their recent battle. Until the officer showed up and escorted Gilon away, there was no sign that he’d been approached by Truth Sayers within the last few hours.
She snapped forward again to the present. There, in the tent with him, were two Truth Sayers.
Retar’s bollocks!
She closed the Mindstream as quickly as she could, hoping neither had noticed her presence there. Her heart was hammering, and sweat had broken out on her forehead and under her arms.
Don’t be silly, she thought. They don’t know who I am. They could conclude he was acquainted with a Mindstreamer and would ask Gilon as they had Oram’s group. If they noticed her.
She had to do it. She had to return and find out what was going to happen to Gilon.
With a deep breath, she returned to the Mindstream, retraced her path from Oram to the other soldier to Gilon. She steeled herself for what was to come, unsure she wasn’t putting herself in danger but knowing she was doing the right thing.
And when did you discover you had the Talent? one of the Truth Sayers asked. He wasn’t the one Jora had seen earlier, with Oram. These were two different Truth Sayers, both men.
I don’t remember, exactly, Gilon said. I was a boy, maybe six or seven. It scared me at first, and so I didn’t really start to explore it until I was about thirteen.
She rotated her view, moving her perspective from above them to directly across from Gilon. The two Truth Sayers didn’t seem to notice her. Perhaps they had to be Mindstreaming to see her.
Are you acquainted with others who have the Talent for Witnessing? the taller of the two Sayers asked.
No, Gilon said. I’ve never met anyone who can do it, aside from the two of you, of course.
“What are you doing?”
Jora jerked herself out of the Mindstream. “Nothing. Just—”
“Do that Mindstreaming crap on your own time,” Nuri said. “When you’re here, you’re working.”
“Sorry,” Jora whispered. “So sorry.” She picked up the knife and went back to work stitching the leather bag she was making.
“Rip them out and start over,” Nuri said, tossing the leather flap back down. “I haven’t seen such a mess since your first year.”
“Sorry,” Jora said, ducking her head. “So sorry.” She used the razor hook to cut the stitches and then pulled them with her fingernails and set the short pieces of string aside.
Behind her, one of the younger apprentices snickered. Probably Shiri. Palti wasn’t so mean-spirited.
“What’s gotten into you, girl?” Nuri asked. “It’s that flute, isn’t it? It’s distracting you.”
Jora had been distracted lately, spending most of her free time out on the shoal talking to the friendly dolphin and playing her flute. Sundancer seemed to enjoy the sounds and often mimicked them or whistled her own tune repeatedly until Jora played it back for her. She couldn’t be sure whether Retar was trying to talk to her through the dolphin or if the animal was attempting to communicate with her in its own language, but the exchanges captivated her when she should have been focusing on her work.
“No,” she said. “Not the flute, exactly. It’s...” She hadn’t told anyone about Sundancer, not even Tearna and Briana. “I have a new friend.”
Nuri’s face softened into genuine interest. “Oh? I heard Gunnar is planning to propose to you. Is it him? Or someone else?”
Jora scowled. “Who told you about that?”
The elder woman smiled and turned back to her own work. “Oh, well, you know how people talk. Shameful, really. No one can keep a secret in this town.”
To hear her condemn others for gossip nearly made Jora laugh out loud. Nuri was the worst offender.
“Who is it?” Nuri asked. “Does Gunnar know he has competition?”
“It’s not a man,” Jora said.
“So it’s true then? About Gunnar? You didn’t deny it, so it must be true. I’ll bet Marja is seething. Probably plotting your demise as we speak.”
Jora felt the heat of blush in her cheeks and bowed her head. “He hasn’t proposed, so please don’t spread rumors. He might decide I’m not worth Marja’s wrath.”
Nuri sniffed haughtily. “If it’s not a man, then...” She raised her head. “You prefer girls?”
“No, nothing like that. Well, she’s a girl. I think. I honestly can’t tell.” Jora grinned secretively, knowing the mystery of it would drive Nuri mad.
“I know who it is,” said Shiri. “I’ve seen them. Together.” She giggled to herself and nudged Palti, the newest and youngest apprentice, with her foot.
“Ouch! Quit it,” Palti whined. “Look what you made me do.” She showed them the speck of blood on her thumb.
“There’s a lot of salted hide that needs tanning,” Nuri said.
The two younger women tucked their lips between their teeth and concentrated on their stitching.
“Yes, madam,” Jora said quietly. She hadn’t been made to tan hides since she was a novice apprentice, but she would accept her punishment.
“Tell me about your little friend, and I’ll give the task to Shiri.”
“No,” Shiri cried. “My arms are still sore from the last batch. Make Palti do it.”
“I don’t know how,” Palti said.
“That’s all right,” Jora said. “Shiri can teach you.” She turned back to Nuri. “Her name is Sundancer. That’s what I call her, anyway. Not sure if that’s her real name.”
