"Mark Kenner knows much of our ways," she said. "Heen's Mortenwol will honor the journey-taker." Eerin looked up at Mark, her golden eyes full of trust and hope. Then she knelt, with his help, beside the dying Wopind.
"Journey-taker!" she said in a loud, formal voice. "Behold your last Mortenwol!"
The stricken female's amber-colored eyes opened, then widened
incredulously as they regarded Mark. Hastily the human picked up his knapsack and removed Eerin's two cases, then he fumbled out the kareen and wound it.
He opened the other case and fished out the two deep red feathers, the dark green one, the two soft blue ones. Adrenaline made Mark's hands tremble, and he dropped the green feather. He retrieved it hastily. How the hell am I going to manage this? he wondered. He'd been going on instinct, trusting his 249
gut feeling, but now the craziness of what he was attempting, the near impossibility, was catching up to him.
How was he, an ordinary human, going to manage a dance that would challenge a ballet dancer or a null-grav gymnast? Still his hands moved, sweating and awkward, weaving the feathers together as he had seen Eerin do so many times.
Mark reached up and set the chaplet of Elseewas feathers on his head.
A stir went through the Wospind surrounding him. Terris was still crying, and the pitiful sobs tugged at Mark's heart. He forced himself to ignore hinsi and concentrate as he stepped into the middle of the little circle, within sight of the dying Wopind, the kareen in his hands. The Wopind leader must have gestured behind the human's back, for
suddenly all of the onlookers stepped back, leaving a good-sized space.
Mark turned back to Eerin and the others. First he gazed at the dying han, and said, "I am dancing for you, journey-taker," then he bowed his head in the direction of R'Thessra's corpse. "And I am dancing for you, my departed friend."
Quickly, before he could lose his nerve, Mark laid the kareen off to one side and his fingers went out, pressing its four sides at once. The little music board's low, powerful throb emerged. Mark took a deep breath.
Mortenwol, he thought. Death dance. And if you screw this up, that's just what it will be---for you and for everyone else!
Carefully he tapped the spidery symbol in the middle of the little music board, activating it. Then he straightened and stood waiting. A kaleidoscope of sensations washed over him; the springiness of the meadow grass, the smell of alien blood, the sun's heat, the wispy brush of the feathers. The headpiece weighed nothing, but at that moment, it seemed to Mark that the weight of an entire world was pressing him down.
The kareen's first high, clear note rang out. Mark remembered the Elseewas, seeing its last flight in his mind. The note swelled out sweet and pure into the air, slowly at first, and then with the sudden throb that had always been Eerin's cue to leap for the stratosphere.
But I'm too heavy to do that, he thought desperately. Even in Elseemar's lighter gravity, I'm too heavy ... I can't do it ...
Shit, Mark thought. I have to try! He closed his eyes and 250
spun, then threw his arms up over his head and followed them into the air.
The jar of the landing traveled through his entire abused body. Mark stumbled, almost losing his balance. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to see Eerin's body moving in his mind, as hin had floated lightly through the patterns of the dance. He strained to remember the sequence of steps.
The second, upward-swelling note sounded, the one that meant melody was coming. Back one, two forward, side-hop and spin, reverse and alternate.
Frantically reviewing the pattern that went with the first melodic theme, Mark heard the music tumble out. He floundered after it, already two beats behind.
His feet had lost the rhythm; that meant that he was lost ... had lost this desperate gamble ...
How does Eerin do it? How?
The image of Eerin in Mark's mind suddenly flowed into and merged with the image of the Shadowbird. They became one, flying and dancing together, the music lifting them, pulling them, whirling them. Mark gave up trying to remember the patterns, and simply let his body follow that soaring image, half bird, half Elpind, that filled his mind.
The first melodic run was ready to repeat. Mark opened himself to the music, spreading his arms to echo the image in his mind that the rippling notes conjured up. The first downbeat reached him, and miraculously his body knew, or remembered, he wasn't sure how, and he stepped back smartly, keeping the rhythm.
