Dreams of the Dark Sky

by Tina LeCount Myers

  “Not far,” she said.

  “You’re sure?” Dárja asked, anxious that she didn’t know where they were headed.

  Úlla puffed with indignation. “I know what my body tells me.”

  Dárja looked ahead to the thick, murky woods. Fighting back memories that threatened to consume her, she brought an image of Marnej to the forefront of her mind, to find his voice within the Song. But what rose unbidden was Irjan’s face. And Kalek’s. Faces of disappointment and hurt.

  Úlla gasped.

  Dárja pulled back on the reins. “What is it?” she asked, her heart beginning to race as she took in Úlla’s expression. “Is it the baby? Has the birthing begun?”

  Úlla shook her head wildly. The whites of her eyes showed full around their glazed centers. “I do not know. Something is wrong. My body feels strange and . . .”

  “Oh gods, no!” Dárja cried, dreading what was about to happen. She didn’t understand how Úlla had lost her connection to the Song of All, because she still felt the Song’s pull. But how or why no longer mattered. Úlla was all that mattered.

  Dárja filled her mind with all manner of competing thoughts and desires. Letting her own song lapse into silence, she banished the internal chorus. Her body stiffened. The weight was suddenly too much for her to hold as she sat. In an instant, the sonorous Song disappeared, replaced by the horrifying, thick silence of the Olmmoš side.

  Dárja fought to open her eyes. Her lids felt heavier than the ore that Úlla turned to metal. Úlla sat bent over the side of the sled, retching into the snow. Dárja moved to comfort her, but could barely shift her limbs.

  “You’ll feel better soon,” she promised, her voice like a lone echo in her head.

  Úlla sobbed. “What is happening? Everything is silent. Heavy.”

  She retched again. This time, Dárja was able to reach her. She pulled the nieddaš back from the sour contents of her stomach.

  “We are outside the Song,” Dárja said, looking around the woods to reassure herself that they remained unobserved. “We need to move,” she said, resting the still-sobbing nieddaš across her lap. Reaching over Úlla’s shaking body, Dárja took hold of the reins, giving them a snap. The reindeer, seemingly unfazed, moved with a start.

  Dárja used one hand to guide the binna and her other to pat Úlla. “The feeling will pass. You’ll be able to move again.”

  Muffled by her fur hood, Úlla’s voice sounded small and distant. “The silence.” She hiccupped, then began to cry once again.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Dárja said, trying to soothe her.

  She felt Úlla’s head shake in her lap before she heard her whimper, “I do not want to get used to it. I want to be back in the Song.”

  “Then concentrate, Úlla,” Dárja encouraged. “Concentrate on your part and listen for the others. I’ll do the same.” Dárja drew her mind back from the problems they faced and the plans she’d been crafting. She slowed her breath and forced her Song out beyond her. She listened deep within herself, hoping to hear something—anything. All she heard was Úlla crying. Panic welled within her. It’s held until now. Why is it failing us?

  “Try again, Úlla,” Dárja said, her tone like a command.

  “Everything is silent,” the nieddaš whined.

  Barely managing to hold back her own fears, Dárja concentrated on how hard she’d fought to be here. She took a breath to prepare herself. “We knew this might happen and it has,” she said. “But, Úlla, I can’t do this without you. You’re the only one who knows the way.”

  Dárja slowed the sled. “We need to keep going, but we must leave the cart paths.”

  Úlla pushed herself up. Her face was blotched and her eyes were swollen. Even so, traces of her contentious spirit shone through.

  “Why?” she demanded, sounding more like a petulant child than a nieddaš about to give birth.

  “Úlla, we need the woods to hide. But we can’t travel with the sled through thick forest,” Dárja explained, praying the nieddaš would see reason—at least once in her life. “We’ll tuck the sled by those trees, and reclaim it after the birthing.”

  Before Úlla could object, Dárja slid out of the once-cozy sled, and whatever confidence she had scraped together crumbled. Her knees wobbled as she sank into a deep pocket of snow. Feeling fear take hold of her, Dárja grabbed onto the binna’s yoke, using the sturdy reindeer to pull herself upright. For a long moment, she stood panting, unable to move. But then the sound of Úlla’s crying became unbearable. Dárja took a hesitant step forward. Relying on the reindeer’s surefootedness, she led the laden sled toward a stand of tall spruce.

