by Sharon Hinck
A fair argument. If Someone had formed our world, why did He leave it in the hands of the saltars? I massaged my forehead.
He rubbed his jaw and peered out through the drenched locks of his hair. “Stop worrying. You should be congratulating yourself. You rode a stenella for the first time. A noble effort.” His lips twitched. “Even if you look like a drowned bog rat.”
I looked down at myself. My braid had come undone, and wet hair fell across my face like tangleroot. At least my tunic and leggings were less grimy after their time underwater. I tried to frown, but started to giggle instead. “One day can I ride her while she flies?”
His brows lifted. The amusement in his eyes changed to something like admiration. “Sure. Once you’re a more skilled rider. On our way to Windswell.”
I managed a confident nod, although the fish I’d eaten seemed to be flopping in my belly. I would learn because I had no choice. That was a lesson won from my time in the Order. And if we spotted any settlements on our way, I would convince Brantley to let me ask questions about a Maker’s letter.
We rode over the waves for several days, camping on land only at night. Sea spray splashed my bare feet as I drew honeyed air deep into my lungs, letting it strengthen me. I had to admit that traveling on Navar’s back was more enjoyable than tromping through thick forests and angry brambles. It helped that Brantley wanted to keep his pack of supplies dry, so we didn’t take any more frightening dives under the surface. However, I continued to sit astride. I left the standing to Brantley.
On our third day, Brantley pointed out a small encampment set in from the shore.
“Is it Windswell?” I asked, eager for a night with true shelter.
Brantley frowned. “It’s Whitecap. We weren’t as close as I thought. I told you the shoreline is hard to read.”
A new hope tickled the inside of my ribs. “Are we close to Undertow instead?”
“We’ll still reach Windswell first.”
I sighed. Would I never get closer to finding my home?
With a short whistle, Brantley directed Navar out to sea and scanned the sky for gulls.
I twisted to see the village behind us. “Why aren’t we landing? Isn’t Whitecap a safe place to stay?”
“Safe as anywhere. But we’ll make more friends if we provide some food first.”
Of course. More fishing. Brantley located a small school and herded them toward shore.
“We’d keep more of the school if we dove, but I don’t want to take my supplies underwater.”
“Or me.”
He chuckled. “You survived last time.”
Barely. But I kept my mouth shut, unwilling to provoke him.
We eased toward shore, and Navar swooped her head beneath the fish and tossed them into the air and onto land. A few landed on the band of tangleroot along the shore, the others on the stretch of beach farther in that was cluttered with tattered nets, slatted barrels, and a few children at play. A boy spotted us, waved, and ran inland toward the cottages nestled near sheltering willows and stunted pines. Beyond the tidy buildings, taller trees rose where the soil deepened. Yet even those stirred as the land undulated beneath. I heard their whispering boughs over the lapping of waves and squawk of seabirds. The buildings creaked and moaned with every roll beneath them. Like midrim villages, the cottages were formed of supple wood, but here, knots of rope held together the walls and roofs, so they had even more give.
Soon a crowd gathered on the shore and shouted greetings as they collected flopping fish into baskets. The children scurried about helping, their limbs too thin and fragile. Women hefted baskets against their hips, where their skirts held more patches than original fabric. A man no older than Brantley wound among the villagers with a stooped frame. Another man with a mottled rash across his face displayed missing teeth as he called an instruction. Hunger and disease had clearly been frequent companions of Whitecap.
When the entire catch had landed, Navar floated sideways against the tangleroot edge. Brantley leapt ashore and offered a helping hand to me. I balanced on the matted weeds and pulled on my slippers before following him up to more solid ground.
A wizened woman with a silver braid coiled around her head like a crown was the first to approach us. “Greetings, travelers, and thank you for the provision. After fishing dried up, our herder moved inland last year, so your gift is much needed.”
Although no one looked hostile, the faces of the villagers were gaunt and lined with care and some leaned toward each other and shared suspicious whispers.
