"Your timing is always perfect, Morace." She kissed him on the head. "No, I didn't want to stay. Erica stayed. I wanted to stay with you."
He seemed weaker. Paler, although he walked with high steps, pretending energy he didn't have. Tamarica collected a shell of water and sap for him, a soft, sour drink he swallowed with a grimace.
"Haven't you noticed that the children are happier without Thea here?" Melia said.
"Not true," Lillah shook her head.
"It is true, Lillah," Rham said. "She held us too hard and she got angry when we did nothing wrong. She told us off for things we hadn't done, things she had done herself. We didn't like her. You liked her but you were the only one. We thought she would kill us one day."
Musa snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. Why would a teacher kill you?"
"This teacher did kill children. You didn't know her," Morace said.
"She didn't kill those children. They drowned," Lillah said.
"She told them to swim until they could swim no more and she would swim out and save them. She tried to make me swim as well."
"And me," said Zygo.
"You're a good swimmer, Zygo."
"Not when she was around."
"How about how her cheeks went red when a baby died? Didn't you ever notice that?"
Lillah felt a coldness in her heart. An acceptance of something she had denied.
"I don't want to talk about this anymore," she said.
"There is no point avoiding the truth," Musa said.
"Shall we talk about the way the dead-butwalking was dealt with in Sequoia, then?" Melia said. When Musa said nothing, Melia nodded. "I thought not. It's all right when it's somebody else's truth."
As they approached the Order, Melia said, "I can't stand to be within a hundred steps of that Musa," and moved. She walked far in front, something they had been told never to do. "Never arrive on your own. Assess the Order as a group. Make your decisions together until you become more accomplished."
They saw a lot of people in the water, an odd sight. Lined up, moving fast, on the water's edge.
It was a muted arrival. Very soon after they got there, word went out that a messenger was arriving. Any news made Morace nervous. It made Lillah nervous too, and she wished his father would stop sending messages. It didn't do any good. She supposed he wanted to strengthen her resolve, keep her caring for Morace, and that insulted her. She cared for Morace as much as she could. She had given up her true love for him.
She wondered sometimes, if she was doing the right thing. Was it worth risking their civilisation to save one child? She wasn't even sure if she believed that he was worth saving.
He wore a garland of seaweed, they said, and the Order went quiet around the children and teachers. Will it be my mother? My father? Someone I love?
A garland of seaweed meant a death.
The messenger came at them before they had settled, even before they ate. He took water then said, "News from the Order of Ombu. There has been a passing. Rhizo, wife of Pittos, died quietly in her bed."
Lillah felt momentary relief that she had not lost her father, or Logan, Magnolia or their baby. But it was Rhizo, with all the trauma that would bring. They took Morace into embrace and stood together, letting him cry. He cried for only a few blinks; Lillah knew how prepared he was for this. Even Zygo stood with him. "Don't worry," he whispered. "We'll keep you safe."
The locals helped as they could, feeding the messenger, bringing hot sap water.
"What news of her death? How did she die? An ailment?" a local asked the messenger.
"What news of my nephew?" Lillah pushed forward. They shouldn't talk about the cause of death. The other teachers clamoured for gossip from their homes, and he told them news of Erica ("She is not yet with child") and others until he shook his head, his cheeks red.
"I know only what I'm told," he said. He turned as if to run back to his own Order. Someone grabbed his arm.
"Strange to have so little information," a local said, looking at Morace. "Illness or age or accident, we should know this."
The messenger said, "I can tell you rumour; she died in childbirth and the Order has discarded her body as a foolish waste."
Morace sobbed and Lillah knew she had failed him, letting him hear this. He threw her arm off when she went to comfort him, and glared at her as if he was the grown up and she the child.
"She's been dead for almost six months and I didn't know. I didn't know!"
"You're lucky they sent the fast messenger. You would have waited a year, otherwise."
"Who has her smoothstone, Lillah?"
"Someone will look after it."
The messenger had other news for them, small things about their families which he relayed once Morace had settled. They didn't want to discuss the ramifications of the news so revelled in gossip for a while.
A huge turtle shell, curved side up, rested near the Trunk of the Tree.
"That's beautiful."
"Don't lift it. There is a man underneath. Being punished for taking love when it was not given."
"He's under there? For how long?"
"Some time."
"It must be dark."
"He blinks when it is lifted. Weeps. He won't do such a thing again."
Rubica felt proud to hand over the metal plate in welcomefire. She received a sealed wooden bowl. "There is sweet water inside," they told her. The teachers had to pay in words for a meal.
