Dreams of the Dark Sky

by Tina LeCount Myers

  Kalek took up the bowl of herbs and steaming water that Okta had given him. He wrung out the soaking cloth, then gently wiped Dárja’s brow and temple. Her unblinking gaze pained him. He dipped and squeezed the cloth, repeating his ministrations until the warm water turned muddy. He refreshed the water and turned his attention to her hands, pouring his heart into his task. When Kalek finished, he bowed his forehead to meet their entwined fingers. He closed his eyes, listening to Dárja breathe, praying to the gods that exhaustion would soon claim her and she would sleep.

  “What was my oktoeadni like?” Dárja’s voice cut the silence.

  Kalek raised his head. Dárja stared upward into the deep shadows of the roughhewn rafters.

  “Why do you wish to know?” he asked, wincing at the defensiveness in his voice. Then he let out a long, slow breath, hoping to push back the dread closing in on him.

  “Aillun was gentle,” he said finally. “She trained as a healer with Okta.” And as an afterthought, he said. “As did I.”

  Kalek picked his way through memories, both suppressed and cherished.

  “She was quiet, and well suited for working with herbs. She liked to work with her hands.” He smiled in spite of himself. “She had an open heart,” he said. “Like you.”

  Dárja turned her unseeing gaze to him.

  “We fought before she left for her Origin,” he said. “She did not trust me well enough to tell me her time to change had come. I was angry. I said things I now wish I had not. But I said them because I was hurt . . . Those angry words were the last we shared.”

  Dárja’s lip quivered.

  Kalek feared she would draw the wrong conclusion from his sudden candor. There were too many seasons of snow ahead of her. He did not want atonement to turn into something cruel and twisted.

  “But you went after her,” she said. Her brimming eyes betrayed her dulled voice.

  Kalek, brushed the hair from Dárja’s damp forehead. He smiled to reassure her. “I went to find you.”

  “Irjan killed her,” Dárja said, “and I killed Irjan.” The strange lightness and far-off quality of her voice worried him.

  Kalek cradled her face in his hands, willing her to see him. “Irjan did not kill Aillun. You did not kill Irjan.”

  Dárja shook her head fiercely, denying this truth.

  Determined to get through to her, Kalek continued, “Irjan was trying to save Marnej. He did not know there would be consequences to his actions.”

  She grabbed hold of his wrists. The jagged edges of her fingernails dug into his skin. “I knew what I was doing when I went to his cell.”

  “Listen to me, Dárja. Okta was right. Blame us. Blame me.” Kalek fought to keep her eyes on him. He fought to keep her from despair. “Do you believe he would have stayed in his cell as we marched off to fight?” Without waiting for her reply he continued, “You know as well as I, Irjan would not stand by to let others fight without him. He chose his destiny. You must let him have that. You must.”

  Kalek paused, feeling the loss as he honored the truth. “Just as we could not stop you from going off to battle,” he said.

  Dárja released her hold on him. She rolled onto her back, hiding her face in the crook of her arm.

  Kalek leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

  “When Okta found him, a part of me left this world to join his spirit.” Kalek’s voice cracked. He went on in a whisper, “But that was not the worst of it. Because what I dreaded most was coming home to tell you, knowing it would break your heart.” He shut his eyes. Still, he could not stop seeing the battlefield. The bodies. Irjan. “When we returned and discovered you were gone . . . it was my heart that broke.”

  Dárja hiccupped. Kalek raised his head to see her gaunt body shaking.

  “But you are home,” he said, aware of both his pain and joy.

  Dárja sat up in an awkward rush, burying her face in his shoulder. Kalek held her tight to him, rocking her back and forth. He thought of Irjan. He could hear Irjan talking to him as he had so often done when Dárja was small. Kalek kissed the top of her head. Her short curls filled his nostrils with the scent of smoke and he breathed her in, understanding now what Irjan had tried so often to explain to him about the bond between a father and a child.

