Shards of History

by Rebecca Roland

  “Cut him free,” Malia shouted over the roar of the water. “Cut him free so he can run!”

  The boys reached solid ground. Stromlof yelled for them to keep running and not stop until they reached the woods. They intercepted Stromlof’s nephews, and together the four boys raced for the nearest trees. Stromlof hit the ground a moment later and kept running, Malia bouncing in his arms.

  “The others,” she gasped.

  “I’ll put you down and go back for them.”

  “There’s no time!” She pounded his shoulder.

  Stromlof gritted his teeth and ran faster.

  Malia couldn’t bear to watch, but she couldn’t bear not to watch as the water rolled on. The two men on the bridge pushed past Rasmus, crowding him against the rope railing, and then pelted along.

  Rasmus nearly tumbled over the rope but managed to stop himself. He took a couple of hobbling steps. The water was about to overtake the bridge. He stopped, turned his back to it, and gripped the rope railing with his bound hands.

  Malia’s heart leapt into her throat. Her hands grasped Stromlof’s shoulders and squeezed until her knuckles whitened. Clan mother protect them, clan mother save them.

  The two men were still a few paces from the end of the bridge when the water crashed against it. One man grabbed the rope railing. The other also grabbed for it, but a sudden jerk of the bridge caused him to miss. He went flying over the rope instead, tumbling headfirst into the churning water. The man on the bridge cried out.

  The bridge bucked as water rushed beneath it and over it. The water swept the second man’s feet from beneath him. He managed to hold on, but the force of the river jerked his arms. He cried out again, holding on for a few moments before letting go. The water swept him away.

  Now Rasmus stood alone on the bridge. He held onto the rope, every muscle straining as white-capped water pulled at his legs.

  Stromlof set Malia down when they reached the trees. She leaned against the trunk of a fir tree, her arrow wound and the other knee throbbing with pain, with sharper fingers of pain stabbing deep in the joint. Her hands clenched at her sides, she leaned forward, willing Rasmus to hold on just a little longer.

  He began side stepping away from them while holding onto the railing, the bridge still jerking beneath his feet and water pouring over the planks. Yes, Malia thought. A grin spread across her face. He could get away.

  Stromlof paced. “Clan mother curse him.” He moved forward, as if he would run to the bridge.

  “You can’t leave me and the boys,” Malia said quickly.

  He hesitated. “But he’s going to get away.” He resumed pacing. If he were a cougar, he would be swishing his tail back and forth angrily. Then he stopped, pulled his bow free, and nocked an arrow.

  Malia had no time to think of what she was doing. She ran forward, ignoring the stabbing pain in her knee. She had to stop Stromlof from letting that arrow fly.

  Wood creaked and moaned. One of the anchoring poles on the near side of the river bent. The bridge swayed and dipped farther into the water. Rasmus had a quarter of the distance to go.

  Malia shoved Stromlof’s arm as he let the arrow fly. It disappeared harmlessly into the swirling water.

  He whirled on her, his face contorted with anger. “What is wrong with you?” He reached over his shoulder for another arrow.

  Before Malia could think of a response, the anchoring pole groaned and bent further. The river gushed over the bridge, as high as Rasmus’s knees. The bridge stretched out so long, and he still had a ways to go.

  Then the pole cracked, the report like sharp thunder. The bridge lurched forward and into the water. Rasmus lost his hold on the railing. He tumbled forward, diving headfirst into the gray water.

  Malia held her breath, gaze darting all over the river’s surface, waiting for a shorn head to pop up. Waiting, waiting, until her lungs screamed for air and she had to breathe. And still no sign of Rasmus.

  He never had a chance, not with his arms and legs bound. He was gone. Malia sank to the ground, her strength suddenly sapped as if the river had pulled it along with the men it had swallowed.

  Stromlof whooped and clapped his hands. “The river has been returned to us, and it took the exile with it. This is a much more fitting death for him than an arrow.”

  The Maddion had done this. They had taken down the dam. And from what Rasmus had said of them, they didn’t do it out of pity, or because they had given up and were going to go home. They had done it because it suited their purpose of getting inside the valley.