Melia loved it; she loved to talk, loved to question and to answer questions. The words were fired at her and the other teachers: Where do you go when it's stormy in your Order? Can you read the stars? How much sun do you get? Do you like the water? What do you use for plates? Where is your water from?
Lillah sighed, unable to hide her weariness any longer. Morace was lying down, not interested in food. She had spent hours with him and she felt drained, impatient. The Tale-teller, a grey, arrogant man who took in everything he saw with blinking, watery eyes, said, "I'm sorry. I question too much. It's in my nature. I like to have something to tell the Tree."
"Well, our Melia questions. But she stops after a while!"
"Our early leaders had a motto of only believing the evidence of their eyes and ears, and not of history. We have this too. The past is meaningless to us. We only believe the answers we hear to the questions we ask. Do you understand?"
"I guess so."
Lillah closed her eyes and let the talkfire warm her.
"We tell stories, too. We do not only ask questions. Have you heard the story of the first woman?"
Lillah nodded. "I've heard many versions. Yours may be different. I've also heard versions of the first man, and the Tree born through his ribcage."
The Tale-teller looked shocked. He said softly, "There is only one story. The one which questions and does not accept as truth everything that is said, just because it is said."
"Will you tell us your version?"
With fury, he rose and threw his cup onto the fire. "This is not a version! This is the story! You shall not hear it!" He stomped away, his fat buttocks jiggling under his skirt.
The teachers giggled, smothering the noise till he was out of earshot.
"How pompous!" Musa said.
"You shouldn't judge our teller. He takes his tales seriously. You do not," one of the younger locals said.
"We do! We think tales are important. But we realise that there will be different versions of every tale no matter where you go."
They nodded amongst themselves and no one seemed too bothered by the Tale-teller's mood. He came back after a while, hovering on the edges, bending his neck, stretching to hear all.
The mood livened without his central presence. The Order played music, lively and energising.
Melia began a good natured argument with a handsome man. Musa rolled her eyes and tried to interject until the man said, "Perhaps you could find some occupation in helping to prepare the next meal?"
Musa stood up. "You are welcom
e to the fool," she said. She was pale skinned in the afternoon light.
"Well, thank you for your permission, Musa. What a difference that makes to me."
The Order laughed as Musa stomped away.
Lillah sat alone beneath the Tree. She was tired and wanted to sleep, but the children came for her. "Morace needs you. He feels sad."
Lillah could not help but yawn. Melia joined them, her smile large on her face. "Perhaps you could see to Morace for a while, Melia. I am tired. Tired."
Melia took her into a short embrace. "I'm sorry, Lillah. I am always selfish. You should walk alone for a while. See your spiders, or touch the Tree. Feel the bark. That will bring you back to yourself again."
Lillah kissed Melia on the cheek. "You are selfish, but sometimes you surprise us all."
"I'll set them to digging. The sand here is damp and should hold well."
In a small hollow of the Tree, Lillah found a cluster of small, smoothstones, each with a rough marking indicating the death of a newborn. It chilled her to think of dead babies grouped like that, and she turned away to look out to sea, to think of elsewhere.
While she had been brought up to think that babies died easily and there was no shame in this, no sorrow, other Orders thought differently. Knowing how terrified Magnolia was of losing her child had instilled Lillah with that fear herself. She did not want that death to mourn.
"This is the placenta garden." A man with a grey beard stood beside her. "We believe the placenta is a seed to be planted."
"And what have you grown?"
"Nothing comes up. But it will. When our Order crumbles and dies, the placenta garden will fruit the next generation." Lillah realised this man was a 'watcher', someone who crouches on the low branches, protecting the Order's secrets.
These men were very wise; they saw all. Lillah thought that the Tale-teller was probably envious of this man, knowing how wise he was, and this might be a reason for his arrogance.
"I thought perhaps these were lost babies."
"We don't bury the dead here. We send them out to sea."
He shivered.
"Why is it that we fear death so greatly? Do we not believe that there is an elsewhere, a smaller island, somewhere we go to be safe and small?"
"We can try to believe that. But we cannot know. It is the unknown that frightens us."
The watcher reminded her of Tilla, though he looked older with his grey beard. Lillah reached up to touch it; it was soft. She saw very few beards.
"This is a strange colour."
"I drank from the women's pool," he said. "When I was a boy. I was trying to prove that the myth wasn't true, but instead I proved it was true."
He took her to see the drinking pools. "If you drank from the men's pool your hair would go grey. All the hair on your body. Let's rejoin the feast."
Melia and Morace sat among the others as water was brought in carved wooden cups. Melia sipped, then sipped again.
"This is delicious," she said. "What sort of rainfall is this?"