  Eerie quiet pressed in all around Marnej as he sat the table. He wanted to say something, to do something, anything but sit there. But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t think other than to count the loss. They’d all lost something: Kalek and Okta a friend, Dárja a guardian, and he . . . he’d lost a father, one that he’d never known. Dárja’d had his father, while he’d had a lifetime of lies.

  This new jealousy irritated Marnej. He was a grown man who had no need of a father. But as he cast envy aside, alarm took its place. He began to obsess on the possibility he might have killed his own father on the battlefield and not even realized. It had been chaos that day, and he’d been swept up in the frenzy. If it was my blade . . . But he would not let himself finish the thought. The slow descent into paralyzing guilt awaited him if he persisted. He needed to concentrate on something he could be sure of. Clear reasoning brought him back to the fact he would never meet his father, never be free of doubt. Dárja and Kalek might speak of his father’s love for him, but he would he would always wonder.

  “What’s to become of me?” he asked, his question like a shout in the quiet room.

  “We will go to the Council of Elders,” Okta said, without directly answering Marnej.

  The ancient healer rose to stand like a disapproving monolith. “They may already know you are here, but it is better to seek them out than to wait and be found.”

  Marnej tensed at the inferred threat. “Will they imprison me like my father?”

  “We are beyond that,” Okta said.

  Marnej marked the hasty response and doubted its truth. “So . . . no one will stop me if I try to leave?”

  Okta threw up his hands as he walked toward the door. “Who among us can stop you? We are all the young and the old and the weak.”

  “You have no warriors?” Marnej asked, still seated at the table, undecided if he should follow.

  “There are a few. If called upon, they will fight.”

  Marnej stood up, though not necessarily to join Okta. “Won’t they attack me if they see me?”

  “If you are worried for your safety, then stay here,” Okta said, his exasperation evident in his rising pitch. “But it is your destiny we are to discuss and you may have interest in that.” The old healer pulled open the door and waited for Marnej to walk through.

  Marnej hesitated.

  “No harm will come to you in my presence,” Okta said. He gestured to Marnej’s sword, adding tartly, “but if you need reassurance then keep your hand upon that hilt.”

  Marnej did not move. His reticence came more from obstinacy than concern for his safety. He’d had enough of others deciding his fate. He would leave. He would make a life for himself the way his father had—on his own. But he wasn’t like his father, or at least he assumed he wasn’t. But what did he really know?

  Marnej grudgingly took a step toward the door, then another. Without intending to, he caught up to Okta. Just before the old healer entered the great hall, Marnej faltered.

  Okta looked back over his shoulder, then motioned for him to come forward. Marnej walked out into the hall under the watchful gaze of the gathered Immortals. They whispered. The air became hot and stale around him. Marnej felt himself flush. He ventured to mimic Okta’s authority, then felt foolish. They were women and children. They were no threat to him. He let slide his hand, embarrassed that he’d rested it on the knife in his belt. As he continued walking, he was careful to not make eye-contact with anyone. Then without warning, a woman, red-faced with rage, ran at him. Before he could react, she spat in his face.

  Marnej wiped the spittle off his cheek, staring at the glowering woman as other women ran forward to pull her back.

  “I am not afraid
of this Olmmoš,” she snarled as they tugged at her arms.

  “Enough,” Okta said, stepping in front of Marnej.

  “No! It is not enough!” she shouted back, trying to push Okta out of her way. “It is too much to bear. Our warriors lie dead upon some field and he walks through us with impunity!”

  “When you know enough of life, then you can speak,” Okta said. “Until then, Úlla, step back and join the other nieddaš.”

  Unbowed, the woman named Úlla shook off the grip of the other women. She stepped back from Okta but did not turn away. Her mouth twisted into a sneer. Unnerved, Marnej followed Okta across the hall, wondering if all of the Immortal women were as fierce as Dárja and this last one.

  As if reading his mind, Okta said, “Úlla feels the pressure of the changes wrought upon us.”