  Malia shivered under the hot, late morning sun.

  Chapter 15

  Stromlof had sent his nephews back to Posalo to bring a harvest basket for Malia to travel in since it was too painful for her to walk. The basket was meant to carry the harvest and drag along the ground, not hold a person. She felt every rock and bump along the road so that by the time they reached Posalo, everything ached, not just her knee.

  The road traveled beside the Big River, which now lived up to its name. Water churned along, carrying bits of debris with it—tree branches, brush that had been pulled from its perch on the bank. And somewhere farther down the river, it had swallowed three men, Rasmus included. Malia hung her head, letting strands of hair that had come loose from her bun hide her face as hot tears slid down her cheeks. She was alone now in trying to convince the Taakwa that the Jeguduns were not their real threat. And she was as alone as an exile. There was no going back to Selu, and once she left Posalo, there would be no going back there either. She hadn’t realized until now how much she’d been relying on Rasmus to help her transition to living apart from her family and her village.

  The sun shone high overhead when they reached the village. Posalo was built much like Selu, mud-brick homes forming a circle, the center open to hold meetings and ceremonies. Their crops grew between the village and the river. A second bridge, much older than the one she’d just crossed, spanned the river. It appeared to have survived the river’s onslaught. The familiarity of the place where she’d spent three moons brought a pang to Malia’s heart.

  The only difference between Selu and Posalo was the herd of llamas grazing south of the village. Posalo was one of the few villages that raised the animals. They traded the wool, and the llamas served well as guard animals. A couple of them raised their heads to stare at Malia and the boys. One made a sound like a cross between a hum and a frog’s grunt. Then they went back to grazing. Malia had liked the animals until the day she’d petted one only to have it sneeze in her face.

  Children ran alongside the river, splashing water into one another’s faces and laughing. It overflowed its banks and passed a mere hand’s breadth beneath the bridge. Men strode through the fields, seeing that the crops were well irrigated but not flooded. The aroma of baking bread and roasting meat wafted from the village as women began dinner preparations. Malia’s stomach growled in response.

  A cacophony of happy voices filled the air. Malia wished she could cover her ears with her hands and block them out. Over and over again she saw the bridge’s anchor break, sending it lurching forward, and Rasmus tumbling through the air to disappear underwater and never come back up. And her heart had lurched along with him. Heaviness filled her chest, and a wail built up, wanting to burst forth from her mouth to carry that heaviness with it. But she couldn’t mourn, not here, not now. First Tuvin, now Rasmus … the unspent grief threatened to swallow her.

  The boys hadn’t spoken to her the entire way. They had lost family in the river’s flood. Their thoughts must be much like Malia’s. Now that they neared Posalo, their pace quickened as if they were anxious to leave her with Enuwal and be on their way.

  The faster pace meant more jouncing. Malia’s teeth chattered against one another. She tried to find a more comfortable position, seated with her back against the basket’s tall rim, gaze fixed on where they’d come from. The basket left a wide swath in the dirt, the few strands of grass poking up from the road flattened
by their passage. Malia endured the trip silently, wanting to get to the peace and quiet of Enuwal’s home as quickly as possible.

  Once they reached the village, she was greeted by inquisitive glances. Malia pulled the rest of her hair free of its bun and started working out the tangles as a pretense to hide her face. She did not want to answer questions or speak to anyone. She wanted to rest, have Enuwal tend her wounds, and try to forget the image of Rasmus plunging into the river. Then she would leave for the cliffs. She was the only one now who could warn the Jeguduns of the Taakwa army about to descend upon them.

  “What happened to her?” a woman asked the boys as they passed.

  Malia pulled more hair over her face.

  One of the boys replied, “She was on the bridge when the rush of water came through. And,” he lowered his voice, but Malia could still make out the words, “there was an exile. He was on the bridge and trying to escape, but the river leapt up and swallowed him.”

  “Who else was there?” The woman’s voice rose, unable to hide the anxiety.

  The boy hesitated. “Stromlof.”