"This is not rainfall. It is sea water. We have removed the salt from it, that is all," a young, strong man said.
The Order chuckled as he said this. "He makes it sound very simple, but each jug of pure water takes many hours of work, many resources. You may have seen us on the water's edge, at work."
"Not for long. I will discover easier ways. Better ways. We are lucky here; we have a lot of land between water and Tree. We have the space to make this water." His muscles rolled and there was a twist in his cheek.
"I have never tasted water like it," Melia said softly.
"You won't taste it anywhere else. No other Order will make the sacrifices needed for the water."
"Anything is worth it for this water. How do you know what to do?"
"Many years ago a newcomer arrived. She had word of sweet water and how to make it, but she was disbelieved. I'm ashamed to say our ancestors killed her; strapped her to some wood, slit her arms and her legs, and sent her out to sea. Her words were remembered, though."
Lillah closed her eyes. She felt sad already: she knew that Melia would stay. This is where she always meant to stay.
"So you don't fear the sea monster? You are not afraid taking his water will make him angry?"
"We do not believe there is a sea monster. There is perhaps a very large fish, bigger than we can imagine. But the fish don't mind if we use their water. It would be like us minding if they used our sand. Look at it; it will never run out."
Lillah hardly knew what to say to this. She walked away to check on the children; they were by the water's edge, staring out.
"Look, Lillah, out to sea. There is something floating," Morace said.
"Pull your shoulders back," Lillah whispered to him. "Sit up straight. Look well." She said aloud, "If Thea were here we could send her out to get it."
"It will float in before too long."
On the morning tide, it rested on the shore. A raft, built with long solid, sheddings from the Tree. There was nothing tied to it; it was wood alone.
"Months ago, a long time ago, a raft came back with a body tied to it. You should have seen it. We could no longer tell if it was a man or a woman; the flesh had been picked clean and the clothing rotted away and washed off." Melia's lover told this story with a smile. "This happens sometimes. We send our dead out on a raft, and they come back changed."
"This happens on the other side of the island, too."
The watcher came down to the water, shouting and spitting with fury. In this mood he was so much like Tilla, Lillah's old friend from her Order. She stopped herself talking to him, though. He was frightening when he was angry. He seemed even angrier than Tilla was, shouting warnings of terrible gaps in the earth which suck you into the centre.
"This raft has come from the cracks in the earth. Send it away before it destroys us."
"Don't listen to him. Superstitious and nasty he is. He thinks the Tree will crack down the middle and devour us because of our evil ways," one young man said, smiling.
"It's not funny, you great fool. You waste flesh and ignore omens."
"Where did you come from, old man? Not from here."
"Is he a newcomer?" Lillah asked.
"No, we just tease him. He bothers the birthing women, begging for placenta. He wants to perform his ritual but none of us like that."
"Don't you remember? Are all of you so stupid you don't remember? We sent out that old woman who died at our campfire. She came back blackboned and covered with moss. Don't you remember? Soon after we lost eight, eight of us lost to branchfall."
"She was one of your people?" Lillah asked. She felt her skin go cold.
"No, she wasn't one of us. She was a wandering old woman, lost. She said she had no home. She said her home was a place of emptiness and fruitfulness and that she would walk until she found a place fulfilling. She cooked for us, don't you remember?"
"We remember! We remember the woman, old man."
"She cooked?"
"She cooked with spices we had not tasted before. Delicious. She was an overly proud woman, though. And not well. Don't you remember? After a meal. We had swallowed too much fortified fruit, that much I do know. She had danced. I rather liked her. She reminded me of what it was like to be a young man. Those were my thoughts. I remember them."
Lillah felt tears forming.
"And then?"
"And then she died. She danced, she drank, she sat by the fire, and when we went to rouse her, she was gone."
"Where did she come from?" Melia asked, because Lillah couldn't speak.
"I remember that she said she came from Ombu. But she was born in Rhado. She said she might walk back to Ombu if there was nothing else for her. That I remember."
Lillah sank to the ground. Melia caught her by the shoulders.
"At least you know, Lillah. And she was happy. From what he says, she died as happy as any of us could hope to die."
Lillah nodded. "I know. I know. It's good
."
But still she felt a sense of loss. It was an ending. Her search was over.
It was three nights before Lillah felt she could choose a lover. She liked the strong, muscly one with knowledge of water. "You can have him tonight, Lillah, and until you leave. After that he's mine," Melia said. Lillah watched Melia kissing the other men, caressing them one by one, as if testing out the whole Order to see if it fit. After Douglas, they felt kindly towards other men.
Walking the Tree Page 24