  At the trees’ edge, she beckoned Úlla to step out of the sled, offering the nieddaš a steadying hand until she could hold herself upright. Dárja then unharnessed the binna, murmuring to the animal that their journey still continued. She handed the reins to Úlla, who held on to the reindeer as if it were her last connection to their lost world. Dárja unloaded their supplies, placing them by Úlla’s feet.

  “I’ll cover the sled with branches, then saddle the binna for you,” Dárja explained in a soothing voice. “I’ll carry what supplies I can. The rest will be left behind.”

  Dárja waited to see if Úlla would respond. She needed the nieddaš to regain herself because she couldn’t be both a crutch and a protector and hope to succeed.

  Úlla swayed astride the saddled binna as Dárja walked alongside her up the snowy slope.

  “I’m sorry you must walk,” Úlla said, catching Dárja lost in her thoughts.

  “It’s better this way,” Dárja said. “I won’t need to dismount to defend you.”

  Úlla’s grimace made Dárja regret her unguarded response. It was true, but hardly comforting. Had she had her own binna, one she’d trained with, Dárja would’ve happily fought astride the animal. But, with an untrained binna, whose own fears and emotions took precedence . . . No, she preferred being on her own two feet.

  Silence reclaimed the two nieddaš as they continued to climb the hill. One was intent on her steps and the other sat quietly astride the snuffling binna. When they reached the ridge, Úlla gasped.

  Dárja looked up to see Úlla smiling down at her. It was perhaps the first time she had ever smiled at Dárja.

  “It’s there,” she said, gesturing excitedly downhill.

  Dárja turned to where she pointed, and her bowels loosened. She had been so intent on her footfalls she’d failed to notice the direction in which Úlla led them. With sick horror, she gazed upon the expanse of the Great Valley.

  “My Origin,” Úlla said, urging the reindeer forward.

  “Wait,” Dárja called after her, but to no avail. Úlla’s faster pace forced Dárja to skid and slide down the slope, only just avoiding trees and branches.

  Reaching the base of the slope, Dárja paused, unsure her legs would hold her. Then she took her first tentative step onto the valley’s wide-open field. She shuddered. She thought of the battle and of Irjan, lying dead somewhere in this vast whiteness. A groan escaped her lips before she could stop it.

  Úlla turned. “Are you all right?”

  Dárja bit down on the scream within her. She bobbed her head as she drew even with Úlla. The nieddaš smiled, her relief palpable. Úlla cleared her throat. “I want to thank you for coming with me, Dárja.”

  “Of course,” Dárja said, surprised by Úlla’s sincerity. Her heart swelled with the enormity of it. “We all want you to return safely with your baby in your arms.”

  “I have not always been kind to you,” Úlla said, casting an uncharacteristically shy glance at Dárja. “I know this can’t be easy for you.”

  Dárja looked around at the valley, now so peaceful. She waited until she was sure her voice would not break. “The battle’s long over,” she said, reassuring not only Úlla but herself as well.

  “The battle?” Úlla brows knit in confusion. “I don’t understand.” The look in her eyes was one of guilt. “I thought . .
. I mean . . . Marnej said that you’ll never see your Origin.”

  Dárja staggered back as if she’d been hit. She gaped at Úlla as her mind reeled. He told her. Marnej had told Úlla what she’d never told anyone. He’d betrayed her confidence. With Úlla. She had trusted him. She had given him her heart-pledge. Anger took hold of Dárja. There Úlla sat upon the binna, looking down on her, her expression so full of pity. Well, she would tell the insufferable nieddaš that they stood on the very ground where her beloved Kálle died. We’ll see who deserves pity then, she thought. But before Dárja could utter that harsh truth, Úlla’s head snapped up, “Someone’s approaching.”

  Dárja looked to where Úlla pointed, her hand going to her blade.

  As Marnej rode behind Okta, he thought about the last time he stood in the Great Valley. They were more than halfway through the sun’s turn, yet everything about that day in the valley was fresh in his mind. The horrifying sounds of men and beast, shattered and dying. The sickening slosh of blood and mud below his feet as he swung his sword in all directions, killing almai—perhaps even Úlla’s Kálle. Who knew? They were faceless Jápmea to him then. Their death at his hands was a way to prove himself worthy to the Brethren of Hunters.

