Reap the Wild Wind

by Czerneda, Julie E

  Suddenly, she sensed her brother had moved above her. “Costa?”

  “Here!” His call was triumphant. Aryl pulled herself to a stand to look for him, careful to keep her head well below the reaching tips of the vines.

  At first, she didn’t see him, then glimpsed his brown tunic in the midst of the vines and stifled a cry of her own. Remarkably, Costa wasn’t waving off stingers or trapped in sticky vines, despite being halfway around the stalk and three body lengths higher. “How did you get up there?” she demanded.

  “Here,” he repeated, this time pointing straight down.

  Aryl worked her way around the spool until she was beneath where her brother so mysteriously hung in what should be midair— with vines. She looked up and laughed in surprise.

  Mystery solved. Costa stood on a ladder of slats and braided rope. It hung free from the bulb, leading— she tilted her head— past the broadest portion. Any vines that might touch a climber if shifted by a breeze were carefully tied back, not cut. She assumed they’d be released after the Harvest, to hide the way up and protect the rastis’ tender crown.

  To any Yena, such a ladder was as easily run as a flat bridge. Aryl’s brother eased to one side to let her rush past, but she stopped beside him to claim a quick one-armed hug. “I knew I brought you for a reason.”

  Costa laughed. “Remind me later.”

  Later, Aryl didn’t remember climbing the rest of the ladder, or the moments it took to pry open the door leading through the decking above.

  For once she did, she was in a world none of the stories or shared images could have prepared her to experience.

  The crown of the rastis— this one and those to every side— grew a grove of its own. Tall, slender stems rose upward, uniform and so densely packed Aryl couldn’t have forced her body between them. They sprouted dull-gray and straight, so thin her fingers met around them.

  At waist height, they changed.

  Aryl followed one of the stems upward with her fingertips, to where it thickened. What looked smooth to the eye felt woven, like cloth. No, not cloth, she decided, but a rope of the most tightly spun thread imaginable. The texture deepened into a spiral that wound up the remainder of the stem, its line traced in crimson that spread wider and wider until, overhead, the stems were vivid red and thick, edged in orange. They appeared taut, as if ready to burst.

  The Watchers moaned again, the deep vibration rattling the decking that was as much coaxed from the living rastis as fastened to it. Costa clung to the doorframe as he climbed through to join her, his eyes wide. “Aryl!” he mouthed.

  The moan died away; the world steadied. It was temporary, she knew. “Hurry, Costa.”

  The decking curled around the flattened top of the bulb for several steps in either direction. It held more than a door. A large sling-and-pulley array was fastened to one side, its precious metal chains padded with cloth to protect the rastis during use. Costa walked over to the other feature, a sturdy plank ladder slanting up and into the stalks, wide enough that three could climb at once.

  The stems obscured the top. The ladder was partnered by another set of cloth-covered chains. Aryl put her hand on one and looked up. “This must be how they bring down the ripe dresel.” She put her foot on the first rung.

  “No!” Costa grabbed her arm to haul her back. “This is far enough— too far, Aryl. We’d only be in the way.” His free hand waved at the roof of gently swaying stems. There was more blue between them now. “There’s no room. Stay—”

  “There’s all the room in the world.” She shook free. “I want to feel the M’hir for myself. I want to touch the sky. Don’t try to stop me, Costa. Wait here if you must.”

  He lifted both hands and stepped aside, automatically wary of the deck’s edge. When Aryl felt his weight hit the ladder below her as she climbed, she smiled to herself.

  The first twenty rungs plunged them deep within the strange aerial grove of the rastis, until Aryl couldn’t see in any direction but straight ahead to the next slat of wood. The stems brushed against her and one another. They didn’t feel like plants anymore. They moved without wind, as if impatient. With each upward and inward step, she could see the stems swelling, enlarging along their spiral indentation, turning slowly as they did.

  There were always scents in the grove— decay from the shadowed water below, blends of musk and sweet and sour from the creatures who moved and climbed. Above all, the rich blend of growing things, the perfumes that changed with the seasons as flowers opened, ripened to fruits, and fell into the water to rot.

  Here? Aryl had smelled dresel all her life, but that faint clear spice was nothing to the heady draught now entering her nostrils. She felt as though she climbed through fragrance, warmed and pierced by shafts of brilliant light.

  The ladder met two others at a triangular platform, unexpectedly small. As Aryl stepped up to it, her head cleared the top of the rastis stems at last.

  The world exploded away on every side, roofed in blue, carpeted in red-orange, punctuated by taller growths with their clusters of green leaves. Nekis? They had to be, though Aryl had trouble connecting these full, lush tops, filled with flitters, to the spare, hard-to-climb trunks that stretched their pale columns from the water below.

  The vegetation released her gaze and she moved, mute and staring, to give Costa room beside her. She pointed to the strange harsh line against the sky. “Costa. Do you think those are mountains?”

  “I think I’m going to be sick.” He shaded his eyes with one hand. Aryl followed suit. “Yes. They have to be. The world, Aryl. It’s too small.”

