A firm hand gripped her arm, breaking her concentration. She glanced back. Kalek held onto her, his eyes imploring her to stop. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t stop and still honor her song as she now understood it. She pulled her arm free. “If we’re content to die, why did we fight the last battle?”
Before any could recover from the affront, Marnej sprang forward. “Maybe the life bringers can travel together . . . or maybe they don’t have to go to their Origin. Can’t they bring life here?”
Dárja’s outrage threatened to spill over until she saw Marnej’s anxious expression, and recognized that he wanted to help.
“To be Jápmemeahttun is to transform,” the Noaidi said to Marnej.
The others joined in, their solemn voices filling up the room.
Once we believed ourselves to be like the orbs in the heavens, permanent.
Our self-deception brought tragedy. But the tragedy helped us hear the true voices of the gods, and we changed.
We learned the power of transformation.
Marnej opened his mouth to speak, then shut it as the Elders continued as one.
Our renewal began with the first old one and the first oktoeadni.
They were two of only a few souls clustered together for survival.
Panic surged through Dárja. This is the end, she thought. They won’t listen.
One soul prepared to leave the world, the other to bring a new soul into it.
The instance of birth and death intersected.
They’re just going to recite the story, fall back on “our ways,” she thought, wanting to scream.
The old one died.
His life force joined with the soul of the waiting unborn, but its power did not stop with the waiting soul.
A sidelong glance at Marnej told her he’d given up on the prospect of interrupting again. In fact, he appeared to be listening, rapt, as though he were hearing some vital truth. And then it occurred to her that Marnej was, in fact hearing the truth for the first time. One to which she’d long ago become deaf.
The Elders went on in their measured retelling of the story of their kind.
Instead, the spirit of the old one suffused all of the Jápmemeahttun.
But not all were strong enough to absorb it.
Those too weak exploded in a burst of light that filled the night skies for all time.
When we look to the heavens of the dark time, we are reminded of the power of transformation.
We see the true meaning of the Jápmemeahttun.
With an audible sigh, the spell that held the room broke.
“But this could be another transformation.” Marnej’s thick Olmmoš accent cut the silence.
The Noaidi shook his head. “You are not accustomed to our ways. You must trust that we listen to the gods. We answer their call.”
“And they call for us to die?” Dárja interrupted, shaking off their reasoning.
“Dárja . . .” the Noaidi said her name with stern kindness.
“No,” she said, ignoring the Elders’ censorious mutterings. “Your song speaks of our survival. We sing together as one so that our one may always survive. You can’t speak those words and just accept our end.”
The Noaidi shook his head. His disappointment showed in the deeply etched lines of his face. “You are more the child of Irjan than of us.”
“Gladly so!” Dárja said fiercely. “Look at what he did.”
“Enough, Dárja,” the Noaidi commanded. “I do not impugn your biebmoeadni. I say that your vision is beyond what we have experienced for lifetimes.”
Dárja tried to regain her calm as she stood her ground. “I understand. But if we don’t change, we will die.”
The Noaidi regarded Dárja and then Marnej. “Are you so willing to risk your lives after you only just returned to us?”
“Yes.” The two answered as one.
“And Okta, do you agree with their plan?” the Noaidi asked.
“I believe it is Dárja’s destiny to find her own way,” he said.
“Kalek?”
Dárja peered over her shoulder to see Kalek’s mouth set in a severe line.
Her breath caught.
Finally, Kalek nodded.
Dárja faced the Elders once again, this time feeling as if she now answered to all the souls who’d passed and all those yet to come.
“We will consider your proposal,” the Noaidi said, turning his back on Dárja to rejoin the others in their circle.
Dárja continued to stare at the Elders, wishing they would agree, anxious they wouldn’t. Then someone took hold of her hand.
“Come,” Marnej said. He nodded in the direction of the door where Okta and Kalek stood waiting. “There’s nothing more you can say.”
“Are we to consider the young nieddaš’s proposal?” one of the Elders asked when they were alone in the council circle.
