by A. G. Henley
“The guru will be perfectly safe. Perhaps you would like to carry her to be certain?”
“Bega and I will guide you,” Kora offers, her voice suffused with confidence. “We’re very good with gurus.”
The anuna grunt with effort as they lift and carry our unconscious people out of the cave. I don’t envy whoever is carrying Moray and his brothers. Or Bear, for that matter.
I freeze, waiting for the sounds of a struggle with the runa. The creatures still scream, but as far as I can tell, they don’t interfere. I step to the edge of the cave mouth, trembling, my arms cocooning the baby. I can’t quite make myself believe it’s safe. The Scourge is out there.
“Step outside, Fennel,” Kadee says from beside me. “You are safe. We all are. We always have been.”
Taking that first step into the darkness with a newborn clutched in my arms and little Kora by my side, surrounded by a throng of flesh eaters, the stench of their bodies assaulting my nose and my ears ringing with their cries, is incredibly difficult.
But they were right. They were always right. We’re perfectly safe.
Kora is true to her word, conscientiously escorting me around obstacles as we follow a path that snakes around groves of greenheart trees. I step cautiously at first, afraid I might stumble, or trip and drop the baby. My friend is more quiet than usual as we make our way. I ask her what’s wrong.
“They keep asking for help, and their faces are so sad. I don’t know what they want. I wish I did.”
I forgot the anuna, including Kora, could hear the runa speak. It will take days before the clean water from the Myuna works its magic and I’m able to hear their words, too. In the meantime I only hear the rabid groans. I cuddle the baby closer, lifting her up to my ear to hear her steady breathing.
The anuna begin singing as they carry the bodies of our people through the greenheart trees on blankets. Kora, the baby, and I follow in the gentle moonlight. We must make a truly strange procession.
Bega fills me in on all the gossip I missed. Her father, Derain, almost severed his finger carving a new toy for her brother, Darel. Wirrim, the anunas’ story-keeper, has been ill; he’s one of the few who did not come tonight.
“Where’s Kaiya?” I ask. I haven’t heard Peree’s admirer’s voice.
“Helping to carry Myall,” Kora says.
Of course she is.
Koolkuna turns out to be ridiculously close to the cave mouth. I’m able to get my bearings when we cross the stream by the clearing where Peree and I spent the night after the Feast of Deliverance. The same stream I was wading in alone when I was surprised and frightened to hear one of the runa. Memories of my time in the village flood through me, not all of them pleasant. Yet being back here feels unexpectedly like coming home.
A few minutes later we file into the allawah, the large shelter where the anuna hold their gatherings. The anuna spread out around the space. Kora tells me they're laying people on pallets they prepared for us that morning.
“I will take the baby now,” Arika says as I stand around, unsure what to do. “You need to rest.”
I hate to give up my sweet-smelling bundle, but she’s probably going to need to nurse soon and I’m definitely no help there. I pass her to Arika, who pats my arm.
“Sleep. Your people are safe. You’ve done well, Mirii.”
I give her a wobbly smile, wondering why she called me merry. I’m too worn out to ask. I collapse on the nearest unoccupied cot, wondering where Peree is. Sleep creeps around me. I welcome it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
At first I'm only aware of conflicting, confusing perceptions—the musty odor of the water hole, unwashed people and clothes, and meat sizzling. Light floods the allawah. At least I think I'm still here.
I smell another scent, almost as familiar as my own. "Peree?"
"Morning." His lips brush mine. "I didn't know you slept with a doll." He plucks something soft and stuffed out of my hands that I didn't realize I was holding.
"Bega?" I guess with a sleepy smile. That would explain the mildew smell. Kora must have tucked her in with me when I fell asleep.
People stir all around us. They sound grumpy and disoriented, but at least they aren't panicking.
"What's going on?" I ask.
"No idea. I've only been awake for a little while myself. I didn't want you to wake up alone, but now that you are . . . I need to go find Nerang and wring his skinny, hairless neck for drugging us."
I grab at his arm. "Peree, don't be angry. I don't agree with what he did either, but he only did it to get us here safely. And we are safe. In Koolkuna. Together." But without Eland, a voice in my head reminds me.