“What is it, a rabbit?” Nuri asked. “An escaped parrot?” She drew back with a gasp, an expression of alarm on her face. “A god vessel? Are you speaking directly to Retar?”
“That’s against the law,” Shiri said. “You’re not supposed to have your own god vessel.”
Jora shook her head. “I doubt Sundancer’s a god vessel. She only whistles. She doesn’t talk. Besides, what would Retar want with me?”
“A bird, then,” Nuri said. “A robin? Mockingbird?”
“No, Sundancer’s a dolphin.” Jora chuckled at the three dropped jaws. “She’s drawn to my music.”
“You call that music?” Shiri muttered.
“Good point. I’m still awful.”
“Quiet, Shiri,” Nuri said. Her expression had gone from shocked disbelief to intense curiosity. “The dolphin comes when you play the flute?”
“Yes,” Jora said, encouraged by her mentor’s enthusiasm. “When I practice playing the notes, she watches and listens, but when I play bits of a melody, she whistles them back.”
“Parrot of the sea,” Shiri said.
“It’s more than that,” Jora said. “She knows Song of the Sea Spirit. I played a bit for her, and she whistled back the same part—”
“Whoop-dee-doo,” Shiri said. “The dogs can bark—”
“
Shut up,” Nuri hollered. “Go on. Get out. Both of you.” She waved her arm. “Go see the skinner and bring back whatever she’s got, and then get started on those pelts.”
“But—”
“Do it now.”
“See what your big mouth got us?” Palti whined.
Jora was taken aback at Nuri’s change in demeanor. The girls’ chatter didn’t normally get under Nuri’s skin so easily. Jora worked quietly while the two younger girls shoved their work into the drawers of their workbench and stormed out. The door slammed behind them.
“Now,” Nuri said more calmly, “continue.”
“Well, as I was saying, Sundancer whistled back the part I’d played, but what surprised me most of all was that she whistled the rest of the melody before I’d played it. Sometimes she whistles stuff she wants me to play. She’ll keep whistling until I play it.”
“Remarkable,” Nuri said. She set aside the cloak she was stitching and leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees. “The same dolphin comes every time?”
“Yes. At least, I think it’s the same one.”
“Have you ever read The Whispering Sea? It’s a dusty, old tome in the library that tells the story of an ancient tribe of people who lived on the Islands of Azaria.”
Jora shook her head.
Nuri leaned back, resting her back against the front edge of her workbench and her elbows on its surface. “It was said they had great magical power and could communicate with the dolphins using flutes. They had a cooperative arrangement where the dolphins helped with the sharks, and the Islanders used nets to corral fish for the dolphins to feed on. Thus began a long and fruitful exchange between the Islanders and the dolphins. One year, a giant tidal wave hit the Islands and washed all its inhabitants out to sea. Many dolphins searched the waters for survivors but found only dead bodies, which they took to the shores of the Islands to wash up onto the sand for a whale burial. Anyway, the story captivated me as a child. I had all kinds of questions, but the librarian had no answers. She assured me it was merely a fairy tale written by someone who traveled the world telling stories to children.”
“And you think it’s more than that?” Jora asked. The Whispering Sea. Perhaps she should visit the library to find out if the book was still there.
Nuri shrugged. “It’s an intriguing coincidence that a dolphin responded to your flute playing.”
“And knew Song of the Sea Spirit,” Jora added. She shared her musings about the origin of the song being with the dolphins and not composed by a human.
“Could be.” Nuri studied her for a long moment. “Hurry up and finish your work so you can go ask if the book’s still around.”
Jora was much more careful with her stitching going forward, earning a curt nod from Nuri. With that task completed, the elder leatherworker dismissed her early.
“Run, girl. Find that book.”
The library was a medium-sized room about four times the dimensions of the leather shop, though with two tables at the front with barely room for chairs around them, it seemed more cramped. It smelled faintly of dust and vanilla pods. A dozen tall shelves abutted one wall, spaced apart to allow someone to squat down or climb onto a step stool to find the book they were looking for. The books were organized in such an obscure manner that it was impossible for any normal person to locate a specific book without the help of the librarian or one of her assistants.
Osha the librarian was an old woman, hunched over and slow. Though she had two younger, lither women apprenticing, they sat at a table near the front of the room, rebinding books and chatting about Boden’s Antenuptial. “Let me see,” Osha said. “The Whispering Sea, did you say? Seems I’ve heard of that one.” She shuffled down the aisle at the speed of molasses.
Jora strolled behind her, impatient to reach the book she wanted but forgiving of the woman’s feebleness.
“Oh!” Osha said, stopping in her tracks with one finger held up. “I remember now. That book was in the back row. I’m sorry, dear.”
The back row. That meant nothing to Jora, and she looked at the elderly woman with a question on her tongue.
“The back row. The fire?” Osha waved one bony, spotted hand. “It might’ve been before you were born. We had a fire. The entire back row of books and part of the next were burned to a crisp.” She waved Jora ahead of her and started back to the front desk. “Lost quite a few books, but some we did save.”