“Her words deserve reflection,” Einár said.
“It is not our way,” another objected.
“Is it not?” Einár wondered aloud. “When we counsel the boaris who are about to leave, we speak of transformation. We tell the story of our early folly; how we believed ourselves to be everlasting, like the sun and the moon.”
“We exist to counsel against the mistakes of our past,” yet another Elder pointed out.
“Are we not presently confronting folly?” Einár asked, looking from one Elder to the next.
“We have always traveled to our Origins,” the first Elder pointed out.
“Yes, yes,” Einár agreed.
“Our souls are tethered to this world at our Origin,” another added.
Einár nodded again. “Valid points. But what of Dárja’s offer of protection?”
“It is meant to be a test of our survival,” said the Elder closest to Einár.
“It was a rite of passage perhaps when our numbers were great,” Einár said, “when we were protected by the power of the Song.”
“As our Noaidi, your duty is to honor our ways,” said the Elder who had first spoken.
“So I shall,” Einár met the challenge with more sharpness than he had intended. He paused, taking in the worried faces before him, and softened his tone. “We should remember that, though we have lived by our ways for countless generations, our ways were once a break from tradition. We changed once to survive, and I believe we may need to do so again.”
A murmur of discontent moved through the Elders.
“I do not make this suggestion lightly, nor do I advocate a reckless abandoning of our rituals,” Einár said. “But we may gain a way forward if we let these two do as they believe right. We have only our steadfast adherence to custom to lose. But we stand to gain life returned to us, transformed.”
This time, Einár’s argument was met with the sense of some willingness to consider the proposal. For the Noaidi that was enough.
“I thank you all for your counsel,” he said, “and for the opportunity of contemplation.”
The other Elders stood, recognizing their leader’s desire for seclusion. Einár grasped arms with each Elder as they left the room. He wanted to make sure they all felt the sincerity of his promise to honor their ways. Change, however necessary, was not easy or straightforward. Then again, neither was survival.
“Do you really think they’ll agree?” Dárja whispered to Marnej as they sat by the fire in the apothecary.
Marnej glanced over at Kalek and Okta, who worked quietly. “I don’t know,” he said, keeping his voice low. “The Elder said they would consider it. I believe he will honor his word. He wouldn’t be the Noaidi otherwise.”
“There’s no other way,” she whispered hoarsely.
“If you two must talk,” Kalek spoke up, eyeing them over the powders he mixed, “then do not whisper. What you have to say will not harm either of us.”
Marnej doubted the healer’s assertion, but he spoke aloud as instructed. “If they do agree to Dárja’s idea, how much time will we have before we must leave?”
Okta laid down his ink-stained quill. “Are you asking who will soon be life bringers?”
Marnej didn’t know if that was his question or not. He looked to Dárja for assistance, but she shrugged.
“I guess I don’t understand,” he confessed. “I know how we have children, but I don’t know . . .” Marnej stopped himself, heat rising to his face. He hadn’t intended to ask such a delicate question.
Okta laughed loudly. “Determined to save us, but you cannot face the simple fact of life.”
Marnej shifted his eyes from Okta to Kalek, hoping for a way out of this increasingly embarrassing discussion. The almai, however, busied himself with the powders in front of him, spilling most, obviously ill at ease.
“Gods be blamed,” Kalek muttered, drawing Okta’s attention.
“Kalek, would you mind explaining to Marnej our ways?” Okta asked. A grin played across is lined face.
“What?” Kalek said, harried and concerned.
Marnej choked back a laugh, then pretended not to notice the young healer’s discomfort.
Dárja snorted next to him.
Okta cleared his throat, “Marnej, if you would like an explanation . . .”
Marnej shot his head up, “No! I just wanted to know if we would be leaving soon.”
Dárja masked her amusement with a cough.
“Dárja might need to hear an explanation though,” Marnej said.
Her face fell, and she shook her head, but her mop of dark hair was not long enough to hide her blush.
“Do you know if we would be leaving soon?” Marnej rephrased his earlier question.
