Hidden Current

by Sharon Hinck

  Her eyes widened. “An ambitious goal.” Then she sighed and her proud posture slumped. When she spoke again, her voice was edged with bleakness. “I am Reena, the current matriarch. You’re welcome to enter and see the remnant of Undertow.”

  This wasn’t the warm acceptance I’d hoped for. More a resignation from a woman past the point of caring about danger.

  Brantley strode past her, ducking beneath a low branch. I followed, but then stopped and touched her arm. “Do you know my father or mother? Is there anyone here who remembers me?”

  She studied me again, and her expression softened. She placed her hand over mine. “Yes, little one. You were not forgotten.”

  “My family, are they . . . ?”

  “Come.” She patted my hand and led me into the clearing.

  Families clustered around tiny fires that raised only a cautious glow. Brantley crouched by a circle of young men and was quickly deep in hushed discussion. A baby whimpered, and his mother bounced him, her arms as thin as willow branches and her cheeks sunken. Starvation and exhaustion proclaimed their presence every direction I turned. And the horrible lethargy of grief. No doubt each person here mourned for family members who had died in the attack on the village.

  Resolve kindled in my chest. Now that we’d found my people, Brantley could herd fish for them. I could dance and stir the local berries and fruits to replenish what had been destroyed. We would help them rebuild the village and fortify it against the Order.

  Reena guided me past the other small groups. Most of the people were too weighted by grief to show much interest in our arrival.

  She stopped near the edge of the enclave. “Your only remaining family is your mother. Each year she spoke in the longhouse to the elders, asking them to stand up to the Order. She had no recourse, but she spoke your name. She continued to speak it. Even when your father traveled inland to learn of your fate and didn’t return. She bore all loss, all struggle, holding on to the hope you would return.”

  My pulse quickened as I struggled to comprehend. My father had been lost? I’d feel that wound later. Right now, excitement crowded out all else. “My mother is here?”

  Reena’s arms surrounded me in a gentle hug. “I’m sorry.” She stepped aside and indicated a figure on the ground, hidden by shadow under the shelter of pine boughs. A makeshift bed had been created with tattered blankets. The woman tossed and moaned.

  I fell to my knees, searching the haggard face. “Mother?”

  Her eyes didn’t open, but she stilled. Sweat glistened on her forehead, and I pressed my hand to her skin. The fury of two suns burned within her body. “What’s wrong?”

  “The fever took many who survived the attack. Most perished quickly.” Reena handed me a cloth soaked with sweet water.

  I stroked my mother’s face, squeezed droplets from the cloth on her dry lips. “But some recovered?”

  Reena’s hand touched my back. “No. She has lasted longer than the others, but there is no hope for her.”

  I would not accept that. Could not. I soaked in every inch of her, longing for the connection that had been severed so long ago. Even haggard from disease, her face held precious reflections of my own: strong jawline, high cheeks, fine hair. Her locks were tangled and drenched in sweat. Gently, I smoothed them back from her face.

  “Mother. It’s me. Carya. I’ve escaped from the Order. Please wake up.”

  Her eyes opened briefly, glazed with fever. Another moan vibrated in her chest, and she moved again, thrashing as if the very air tormented her. Finally she drew a deep rattling gasp and went limp.

  Was she gone? I rubbed her arm, caressed her face. “Mother?” A hint of breath still warmed her lips.

  Reena brought a fresh bowl of water and another cloth. “She may wake again. They do. Especially near the end.”

  The end? No.

  I’d discovered a healing dance for Navar, surely I could do something for my mother.

  Maker, restore her. Grant her life. This was surely why You spared her. So I could find her.

  A flicker of conscience reminded me how angry I was at the Maker after witnessing the devastation of Undertow, and the questions my heart had flung at Him. Would He even want to help me now?

  Never mind. The Order taught that when we focused our full will on an outcome, we had all the power needed within ourselves.

