by Rhett DeVane
The physical hardships proved easier to overcome than the spirit-deep scars. Time would smooth things out, Taproot assured. Maybe the Spring Festival of Light could work magic for everyone. Elsbeth hoped so.
Elsbeth set down the heavy honey crocks and rubbed the crimp in her shoulder. Slate and Gabby busied themselves gathering sitting stones, placing them in a circle around the large flat rock at the center. The animals filtered in—squirrels, rabbits, raccoons, and a couple of skunks. The frogs would show up later, and the Pensworthy owls. Some years, a troop of foxes attended.
If the clangrounds were closer to the landfill, the rats might be invited. Elsbeth shivered. All creatures deserved respect, yet she still found it hard to like rats.
Taka-Herb appeared, tailed by Brick and Jondu. The clan’s healer directed the preparation of the salad and herb dishes, calling out orders in singsong. Mari carried two stacks of folded robes to a rock and plopped them down with a grunt. Grant followed, leaning on his cane in one hand, with a pottery crock of foxfire in the other. His spirit-son’s birth crystal bumped against his robe, glowing with a soft blue light.
Elsbeth’s hand went to the birth crystal suspended from her neck. Jen’s spirit-daughter. Comforting, that a small part of Jen lived on, ready to join the clan. Perhaps fill a little of the void left by her spirit-mother’s passing.
“Where’s Sim?” Elsbeth asked.
“Dunno.” Brick used a hand broom to whisk dried leaves from the tablerock. “Haven’t seen him.”
Elsbeth left the clearing. She meandered through her end of the clangrounds and the Common Hall, and stood at the entrance to Sim’s private quarters.
“Hey, I’m coming in,” she called out and walked through the tunnel. When she stepped into Sim’s cave, she blinked to adjust her eyes. The hearth fire offered little light, and the foxfire bowl shed none of its usual green glow.
“Are you in here?” Her voice wove and bounced through the stacked rocks.
“What do you want.” Sim’s answer came out flat and haunted, with no lilt at the end to prove it was a question requiring an answer.
“The Spring Festival of Light. That’s what.” Elsbeth peered around the room, trying to figure out where Sim hid.
He stepped from behind a tower of river rock. His face did not show in the shadows.
“You may call me Lizard the Lousy, and I am sometimes,” she said. “But I’m going to start calling you Sim the Surly.”
Sim turned away and shuffled toward the hearth, where he slumped down onto a sitting stone. Elsbeth followed, feeling her way so she wouldn’t topple one of the hoodoos lining the narrow path. She eased down on a stone across from him. “I miss you, Sim. We all do.”
He huffed. “Like you miss Jen? Do I deserve to laugh, and eat, and drink tonic? Like nothing ever happened?” Sim raked his hands through his unkempt hair. “Like Grant still had a leg and Jen still bounced around like a maniac? Like that?”
“I’m sad too, Sim.”
“It’s all on me.” His shoulders curled forward.
Elsbeth said the same words she had told herself repeatedly, until she believed them. “Jen’s death was an accident, Sim. A wall of snow and ice. You didn’t cause that. And Grant’s leg was an accident too.”
“All because I had to take off to dump-dive before the thaw.”
“Nobody blames you.”
Sim shifted to face her. His eyes glistened in the firelight. “I blame me.” He thumped his chest with a fist.
Elsbeth stood, walked over to where he sat, and rested one hand on Sim’s head. If only she could send enough healing energy to ease his pain.
“Remember when we escaped from New Haven City?” She lowered herself to sit beside him. “You were as scared as me, probably worse because of your father. But you took my hand and helped me come to the Emerald Mountains. You’ve always been the brave one, Sim. Mr. Adventure Man.” She chuckled. “Without you, I would have never entered a landfill to search for treasure or had the courage to become a one-spirit.”
“I’m not brave, not now.”
“Sure you are. You just got knocked down. That’s all. Heck, in all of those hero fables Brick tells, there’s always a dark time when the hero stumbles. Then he comes out on the other side, even braver than before. And wiser.”
When Sim didn’t reply, Elsbeth stood and wove back between the rock hoodoos. She stopped by the threshold and looked back. “Please come to the festival, Sim. The clan needs you.” She paused. “I do too.”