  “This can’t be all of it,” she reasoned. But the same dismay kept her voice low, too.

  The red of the rastis extended only so far. The seemingly vast groves of the Sarcs, the Teeracs, the whole of their Clan— from this new perspective they melded together into a smallish mass, one bounded by wild stone and by a darker, more twisted foliage that itself gave way to an expanse of glittering light. Aryl squinted. “Is that the ocean?”

  “It can’t be. The other Clans are between us and the sea. That must be where the Tikitik have their crops. I’ve heard they need water open to the sun. They have ways to control what will grow in a place. An understanding beyond any Om’ray . . .”

  Costa sounded wistful. He loved growing things; as far back as she could remember, his room had been crammed with bits and pieces of life collected from the groves, tended with care in an assortment of pots and baskets. He would coat himself in ointments and silks to fend off biters in order to harvest strange wizened seeds from plants no one knew, only to spend futile fists trying to coax them to sprout. Thinking to help, Aryl had once suggested he ask the Tikitik for their secrets. His frustrated anger had startled her, for Costa was the gentlest of their family. She’d understood later. Only the appointed Speaker for the Clan Council spoke to the Tikitik; then, only to answer questions, not ask them. It was the way of the world.

  Though Costa went to live with his Chosen as was proper, their mother had left his room as it was. Whether she wanted the plants to stay or roots had made their way into the flooring and she couldn’t be bothered removing them, Aryl didn’t know or care. It brought him home again, regularly, to water and fuss while listening to her latest stories. He stayed part of her life, something Aryl hadn’t known could end when she’d been younger. For Costa might have decided to take Passage, leaving Yena behind to find Choice and a new life within another Clan. For her, it would have been as if he died. Those who left never returned; they were never heard from again.

  There was a darker side to Passage, whispered behind hands when eligible unChosen gathered and talk turned to their futures. Some didn’t survive the harsh journey, it was said— perhaps why so few came to Yena. Others failed its purpose. Three M’hirs ago, Oryl Sarc had drawn one such with her Call: Kiric Mendolar of the Tuana. Floods had delayed him; he’d arrived to find Oryl already Joined to Ghoch.

  Aryl had watched him— from a safe dist
ance, or through the gauze of a window. Strangers weren’t to be trusted, not until Choice made them kin. And this one had moved oddly, always too slow and with a hand to the nearest rail or rope. He preferred to work inside, cleaning dresel with the elderly. Aryl herself couldn’t imagine a worse fate.

  She’d decided this Kiric was sick, perhaps dying— a tragic, romantic figure— and had enjoyed her version until Costa had quietly explained that this stranger had come from a place without rastis, where Om’ray lived on flat, dry ground. He’d wanted her to feel compassion for someone so lost and alone. Aryl had thought this a clever new story for Costa to make up for her and repeated it, with suitable embellishment, to her friends at every opportunity.

  When no Yena Choosers ripened by the next M’hir, Kiric the Stranger had stepped off a bridge and disappeared into the black waters of the Lay.

  Older, wiser, Aryl understood her brother was one of the lucky ones. He might have little time to spare for his young sib, but he’d found his life partner among his own Clan.

  Where his sister could still entice him to climb with her.

  As well as Costa, Aryl felt the others, knew where they were; with the slightest effort, who they were. Her head turned to seek them. “Costa. Look. There. They’ve strung the lines.”

  Her eyes fought the bright sunlight until she could make out what she hadn’t before. The rastis groves were covered in ropes, as if a weaver bigger than any imagined in a nightmare had used the strong nekis trunks to support its looping web.

  Figures were moving into the open along that web, bare feet sure despite the rope’s bounce and sway. Arms were extended, for balance and to run fingers along support threads too fine to see from where they stood. Almost flying, she thought with an envy close to pain.

  That could have been her. Should have been her.

  Aryl could see the pattern they made as it took shape, here and in the distance. Each Om’ray was running to his or her place along a curved line beyond the rastis groves, downwind.

  Flitters launched into the air, as if disturbed. Instead of wheeling and crying in protest, they plunged without sound into the canopy, disappearing from sight.

  They fled the coming M’hir. She knew it. Could almost taste it.

  The Om’ray had found their places and stopped, waiting. Aryl saw flashes as hooks were freed from their belts and held ready.

  Watchers moaned again. This time Aryl could tell their sound came from the mountains. As would the M’hir.

  Costa’s fingers locked around hers as the world seemed to take and hold an endless breath. He pulled, urgently, and Aryl obeyed, dropping to lie beside him on the small platform. His arm went over her. Hold on! she heard, not words but mindspeech.

  As she grabbed for her own hold on the platform, she twisted her neck to see.

  The crimson stems nearest her face trembled in the silence. Trembled . . . then bent ever-so-slightly. No, they weren’t bending. Aryl’s eyes widened as the stems began to twist open.

  Costa stiffened beside her, lifted up as if compelled to look closer. No! she sent, reinforcing the warning with a grab at his hand, determined to hold him safe.

  Then there was no need for warnings.

  The M’hir struck.