  Irjan had fought and died here. And Marnej wondered, not for the first time, if he’d unknowingly faced his father. He dismissed the thought, telling himself, as he often did, that he would’ve recognized him, even in the blood-frenzied state he’d been in. I would’ve known, he thought, I would’ve known my own father.

  Marnej shook his head to clear the image of Irjan. A vision of Dárja rose in its place. Marnej’s breath caught. What would’ve happened if he and Dárja had faced each other on this battlefield? They’d crossed swords before. He’d given no quarter then. But now. . . He shuddered to think what might’ve happened. He would have nothing without her.

  “I hoped I’d never see this place again,” he said, riding through the north end of the Great Valley. He glanced up at the steep walls on both sides of him. “Is your Origin near?”

  “Yes. We are close,” Okta said, with no hint of emotion.

  “Please tell me it’s not out in the open,” Marnej said, looking around at the flat expanse.

  On the eastern side of the valley, Okta guided his reindeer to the forested edge where dense pines opened into a small clearing. He dismounted as if the movement caused him pain. Marnej slid off his mount to run forward and help the ancient healer. Okta leaned on him, yet he felt as light as a bird, as though part of Okta was already gone from the world.

  “Do you think Dárja and Úlla are close?” Marnej asked, worried about what was to come.

  Okta’s head shot up and Marnej realized too late his blunder.

  “How did you know that Úlla travels with Dárja?” Okta demanded, his weariness seemingly forgotten as he stepped back to scrutinize Marnej. “Did Dárja tell you?”

  “Dárja didn’t tell me,” Marnej protested as he contemplated lying. But his respect for the ancient healer required the truth. “Úlla told me. She didn’t mean to . . . but . . . why does it matter anyway? We all end up here together.” Marnej gestured to the clearing. His frustration with this needless pretense preempted his desire to honor Okta.

  “It is our way,” Okta said forcefully.

  “But it makes no sense!” Marnej argued.

  Okta’s stern gaze met Marnej’s emboldened one. “The importance of our traditions goes beyond an Olmmoš’s understanding of reason. Our traditions connect us to our past, to our gods, to our purpose.”

  Marnej shook his head in defiance. “You yourself said the Jápmemeahttun may be at their end. Why continue with a ritual that serves no purpose?”

  Okta closed his eyes. His bushy brows knitted together for a long moment. Without opening his eyes, he said, “Because the meaning behind our traditions is all that is now left to us—all that is left to me.”

  As the silence lengthened, Marnej felt guilty for wrenching such a sorrow-filled confession from someone he had grown to care for. He put a hand upon the ancient healer’s arm and squeezed lightly, hoping to convey the depth of his remorse.

  “Are you well enough to stand on your own while I tether the binna and make camp?” Marnej asked.

  Okta nodded his head as he looked up. A weary smile had replaced his frown.

  Marnej took the reins and led their reindeer to forage. After caring for their mounts, he glanced back at the ancient healer. Okta stood still, staring off into the forest beyond their clearing, his expression unreadable. Marnej had not wanted what little time was left to them to be overshadowed by regret. He vowed to himself to do whatever was asked of him, regardless if he understood why. He owed Okta this and more.

  Marnej unstrapped the saddle bags in preparation for making camp. He wished they’d brought more supplies to make Okta comfortable. But in light of the purpose behind the healer’s journey, perhaps the Immortals didn’t consider it necessary. Still, he had his hatchet and he could at least fashion something for Okta to sit on, as it was getting increasingly harder for the healer to rise from the ground. Walking back toward the birch trees bordering the valley floor, movement caught Marnej’s eye. He stepped out in the open, squinting to make out two figures. One mounted. The other on foot. The mounted figure waved.

  Bittersweet gratitude filled Marnej as he called out over his shoulder, “They’re coming.” Marnej’s news was met with a grunt of pain. He turned in time to see Okta crumple to the ground. Marnej ran back to gather the ancient healer in his arms. Holding Okta as a spasm racked his frail body, Marnej feared the healer would not have the strength to do whatever was needed for Úlla and the baby.