“I’m Brantley of Windswell, and this is . . .” He rubbed his jaw, where his whiskers had grown longer. “Um . . . Calara of Undertow.”
The name sounded wrong. Calara Blue was my student name, and Dancer Calara had been my new designation, but I was no longer part of the Order. Yet what else could they call me? I’d once scrawled the word, “Carya,” on the scrap of parchment, along with my village’s name, but that could mean anything. My mother? Another village?
The woman didn’t seem to notice Brantley’s hesitation or my discomfort. She tipped her head slightly, then straightened with a regal posture any saltar would envy. “I’m Parisa of Whitecap, the matriarch here. Will you shelter with us tonight?”
Brantley offered a small bow with more respect than I’d ever seen him show. “Thank you. We’ve journeyed long.”
We were swept into the busy preparations of a feast—probably the first they’d had in a long time. Men cleaned the fish, children skewered them, women stoked flames. Some of the villagers built a fire in the smokehouse to preserve the surplus catch, sending rich, meaty scents throughout the air. The busy community held dozens of homes and reminded me of the bustle of Middlemost.
Parisa invited me into the communal kitchen, where I marveled at the woven walls that rippled softly when waves rocked the ground. She set to work shaping batches of saltcakes, and I offered to help. Another of the few practical skills I’d learned in the Order. She asked about my journey, but when I remained vague, she didn’t probe. Instead, she politely steered the conversation to the increasing number of storms each year and the welcome respite in weather of the past few days. “Perhaps the Order has found new patterns to calm the winds,” she said.
Heat washed my face, and I turned away to arrange cakes in a baking dish. I’d given my life to serve villages like Whitecap by calming storms with my dance and then fled that responsibility. Was it any wonder that the High Saltar was desperate to find more dancers, in the face of the suffering villages were confronting?
I shook my head. The need was no excuse for Saltar Tiarel to steal children from their parents’ arms, or to hobble novitiates she no longer found useful, or to drive dancers to madness. Did the Order care about the suffering of our people at all?
Carrying an armful of logs, Brantley marched into the kitchen, added fuel to the baking oven, then leaned on the table where I worked. “I’ve decided to stay a few days and do some serious fishing to build their stores.”
More delays. But I couldn’t argue. I wasn’t in the center ground encouraging crops to grow or pushing violent weather out to sea, so at least I could support Brantley’s efforts to help this village.
“That’s a good idea,” I said softly.
His eyes narrowed, as if he’d been expecting an argument. After sweeping me with his gaze, he nodded and left.
Parisa smiled. “Your young man is generous.”
“Oh, he’s not my—” How could I explain without revealing information that could endanger us? I handed a dish of saltcakes to the matriarch and nodded. “Yes, he is. He is the most honorable man I’ve known.”
Footsteps sounded behind me, and I turned. Brantley had returned with an armload of kindling and stopped short, color painting his cheeks. Instead of offering his usual arrogant grin, he furrowed his brow. A stick clattered to the floor, and he tossed the rest of the wood into a bin beside the oven, then fled. One of the women nearby shot me a curious look.
/> Why did my praise send him running? Did he fear I relied on him too much? Did he think I mistook his kindness for more? My cheeks burned, and I hoped Parisa would assume it was simply from the heat of the kitchen fires.
Once I regained my composure, I settled into the kitchen work with Parisa and the other women. After so many days of travel with no companion but Brantley, I savored the sensation of swirling female conversation, laughter, and interaction. All the best memories of my time in the Order resurrected, which surprised me. I would never have expected this sense of community with women from a rim village. They weren’t backward, contentious people as I’d been taught, in need of the harsh control of the Order to guide them. They were warm, funny, and generous.
When they offered me tsalla, a hot drink made of ocean water and local herbs, I put aside my fear of unfiltered water and found I loved the sweet citrusy comfort. Maybe I was a rimmer after all.
