by Maya, Tara
“Give me back the Black Arrow!”
“I will not.”
“Kavio, please.”
He went to the door of the hut and pulled open the hangings. “You are a Healer, not a killer. This burden should never have been given to you. Go tend to the Golden Lady. Find another way to heal her.”
Tears stood in her eyes.
“Brena, please,” he said.
Finally, she nodded. The tension in her shoulders eased as if she had been relieved of an unbearable weight.
“Thank you, Zavaedi Kavio.”
Kavio unwrapped the rabbit skin blanket around Dindi’s bowl. Once, it had held all his thinking stones, but now it only held one stone, the blank, polished white rock he had sometimes used to represent her, though he had never managed to fit the stone into any of his patterns. She did not fit into his life any better than she fit into her own. He took off the hexed corncob doll she had given him, which he wore, as she had, around his neck on the cord. He placed it in the bowl. He added the Black Arrow.
The Banshee’s cry, the dream, and now the arrow.
Three omens of Death.
But whose?
Am I fated to die? Or am I fated to kill someone I love, as my father did?
Dindi
She missed pixies.
From afar, she glimpsed them over the fields, darting and swooping on their iridescent wings. If the afternoon light caught them at just the right angle, the whole valley sparkled. She yearned for that warm light but it stretched incredibly far away now. She no longer had a pretext to leave the Tor of the Initiates, so she could not saunter through the fields and wander the woods, jump from trees or dance through beds of ferns.
Since her job before had supposedly been to fetch water for the men at the quarry, she had been relegated to water-carrier now that she was back with the Initiates. It was considered the least prestigious work, because it was usually carried out by little girls. The labor was hard—she had to carry heavy jars of water from the river to the cisterns on the Tor, six or seven times a day—but mind-numbing. She filled the cistern in the morning and again right before curfew. While she walked to and from the river, Initiates often called out, “Quack, quack!” and laughed; or worse, flung mud or hard, bitter berries at her. If they could hit her hard enough that the berries left a stain on her white shift, they considered it a great victory.
Her mother had once told her that if one ignored bullies they would go away. She ignored them, but they did not go away, and they did not stop. They never stopped. No single incident was unbearable in and of itself. It was the endless barrage that wore her down.
At meal times, she always found herself pushed to the back of the line. Scraps had to suffice her, for she would get nothing better. On nights when the others were particularly cruel, and denied her even those, sometimes Jensi or Hadi managed to sneak her food later in the evening, behind the lodge. But her kin already suffered because of their blood ties to her, and she had no wish to increase their distress.
Dindi did ask Jensi once if there was anything to be done, if there was any way to appease the mob, or sway the secret council to rescind her fate as a social outcaste.
Jensi shook her head. “I’ve asked around. Everyone says the same thing. Once a Duck, always a Duck. But,” Jensi lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “they also said that there was one Duck who did escape. He was despised and hated by everyone in his cohort, and the secret council of that year put forward no other candidates. The Duck Hunt went very hard on him. He tried to fight, and several members of the secret council, all older boys from a clan inimical to his, decided to teach him a lesson. It was said they tied him naked over a log and did unspeakable things to him. He was not found for two days, and he was nearly dead. By itself, that was not so unusual. What shocked everyone was that shortly after that, members of the secret council began to turn up, slit open from the groin to the throat. At first, no one made the connection, but soon it became obvious it could be no coincidence. All the Initiates who had attacked him, or who were friends or close kin of his attackers, turned up dead, sliced open in the same way. After that, everyone was afraid to taunt him.”
Dindi shuddered. “I should think they would hate him even more. Shouldn’t he have been executed himself, for murder?”
“But no one could prove that he did it. They still haven’t, to this day. He’s still alive. You’ve met him. That’s the best part. That one-time Duck is now War-Chief Vultho!”
“You’re joking!”
“No. So maybe there is hope for you after all Dindi!”
“Hope? You call that hope? I wouldn’t slice open the gullets of my enemies even if I could! How does that help me? I don’t want to become a monster in order to be treated like a human being.”
