Dreams of the Dark Sky

by Tina LeCount Myers

“Come,” the Elder called from within.

  Okta entered, at once relieved he did not need to suffer the doubt of a second knock and distressed about the nature of his visit.

  “Okta,” the Elder beckoned the healer in. “You are a welcome sight.”

  Okta’s heart sank even further, but he let the warm greeting between two old friends prevail.

  “You spoke to my spirit tonight, Einár,” Okta said, embracing the Elder.

  “Sit, Okta. Let us enjoy the fire.”

  Healer and Elder fell into companionable silence, each staring at the flames as if they offered answers to whatever matter occupied their thoughts.

  “We are facing our end,” Einár said finally, as if a force outside him had required a reckoning.

  Okta met his gaze. He wished he had the conviction of an earlier time to argue this point, to believe in a better path. But there was no better path. There was only the one they were on now.

  “I believe you are right,” Okta said and then, because his heart would not let him doom those he loved, he amended his thoughts. “Perhaps not tomorrow or in a hundred tomorrows, but there will come a time when the sun will not rise for us.”

  Einár leaned forward to prod the embers.

  “I will not be here to see it,” Okta added.

  There, I have said it. It is done, he thought, savoring his first deep breath in days.

  Einár’s eyes caught the firelight. Their watery borders wavered.

  “Your time has come?”

  “I feel it in my body,” Okta said, slowly unwinding into the truth. “I have counseled too many not to know.”

  Einár frowned. “Can you tell . . .” he began, then let the question drop away.

  Okta offered his old friend a sad smile. “I doubt I will enjoy the bonfire of Longest Day with you.”

  Einár nodded. “Does Kalek know?”

  Okta shook his head. “No. I have not wanted to burden him with this knowledge. He still lives with the darkness of war and Irjan’s death. He is too observant to not recognize what is becoming of us, but his heart is also too fragile to meet it head on.”

  “Will he be ready to take on your duties?” Einár asked bluntly.

  Okta considered the question before answering. “He is a fine and gifted healer. What he needs is something to bring hope back into his life.”

  Einár leaned back in his chair, his shoulders hunched. “What of Dárja?”

  “She is his apprentice now. Their bond is strong and tender. But Irjan’s spirit haunts them both.”

  Einár’s brows furrowed. “When will you tell them?”

  “I do not know,” Okta admitted. “I have promised myself I will tell Kalek when I feel he is ready, but in truth that may never be the case.”

  “At some point he will suspect. You yourself just said he is observant.”

  Okta acknowledged Einár’s concern with a shrug. “We watch the nieddaš leave, trusting they will return to bring us life. But fewer return. We see what is happening, but we wish for a different outcome each time. We are all observant, but we choose not to see.”

  Einár leaned forward and put his hand upon Okta’s. The reassuring pressure offered comfort.

  Okta stared at their hands. Their fingers were crooked after so many seasons of snow. Knuckles like knots upon a tree, he thought, recalling how these hands had comforted mánná, wielded swords, caressed loved ones, healed bodies, and guided souls. There was a lifetime of experiences in them both.

  “Einár, tell me what I should do,” Okta pleaded.

  The Elder tilted his head back and chuckled. “After all these seasons of snow, only now do you ask my guidance.”

  Okta took the gentle mocking, deserving of it. “Better to see the wisdom now than never,” he said.

  Einár’s laughter trailed off into a burdened sigh. “My old friend, I find I cannot advise you on when to tell Kalek because my own heart aches when I think of the loss I must also endure.”

  Now it was Okta’s turn to offer solace both to a friend and a revered Elder. He struggled to find the right words, the right gesture. He came to the crushing realization that his long life, with all its experience, had not prepared him to meet the broken spirit of the Noaidi. Okta took Einár’s hand in his and held it as they sat quietly listening to the Song of All within, wondering how much longer the melody would continue.

  Kalek hummed to himself, pulling down jars and examining their contents.

  “You seem in fine spirits,” Okta said, glancing up from the vellum before him. “Having an apprentice agrees with you.”

  “It is a blessing to have Dárja back with us,” Kalek said brightly. “I think she has a skill for herbs and healing.”