Evening cloaked the mountains. Stars dappled the sky.
Taproot signaled for the group to calm. “Blessed is the Light,” he sang in a strong voice. The first line of the song wound around the gathering, until they all joined in. “The Light is with us. We celebrate life. The Light and the life are one. We are the Light. We are one.”
The foxfire glowed green. Taproot nodded to Elsbeth. She stepped into the center of the ring and searched the circle of faces. If only Sim was here. Suppose it was up to her to tell the old story this year.
She took a sip of tonic and began, careful to speak slow and clear.
“Long ago, we belonged to a clan of people of great wealth, in the flatlands far to the south. Though everyone had plenty to eat, clothing, and houses, there were those who would kill for power. A time of many wars followed. Many were maimed and killed.”
The clan had heard the story for years, yet they still leaned forward as if Elsbeth’s words held a great secret.
“Two lowlander children, Simon and Elizabeth, escaped into the Emerald Mountains. We met Taproot.” She paused to bow to the old dwarf. “He protected us and taught us the ways of these mountains, what to eat, where to seek shelter, how to honor the Light that glows within all creatures. Taproot used his magic to help us become what we are now, one-spirits. Sim The First Father and Elsbeth The First Mother. He taught us to remake our likenesses in the forms of birth crystals, and the first spirit-son and spirit-daughter were born.”
Elsbeth’s throat constricted with emotion. For the first time in fifty years, Jen wasn’t listening to the clan history.
“So it has been for many years. We have defended our home against lowlanders who would destroy it. We live in peace and friendship with the creatures of these Emerald Mountains.” She raised her hands and everyone chanted the final words. “We are the Light. We are one.”
Elsbeth stepped toward the center flat rock. She slipped Jen’s birth crystal over her head, kissed it, and placed it onto the rock next to the foxfire. Grant stood, steadied himself with a carved cane, and walked to the center of the ring. He removed the birth crystal from around his neck, held it to his heart, then placed it beside Jen’s birth crystal.
Elsbeth reached out and held Grant’s hand. Should have been Jen standing here, witnessing the emergence of her first spirit-daughter. “Please forgive me, Jen,” Elsbeth whispered. The night wind answered with a low sigh. Words echoed in her mind: Forgive yourself.
Taproot joined them beside the flat rock now, holding up his hands. He intoned a series of senseless words.
What kind of language? Elsbeth wondered, as she had every ten years. She reviewed their foreign sounds in her mind. Sure, she could repeat them, but what did they mean?
The foxfire glow intensified. A mist swirled up from the rock, burst overhead, and showered down. The clan oohed and ahhed. The animals chattered. Kenneth and Genevieve Pensworthy wooo-whooood. The light shimmered into a dome, arching to the level of the treetops.
A snap drew Elsbeth’s attention. Grant squeezed her hand. A second pop! In the center of both crystals, tiny cracks appeared until they broke into halves. Two tiny creatures stepped out. Grant’s spirit-son looked up to his spirit-father. The child’s red hair flashed like a hot flame, a brighter shade than Brick’s. His skin, pale as moon glow. Grant would have an interesting task, choosing a name for the striking creature.
The second one-spirit lifted her eyes to regard Elsbeth. Elsbeth’s mouth dropped
open. The little one resembled Jen, with the fair skin, pale hair, and bright blue eyes. A sense of peace and hope surrounded the child, as if she already understood the secret to overcoming pain and suffering.
Jen’s last words echoed in Elsbeth’s memory, the ones she had said when she handed over the birth crystal to Elsbeth’s safekeeping. Keep faith.
Elsbeth smiled. Naming this one would be easy.
“Welcome to the world, Faith.”
Chapter Nineteen
Elsbeth trilled her fingers across her new robe—buttery linen printed with pale flowers, trimmed in bits of lace. Mari had fitted all of the clan members with new summer attire, her Spring Festival gift. The others shared personal gifts, as they always did at the spring and fall parties. Taka-Herb with her teas, Jondu with unusual seed pods or bits of twisted wood, and Grant with glossy pictures he gleaned from dump-dive magazines. Everyone jiggled when Slate shared his summer predictions: a new bee hollow two valleys over, the promise of a patch of dewberries not far from the old dump. Brick read his latest great tale, mimicking recent events. He left out the sudden death of one brave explorer. Fiction could do that: smooth over the hard parts.