Spring wore more gray than winter. It rained frequently, and even when gray clouds did not glower overhead, gray mists coiled around the hills and swathed the valley. The pixies and willawisps receded with the colors. Except for haughty Blue mist sylphs, Dindi saw ever fewer fae. At first she assumed they were staying away. Then one day, when she overheard a Tavaedi shooing away creatures she could not see, she realized the fae had not changed. She just couldn’t see them as well anymore. Perhaps the day was coming when she would be like Hadi or Jensi, oblivious to the fae all around her.
Once that thought would have alarmed her. Now… It really didn’t matter. It wasn’t as though seeing the fae had ever done her any good. Stupid sprites. Who needed them.
When Dindi was not lugging water, she hid from the other Initiates behind the lodge. She gathered some thatch, a handful of sticks, and built herself a shack against the back wall. Inside her wretched sanctuary, she waited for the day to end so she could sleep. Sometimes she played with Puddlepaws and her kittens, or watched red and blue beetles with pronged horns grapple each other in miniature duels. Mostly, she closed her eyes and replayed events in her mind, imagining might-have-beens until her stomach growled and her head ached.
On one drizzly day, Gwenika found her in her shack.
“May I talk to you, Dindi?”
One of the events Dindi often replayed in her mind was the morning Gwenika had given her the mask. Jensi had told her things about Gwenika. Dindi did not answer Gwenika’s question.
“The thing is…I really need someone to talk to.” Gwenika grimaced. She shuffled her feet. “I can’t talk to Kemla and the other girls, because they use anything I say against me…. I mean, they bring it up again later, in a mean way, or they repeat it to someone else behind my back.”
Dindi did not say anything.
“Remember when I first met you, and I felt sick all the time? I’m feeling sick again. I don’t know if it’s because I’m hexing myself again, or because I caught something from the Shunned or… I don’t know. If I say anything to anyone else, they’ll just laugh at me…. I know it’s stupid, but I thought you might know what’s wrong.”
Dindi was silent.
“Please say something.” Gwenika rubbed her hands on the sticks of Dindi’s shack.
Dindi stared past the other girl’s shoulder at the small patch of gray sky.
“Tell me one thing first, Gwenika. When the ‘secret council’ met to decide who would be made the Duck, were you there?”
All the blood drained from Gwenika’s face. Her eyes hollowed out until they were two bleak holes. Without another word, she turned and walked away.
Kavio
The warriors jogged into the courtyard first, hooting and jabbing the sky with their spears. The Tavaedies in their full regalia followed next, drumming and singing all the way into an empty-square formation in the center of the courtyard of the War Chief’s compound. Vultho himself appeared last, held aloft by six men on a gold-plated chair. He wore a yellow robe spangled with gold disks, and a huge feathered headdress spiked with gold prongs to represent the rays of the sun.
All of this was to glorify him. Vultho’s latest idiocy: an endless succession
of “special festivals,” called for by one after another of his sycophants, to celebrate him. The sycophants vied with one another to lavish gifts and praise on him, and in turn, he was cunning enough to reward them with gifts and favors. The tribesfolk enjoyed the pomp and play. The warriors guzzled a seemingly endless supply of beer. Even the elite Bear Shields, who had once trained with Kavio, enjoyed their new lifestyle. Why wouldn’t they? Who would not prefer lounging around drinking and swatting flies rather than grunting and sweating in the spring mud?
Vultho spared no one the obligation to participate in the revelries. He demanded Kavio’s presence. Hertio also had a standing “invitation.” Another clever move, Kavio admitted grudgingly. The more time he had to waste placating Vultho, the less time he had to train the Maze Born, or to meet secretly with elders who were unhappy with Vultho.
Kavio waited until the Tavaedies began their tama, a dance to bring fortune and honor to the War Chief, before he tried to slip away. The unusual amount of rain, rare for Yellow Bear, had caused problems. Water had seeped into the granaries, and the seeds for the spring planting had been found covered with furry white mold. Hunts had turned up scarce game. Blight stalked the world, and the Tavaedies had no explanation for it. Their dance today would not address any of those problems.