A breath, and then it was forward-- and forward again-- and, yes, knees bent slightly now, and now sideways, and yes, that fits, that's right, then spin and ...
The pulse of the music, a hot wildness just beneath the sweet overlay, captured him, ensnared him. It had always called to his blood, even when watching, and now, somehow, it was his blood, flowing over him, through him. The music/blood swirled and flowed and ran free. Mark's feet followed surely, unerringly.
The trills and runs wove their familiar patterns, and Mark followed the Eerin/
Shadowbird that danced in his memory. Feel it, the life they both love, the life that includes death, but does not end there ...
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Joy sprang up in Mark. Miracles surrounded him: pumping heart, heaving lungs, light feet, swift-rushing blood, but they were nothing ... nothing compared to the wonder of his sudden freedom. Now he was the Shadowbird, unfettered, and he flew wild and beautiful and free above the fear, above the sorrow, above the anger.
Faces filled his mind, his memory: Hrrakk's when the Simiu had stood by to steady him in the desert, Cara's bent over the dying Misir, Terris' trusting green eyes. RThessra, touching Cara gently, tenderly, and Eerin, leaning over a small grave, hin's treasured white feather in hand. There were other faces, too: Captain Loachin's, Rob Gable's, Esteemed Sarozz's--
--and his mother's.
This time, her memory did not bring pain, for Mark knew that she had understood, and loved him, and forgiven him-- as he had finally forgiven himself.
The faces whirled in his memory, as his body whirled in the dance, and a great love for all of them welled up in him. Why hadn't he heard it before in the music? Love, strong and steady, was the beat that held the patterns in place.
The music began to rise toward its final crescendo. A new note, one saved for the final moments of Mortenwol, slipped out from beneath a trill. It swelled, closer and closer to breaking free, closer and closer to owning the song.
Yes, take it, urged Mark. Take me!
And when it did, when the music said it was natural to become part of the air, Mark let go completely, leaping higher than he had ever thought he could, letting the sweet, pure vibration of the final note lift him beyond all reason.
For a moment he hung suspended, half convinced that he would never come down.
Then his feet were back on the ground, and the echo of the final note floated away into the sky like the smoke of an offering. Mark was breathing harder than he ever had in his life, great, tearing gasps that hurt his chest, but felt wonderful, too.
The circle of Wospind stood in silence. Every eye was on him. Terris' cries were the only sound to be heard. Panting, Mark turned to regard the Wopind leader and stared deep into hin's green eyes.
Then the hin walked toward him, still carrying the baby. The
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leader stopped in the center of the circle, hin's eyes still fixed on Mark's face.
"What is heen's name?" the Wopind asked.
"Mark ..." He struggled for breath, forcing himself not to bend over, swallowing back the saliva flooding his mouth. "Mark Kenner."
"Hin is Hilnar," the Wopind leader said. "And the journey- taker, Liron, who now embraces Wo, received and cherished han's last Mortenwol, Mark Kenner." At this point, Terris, still howling as hinsi clung to the down on Hilnar's chest, turned and saw Mark. Hinsi's wails strengthened.
The Wopind looked down at the baby, then carefully plucked the infant off hin's chest, one-handed because the child did not attempt t
o cling to hin.
"Terris cries for hinsi's adoptive father," Hilnar said, and handed hinsi back to Mark.
Astonished, smiling incredulously, Mark took Terris and snuggled hinsi against his chest. He stroked the child, whose wails ceased. Exhausted, Terris immediately went to sleep.
Hilnar nodded, hin's green eyes glowing. "The quiet is welcome, is it not?"
"It is." Mark looked over at his friends. Cara was standing there openmouthed, but Eerin was nodding, as though saying, "I knew you could do it!"
"In the quiet," Mark added, "it is easier to talk. It seems to me that we have much to talk about, Hilnar."
The Wopind leader regarded him unblinkingly. "Mark Kenner has shown that it is possible for off-worlders to understand Elpind customs and rites," Hilnar said at last. "Heen's Mortenwol, while different from an Elpind's, still contained the joy that is the essence of our culture. Hin did not think that was possible, not from an off-worlder. Now hin must consider all that hin has seen today."