We stayed for three nights, and Parisa provided us with mats in her own home. Her brisk kindness filled me more than the meals she shared. She was in constant motion—washing and hanging laundry, stoking her fire, calling instructions to others. Yet she always had a tender pat for younglings, or a quiet encouragement to weary young mothers. More than once I wondered if my mother was like her. Perhaps even the matriarch of Undertow? I tucked those small hopes away.
I found small ways to contribute to the community, playing games with the toddlers and leading the older children in foraging expeditions. They taught me as much as I taught them, since many of the plants looked different growing in random clusters outside of the regimented containers of the Order. Still, I recognized a few useful herbs and harvested greens that added to each meal.
I also spent hours on a perpetual chore—binding the seams of buildings with new ropes. The constant motion frayed the ties so they needed to be frequently replaced. The task reminded me of patching the walls of the Order, only out here on the rim, the force of the sea was even more persistent.
Not everything was idyllic. Arguments broke out about the division of the catches that Brantley provided. Jealousy, gossip, and struggles for control invaded even the communal kitchen. And although the village welcomed our help, many remained suspicious and aloof in spite of my efforts to fit in. Like the ropes holding the buildings together, the good natures of the people here were fraying under the pressures of scarcity and fear.
On our last day, I found a quiet moment to speak with Parisa privately. We walked down to the shore to watch for Brantley.
“Brantley said it’s taking longer to find fish with each trip.” I shielded my eyes, squinting into the low-angled subsun.
Parisa settled onto a tuft of moss and drew up her knees. “I worry when a herder goes out so far. I fear he’ll not find his way back.”
We both shivered at that dire possibility, and I chewed my lower lip.
She glanced at me. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sure he’ll be fine. But it’s strange that the fish keep so far from the island these days. When I was a girl our herder stayed so close, we could watch him work.”
“Troubling changes,” I said quietly. The Order cared for our world, so even acknowledging the problems Whitecap faced felt disloyal. Yet I couldn’t deny that the village was hungry, weather had been harsh, and fish were scarce. What was going wrong with Meriel? I thought of Nolana’s simple trust in the Maker, and Dancer Subsun’s fevered mention of His letter.
“Parisa, have you heard legends of the Maker?”
Her breath hissed in, and she faced me. “The Order forbids discussing the old stories.”
I met her gaze, searching for any reassurance that I dare trust her. A hint of a twinkle lit her amber eyes.
“Yet there are stories?” I asked. Dredging up a bit more courage, I added, “And perhaps even a letter or a book that holds them?”
She assessed me, lips pressed together. It was her turn to decide whether to trust. Then she looked out over the ocean, as if listening for an answer to her own silent question. Small waves sloshed against the shore, and the land beneath us rocked. I softened my knees to maintain my balance, finding the movement almost soothing now.
“I’ve heard tell a letter remains. Somewhere hidden. Few remember it exists and fewer remember what it contains.” Heavy sadness coated her words. “Would the words offer answers?” She shrugged.
I understood her resignation. What could a collection of old stories do to help our world, especially when the Order declared such works did not exist? What good would it do to learn more about a Maker when He was not welcome on our island?
A speck appeared on the horizon. Slowly it formed into the shape of a man. Navar rode so low in the water that Brantley seemed to glide on the surface. I smiled at the image.
Parisa stood. “Come, let’s call the others to be ready to gather.” As we walked toward the village center, she nudged me. “A strong and comely man you’ve found. No wonder you look at him so.” When her teasing made me blush, she laughed.
I was thankful he was nowhere in earshot. If he ever knew how much fondness was forming in my heart toward him, he’d drop me at the nearest village and ride into the waves without me.
After leaving Whitecap, Brantley and I settled into a pattern. We rode until we found an encampment. Brantley took me ashore and left his pack with me. Then he headed out to dive as deep as needed to herd fish to the shore.