Before Kavio crossed out of the courtyard, a voice boomed behind him.
“Where are you going, Kavio? The gifts have not been given yet.”
Kavio had no choice but to walk back to where Vultho sprawled in his gold chair, surrounded by his fawning supporters.
“This is a waste of our time,” Kavio said loudly.
The crowd gasped and grew quiet. He didn’t care.
“Our enemies grow stronger by the day. They prepare for war, while here in Yellow Bear, we do what, exactly? Dance and sing? The warriors need to drill, the Tavaedies should be weaving defensive spells!”
Some in the crowd frowned and nodded. Kavio knew there were more people who agreed with him than dared speak up.
Vultho grinned slyly. “You talk big, Kavio, but I know where you’re really going. Not to drill for war, but to hunt quail.”
The crowd burst into laughter at the well-known euphemism. Vultho had not wasted any time spreading rumors about Kavio’s supposed activities. Not that everyone saw it as a bad thing. Several eager aunties had arranged to flaunt their beautiful kinswomen in front of him, in the hopes he might impregnate one. A child born out of wedlock was usually not welcome, but exceptions were made if the father had sufficient status. Mothers expected that if Kavio fathered a child, he would pay to excuse himself from the marriage with livestock or luxuries.
“Sit down, Kavio,” Vultho said. He left it ambiguous whether it was an invitation or a command. “Do not insult the Tavaedies by leaving before their performance is finished. Share my bowl. Maybe later we can share a quail too.”
Kavio stiffened. Around him, chuckles rippled through the onlookers. Vultho held out his bowl of rare dark brown beans, which were said to stave off sleep and increase a man’s virility. They did not grow locally, but Vultho had paid out gold to trade for them from clans to the south. Kavio boiled at the thought of how this vile worm had betrayed the staff of peace and lied about it, had killed Rthan’s family and boasted of it, had tried to defile Dindi and gloried in it, and now squandered Yellow Bear’s wealth and resources feathering his own nest with gold chairs and expensive beans. Kavio clenched his jaw, but he reached into the bowl and took one bean. Deliberately, he placed it between his teeth and chewed. He squeezed the bitter juices down his throat.
Dindi
A coil of cloth, soaked with the smell of sweat, formed a ring on the top of her head. Dindi used this to cushion the weight of the clay jar—half her height and twice her weight—when she lifted it atop her head and balanced it there. She navigated the ground by feel. Once she started walking, she did not need to hold the jar, but balanced it step by step. She had one more water run to make before curfew.
Evening was the worst time. As seemed to happen more and more, the teachers had all been required to attend performances for War Chief Vultho. The Initiates were left with no structured activities, and a Tor full of bored Initiates meant some of them, if not all of them, would amuse themselves at the Duck’s expense.
She passed Kemla’s group, including half a dozen Yellow Bear girls and Gwena and Gwenika. They contented themselves with the usual smirks in her direction, accompanied by a chorus of quack-quacks. Dindi had learned not to give them the satisfaction of wincing anymore when they did that. Nonetheless, she could not help looking up at Gwenika, and it stung when the other girl met her eyes coldly and said, clearly and contemptuously: “Quack.”
Hot anger washed through Dindi, but she kept walking.
The group behind her burst into laughter. She had come to loathe the sound.
Gwenika has the friends she deserves. I would not be friends with the likes of Kemla even if she fell on her knees and begged me.
Easy to say, considering that scenario was unlikely to be tested.
As she headed for the door in the palisade, she heard something more ominous than laughter. Silence. Dindi tensed. Feet pattered on the ground in the hurried, decisive manner of hunting wolves.
A group burst in front of her. She pressed her lips together. Inside, her stomach tightened. It was the worst of the lot, the same young warriors who had taken the lead in tying her to the tree and beating her during the Duck Hunt. Baldy was there too, the boy who had been struck by lightning. His hair had all fallen out. A permanent scar razed his misshapen head, and he blamed Dindi—as if she were now responsible for bad weather too.