As she stacked the empty pottery bowls, Elsbeth hummed the melody of Gabby’s tune, a winding ballad that had made them laugh, cry, then laugh again. Music, how could they move forward without it? The tone and words expressed the sadness they shared with the first death of a one-spirit. She glanced to the basket holding Sim’s robe and gifts and wondered if he would rejoin festivities by the fall. Sure, they all felt loss, but gathering with the promise of spring and the new births helped ease the pain.
The empty sitting stone Jen usually occupied still graced the ring. Small flowers, rocks, and tributes lay at its base. Elsbeth closed her eyes and sensed Jen’s spirit. Peaceful, for once not agitated and wild.
“The celebration was a success.” Mari gathered the two youngers to her. “I’m glad Taproot suggested we leave Jen’s place in the circle. Seemed right.”
Elsbeth opened her eyes and nodded. For the first time since the avalanche, tears didn’t stain her cheeks. Her lips lifted into a smile when she looked down at Faith and Zeke.
Unusual name, Zeke. Elsbeth expected Grant to follow Sim’s lead and name the younger after some rock, or wait until the younger’s personality dictated a title, as it had with Gabby. Instead, Grant chose a biblical name, Ezekiel, shortening it to Zeke. Grant related the story of the Old Testament prophet, how Zeke’s scarlet hair reminded Grant of Ezekiel seeing a “ring of fire.” Would Zeke be a prophet like his namesake? Two seers in one clan would take some getting used to.
Outfitted in much smaller robes than those of the older one-spirits, Faith and Zeke would live with Mari for a couple of seasons until the rabbits carved new quarters. Mari wished it so, and everyone voted approval. Though Faith could occupy her spirit-mother’s burrow, the clan had agreed: Jen’s quarters would remain vacant, a sanctuary for all to share.
By the fall, the youngers would achieve full height. Unlike lowlander offspring, Faith and Zeke possessed the collective knowledge of the clan, yet no spoken language. They would greatly benefit from Mari’s guidance before they took independent roles in the clan.
Elsbeth smiled, remembering the past, how she had once worried about Jen’s and Grant’s lack of speech, how the youngers talked when they were ready, and in full sentences. Jen, especially, took to the spoken word and rarely remained silent. Fifty years of memories waited for Elsbeth to revisit Jen’s life. But for now, spring and summer beckoned.
Mari left with the two youngers. Other than Taproot and Jondu packing empty tonic jars into a basket, the clearing grew quiet. One of the Pensworthy owls called nearby, probably shopping for a fresh kill to supplement its festival meal.
“I’ll be on my way, first thing in the morning,” Taproot stated.
Elsbeth dropped a stack of bowls onto the tablerock with a clatter.
“And I’m going with him.” Jondu faced Elsbeth, her arms akimbo.
“No! Absolutely not!” Heat rose in Elsbeth’s cheeks.
“I’m a traveler.” Jondu thumped her chest with one thumb. “Have been since I stepped from the Light.” She leaned forward, fixing The First Mother with a stare. “Should I not become more of what I am?”
“But . . .” Elsbeth took a shaky breath. “You will . . . return?”
Jondu let out a belly laugh. “That’s what travelers do, go and come back. Can’t move too well in the winter.” Her expression clouded briefly. “I can come home in the fall.”
Useless to argue. “In time for the Fall Festival?”
“Sounds like a plan.” Jondu hugged her spirit-mother.
Taproot grunted. “Suppose you might have consulted me before you made this announcement.” He hung the loaded basket on his arm. “At some point, our paths will diverge. Me to seek Dell-Fee, and you toward . . . where?”
“The deep mountain clans of Dena and Zackary,” Jondu answered. “I’ve studied the old maps, and I’m positive I can find them.”
Elsbeth forced a deep inhalation. Blew it out. Moments like this, she forgot to breathe.
“You’ve no experience with long travel. You’d be safer here,” Taproot said.
“And how do I gain such experience, huh? Not by tramping the same worn path back and forth to the landfill.” Jondu lowered her voice. “And what is truly safe?”
Truth settled on Elsbeth’s shoulders. Was this the way of parents, letting their children go? If not now, when? The perfect time to do a thing is seldom perfect. Brick wrote that in one of his fables.