  Okta sniffed. “Well, I should hope she picked up a thing or two. She did grow up running around under our feet.”

  Kalek shifted his consideration from the jars to Okta. “It is more than that. She is thorough and precise without my admonishment.”

  “I imagine that would be Irjan’s doing,” Okta said, cutting a sharper edge to his quill.

  Kalek returned to his measures and Okta scratched out lists and ingredients and instructions, listening to the wind whistle through chinks in the walls. I will need to see to repairs come the melt, Okta noted to himself. Or rather, Kalek will.

  “Do we have more dried alder bark?” he asked, running out of ink just as his gloomy thoughts took hold.

  Kalek scanned the fading birch-skin labels. “We should darken these,” he said, opening one to sniff. “You and I know what each is, but Dárja does not.”

  “You are right,” Okta said, distracted briefly by the idea. “How is Dárja with her script? If I remember correctly, our long-ago lessons did not go well.”

  The corner of Kalek’s mouth curled up into a half-smile but his brows remained dubious. “She was small and you were impatient.”

  When did those lines become so deeply etched? Okta thought, studying his apprentice. Kalek was still young, barely into his tenth measure, with many a Life Star return to anticipate. He should not have lines like that.

  “You have ink on your cheek,” Kalek said.

  Okta raised his sleeve to wipe away the unseen ink. “You did not answer me, Kalek.”

  “She is proficient,” he said.

  “Then have her retrace the labels,” said Okta. “She can familiarize herself with the contents and location in addition to the naming.”

  “How much of the alder bark do you need?” Kalek asked, waiting to measure out some from the jar.

  Okta rose. “Leave it to me. But, I would like you to go to the forge to see if there is a nail I can use. I can finish gathering and grinding the ingredients for the ink while you are gone.”

  Kalek placed the jar on the table. His eyes narrowed, but his voice remained playful. “Do you desire to be rid of me?”

  “Mercy of the gods, cannot a boaris ask a favor of his young apprentice without his motives being questioned?” Okta began to admonish, then changed his mind. He let go of his counterfeit scowl and smiled at his apprentice. “There is no one I would rather spend my time with.”

  “That’s because no one else will put up with you,” Kalek snorted. “And you are not nearly as old as you pretend to be. Boaris! Indeed. When did you start calling yourself that?”

  “The moment I had apprentices, like you, who caused the hair in my beard to turn white while waiting for them to do as I asked!”

  Kalek waved off the rebuke as he walked to the door. “Can I bring you something besides the nail?”

  Okta shook his head. “No. Just the nail.”

  When Kalek closed the door behind him, Okta sank into his chair as a wave of pain took hold of him. He had felt it building as he and Kalek talked. He had been praying for privacy because he feared he could not disguise it. Sweat dripped from his brow as heat suffused his chest, making his skin prickle as if on fire. He grasped hold of the edge of the table, waiting for it to pass. When it did, his consolatio
n was that he had sent Kalek on the errand. He could not have hidden his discomfort, and Kalek would have worried. Then Okta would have had to face questions he could neither answer truthfully nor lie about.

  Okta rose slowly to his feet. He steadied himself, then turned and looked at the jars, scanning their familiar but faded labels. Kalek was right. They needed to be refreshed. Okta ran a fingertip across the faint marking on the jar before him. Vuodjarássi. He measured out, then crushed the dried dandelion before adding the water he had set to boil upon the fire. He hoped the tea would ease the ache in his limbs.

  When did we last inscribe the jars? Okta wondered as his tea steeped. He could not remember. Perhaps when Aillun was first apprenticed. He shivered, expecting another spasm. But this time Okta’s discomfort was not physical. Rather, his unease came from a sense that the past promised to repeat itself.

  No. Okta shook his head to banish the idea. Dárja is different than Aillun. Then to offer proof to himself, he made a mental list of all their differences until the worrisome feeling passed. Just as his last seizure had. Okta busied himself with the ingredients he needed to replenish his ink as his mind wandered back to thoughts of Kalek.