Hilnar paused, then added, "And after hin has considered, we will talk."
Cara sat amid the shadows, keeping vigil over R'Thessra's body. Her tears had dried long ago, but her heart still ached. I hope she knew how I felt about her, she thought sadly. My respect, my admiration for her. She always thought of others before herself. And to think we never exchanged a single sentence ...
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They'd made no grave for the Apis. "If we can, we'll take her to Lalcipind,"
Mark had said as they wrapped the fragile body first in its own wings and then with a piece of the sheeting. "She would want to rest near her hive-sister."
The "if we can" reflected their current situation. Hours had passed since Mark had performed the Mortenwol, night had fallen, and still they did not know what the Wospind planned to do with them.
Eerin had spoken with their captors and learned that the other parties from the Asimov were being held in one of the Wopind settlements, two days'
journey from this small valley.
Hilnar was now the head of all the Wospind groups, having taken the leadership after Orim's death. Eerin's informant had also told her that when Hilnar was informed of the crashed Asimov, hin had immediately sent out a party of heen and han (mindful of the dangers of the desert heat to hin) to take water and food to the downed Asimov. The Wospind party had orders to escort all the survivors back to Hilnar.
Cara couldn't decide whether Reyvinik and the others would be better off with the crashed ship, or with the Wospind. But from what Eerin had learned, the Wospind had not harmed any of the off-worlders except for R'Thessra and Hrrakk'.
She glanced over into the next patch of shadows. The Simiu slept there, the deep wound he had received from the Wopind's spear now poulticed and bandaged, as Hrrakk' himself had directed.
Cara was still amazed that Hrrakk' had obviously been prepared to die defending her. And yet, the Simiu was still his taciturn self. When she and Mark had finished ministering to his wound, he'd turned his back on them and lain down without a word.
If I live to be a hundred, she thought, I'll never understand Hrrakk'!
Now she shivered, rubbing her arms against the chill of the night breeze, wishing they'd lit a fire. It would have been comforting. The Wospind had fires. She could see them halfway across the meadow, small, red hearts of heat.
Cara knew there were guards surrounding them, there had to be. But the Wospind had been careful to stay out of their way,
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allowing their captives to move as they wished about their own small, separate camp, permitting them to come and go freely to the stream for water. The journalist's first thought when evening fell had been that perhaps they should try to escape, but upon further consideration, she hadn't even brought up the suggestion.
For one thing, Eerin was still too weak to walk far, and Hrrakk' could no longer carry her. Cara, having seen the Simiu's wound close-up, was frankly surprised that the alien could move at all. But they'd already known Hrrakk'
was tough.
And Mark, of course, was exhausted. No sleep last night, and then the Mortenwol today. He lay close beside her as she sat on their one remaining piece of sheeting, curled on his side, deeply asleep.
Remembering the way he'd danced the Mortenwol, the journalist smiled faintly, ruefully. The spectacle of a lifetime, and she'd totally forgotten to activate her camera!
Shadows shifted again as tiny Inid climbed higher still in Elseemar's sky.
Cara looked up at the four moons, watching them silently, remembering R'Thessra, then thinking of Eerin and her face as she'd watched the human's Mortenwol.
Mark stirred in his sleep, and Cara glanced down at him. His hair glimmered ghostly silver in the moonlight. How ridiculous he'd looked, with Eerin's feathers jammed down over his head! And that awful beginning, that first awkward leap, the stumble ... she'd wanted to close her eyes and not have to watch. But somewhere during that first long measure, he'd suddenly begun to dance, really dance. Then something came alive in him, Cara thought.
Not for one minute had Mark's dance been Eerin's. But what Mark's dance had lacked in grace and airiness had been more than balanced with ... Cara searched for the right word. Passion, she decided. It had been the difference between the wafting dance of a feather and the leaping-up of a fierce flame.
They'd all felt it.
Waves of joy had radiated from the whirling figure, waves that had eased Cara's grief as she'd crouched by R'Thessra's crumpled body. She felt sure that, in finally understanding the Mortenwol, Mark had made peace with himself.