"True." He pulls me into his arms and kisses me again, with more focus. "Still going to kill him."
"Kill who?" someone says.
"Your father," Peree answers, getting to his feet. "Where is he?"
"Where's my knife you borrowed?" Konol demands. His voice has the same quality of suppressed laughter as his father's.
"Right here. Come and get it."
They wrestle for a minute, then break up, chortling.
"What do we have to do to get some food around here?" Moray shouts from somewhere across the room. I cringe and wonder if the anuna banish people for being obnoxious. If so, he won't last long. The thought gives me comfort.
More people are awake now. Dahlia starts to cry, and Moon and Petrel's baby joins her wailing chorus. Peree and Konol flop down next to me, panting.
"How's the hatchling?" I ask Peree.
"She looks fine. Arika's helping them out. I think you and Ivy might be Moon's favorite people now. Watch out—as soon as she's on her feet she'll be cooking nonstop for you . . . and speaking of cooking, breakfast is ready. That'll improve people's moods."
The anuna begin to wind around the allawah, serving plates of food. Konol sits with us as we eat thick porridge topped with sweet berries. He tells us what we missed while we were away. I already know most of it from Bega, but it's fascinating to hear about the anunas’ preparations for our arrival, including agreeing to Kora's idea to put everyone to sleep.
"So that's your father's evil plan?" Peree asks. "Sedate us whenever we get out of line?"
Konol only laughs.
"Where is everyone going to stay?" I ask him. Surely we won't all sleep in here for long. We'll kill each other.
"We began building new homes for the lorinya after you left Koolkuna—some on the ground, some in the trees." Lorinya means stranger in the first language. I heard it everywhere I went when I first visited Koolkuna.
"Really? You did that for us?" I wish for the hundredth time that my brother could be here to experience their generosity.
"We saved your home for you, Myall," Konol goes on. "Thought you would want it back."
Peree squeezes my shoulders. "What do you say, Fenn? It's on the ground."
"But you like to be in the trees." I'm fighting the pain that ripples through me whenever I think about what Eland would want.
"Maybe we'll build one up there later, when you feel better about it. For now, I'm happy wherever you are." His voice is quiet.
"People of the forest, welcome. We extend the peace of Koolkuna to you." Wirrim's fragile yet authoritative voice rises over the din of breakfast. "We have a tradition of welcoming lorinya with a story. The story I will tell you was passed down to us through the generations of our people. Now we offer it to you."
He coughs. It’s the harsh sound of the winter wind. He sounds weaker when he speaks again. I've only heard Wirrim tell a few tales, and each time was unforgettable in its own way. Given how he sounds now, I can't help wondering if this is the last time I'll hear him speak.
He shares the story of hearty trees that refuse to offer an ailing bird shelter, until the lowliest of the group—Pine—agrees. That selflessness is why Pine alone was granted the great honor of keeping its green needles throughout the cold season.
Everyone is silent, even the children, as Wirrim finishes. He dr
aws in a deep, rasping breath.
"We offer you a life sheltered among our branches, people of the forest. And in offering you this, we rest easy in the knowledge that the Creator will bless us all and give us peace."
We spend the next few hours showing our people around, reassuring them and answering their questions with Kadee and Konol's help. Being knocked out and finding themselves somewhere other than the last place they remember wasn't exactly the best way to start off, but most people seem more preoccupied with their immediate needs.
Where will they live? What will they eat? This person needs new shoes, that one Nerang's healing attentions. It's not easy to meet everyone's demands, but we do the best we can. I welcome the distraction. Staying busy keeps my mind out of the past. I dread when I have to slow down long enough to try to sleep.
There aren't enough homes to go around yet, so some of the anuna offer to take people in, like Kadee did when I was a lorinya. Petrel and Moon will have one of the new homes, and I'm happy to hear that Arika and Derain invited Bear to stay with them until his home is ready.
The anuna stop us often to say hello, usually calling Peree by his nickname. One of the first to speak to us is a girl I worked with in the gardens when I was here before. She calls me merry again, and I ask her why.