  I stood and lifted my arms in and out like strong lungs. Small light steps brought to mind the beating of a young heart, so I pummeled the earth with my feet. I built to large movements, springing into explosive leaps, then rolling onto the ground, feeling damp leaves beneath my back. I sprang upward again and repeated the pattern. Villagers turned from their fires, doubtless believing a mad woman was in their midst. I ignored them and danced until my muscles screamed. Still I danced, desperately willing with every bit of my human strength. Live! Live!

  When I’d depleted every bit of strength, I collapsed to my knees beside her again, lungs heaving for air. Her eyes would open now. They would. I knew it. Here was my destiny at work. Saving my own mother.

  Her body lay still as death. A flicker of doubt licked my soul, but I stamped it out. I gathered her into my arms as she lay across my lap. “Mother?”

  Her lids quivered.

  Yes! She wasn’t gone!

  Then her eyes opened. Glorious, beautiful eyes. Clear as my memory fragments had shown me.

  “Carya?” Her hoarse voice swelled with wonder. One weak hand reached up to touch my cheek.

  “Yes, I’m home. Thank you for never forgetting me. I’ll take care of you now. We’ll get you well. And then we’ll make sure the Order never steals another child.” Still breathing hard, I pulled her closer, infusing years of love and longing into my embrace.

  “Carya.”

  I pulled back so I could stare at her beautiful face again.

  “Yes, yes it’s me.”

  Her hand trailed down my face and rested on the pouch that hung from my neck. She smiled. “My daughter.”

  I would never need another gift in the world. Her love, her words, were everything. Joy pulsed through me.

  Then she closed her eyes, sighed, and relaxed in my arms.

  I hugged her again, thinking she was settling into restoring slumber.

  After I lowered her to the blanket, I wrung out the cloth and dabbed her forehead again. Under my fingers, her skin felt cooler. Good. The fever had broken.

  But there was a strange gray cast to her skin.

  “Mother?” I placed my ear near her mouth, searching for a hint of exhalation.

  “Little one, she’s gone.” Reena spoke from behind me in a voice coated with regret and tenderness. “But you gave her joy for her last moment.”

  Gone? That didn’t make sense. Hadn’t I been drawn here to save her? Hadn’t I danced with all my will and skill? Dazed, numb, I continued to stare at her, waiting for a change. Waiting for hope.

  Strong hands tried to coax me away, but I shrugged him off and kept my vigil. Perhaps if I didn’t move, this wouldn’t have happened. Perhaps if I waited long enough …

  Oh, Maker! I need You. I can’t bear this!

  My fist clenched over the Maker’s letter, where my mother’s hand had last touched me. Minute by minute, hour by hour, the dark night consumed me, broke me, tore me open. All was lost. I couldn’t move for the pain, couldn’t cry.

  Finally, as soft waves of light rolled into the dawn, I learned that I did indeed have tears left. Silent, soft, salty, they rolled down my face. In the morning light, the truth could no longer be denied.

  My mother was dead.

  To the villagers, her loss was one more tragedy among the many. To me, watching her leave me was the end of every hope.

  A warm presence settled beside me. A familiar arm encircled my shoulders and pulled me into his side. “I’m sorry,” Brantley said quietly.

  I was so shattered and weary, I let my head droop against his shoulder. I couldn’t refuse a small comfort. He shared
my pain, held me, waited.

  Waited for what? I couldn’t bring myself to make a plan or a decision. I knew the villagers needed help, but my brain seemed frozen, incapable of knowing what to do.

  As the camp came to life behind us, Brantley ran his thumb over my face, wiping away the last tears. “You have another reason for being here.”

  I lifted a bewildered gaze to him.

  Tranquil ocean depths swam in his eyes. “Read them the letter.”

  How dare Brantley remind me of my calling to share the letter, when he had never believed in the Maker’s words?

  My grief coalesced into an urgency to flee. I needed to turn from my failure, my loss. I needed to get away from Brantley’s scrutiny and Reena’s sympathy. I needed to see the vast ocean.

  I sprang up, but my knee buckled. Something had twisted in my wild and desperate dance and now sent a sharp warning through the joint. All my muscles had stiffened in my nightlong vigil, too.