  Stromlof had remained behind, searching down river for his brother and the other man.

  “Anybody else?”

  “Your nephew wasn’t with us.”

  “But there were others?”

  “You’ll have to talk to the men’s council.”

  The woman hurried away, gathering a small group of women as she went. Malia felt rather sorry for the members of the men’s council.

  A moment later, the basket stopped moving. The back end dropped to the ground with a heavy thump and one of the boys said, “We are here.”

  Unlike all the other homes that opened to the village’s center, Enuwal had a second door that led directly outside, as well as a free standing mud-brick structure that held many of the herbs and tools he used as a healer. He maintained a small garden beside it. Lavender grew tall, the smell filling the air, and beside that, green peppers promised to soon ripen. From inside the outbuilding itself wafted the pungent aroma of numerous dried herbs. Malia’s nose tickled, and she sneezed.

  This had been her home for nearly the entire previous summer. She’d left right around this time, the garden in much the same state. It was as if she’d been gone moments and not a full year.

  Stromlof’s nephews were helping her from the harvest basket when the blanket covering the door drew aside. Then Enuwal stepped out.

  He hadn’t changed much since Malia had last seen him. He was still thin and tall, although his shoulders stooped a bit more now beneath the ivory tunic he wore over leggings. A few strands of gray showed at his temples, and a couple of new, faint lines cupped his mouth. But the same dimples appeared when he smiled. Malia tried to smile in return, but all she managed was a twitch of her mouth as she fought the hot tears that brimmed along her eyes and the trembling in her chin.

  “Malia, what a nice surprise!” His smile faltered, then faded altogether as he took her in. “Let’s get you inside.” He snapped his fingers. “Boys, help her.” He ducked back into his home.

  Stromlof’s nephews stood on either side of her and put her arms around their shoulders. She began to protest that she could walk inside on her own, but each step presented a different pain. The arrow wound burned on her right thigh, and a shooting pain ran through her left knee. She let the boys do most of the work.

  Nobody had built over Enuwal’s home, and so he had a small opening cut out from his roof. It served to let out the smoke of his central fire, the hearth sunken into the ground and bordered with river stone, and to let in extra light. Wooden shelves covered all available wall space, half of them filled with items he used often as a healer. The other half held his extra clothes, his food and cooking utensils, and gifts from those grateful for his help. The deer bowl that Dalibor had broken would have been one such gift from Malia. A crudely made, shallow bowl sat prominently in the center of a shelf. Her cheeks warmed when she recognized the first piece she’d made during her recovery. It looked like the work of a child. He could have kept the finer pieces she’d made later. Why he had chosen that one, she didn’t know.

  Enuwal spread a clean blanket over a sleeping pallet and gestured for the boys to help Malia to it. They eased her halfway down, and she sank the rest of the way with a sigh, glad to finally be able to lie down. The pallet was soft, filled with turkey feathers and down, and it cradled her aching body. She pulled her travel bag off and hugged it to her. One hand crept to Tuvin’s feather and clutched it tight.

  Enuwal tossed a fir branch onto the fire. It smoked, and then tendrils of flame licked at it. The wood’s smell filled the space, the smoke dancing as it sought to escape through the opening in the ceiling. It reminded Malia of the forest fire, and flames leaping over her and Rasmus. She sat bolt upright, blood pounding through her veins. The heat of the fire licked at her skin, her hair. Only this time it would consume her. She couldn’t escape death again.

  “What’s wrong?” Enuwal knelt beside her, lines of worry creasing his forehead.

  Her hand dropped from the feather. “The fire,” she gasped. “Forest fire. We were trapped. It was all around us. I thought I was going to die. And the bridge. The bridge collapsed. I—” She fought for control of the words tumbling from her mouth. She didn’t want to give away the fact that she’d been helping an exile. Enuwal was receptive to new ideas, but she did not know how he would react to news of her befriending an exile or a Jegudun. She couldn’t tell him just yet.