  Two sides of an argument pulled at him. Okta knew he should tell his apprentice, and yet how could he when Kalek’s mood had finally brightened? He wanted the almai to live in lightness, for a while at least. Kalek had already experienced too much of the dark. And besides, what good will it serve either of us to have a long drawn out ending? he asked himself. Kalek would only fall back into desolation, and Okta would be helpless to change it. The old healer looked over his shoulder to his forgotten tea. He ladled out a cup and strained it. No. It is better to leave it to the very end, he thought as he absentmindedly blew across the already-cooling surface.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  KALEK COULD NOT STOP thinking about Okta’s odd manner as he walked toward the forge. There was something veiled in his words but Kalek could not be sure what it was. Perhaps Okta was concerned about Dárja. Perhaps he thought her not up to the task. If that was the case, Kalek trusted he had changed his mind. Dárja had proved herself more than capable. She was actually quite talented. But he would not tell her that. He did not wish to give her reason to ease off in her efforts. Still, he counted himself blessed to have Dárja in his life. Although, she often drove him mad with frustration. Kalek smiled to himself, thinking it odd how even her fits of temper were becoming precious to him.

  Dárja will make a fine healer, he thought. And before he could stop himself he added, Like Aillun. Not for the first time, Kalek observed that the passing seasons of snow had not wiped away his regrets. Rather, his memories seemed to be covered in a fine layer of dust which blurred their sharp contours.

  Walking into something solid, rudely brought Kalek out of his musings. He stumbled back a step, then recovered himself, saying. “Ello, forgive me.”

  He held out his hand to the nieddaš who sprawled before him on the ground. “I was lost in my thoughts.”

  Ello wiped her hands off, then took Kalek’s, “Well, as long as you were thinking of me,” she said, her flash of pique turning to brashness.

  Kalek pulled her to her feet, then attempted to release her hand, but the nieddaš held on.

  “You were thinking of me, weren’t you?” She smiled brightly with a wink.

  Kalek hesitated, taken aback by her wolfish grin. “I was thinking of Dárja,” he said vaguely, prising his hand free to take a stiff step back.

  “Well, if it were anyone else, I’d be jealous,” she teased him, tossing her red braid over her shoulder before darting off in the opposite direction.

  Unnerved by the encounter, Kalek looked back toward Ello, only to be further perplexed by her playful wave as she brazenly stared back at him. Kalek resumed his walk to the forge, watchful now of those around him because, clearly, he was the victim of some kind of jest.

  When he reached the forge without further incident, Kalek dismissed his suspicions as ridiculous and unwarranted. Likely, his misgivings were the product of his uneasiness about Okta’s strange behavior. Ahead of him, the forge resonated with a cacophony of grinding millstones, pounding hammers on anvils, and the roar of fire. Through the din, Kalek heard Úlla shouting at Marnej who worked the furnace baffles.

  “More air!” she ordered.

  Marnej’s arms flapped furiously like a goose getting ready to fly. His sooty face was streaked with sweat.

  The shimmering heat of the coals pulled Kalek’s eye to where Úlla drew out a glowing hunk of ore with a pair of tongs. With a practiced and confident hand, the powerful nieddaš placed the ore upon a hewn piece of wood. Marnej rushed over, placing another piece of wood on top. As the wood took to flame, Úlla brought her hammer down again and again. Kalek watched small rosy chunks fall off, until Úlla laid her hammer down. Grasping the rapidly cooling ore with the tongs, she placed it back into the shimmering coals. Marnej began to work the baffles again. Flight still eluded him.

  Kalek remained rooted, watching the two repeat the process, before deciding it best to return later. Before he could leave, a loud, lingering hiss replaced the hammering as Úlla doused the ore in water. Through the rising steam she hailed Kalek with a perfunctory nod.

  “Okta has sent me for a nail,” he said. His voice competed with the ringing in his ears.

  Marnej stood, releasing the bellow. “That’s an odd request,” he said, stretching.

  “He is making ink,” Kalek said. “Can you spare one?”

  “Get one,” Úlla ordered Marnej.

  Kalek expected the young Piijkij to grumble. Instead, he reached back into a crudely carved wooden bowl and brought forth a square nail which he ceremoniously presented to Kalek.