  “Whoa, there.” Brantley’s arm steadied me by grabbing my elbow.

  I wrenched away from him.

  Limping out of the sheltering pines, I stumbled each time the earth rolled underfoot. I dragged myself along the near-invisible footpath, past the burnt-out longhouse, and across the ashen earth of the former village.

  I sat on the edge of matted tangleroot, dangling my feet into the water. Beneath the rippling surface, the stain of soot still coated my feet and legs. I pulled my gaze away from the sad reminder of destruction.

  The primary sun painted sharp amber and coral streaks across the rich blue of the morning waves. The sunrise reminded me of the glowing pillar of light that had ridden across the deep and revealed the Maker to me. If only He would show Himself like that again.

  I looked around. Brantley hadn’t followed me. No one else had ventured through the ruins of the village, so I dared give vent to my pain, glaring out over the sea. “You left me! Where were You last night? I begged You. I danced to give my mother life.”

  I squinted toward the horizon, hoping He would become tangible again. When He’d met me with a physical presence, it had been so much easier to trust Him. Instead, the water stirred, rushing a current over my feet strong enough to wash away the dark ashes. The bruises from the frantic dance on uneven ground faded and disappeared.

  “No.” I pulled my legs from the water. “Don’t heal me. Go heal my mother.”

  She is restored. The words were soft as a breath brushing across my cheek, and I wasn’t sure if it was the Maker’s voice or my own fragile hope. I decided to cling to the thought. My mother was indeed restored. I longed for encounters with the Maker, and she now had the blessing of being constantly in His presence.

  My hand pressed against my heart. “I believe You. But it’s so hard to see You here, where there is so much loss and hurt.” I gestured to the broken village behind me, and the whole island beyond. “What do I do next?”

  Why ask when you already know?

  Did I know? I eased my weary feet back into the water and let His touch continue to heal. The water buffed my feet, as cleaning and comforting as when Ginerva had massaged my wounded ankle. My whole body felt new strength.

  He had asked me to bring His letter to the villages, and my own people still hadn’t heard the precious words. Grief had stolen my senses for a time, but my calling hadn’t changed. Even Brantley knew that.

  The crunch of footsteps sounded behind me, and I turned. Brantley stopped several yards away, looking at me through his lashes, scuffing the ground uncertainly.

  I smiled in welcome and patted the island’s edge at my side.

  He let out a relieved breath and sat. “I’m sorry you had such a brief time with your mother. Do you . . . do you feel the Maker failed you?”

  The water had stopped stirring, no visions unfurled across the sky, no more quiet words spoke into my heart. Yet I knew the Maker was present.

  “I did,” I admitted, turning my gaze out to sea again, “for a while. But it was the Order who failed me. They taught me that the greatest power comes from my strength of will.”

  He leaned forward and scrubbed his hands in the water. “I hold no trust for the Order, but relying on strength of will sounds like truth to me.”

  “No, it’s the core of their lie. Our strength is not in the dance or our perfection or our focused will. The Maker is the power.”

  He met my gaze, small furrows between his eyes. But he didn’t scoff. “Will you be all right if I summon Navar and do some fishing?”

  “Of course. The people are starving.”

  He stood, wiped his damp hands on his tunic, and offered a hand to me.

  I let him help me up. An unexpected wave rocked the ground and I fell toward him. His arms caught me easily. Instead of setting me back on my feet, he held me for a long, quiet moment. His chin rested on the top of my head.

  The comfort of the Maker had been wonderful, but His comfort given through human arms was especially precious.

  “Thank you,” I whispered to them both.

  Hours later, I sat on a fallen log surrounded by the miserable remnants of Undertow. Brantley had refused to go fishing until I promised to rest. By the time I woke from a few hours of sleep, he had returned with baskets of fish, and roasted fillets now sated empty bellies. However, the food did little to satisfy the empty and aching hearts. Everyone in the clearing had lost loved ones in the soldiers’ attack or the disease that ravaged them afterwards. Looking around at the tattered remnants of her village, Reena agreed to my offer to share the Maker’s words with what was left of Undertow.