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Cara sat staring up at the moons, thinking of all that had happened since she had first set out for StarBridge Academy so many months ago. The thought of the school, of going there to learn about other species, made her pulse quicken a little.
I've certainly gotten a crash course in the Elspind, she mused. And tomorrow, all of us are going to get a crash course on the Wospind ... Her unintentional choice of words made her smile grimly. I just hope that "crash"
isn't the operational word again.
Mark stiffened, then jerked in his sleep, mumbled something indistinct in Elspindlor, then moved restlessly against her hip. His legs drew up, then thrust down, as though he were leaping.
He's dreaming, Cara realized. Dancing the Mortenwol in his sleep ... Gently she stroked his hair, his cheek, her touch as light as one of Eerin's Elseewas feathers. Final y he relaxed and slumbered deeply again.
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Chapter 19 CHAPTER 19
The Interrelator
Mark awoke the next morning when Terris began squawking hungrily in his ear. He sat up, reaching automatically for the canteen containing the sestel broth, and fed the baby. As he changed hinsi, he examined the downy little form, and decided that the child was definitely larger than when he'd first seen hinsi.
"You're growing, Terris," he whispered. "Getting big."
The thought that his days with the child were now definitely numbered made his throat tighten painfully. He was glad of the distraction when he heard his name called.
Looking up, he saw Eerin coming across the meadow toward him. A male Wopind walked close by her side. Yesterday the Elpind had been so weak, so drooping, but today she moved with all Eerin's old energy--and more. The heen at her side could scarcely keep his eyes off her.
Mark scrambled up and stared as she stopped before him. In the warm light of early morning, the Elpind seemed positively luminous--han's peach-colored skin had a definite sheen to it, a glow that almost matched the one in the golden eyes. Eerin seemed radiantly alive in a way he'd never seen before.
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"Eerin, you ... you look so different! You're ... glowing!" Mark stammered. He couldn't get over the difference from the wan, feeble creature of yesterday.
Eerin bounced happily. "Han will be desirable to a heen now, will han not?"
At first the human thought her question was rhetorical, but then he caught her
sideways glance at the heen.
Mark studied the male Wopind. He was about Eerin's height, with thick, tan-colored fur and eyes just a shade darker than his friend's.
"This is Reenor," Eerin introduced, giving her escort a dazzling glance.
"Heen changed the same night han did. Mark remembers."
He certainly did. "It's nice to meet you, Reenor," Mark said, feeling rather like the older brother of a teenage girl being introduced to the first serious boyfriend. The air between Reenor and Eerin fairly sizzled with mutual attraction.
"We came to ask Mark to dance the Mortenwol with us," Eerin invited.
"Are you sure you're up to it already? Yesterday ... "Mark trailed off, shaking his head and smiling. From the joyous look on Eerin's face, han was up to anything.
The Elpind nodded. "Once again it will be done every morning, just as before Enelwo. Come, dance with us!"
"I couldn't," Mark protested. "I'd feel silly. Yesterday, when I started, I was so clumsy, and ..." He trailed off. "And I don't have the same need driving me today."
"Mark is learning. From what han saw yesterday, heen will learn very well indeed. And, remember, it is not the steps, but the feeling as one does them that makes the Mortenwol." A challenge shone in the golden eyes.
"Yesterday, Mark understood the Mortenwol, han could tell. Has Mark forgotten everything heen has learned?"
The human smiled slowly, remembering. "No, I haven't." He took a deep breath. "Eerin, I would love to dance the Mortenwol with you two."
"This time, my camera's going to be on," Cara announced, having just come back from a wash at the stream. "I'm not missing the chance of a lifetime twice!"
Mark grinned. "Okay, 'everybody,' let's go."
Minutes later Mark stood between the two Elspind in the
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middle of the grassy meadow, beneath the dawn sky. At the first high, sweet note of the kareen, Mark's heart rose within him. Together, he and his pair partner--and, he suspected, Eerin's soon-to-be mate--spun and leaped and wove the patterns.
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