Okta’s mood darkened. “It is likely.”
The ancient healer’s pronouncement sobered them all. They sat in silence, each engrossed in their own thoughts, until Kalek cleared his throat.
“I must go and check on Ávrá,” he said, almost knocking over the mortar and pestle in his haste to leave the apothecary.
In Kalek’s absence, an oppressive stillness settled over the room. Marnej briefly thought to say he was needed at the forge to make his escape. But that was a lie, and he’d no taste for lies at that moment.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
ELLO, TUÁ, AND ÚLLA sat beside the fire while Ravna rested on the pallet beside Ávrá.
“You need not worry,” Ávrá said. “Kalek said I will be fine.”
“Oh. Kalek said,” Ello teased.
Ávrá blushed.
“Ello, you are the worst,” Ravna scolded, patting Ávrá’s hand.
Ello laughed heartily, her eyes shining with merriment. “What of Marnej, Úlla? You can’t keep him to yourself, you know.”
Úlla scowled. “I don’t keep him. He tries to be useful, though he rarely succeeds.” She poked at the embers in the hearth as she if she was in her forge.
“I would say he’s useful. Did you know Tuá brought her knives for him to sharpen?” Ello asked, winking at Ávrá. “Úlla, you might want to wear something other than your grain-sack tunics if you want to catch his eye.”
“Enough, Ello,” Ravna said. “Tuá, sing for us. Otherwise, Ello will continue with her silliness.”
Ello stuck her tongue out playfully.
“Yes, sing, Tuá, you have the prettiest voice among us,” Ávrá encouraged before a cough racked her chest. She leaned back on her pillow to rest. Ravna brushed the hair from her forehead.
Tuá’s face glowed in the firelight. She smiled.
When darkness descends
Upon the heavens
And fair eyes look to the sky.
Do not mourn
The sun’s passing
Like a lover left to cry.
Wait hopeful and humble.
Wait patient and pure.
You will bask in the warmth once more
When rays of sun
Refuse to set
And scarlet blankets night.
Do not mourn
The hidden moon
Like a child gone to fight.
Wait willing and welcome.
Wait steadfast and strong.
You’ll be cradled in moonlight ’ere long.
Tuá repeated the verses, then let her voice trail off when she came to the end.
Ávrá sighed from her bed. “That was beautiful.”
The others readily agreed. Only Úlla remained quiet.
She stood abruptly. “I must go,” she said, her voice wavering.
Aware that all eyes were on her and she dangerously close to tears, Úlla forced herself to find just a little more strength.
“I’m tired,” she said, walking to the door. She was conscious that she held herself as stiff as the rods she forged. Before leaving, she said over her shoulder, “The song is beautiful, Tuá.”
Úlla slipped into the hall, then raced down the stairs, unable to get away fast enough. On the bottom rung, she caught her foot, tumbling to the floor, to land with a thud that knocked the breath from her.
From around the corner, Kalek appeared, an ewer in his hands. The healer rushed over to her, ignoring the sloshing contents of the pitcher.
“Did you hurt yourself?” he asked, kneeling down beside her, freeing his hands to help her to her feet. “Are you all right?”
A tremor ran through Úlla. “Yes. I’m fine,” she said, swallowing back her tears. “Please excuse me. I’m sorry, Kalek.”
Úlla broke free from the healer’s hold, and ran away before he could ask another question. She needed to be alone, but she could not return to her quarters. She shared bunking with three others and their children. Outside, she thought. She could be alone there. But Tuá’s song drifted back to her. No. Her heart would break to see the sun’s passing. Like a lover left to cry.
Habit took hold of her, and Úlla ran to the forge. Her soft, padding footfalls upon the earthen floor betrayed none of the urgency behind them. Mercifully, she encountered no one before she reached the dark contours of the forge’s fading embers. Disappearing into the blessed darkness, Úlla’s familiarity with the forge allowed her to move without injury until her eyes adjusted to the deep shadows. Her heart pounding, a sob escaped her as her body began to shake.