She giggles. "Not merry, Mirii."
Peree elbows me. "Fenn has a nickname, too? What does it mean?"
"Star," the girl answers. "Wherever she goes, people follow."
"Like you, Myall," Konol teases.
"I'm not ashamed to admit it.” Peree slips his arm around my waist.
I don't feel much like a guiding light. From what I know about stars, they seem very sure of their role and position in the night sky, while I question every decision I make. Then again, maybe that's what stars do at first, too, and the confidence comes later.
"What do you think of your new name?" Peree asks me.
"I hope I can live up to it," I say.
"You already have. You got us here."
Not all of us, I can't help thinking. Anyway, he's being generous. He got us here, while I was mostly comatose in the caves. Some star.
A little later we help Moon, Petrel, Thrush, and the baby settle into their home. It's in the trees. They thought about a home on the ground, but decided they were still more comfortable up in the air.
The choice was set in stone, so to speak, when Thrush discovered the ropes-and-rock way down that sends you heedlessly crashing to the ground. He rides it down at least ten times. Moon's convinced he's going to be crushed by the counterweights, the heavy boulders, but Petrel and Peree insist it's all in good fun. I'm inclined to agree with Moon.
Their new shelter isn't as large or elaborate as their old home, and they only have a few pallets on the floor for furniture so far, but they don't seem to mind. Arika lent them a cradle for the hatchling that Kora and Darel outgrew years ago. I sit and rock her as we talk, leaning in every so often to inhale her scent: a blend of Moon's bouquet and her own fresh aroma, like spring grass.
Petrel and Peree finish arranging the pallets where Moon wants them, between the two windows so they catch the evening breezes. We can hear Thrush hollering and pelting up and down the walkway outside with another boy. How is it that children make friends with strangers so easily? If only adults did, too.
"I wasn't so sure when we woke up with a tea hangover this morning," Petrel jokes, "but I think we made the right decision in coming."
“Thank you, cousins," Moon says. "I'm so grateful to you both, and to Ivy, for delivering our hatchling.” I can tell she's exhausted—she's actually speaking at a normal rate—but she also sounds supremely happy. "Oh! Did Petrel tell you? We decided on a name for her."
Peree pounds Petrel on the back. "Good news. What did you go with?"
I plaster a smile on my face and brace myself, preparing to gush over the Lofty name no matter how preposterous it sounds to my Groundling ears.
"Yani," Moon says.
"Yani? That's . . . beautiful." And I actually mean it. They laugh, probably at the surprised tone in my voice. "Is it a . . . type of cloud or something?" Lofty women are usually named for something in their environment.
Petrel answers. "We figured we're starting a new life here, so maybe it's time for a new tradition. We asked the locals what the word for hope is in their language. Turns out it's yani."
"We thought it was perfect," Moon says.
I nuzzle little Yani, who sleeps contentedly in her cradle. Hope. "It is perfect. I love it."
"Now, can you tell me something?” Moon says. “What does lorinya mean? Everyone keeps calling us that."
And it's my turn to laugh.
Peree and I leave soon after, agreeing to take the new family to the water hole the next day for a swim. The cooling air is crisp as apples. We stroll along the walkway to the descending platform, stopping to chat with people along the way. I refuse to use the ropes-and-rocks method unless I absolutely have to.
"Care to come home with me?" Peree asks, a teasing note in his voice. It's been a while since we've been alone together.
"Shouldn't we do a little more to help people get settled in?" I ask, waving my hand around.
"It can wait. We promised to get them here. Mission accomplished. We can sneak away for an evening, don't you think?"
I don't answer right away; the silence grows between us. He unexpectedly pulls me off course, leading me across a wide platform. My stomach rolls in protest at the abrupt movement.
"There's a nice view from here; let's sit for a while."
He guides me to the edge and seats us with our backs against a supporting tree. I hear people above and below us, laughing and talking, but for the moment we're alone. The diving sun offers us a soft blanket of warmth, and birds serenade us from the surrounding branches. It's peaceful, exactly what Koolkuna is supposed to be.