  The pressures of the changes wrought upon us, Marnej repeated to himself. The healer had not added, “By your kind.” But it had been implied. They walked on in silence. To Marnej’s great relief no one else accosted them. Still, he couldn’t rid himself of the image of Úlla’s face as she swooped down on him like a hawk with her talons out, ready to rip him apart.

  Okta stopped at what looked like a dead end, catching Marnej mid-stride. The healer reached forward to push aside the barrier, beyond which lay a torch-lit room. Marnej followed Okta, his head tilted back, amazed to see the night sky with its stars above him. Impossible, he thought. They were still in the season of light where true night sky was cast in twilight hues. He glanced down to gain his bearings and found himself facing a line of six ancient Immortals. They wore plain linen robes the color of harvest wheat. Their indifferent expressions offered little to distinguish one from the other.

  From the center of their ranks, one of the ancients moved forward. He appeared to glide, his robe hardly rustling. Marnej grew increasingly uneasy. He considered the likelihood there had been some poison in his tea or food which altered his senses. He stepped back, and a hand grasped his. It was Okta, but the ancient healer’s firm grip was not reassuring.

  “Einár,” Okta said in greeting, with a discreet nod of his head.

  The one called Einár stood directly in front of them. Like Okta, he was bearded, and his brow was furrowed. Unlike Okta, however, his eyes were bright, deeply set, and filled with distrust but tempered by something Marnej couldn’t quite place.

  “Marnej, son of Irjan,” Einár said.

  Marnej was unsure if this acknowledgment served to honor or condemn him. Then he recognized what he’d just seen, what he’d just heard. It was resignation. This moment had long been expected, though not desired.

  “I have witnessed Guovassonásti’s rebirth countless times. I have contemplated our Life Star in the heavens, seeking to discern the will of the gods. I believed that I knew their intent.” The Immortal paused. A crescent smile appeared for an instant, then vanished behind the curtain of his white beard.

  “When your father stood before me, I still held that belief. Now, with everything that has come to pass, I understand it was an illusion.”

  Marnej didn’t know how to respond or even if he should. He was sure his prolonged indecision would earn him a prodding, but it went unnoticed.

  “When your father stood before me,” Einár said, “I asked him if he understood his destiny. In my arrogance, I believed I knew his fate and could therefore control it.”

  Einár turned to Okta. Something unspoken passed between them before he continued. “Like you, he was Olmmoš and a Piijkij. We could not release him once he was with us. But he was also Jápmemeahttun, and we could not kill one of our own. So, we imprisoned him. But destiny does not respect walls, nor locked doors, nor the idea of a prison. Irjan escaped time and again until his true calling was fulfilled.”

  Marnej stole a brief glance at Okta, hoping to grasp the meaning of what was being said and what was about to happen. Okta’s face revealed nothing.

  “To have you here, was his true calling,” the ancient Immortal finished.

  Marnej shifted, clasping his hands behind him, discomfited by the fact that they felt moist. He wanted to wipe them on his pants, but the solemn atmosphere stifled his further movement.

  “You have a choice, Marnej,” Einár said.

  Marnej’s heart skipped a beat.

  “You, like your father, are one of us,” said Einár, with the nodding approval of the other five Immortals.

  “We will not imprison you to protect ourselves from our fate. But you are feared. If you stay among us, you must reconcile that. We have lost more than you can imagine. Some will hold you accountable. However, the choice is yours. Stay and claim your place among your kind, or go and take with you the responsibility of our lives.”

  Marnej stood speechless, aware that this time he could not remain silent. He thought of his father and wondered what Irjan would have done given this choice.

  He met the ancient Immortal’s penetrating gaze. “I choose to stay among you,” he said.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  VÁLDE SWEPT HIS HANDS to the right, signaling the others to keep low. He kept watch on the travelers’ hut for signs of possible trouble. If there was any chance for them to act, they needed horses. Five of them at least, as Herko had belabored, to carry the nine of them. Nine Brethren to stand against the Believers with only their skill and their swords.