  Her gaze found the shelves holding gifts for Enuwal: a bone knife with herbs painted on the handle, a tightly woven, delicate basket small enough to fit in his cupped hands, a doll, crudely but lovingly made, no doubt by a young girl Enuwal had helped.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat and then said, “I was going to come with my mother later this summer and bring you a bowl I had made. It was an effigy of a deer. But Dalibor broke it. I had worked so hard on it, and it was beautiful, and he broke it. Everything is broken.”

  She couldn’t hold in the heaviness any longer. Sobs shook her body as she cried. Enuwal pulled her close, his familiar, earthy, herbaceous smell filling her nostrils and making her cry all the harder. He said nothing, only held her and let her cry.

  * * *

  “I’m so embarrassed,” Malia said. She wiped her face with the cloth Enuwal handed her and gently blew her nose. Her head felt stuffed with dandelions. “I didn’t mean to cry like that.”

  Enuwal poured hot water into two mugs. The bitter smell of willow bark came from them, carried on the tendrils of rising steam. He added a drop of honey to each, then offered one to Malia. She wrapped her hands around the warm mug.

  “I don’t know what brought you here,” Enuwal said, “or even what exactly has happened to you, but you seem to have been through quite an ordeal.” His nose crinkled momentarily.

  Malia sighed. “I know I must smell like I’ve been through quite an ordeal.”

  This won a tiny smile from Enuwal. “That’s easily remedied. The river is a bit rough right now for bathing, but I could have some water brought here. A birdbath isn’t the same as a nice, long soak, but you should really get out of those dirty clothes.” He cleared his throat, then quickly added, “And into some clean ones. The woman living next door is about your size. Will you be all right for a few minutes?”

  Malia nodded.

  Enuwal disappeared into the village center. He left the blanket hanging down, covering the door and giving her some privacy. Voices and shouts and laughter still reached her, but she could close her eyes and ignore them.

  She sipped at the willow bark tea and grimaced. The honey hid its bitterness, but not absolutely. Then she lay down, cradling her head on one arm. She didn’t think she’d be able to sleep, not with all the images and thoughts whirling through her mind, but the next thing she realized, Enuwal was shaking her shoulder.

  “I’ve warmed up some water for you,” he said. “And I have clean clothes, and a brush f
or your hair.”

  Malia rubbed her eyes. One corner of Enuwal’s home held a large bowl, steam rising from it, with a pile of folded clothes and a blanket beside it. Perfect.

  “Do you need help standing?”

  She shook her head. She stood slowly, gingerly putting weight on the leg she’d injured on the bridge. The knee, although throbbing, accepted her weight. The swelling was minimal, given how painful it had been earlier. And her other leg was no worse than it had been that morning. “I think I can manage.”

  “I’ll give you some privacy. But I’ll be just outside the door.” He stepped out, the blanket falling into place behind him with a snap.

  A small cloth waited for Malia, folded on the edge of the bowl. Lavender floated in the water, and rosemary lay on the bottom. Their smells filled the air. Malia took a deep breath and sighed. Some of the tension in her muscles faded.

  She stripped out of her clothes and left them in a pile on the floor. They were sooty and torn and beyond repair. She caught a whiff of her own sweaty, smoky odor and crinkled her nose. She wished she could wash her hair, but that would have to wait. Her leather belt and dagger went on one shelf, folded neatly. She left the leather necklace in place.

  She scrubbed herself from head to toe, the water in the bowl turning gray. Although she didn’t want to look at the wound on her thigh, she studied it as she cleaned around it. The redness had not expanded, but it hadn’t grown better either. The hot water quickly cooled on her skin, making her shiver.

  She pulled on the clean clothes. They were made of woven grass cloth and without decoration. The woman who had donated them had probably been about to sew her finishing touches on the cloth, perhaps with beads or dyed thread, but for now, the clothes were blank, like a newly made bowl ready for painting. The tunic clung to her damp skin, and the skirt to her thighs. Both were thick and would absorb the dampness well.

  With the brush, she worked out the last tangles from her hair. She secured it in a bun at the base of her neck with a leather strap. There. That was as good as she was going to get for the moment.