  “They’ll be here soon,” he said, unsure if these words were of any comfort.

  The healer grimaced, then nodded, gripping Marnej’s hands.

  “Put your hand down,” Dárja hissed.

  Úlla looked confused, “Why? It was Marnej.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “But it is my Origin,” Úlla pleaded. “I can feel it. The pull is so strong. You cannot understand.”

  Dárja stopped, stunned by Úlla’s words. When she’d gathered herself, the nieddaš was ahead of her, swaying atop the reindeer.

  “Úlla, wait!” she shouted after the foolhardy nieddaš, her resentment giving way to panic.

  “I can feel it,” Úlla shouted.

  Dárja dropped everything she carried. She began to run, but deep snow slowed her down.

  Ahead, Úlla shouted a greeting. A figure emerged from the trees. Dárja pushed herself to move faster. It could be Marnej, but it could also be some other Olmmoš. Dárja’s legs and lungs burned with effort. Then another figure emerged, stooped and bare-headed.

  “Okta,” she spoke his name aloud as relief washed over her. Dárja slowed from the run and strode forward with new purpose. As her fear receded, her anger came charging to the fore. Each step through the sticky snow fueled it.

  When she reached the trio, Úlla stood beside a smiling Marnej.

  “Dárja,” Okta greeted her, his voice like a sigh.

  She looked past him, her rage focused on Marnej. “You told her!” Dárja’s words lashed out like a whip. Marnej’s smile disappeared, and Úlla drew back.

  “Dárja,” he said.

  His thick Olmmoš accent made her grit her teeth. “Who else did you tell?” she shouted.

  Marnej took a step toward her. Her hand went to her knife. She heard him say, “No one,” his eyes pleading, big and round like all of his kind. “I’m sorry.”

  “Liar!” she screamed. “I should never have trusted you. An Olmmoš.” She spat.

  Dárja relished the fear she saw in Úlla’s eyes as the nieddaš cowered next to Okta.

  “Dárja, stop this!” Okta bellowed. “You dishonor yourself.”

  The rebuke stripped Dárja of her words. She looked at Okta and saw him as the formidable warrior he’d once been. Her shame tore at her from within. “I’m . . . sorry, O
kta,” she whispered.

  The ancient healer seemed not to hear her. “This is a sacred rite,” he roared. “You have pledged service to the life bringers, yet you stand before us snarling like a wolf gone mad.” Suddenly Okta sagged, moaning. Úlla rushed to help but could not hold him up. Dárja lunged forward to bear the weight of both life bringers.

  “Help us,” Dárja called to Marnej, who stood staring into the valley.

  “Riders are approaching,” he said, glancing back at her.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  MARNEJ REALIZED IMMEDIATELY THE terrible mistake he’d made riding out from the cover of the forest. They could’ve all remained hidden and perhaps gone undetected. But the moment he’d seen the riders, all he could think about was Dárja. He couldn’t just hide and hope for the best. He had to do something. He knew now that he’d lost Dárja’s trust, but maybe he could still atone for what he’d done. He could give her a chance to protect Úlla and the baby when it was born. Perhaps the child was already in the world. He’d ridden out moments ago, but he knew nothing about how long the birth would take. How many times had he heard it said that this was a sacred ritual? Marnej’s frustration died. He didn’t need to know. He was an Olmmoš. Just as Dárja had said. She didn’t need him. She would take them back. Úlla would return to the forge, and the baby would go to a guide mother. But Úlla would be an almai. Marnej briefly wondered what she would be like as a man.

  At this distance, Marnej recognized the soldiers’ uniforms. There were three of them riding up through the valley. He hoped they’d come to honor their fallen from the battle. Or maybe they sought a shortcut. But experience told him they were likely scouts. They were three men to his one. The odds were against him but not formidable, unless an army loomed beyond sight. Marnej spurred his reindeer into a run, knowing he would not be able to pass for an Olmmoš. His people did not ride reindeer. They rode horses. Only the Immortals rode the binna. Marnej drew his blade. He wouldn’t waste his time on subterfuge. He would attack and hope to catch the soldiers unprepared for a fight.