Each place we stopped, I asked if anyone knew of the Maker’s letter. In spite of the good will we garnered with Brantley’s fishing efforts, I received only blank stares or suspicious frowns. If I tried to pursue my questions further, Brantley interrupted or pulled me away from the conversation, warning me not to cause trouble.
As we traveled, I learned more about the people of the rim. They struggled to survive and shared stories of cruel oppression; yet they held warm and loving families. Their homes, the forest, the plains, and the nearby waves were full of haphazard chaos that kept me uneasy. Yet many of the people who inhabited these wild places showed us kindness. I also discovered that many people sang as they went about their daily tasks. In one village, the families gathered to watch the subsun set and to sing together. No wonder music was banned in the Order. It stirred and frightened me, and made me want to cry, and laugh, and hope. I longed to dance with it—far beyond the strict dictates of the patterns. I squelched that dangerous longing. I’d used a few simple movements to gentle the forest hound and get acquainted with Navar. But for all the smaller rules I’d broken, I was sure I’d perish if I ever fully danced outside the Order, especially to music.
Days stacked into a few weeks as we traveled the rim. A few more villages dotted the shore, and we found shelter in most, bringing an offering of fish each time. Except the last; we left that village early in the morning before anyone was stirring. Since Brantley hadn’t been able to herd any fish, we’d found little welcome when we arrived empty handed. Though we sheltered in a vacant hut, only thin reed mats separated us from the dirt floor, and Brantley had barely slept, guarding our paltry possessions all night. Still, even with a few unpleasant experiences with some of the less inviting villagers, I had a growing fondness for the rim. Anything was better than the harsh climate of the Order.
We sailed the waves all day, and I began to wonder if Windswell actually existed. Our endless days of riding the shoreline had given me a sense of the huge size of our world. Would we ever reach Windswell or find Undertow?
Today, barefoot and clad only in his trousers, pack slung over one shoulder, Brantley swayed as he stood on Navar’s wide back. Rain sheeted down on us, but he seemed to revel in the downpour.
I huddled under my cloak, trying to keep the hem out of the sea. With the spray of waves and warm water lapping my legs—not to mention the rain—staying dry was a futile effort. My slippers, their laces tied together, rested around my neck where I could protect them and keep them handy to pull on as soon as we touched land.
Late in the day, the clouds b
roke enough for us to see the subsun lower toward the horizon. Brantley stood behind me and scanned the shore, then whistled a signal to Navar.
A cottage hugged the tree line not far from the water’s edge, where a stooped, wiry man busied himself breaking kindling. When he saw us sailing in, he answered Brantley’s wave by scurrying into his house.
“Not very friendly,” I said. “Maybe we should keep going.”
Brantley rocked as his balance adjusted. “Don’t turn shy now, dancer. Varney is an old friend. He likely didn’t see who I was.”
Before I could offer more suggestions, Navar raced toward the shore, rearing back as she stopped short. I reeled backward, but Brantley caught me before I tumbled off.
“You really have to learn to swim.” Shaking his head, Brantley held my elbow until I reached the shore. “You can’t always rely on me to catch you if your mount takes an unexpected turn.”
I shuddered. He was right, of course. The sweetness of the water and its thick, milky texture no longer terrified me, but being swept away into nothingness was a frequent nightmare.
“Fine. Soon.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” he said.
I thrust my chin up. A ripple underfoot made me stumble, ruining my attempt at a determined stance. Hoping he hadn’t noticed, I changed the subject. “Right now we have other things to think about. Go let your friend know who you are. And ask if he’ll let me hang my cloak by the fire.” I shook the garment, splattering Brantley.
He grinned, then strode to the hovel.
Thunder rumbled overhead, and a darker cloud rolled over us. Another burst of rain soaked through my hood.
“Ho, Varney! It’s Brantley.” He knocked on the door with casual confidence that expected to be welcomed anywhere.
My spirits lifted. Food and a chance to dry my things rested only inches away.
“Go away!” Varney yelled from within.
Brantley pounded once more. “No games, my friend, we’ve traveled far today.”