“So the book was destroyed?”
“’Fraid so, dear. Can I help you find something else?”
Jora’s shoulders slumped with her hard exhale. She’d so wanted to read that book, hoping for a hint about why Sundancer responded to the flute and Song of the Sea Spirit. “Do you have anything like it?” she asked. “Something that describes the dolphins’ affinity for flute music? Or anything about the Islands of Azaria or the people who lived there?”
Osha pursed her wrinkled lips and gazed up at the ceiling. “The only thing we have like that is an old tome about the language that was supposedly spoken there. It’s a somewhat dry text, and the binding is coming apart, but if you’re interested in old languages, it might tickle your fancy.”
Could it be this Azarian had something to do with the magic that Nuri mentioned? If it was based on song, then perhaps there was a connection. It was worth looking into. “Sure, I’d love to have a look at it.”
A half hour later, Jora left the library carrying an old book with a fragile black cover. It was roughly eighteen inches tall, twelve inches wide, and three inches thick, not something she could hide under her shirt or in a knapsack. And it was heavy, not something she wanted to carry around with her all day. At this size, it attracted a lot of attention, and people stopped her on the way to her room at the dormitory to ask what book she was reading.
She left it behind when she went to the dining hall for supper, and later when she returned to the shoal to play her flute. Unfortunately, Sundancer didn’t return that night, but Jora made good progress with her command of the instrument.
She read well into the night, only blowing out the lamp when her eyes could discern the letters no longer. That night, she dreamed of odd symbols and notes and the strong, clear voice of a lone dolphin in the dark water, telling her secrets no one had heard for hundreds of years.
“Tell me again about The Whispering Sea,” she said to Nuri the next morning when she arrived at the leather shop for work.
“Good morning to you too,” her mentor said with a wry grin. “Did you look for it in the library?”
Jora nodded sadly as she set the flute on her workbench and sat on her stool. “Osha believes the book perished in a fire twenty-some years ago.”
Nuri’s eyes widened and brimmed with tears. “Oh. Oh, that’s awful. My favorite book. That saddens me. Books from one’s childhood are like dear friends.”
“I know. I’m particularly fond of a few, myself. I’m sorry about your book.”
Nuri dabbed at her eyes with the hem of her shirt. “Ah well, nothing to do about it now but hope we can buy another copy of it the next time the bookseller comes to town.”
“When the people of the story talked with the dolphins, did they use a single flute like mine?”
Nuri rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “I think they used three or four flutes. Maybe five. Anyway, there were five—yes, five faithful flutists who played for them, and one who wrote down what the dolphin responded so it could be played back later. I wish you could’ve read it. It was a wonderful story.”
Jora wished, too. She was certain she’d have enjoyed it.
Every evening, Jora sat cross-legged on her bed with a lamp hanging on the wall above her head. The borrowed tome lay open in her lap as she read and absorbed, trying to make sense of it. As far as she could tell, the book described an ancient language spoken on the Islands of Azaria whose written form consisted of a series of lines and curves. They hadn’t an alphabet like the common languages of Serocia and its nearest neighbors Arynd-ban, Barad
Selegal, and Mangend, but rather a sophisticated series of patterns that, combined with other patterns, represented words. There were one hundred eighty distinct patterns, which the book referred to as radicals, patterns that also represented concepts, such as big or dry, or man or woman. Written words used anywhere from one to five radicals. The word for woman was also the radical for woman, but the word for good was comprised of the radical for woman and the radical for child. She supposed that from a man’s perspective, having a woman and a child was good.
At first, Jora didn’t see the point of studying all this, but the fact that Nuri’s favorite book, The Whispering Sea, described the Azarian people as having great magical power and a relationship with dolphins kept her reading, hoping to discover something. Some key to the secret language of the sea spirits.
Every morning, she rose early and took her flute to the shoal to practice. Sundancer came nearly every day, and together they whistled and played Song of the Sea Spirit. Sometimes, they played a song Sundancer tried to teach her. It was always the same song, one that had a rather bizarre melody that sounded less like a song and more like a series of random notes strung together.
During the day when she worked at the leather shop, she let her mind wander back to the book and the dolphin.
She wondered why five flutes were needed and pondered a bit, comparing the dozen notes in an octave. Her flute could play three octaves, which was thirty-six notes. Five flutes could play... one hundred eighty notes. The number of radicals in Azarian.
Could there be a connection between the radicals in the written language and the notes in Song of the Sea Spirit?
Her jaw dropped open. “Retar the Challenger!” she muttered when the notion came to her.
Each radical was represented by a specific note, and each word was made up of one to five radicals. Song of the Sea Spirit wasn’t a song at all. It was a speech.
Her mind raced, excited by the epiphany. If she could learn the note for each radical and then learn to put the radicals together to form words, she could understand Sundancer and speak to her as well.