  The healer took it, thanking him.

  “You look out of sorts, Kalek,” Marnej said.

  Kalek shrugged and turned to leave, then spun back around to Marnej and Úlla. “I ran into Ello on my way here.” He paused, ordering his thoughts. “Her manner was so odd . . . as if she meant to confound me.”

  Úlla wiped her hands on a cloth. “That is not unusual for Ello. She rarely makes sense.”

  “What did she say?” Marnej asked, leaning back against an anvil, his arms crossed in front of him.

  “She asked me if I was thinking of her,” Kalek said, perplexed.

  “She fancies you!” Marnej laughed.

  “That is not possible,” Kalek said, his face growing hot as he blustered. “She is a child, only just out of her guide mother’s care.”

  “You have been hiding with your herbs for too long,” Úlla said, her voice unusually mild. She pushed back a strand of hair that fell across her face. “There are few almai left, and you are much discussed among the nieddaš.”

  Kalek’s embarrassment reached new levels. Still, he could not avoid Úlla’s probing green eyes, their glint unmistakable.

  “You know it is not that easy,” he said, his tone sharp.

  Úlla’s head dropped.

  Kalek instantly regretted his anger, his pride, his cruelty.

  Úlla needed no reminding of her loss. As he stepped forward to apologize, Úlla’s head shot up.

  “That is true,” she said, “You and I both know what we lost. But we will all lose more unless you open your eyes.”

  Kalek stood stunned. His apology withered on his tongue as Marnej stared, wide-eyed at Úlla.

  Úlla grabbed a gauntlet and her tongs. “The bellows need work, Marnej, or would you rather stand there like a gasping salmon?”

  Marnej looked to Kalek who absolved him with a wave.

  “Thank you for the nail,” he said to no one in particular, then left the forge more disturbed than when he had arrived.

  Kalek reached the refectory unresolved as to his duty. He stood at a loss. It was long past the meal hour, but Birtá sat on a low stool peeling vegetables.

  “Is there anything in the kitchen I might bring to Okta?” he asked, coming to stand alongside the cook
.

  “Oh, Kalek,” Birtá jumped, surprised, but evidently pleased to see him. “Yes. Sit down and I’ll put together something for him. Is he feeling ill?”

  “No. Just working,” Kalek said, reflecting on the fact that recently Okta had left his food untouched.

  Birtá put aside her vegetables, lifting the corners of her apron to keep the peels from falling to the floor. “I’ll be right back.”

  Kalek slumped down on a bench, eyeing the freshly skinned turnips and carrots, as if they held some wisdom. He picked a piece of peel from the floor that had escaped Birtá’s notice. He wished he could just ignore Úlla, and discount her words as those of a naïve nieddaš. But he could not. Once the peel was off, there was no way to put it back on again. Úlla’s wisdom had been self-evident, even if it was profoundly distressing to him. He was one of the few remaining almai, but had not wanted to consider the implication. Now that Úlla had chastised him, he could think of nothing else.

  Kalek had been heart-pledged to Aillun. The passing of time had not changed that bond. Still, as a nieddaš, he had loved others. And after Aillun there had been Irjan. The very thought of him suddenly made Kalek feel as if he could not breathe. His love for Irjan had been slow to grow and made all the more profound by their uncanny friendship.

  But love was not needed to bring new life, Kalek reminded himself. It was a physical experience, enhanced by love, no doubt, but not necessary. He had not been in love with Háral, the almai who helped seed life in him. Kalek had enjoyed their time together, but they were not heart-pledged. The idea of experiencing that connection again felt foreign to Kalek. But his duty did not require a heart-pledge.

  Birtá came back to the bench where Kalek sat. She placed a tray of stewed meat and roasted nuts in front of him.

  “Did Lejá come by?” she asked.

  “I have not seen her,” Kalek said, standing to take the tray.

  “Oh. Well, she said that Ávrá was feeling ill. I told her to go find Okta. Perhaps she did.” Birtá’s words trailed off as she sat down to resume her peeling.

  “Birtá, am I needed?” Kalek asked, marveling at her ability to create delicious meals, when her mind wandered.