  Válde removed his cloak, trusting that his soiled tunic would help him blend with the birch trees around him. He glanced from the travelers’ hut entrance to the stables, just beyond the northeastern corner of the low-slung log shelter. Smoke rose from the roof, telling him the fire was centrally placed. What the faint wisps could not tell him was whether or not any of those gathered around the fire included soldiers. Movement along the patchy eastern tree-line caught his eye. The others were in place.

  Observing the comings and goings at the hut, Válde had discerned there were at least four horses, possibly more, stabled within. While no soldiers had arrived thus far, he still worried there might be a stable boy or a smith who could raise the alarm. Herko had been quick to point out that while Válde directed their moves, it was the others who assumed the risk. Válde had not disagreed but reminded the others he would be the one left behind if the plan failed.

  Herko’s distrust had not offended Válde. The men had lost everything, save their lives, and he had persuaded them to gamble even that on vengeance. But he could think of no other way forward. They were not farmers or potters or wool merchants. They were the Piijkij of the Brethren of Hunters. They had lived with structure and training, with an oath and honor that had been codified and passed down for generations. They had a sacred calling without which they each risked going mad or ending up dissolute. But Válde had to admit that lurking so close to the Believers’ Stronghold hinted at folly.

  He scanned the trade route where the cart path curved behind a young larch thicket. There had been no signs of movement on the road for some time. Still, Válde wavered between taking it as a sign for action or an omen to stay hidden. He had been taught to hunt Jápmea and to lead men into open battle. He had not been trained to skulk behind trees like a brigand. But that was what they were now. Brigands. Perhaps Herko had been right that honor and oaths were a thing of the past. Maybe the sooner he came to terms with that the better it would be for him, and all the men.

  Enough, Válde decided.

  He signaled the others. They emerged from cover at a run, low to the ground like a pack of wolves. Once they reached the outbuilding they were hidden from his sight. Válde’s attention roved between the road, the hut, and the stables. Movement caught his eye. Redde had eased himself around the stable’s western side, headed to the opening in the south wall, where he disappeared within. Válde strained to hear any sounds from the stable. For an instant, he thought he heard someone gasp, then felt foolish for mistaking a hitch in his own breath.

  Válde scanned the road again. When he looked back to the stable, Gáral, Feles, and Daigu traced Redde’s earlie
r path, followed by Beartu and Herko. That left Edo and Mures as rear guard.

  Sweat ran down the small of Válde’s back as Gáral and Feles emerged from the stable, leading two horses. The excitement that surged through him turned cold with alarm when a pair of swaying soldiers stumbled out of the travelers’ hut. They were drunk on juhka, but still capable of raising the alarm or worse.

  Válde grabbed his cloak, fastening it around his neck as he moved to the edge of the trees. He broke through the undergrowth of pine saplings with a stagger, slurring as he sang a well-known joik, “The gods rejoice at their warriors’ return . . .” He trailed off into humming as he brushed clean his cloak with broad, clumsy strokes.

  He raised his hands in greeting, beaming. “My friends! Why are you leaving? I said I would buy the next round!”

  Válde used his unsteady weight to turn the two soldiers back toward the travelers’ hut.

  “Went to piss and got myself lost,” he exclaimed with a loud laugh. “Trees all looked the same! Ha!”

  The two soldiers slowed as if searching their memories.

  The three took a few ungainly steps back to the hut door.

  “Did I ever tell you the story of the farmer whose goat got up on the roof?” Válde blustered, placing his arms around the soldiers as if they were lifelong friends. “Well, you see the goat . . .” And that was as far as Válde got before the soldiers shrugged off his chummy grip.

  “Friend,” the shorter of the two said, trying to get Válde’s attention. “You mistake us for someone else.”

  “No. No. No,” Válde pretended to argue happily. “We were by the fire, drinking juhka, and I said I needed to unburden myself, but said I would buy another round and finish my story when I returned.”