But the moment I consider letting myself relax, thoughts of Eland steal in. It's impossible to sweep away the burning embers of regret in my chest. I didn't think I could miss someone more than Aloe, but I do.
I can tell Peree's going to ask me how I'm doing, and the last thing I want to do is break down again. So I preemptively change the subject.
"I have something to tell you," I say. "Something I learned right before we left." He waits. I take his hand, stroking his rough fingers. "Your natural mother—was Marjoram."
"Your herbalist?" he asks.
"She told me she hated that she had to give you up, that it was the biggest regret of her life." After being with Moon as she gave birth, and losing Eland, I have a better understanding of exactly how awful the Exchange really was.
"I'm glad to know," Peree says. "I never put much thought into who my natural parents were, but of course I was curious."
"She was a good person," I say. "And she obviously loved you."
He winds his fingers around mine. "I'm glad we won't have to go through that, if we have children."
I nod.
"Fenn . . . you said before, during our first trip through the caves, that you didn't want children because of the Exchange. Do you still feel that way?" He sounds cautious.
I shrug. I haven't had time to process everything that's happened, much less to think about the future. We don't speak for a few minutes, listening to the drifting chatter of the anuna around us. Thrush runs down the walkway behind us every so often, howling excitedly. It pierces me through each time I hear him.
Peree speaks again, sounding hesitant. "Have you ever heard the story of the coyote?"
A story would be nice. Maybe it will put off thoughts of Eland for a few minutes. "What kind of animal is a coyote?"
"Kind of like a dog. Do you know what that is?"
I do. Kora told me a story about dogs. They were animal companions for humans before the Fall. I'm not quite sure I believe that. It seems like an incredible luxury to live with a good-sized animal and not eventually have to eat it.
"Coyotes used to roam all over,
" Peree continues. "They ate small animals, like rabbits, and were very adaptable."
"What's a rabbit?" It's my weak attempt at a joke. If any animal thrived after the Fall, it's the rabbits. They're everywhere.
"Ha, ha. Coyotes were solitary animals. They only came together to make little coyotes."
He slides his hands around my waist. I drop my head back against his chest, bone tired, and allow his words to take me away from my misery for a little while.
"In the time before time," Peree says, "Coyote and his mate lived together, raising their family. They lived in the low mountains, hunting across the hills and through the wide-open spaces under the blue sky and bright sun. They never separated. When they had litters of young, they both tended them, taking turns to hunt. In the summer, food was plentiful. In the winter, they shared what they had to survive. They relied on one another, happy to be together.
"One winter the snows came early. Storm after storm fell over the coyotes' mountain home, and the sun never came to melt the snow. The small animals burrowed and hid from the weather, so the coyotes began to starve. Worse than that, their young starved, too. The pair watched their children waste away, one small life at a time, taken by the unforgiving frost and snow. When spring peeked through the smothering blanket of winter again, their young were all gone.”
I stiffen and Peree kisses the top of my head in apology.
"Coyote was terribly sad. His mate was inconsolable. She had wasted to the point of death, refusing to eat when he brought her food. Coyote didn't know what to do. One day, the warmest yet after the harsh winter, he found her sitting in a high place, looking out over the valley below. The mountains were still shedding the whites and grays of winter and wrapping themselves in the soft colors of spring.
"Coyote watched his mate, hoping the hint of light he saw in her golden eyes meant she was starting to recover from their loss. Maybe she was ready to begin again, start a new family, he thought. But his hopes were crushed when she spoke.
"'I'm leaving,' she said, her voice as desolate and broken as the higher ground above them, still clutched in winter's deadly grip. 'Then I will go with you,' Coyote said. His mate shook her beautiful, dappled grey head. 'No. I will go alone.' He realized then that the light he'd seen in her eyes had been the last bit of hope going out. It burned bright, but only for a moment, before extinguishing. He wanted to plead with her not to go, but he could see it would do no good. She would not recover from losing their young. Her heart was broken, the remnants washed away by her tears, never to be whole again. And he understood. For the last untouched part of his heart—the part that held and protected his love for his mate—was breaking, too."