This time, nothing could temper her anguish. “Oh, Kálle,” she cried out.
Úlla covered her mouth to stop herself from repeating his name again. The name alone was enough to rend her anew. But an image of him as she had last seen him still formed in her mind. His eyes, deep like the night sky and fringed with dark lashes and his expression so soft and kind.
“Stop,” she whispered in fierce denial to the unseen forces. “I cannot.”
“Úlla?” a voice asked behind her.
Úlla whirled around. Marnej stood holding a torch that lit his angular profile in planes of light and dark.
He came forward. “What are you doing?”
Úlla wiped her eyes roughly. “Nothing,” she said, stepping away from the encroaching light.
Marnej fitted the torch into a bracket by the furnace trough. “It can’t be nothing. You’re crying.”
Unable to hide, Úlla shrank back. She hugged herself tightly, her hands wrapped around her middle. “What do you want, Marnej? Is it not enough that you are like a thorn in my boot? Can’t I be free of you and your endless questions?”
“Maybe,” he said warily, coming closer. “If you tell me what’s wrong.”
The concern in his voice reminded her of Kálle. Gods, make him stop, she silently pleaded as new, treacherous tears welled in her eyes.
Marnej reached out to her.
“No!” she recoiled. “Do not touch me.”
His hand fell. “Tell me, Úlla,” he commanded, sounding more like the rude Olmmoš he was. “I won’t leave until you do.”
“Gods, do you have to know all my pain?” she cried out, trapped between him and the wood pile he had stacked just days before.
“Úlla, I want to help.”
She glared at him through her wavering vision. “So like you. Y
our arrogance masquerades as pity.”
She laughed. Her timbre was thin and fragile even to her own ears. “You cannot help. You cannot bring Kálle back. And you cannot change the fact that I must leave for my Origin.”
As soon as the words flew from her mouth, Úlla regretted them.
Marnej stood staring at her.
“I thought not,” she said bitterly, pushing past him.
Marnej caught her arm. “Wait. Úlla!”
“Wait for what?” She spun to confront him. “Wait until everyone knows what I already know.” Úlla stretched her linen tunic taut around the unmistakable bulge of her belly.
Marnej gawked wordlessly, then recovered himself. “You’re right. I can’t bring Kálle back,” he said savagely. “I also can’t change that you’re going to give birth. But I can protect you.” His tone softened. “You don’t need to go to the Outside alone. I’ll be there. Dárja’ll be there. We’ll protect you to your Origin and back.”
Úlla snorted. “That is not our way.”
“We’ve spoken with the Council of Elders,” he said, letting go of her arm.
Úlla did not move. She stared at him, deciding if what he said was a joke, or worse, a lie. She shook her head. “I do not believe you.”
Marnej placed his hands upon her shoulders, and looked her directly in the eyes. “We won’t let you face danger by yourself.”
Úlla’s whole body began to shake. She wanted to hold on to her anger, her memories, but relief betrayed her, and her knees threatened to buckle.
Marnej pulled her into a rough embrace, and Úlla let him, recalling what it felt like not to be alone.
Okta knew he had put off this moment for far too long. Still, he was not sure he could go through with what needed to be done. As a courtesy to an old friend, Einár had informed Okta of his decision to allow Dárja and Marnej to escort the life bringers. However, there would be rules to follow, to make sure the ritual was preserved. Nevertheless, a major shift had occurred. Thankfully, Einár had not asked him whether he had told Kalek yet. But the visit made it clear that he could wait no longer.
Okta went to the work bench to find a task but the surface was clear and clean. Kalek had already seen to everything before leaving to tend to the sick. Okta regarded the jars neatly marked with Dárja’s script, deciding that he should make something, anything, to distract himself. A tincture. A poultice. A tea. But the recipes ingrained in his memory over the countless measures of his life eluded him. Now that he had decided to tell Kalek the truth, every moment of the almai’s absence tested Okta’s resolve.
Dreams of the Dark Sky Page 31