“Roll the Duck!” shouted Baldy.
They had prepared their prank in advance. In a coordinated attack, they launched themselves against her, in order to grapple the big jar to the ground and shove her inside. Her knees knocked her chin. Her elbows scraped the inside of the jar. The world flipped upside down, and her stomach flipped too, giving her the panicky sensation of falling.
The boys rolled the jar on its side, with Dindi trapped inside. Her head slammed several times against the hard ceramic until she braced her hands and feet against the concave interior.
“Roll her till she spews!” cried the boys.
The world outside the jar flashed by, topsy-turvy. She wanted to vomit, but she struggled to master her nausea. She pretended she was spinning as part of a dance. The boys’ prank excited the other Initiates. A huge crowd gathered to watch, and new bunches of Initiates jostled for a turn to roll the jar. So much blood rushed to her head, she felt faint. They could keep at this well into the night, but she didn’t think she could last that long.
A scream pierced the air. From one of them.
“Help! Help!” a girl yelled.
The mob turned away, its fickle attention drawn to this new distraction. The jar hit a wall and fell lip down, trapping Dindi underneath. Because of how she was squashed inside, she couldn’t easily lift it, or pull herself out.
The close air smelled of fear and bile. It felt like drowning. She began to breath too quickly. Panic scratched and snapped at her like a wild animal, but by sheer force of will, she beat it back.
Close your eyes. Imagine you are dancing. Count out the sets. One and two, three and four. Just keep dancing.
The rough use the jar had endured had produced a crack, a sliver of a hole. She pressed her mouth to this to draw fresh air. That cleared her head. Her heartbeat slowed its crazy race. Outside, though, she heard another scream, and Initiates stomping around and calling to one another.
Her first thought was that it might be an attack by Blue Waters warriors. Her second thought was that it might be another prank.
“Someone, please help my sister!” the girl shouted.
Dindi knew her. It was Gwena, Gwenika’s older sister.
For a moment, through the crowd and the dust, Dindi caught a glimpse of what was happening. No attack, at least. Gwenika had collapsed.
Her friends gathered around her. Even from this distance, Dindi saw blood on the packed dirt, shockingly red.
“Help! Help!” Gwena ran up and down the path, arms all akimbo, blank with panic. “Something’s wrong with my sister! We need a healer!”
Dindi’s jaw tightened. It had all the earmarks of a prank. The “blood” was probably war paint.
I’m feeling sick again, Gwenika had confided. Or was that just the set-up to the rest of the joke?
On the other hand…
I’m feeling sick again. She had looked awful.
What if it were true? Dindi wasn’t willing to take the chance with her friend’s life. And yes, damn it, Gwenika was still her friend, whether she wanted Dindi to be one or not.
First, she had to get out of this jar.
She took a moment to study the crack. Then she closed her eyes and placed her palms flat against the ceramic, straddling the crack. She imagined dancing again. She went through all the motions in her mind until she came to the final step in River Parts the Fields, when she shoved both arms out with full force.
The jar smashed open into two halves. The crack and crash of the halves was shockingly loud.
Every Initiate on the Tor turned to stare at her in astonishment.
She stood up, fists clenched, while the dust settled around her.
Dindi walked toward her friend. No one tried to block her. In fact, the others parted for her, still staring at her slack-jawed. Plan or panic? If she kept second-guessing everything, she would go crazy.
Gwenika lay sprawled on the packed earth, convulsing, delirious. Blood puddled between her legs. Dindi bent and tasted a finger swipe. Slightly metallic. Real blood.
“Oh, mercy, oh no, oh mercy, oh no…” Gwena sobbed. She shoved her fist into her mouth.
“We’ll have to take her back to the Tors and find a Tavaedi who dances Yellow,” Kemla said.
Kemla, Gwena and few of the others started to tug Gwenika’s arms.