  Reena moved around the clearing, murmuring and gesturing toward me as she spoke with each cluster of people. Quietly, the villagers banked their fires and came to sit near me, spreading their cloaks on the damp ground.

  My gaze shifted toward the bedding where my mother had died. How could I offer any comfort when my own grief was so raw? Help me, Maker.

  “Some weeks ago, we”—I nodded toward Brantley, who sat on the ground near me—“found a man from Windswell who had preserved the Maker’s letter, carefully passed down through the generations.”

  A man coughed, then scoffed. “How do we know the man didn’t write it himself?”

  Brantley stifled a smile at the suggestion of Varney composing the letter. “I can attest that he didn’t create it. Beyond that . . .” he shrugged.

  I took the pouch from around my neck and pulled out the bound parchment. “You can judge for yourself. I didn’t know what to think when I first read the letter. But then the Maker met with me.”

  Children’s eyes widened. Some people leaned forward. Others studied the ground. Except for the deeper pain of grief that curved my shoulders, this conversation was like so many others I’d had with the rim and midrange villages.

  “We forgot Him.” I held up a scorched bowl I had unearthed in the ruins near the sea and brought back to the clearing. “And we crowded our hearts with other things.” I poured out filthy water, green algae, and bits of charcoal. “Most of my life, I believed my purpose was to serve the Order.”

  Dark murmurs rose from the villagers.

  I lifted a hand. “And I finally learned that was wrong. But leaving them behind left me so empty I thought I couldn’t go on. The Maker is teaching me that an empty vessel can be filled with Him.”

  I smiled at Pert, who crouched nearby, and gave him our prearranged signal. He jumped up with a pitcher of sweet seawater and sloshed it into the bowl. He scratched his ribs, then bowed to the gathered audience with a flourish.

  Chuckles rose from the crowd. I handed the bowl to Brantley who took a sip and passed it on. As the water circulated throughout the group, I unfolded the letter.

  “All I ask is that you allow me to read the Maker’s letter.”

  Once again, the words of love and longing captured me as I read. My worries about Undertow’s response faded into the background. My grief hadn’t left, but it became a gentle dance of evening shadow blended into a pattern
of sunrise, that only enhanced the sense of blessings to come. My fear also shrank. The tasks ahead that had seemed so frightening lost some of their power. The Maker loved me. He would never leave me.

  During the next several days, Brantley assisted in the work of clearing the old site of the town and tearing down charred ruins. Part of the longhouse still stood, so as people overcame their fear of further attacks, they moved into it for shelter. I danced over the charred stalks of grain and trampled beds of tubers and rejoiced as they returned to life. Those who remained skeptical about the Maker’s existence still appreciated the return of food.

  Renewed with hope, the villagers began to rebuild. Soon the song of saws and hammers rose and fell through the day.

  Although the work was hard, the daily routine was comforting. I built friendships, learned more about my family-that-had-been, and could have happily settled in Undertow for the rest of my life.

  Brantley also seemed to thrive. Each morning he rose early to ride out on Navar and was able to find at least a few schools of fish before digging in to the restoration of the town, pitching in wherever he was needed.

  One afternoon, I brought a load of blankets and supplies from the inland campsite to the village. Brantley worked on the roof of the longhouse, pounding new beams into place. Hair tousled and too shaggy, muscles strong and tireless, he walked across the ridgepole with the balance of an experienced herder. My breath caught as I watched him. Probably just worried about his safety up there.

  Reena came and stood beside me, collecting the armload of blankets. “You and your man have given our village—your village—new life.”

  “Oh, he’s not my . . .”

  Brantley spotted me and gave a jaunty wave.

  “Mm-hmm,” Reena murmured before walking away.

  That evening the subsun finished its journey off to the left side of the horizon, reminding me of the ever-changing angle caused by our world’s rotation. I sat on the lip of land, dangling my legs and letting the cool water refresh my feet.

  Far from me, in the very center of the island, the Order continued to turn us all. They held our land fast, unable to ride the currents as the Maker intended.