  It was like the opening of an oven. The next breath she took was searing hot, dry, and full of a chokingly fine, acrid dust. Aryl coughed and quickly closed her mouth, but the air stole the moisture from her eyes and nostrils, took the sweat from her skin until perversely she shivered.

  The first fingers of wind tore her hair free of its braided net, whipping the strands against her cheeks. The stems clattered against one another as if excited.

  The wind’s force continued to build, steady and irresistible. Below, far below, Aryl had experienced the annual M’hir as little more than a rustling overhead that warned of bundles of dresel to be opened and stored. The rastis supporting their homes might lean slightly, disrupting dishes left on tables. Torn leaves and shredded bark would whisper and float its way into branch and crevice, making piles and obstructions to be pulled from ladders. Fine powders would rain down as well, reds and yellows and orange streaking the walkways and clogging screens. Another glamorous chore for the youngest and those not in the Harvest, sweeping and sweeping and sweeping until the black water below grew a skin of rare color.

  Up here? The M’hir moved everything.

  Including the crown of the rastis beneath them. As it began to shudder and shift, Costa tightened his grip until Aryl could barely breathe. The great plant groaned, a deep, tormented creaking. She waited for it to snap, her heart in her throat. Instead, it bent, crown bowing to the M’hir.

  The platform went over with it, tipping to one side. Costa shuddered with strain but held on. Aryl’s own hands were clenched on the thick edge. Her toes found a gap in the planks and she forced them in . . . if they tipped much farther they’d be shaken off . . . they’d fall . . .

  The rastis stopped bending, though the M’hir now howled and gibbered on all sides. The platform rocked back and settled, no longer level, but safe enough.

  They might be safe . . . what of the others? Aryl raised her head, fighting to see through the wind-whipped stems.

  The webbing strung between the stiffer nekis trees held, though along its strands the Om’ray danced in the wind like leaves trapped against a billowing curtain. Each leaned forward, body and face wrapped and obscure, hand gripping a guide rope, hook ready.

  Aryl sorted through their tastes to find Bern. There. She could just make out his wildly swaying figure.

  “Bern!” she shouted. The M’hir ripped away her voice. She concentrated, trying to reach him with her thoughts. Child’s play when touching, a minor skill at arm’s length, demanding more and more Power with distance until impossible. She’d never reached as far as this— he was barely discernible, a toy in the wind— but she fought to connect, to send his name—

  Hush. Don’t distract him. Costa’s mindspeech filled her thoughts, calm and sure, though she could feel his excitement. He has to prove himself.

  I should be there! she sent back, frustrated beyond reason. That’s where I’d be, Costa. I’m unChosen, too! It’s my right.

  It’s too dangerous.

  I’m unChosen.

  Everyone knew the unChosen were the expendable members of any clan, not yet Joined to a life partner, not yet mature. Free of expectations or even a sure future.

  There are Chosen up there. A flash of fear. Only the best of them dare. That should tell you the risk.

  Aryl hid her pity from Costa, burdened with the responsibilities of another life. He’d worry and play it safe for the rest of his days, for Leri’s sake. She’d take freedom while she had it. Freedom like those Om’ray tethered in the face of that raging wind. To be part of the sky, part of something larger than life itself. To fly . . .

  Aryl dug her elbow into her brother’s conveniently broad ribs. Don’t tell me you’re sorry you came.

  Ask me if we get down again.

  The bent stems had continued to twist. Suddenly, they snapped open along their length, releasing clouds of red to the M’hir.

  The odor of ripe dresel intensified until Aryl found the only way to breathe was to keep her bent arm in front of her nose, her lips close to the skin. She’d taste it forever. She’d probably smell of it just as long.

  Light-touched red surrounded them. It filled the sky, each separate piece growing wider and wider until the whole overlapped like the glistening scales of a flitter.

  And like a flitter, the red took flight.

  She’d learned this. She’d never imagined the reality of it. The red— Yena called it the dresel’s wing. Now each piece continued to expand as the wind tugged it free of its tight wrapping. She could see through it, as if it were the finest window gauze, immense and growing, billowing and snapping in the wind. On the ground, flattened, it would smother other growth in favor of the rastis’ own. In the hands of skilled Om’ray, the material could be
soaked and teased apart, its component threads rewoven into any thickness. The clothing she wore, the ropes they’d climbed, the gauze of their windows, all came from this source.

  She dared let go with one hand to touch the nearest wing, but its softness eluded her. It came free of its stem, pulling with it real treasure— moist chains of dresel, the length of her arm.

  Having cleaned her share, Aryl knew most of the light fragrant pods contained already sprouting seeds, as well as dresel itself, the soft purple flesh that would nourish the seed’s first explosive growth. All three— pod, flesh, and seed— had value. The waterproof pods covered Yena roofs and graced their tables as elegantly carved dishes. The dresel was a staple on those dishes, delicious fresh and easily dried for later use. A small portion of a harvest would fill Yena pantries until the next M’hir, and well it did. Though they gathered other foods, an Om’ray could exist on dresel alone.