Taproot waited, tapping one foot. Honestly, if he told her to dig within, Elsbeth would stomp on his toes. She took a moment to make sure of her words.
“Jondu will go, Taproot. She has to.”
The fabric roses Mari pinned onto Jondu’s pack stuck out like tree lichens. Jondu tapped one lacy bud with her finger, shrugged, then hugged Mari. “Um . . . Thanks.”
According to the two rough-drawn maps that Jondu had studied far into the night, a couple of rivers and various feeder streams blocked the route to the deep mountain clans.
Elsbeth and Taka-Herb fretted with last-minute additions to Jondu’s provisions. Every member of the clan had stopped by with some small bauble to stuff into the bulging pack. Too bad I can’t train one of the Pensworthy owls to fly this stuff ahead for me, she thought.
Elsbeth stood back, wringing her hands. “Are you sure about this, Jondu?”
“Yes.” She was more than sure. “Determined. Delighted. Excited.”
“Okay then.” Elsbeth turned toward Taproot. “And you? Will you return in time for the Fall Festival?”
The mountain man yanked his beard. “Long’s the way, and long’s my stay.” He shouldered his pack.
Jondu looked skyward and puffed out a breath. Maybe parting company with the riddling magician wouldn’t be so bad after all.
“For how long?” Elsbeth asked.
Taproot leaned down, until he was eye to eye with Elsbeth. “You can handle things here, Princess. Remember—”
Elsbeth held up a stop hand. “I know. I know. Dig within.”
“Maybe you can get Mari to stitch those words onto a robe,” Taproot said with a chuckle. “Wear it around like a cloth tattoo.” He ignored the stink-eye Elsbeth sent his way. “Ready, fellow traveler?” he asked Jondu.
Jondu endured one last round of smashing hugs. She tipped her head toward the north and gave a sharp nod. A Pensworthy owl performed a flyover, dipping one wing in salute. Jondu thought it might be Kenneth. Hard to tell. No matter. It was good to know she and Taproot would cross the Emerald Mountains under the watchful eyes of a friend.
Elsbeth stood, rooted in place, staring at the spot where the forest had swallowed Taproot and Jondu. With one last wave, they had vanished—the old magician who taught her and Sim the ways of the mountains, and her spirit daughter, Jondu The Traveler.
“May the Light follow and shield
them,” she whispered. The brush rustled behind her. Elsbeth whipped around.
Slate dashed toward her and bent double, sucking in gasps of air. “Sim! Sim . . . is . . .”
Elsbeth rested a hand on his shoulder. “Steady. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.”
Slate closed his eyes and released a slow exhalation. “The First Father is gone.”
“Figured Sim wouldn’t wait much longer to dump-dive.” Elsbeth glanced toward the clear spring sky. A few high clouds scudded past. The trees budded in shades of lime green so bright, the colors stunned her eyes.
Slate shook his head. “No. I mean . . . he has moved from his burrow.”
“Impossible!” Where would he go? “It would take a lowlander dump truck to cart all of his rocks.”
Slate nodded, pursed his lips, then shook his head. “All the important stuff is missing.” He frowned. “I don’t know why I had no visions about this.”
After one final, longing glance toward the north, Elsbeth trailed Slate through the tunnels to Sim’s private quarters. The moment she entered Sim’s burrow, she noticed the difference. A dead, deserted sensation. Stale air. No hearth fire. Only the foxfire offered a meager green glow.
She wound between the rock hoodoos. None of them seemed to be amiss, but could she tell if they were? The burrow looked like its usual jumbled mess. Elsbeth scanned the room. Sim’s packs did not hang in their customary spot, and his favorite hiking stick was missing.
“I don’t get why you’re so upset.” She pointed to the corner. “He normally takes the same stuff every time he goes dump-diving.”
“He didn’t ask any of us to go along.”
No surprise there, either. Not since Jen’s death. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry—” Her words stalled in her throat when she noted the mantle above the hearth.
Sim’s most cherished possession—a hunk of obsidian darker than a moonless night—no longer occupied the place where it had rested for nearly fifty years. Elsbeth crossed the room and ran her fingers across the vacant spot. Her spirit dropped.
