by Sharon Hinck
I didn’t fear for my safety. Not anymore. But he jerked his chin toward Saltar River, who was storming back and forth, tugging arms of other saltars and continuing to hiss commands. She would push me through the trapdoor with no compunction, given half a chance.
I nodded. “Where shall we meet?”
Saltar Kemp joined us. “We still have guests in the offices. Let’s use the large rehearsal hall in the school.”
Tangleroot nodded and scurried over to tell the other saltars. One of them was trying to calm River, so in the relative quiet while River stopped shrieking, Saltar Kemp addressed the novitiates. “Form Blue, please pair up and take a younger form into your care. There will be no classes today. You are free to enjoy the gardens or gather in classrooms or your rooms. Keep the children away from the edge of the new canyon.” The many-colored tunics quickly dispersed, and the white-clad dancers returned to their wing.
I walked into the room that had once produced so much hope and terror—for me and all the students who had trained here. The vast rehearsal hall held echoes of leaps I’d performed, and meticulous steps I’d perfected, but always with fear and pride driving me. Never the love and joy I’d experienced in the center ground.
My bare feet again pressed along the cold marble surface, but now my bad leg couldn’t articulate the movement as it once had. The saltars ignored the bench where they sat for judging novitiates. Instead they clustered in a circle in the center of the room like first-form children. The incongruous sight made me shake my head.
Even though the Maker had confirmed His presence, even though He’d enabled me to dance with Him, even though everyone in the Order had listened to His letter, a strange melancholy descended over me. The lower half of my leggings were damp and spattered with mud. I was exhausted, my leg ached, and I wanted to find a quiet room where I could sleep.
Instead, questions flew at me.
“Should the Order be closed?”
“What does it mean?”
“Who will guide the world now?”
“Where will we be swept to?”
I felt like I’d been tasked with teaching the youngest novitiates again. My temples throbbed. Brantley dragged a low stool forward and I sank down gratefully, even more aware of the stabbing in my tendon.
“I think . . .” I let my gaze travel over the drums and rhythm sticks in the corner, the courtyard gardens beyond high arched windows, and the worried faces of the saltars. “Much will change. The best thing to do is to seek the Maker’s guidance.”
Saltar Kemp entered, out of breath. “Thank you for waiting. I had to stop in the office. I remembered something.” She held an old book in her arms, and when she brushed off the embossed leather cover, she sneezed. Sunlight suspended dust motes in the air like the sparkle of star rain.
Inwardly, I groaned. No one needed reminding of the Order’s dictates. Hadn’t we moved beyond that?
Instead of opening the book and reiterating dictates, she gave me a reassuring nod. “Please read the part of the letter again about the dance.”
I fumbled for the page and read. “‘The dance is a gift. A blessing. An invitation to enter the creating and nurturing of this world.’”
Color dotted Saltar Kemp’s wrinkled cheeks. “Sometimes it is the holiest blessings that we’re tempted to turn into idols. We’ve utterly forgotten our past.” She found a faded page in her book and showed a sketch to the group as if we were first forms in a history lesson. “Our Order was first formed to worship the Maker and use patterns to steer the island to various oceans where nutrients and fish were plentiful. Instead we locked it in place, determined to wrest control. Even worse, we corrupted His gift of dance with layers of rules and requirements. We need to make copies of this letter.” Saltar Kemp gestured to the parchment I still clutched.
Even behind the solid doors of the rehearsal hall, shrill threads of River’s voice carried from the offices as she ranted to everyone and was obeyed by no one.
“And we need a new High Saltar,” Tangleroot said in an undertone.
Another of the saltars knelt by my feet. “This dancer brought us forgotten truth. Let her lead us.”
Murmurs of agreement rose around me like a rising wave, and horrified me.
“No!” I stiffened my spine. “The Maker asked me to bring you what was lost, not to lead. If He allows, I’ll gladly dance for Him—with other dancers from the Order here, or wherever He leads me. But I’m not called to this.” I waved my hand, encompassing the whole tower, the student rooms, the prefects and attendants.
Protests splashed against me. “But everything has changed.”
“We need someone new to guide us.”
“You know the most about the letter.”
With my good foot, I edged my stool back a few inches. “No.”
“Are you sure?” Brantley asked, as if he could see me ruling the Order, and by extension, our whole world.
I faced him in disbelief. Did he really know me so little?
He shrugged one shoulder. “I had to ask. After all that’s happened, I wasn’t sure what you planned next.”
I pulled off my headscarf and raked a hand through my hair. “That’s just it. It’s not about my plans. I want to serve the Maker, but . . .” I paused to listen for His nudging in my heart. “This isn’t where I belong anymore.”
Brantley pressed his lips in a firm line as if holding back a smile. A spark that I couldn’t interpret lit his eyes, but he only gave me a tight nod.
I turned back to the saltars. “Select a new High Saltar who can deal fairly with the villages, who will restore the Order to its true purpose, who can guide the novitiates in learning about the Maker. Someone who understands the work of teaching and organizing.”
Tangleroot looked at Saltar Kemp. Soon other faces turned her way as well. Color rose in her cheeks, and she shook her head.
I reached for her hand. “Please. Consider it. I can’t think of a better person to reform the Order.”
Worry knit her brows together. “With Tiarel gone, we’ll need a leader with strength.” She lifted her gnarled hands as if to give proof of her frailty.
I smiled. “The Order needs a leader who longs to serve. You can’t tell me that isn’t you.”
She glanced around at the other saltars.
“Please, Saltar Kemp. You’ve always held the respect of all of the Order,” said one.
“You can’t let Saltar River seize control. You know she’d rule with more cruelty than even Tiarel,” said Tangleroot.
An older saltar gasped at this stark criticism of the former High Saltar, but then she nodded. “We need a new leader for this new direction.”
Saltar Kemp squeezed my hand and searched my eyes. “Are you sure you won’t lead us? You have had more time to study the Maker’s letter. You can dance with more power than the entire Order combined.”
I shook my head, weariness making even that movement difficult. “It wasn’t my power. The Maker invited me to be part of His work, and He accomplished His purpose. But now He invites you.”
Beside me, Brantley yawned. He probably found all this discussion about the Maker’s plans tedious.
“I accept,” Saltar Kemp said quietly. “And before we continue our discussion, my first recommendation is that we offer a room to this remarkable dancer, where she can rest and have her wound tended.”
Brantley surged to his feet. “Most sensible idea I’ve heard for a while.”
I stood, grateful for his support as I wobbled. Kemp signaled for an attendant, Brantley wrapped an arm around my waist, and they guided me back toward the dancers’ wing.
My gait grew heavier with each step. When we reached the hall to the dancers’ quarters I stopped. “Brantley, you aren’t allowed in here.”
He barked a laugh. “They’ll survive.”
The hall was deserted anyway as he helped me to the room. Ginerva hurried toward us, having torn herself away from the center ground at last. Her face glistened from
the exertion of dancing, and perhaps from some holy tears. The glowing expression fell as she saw me. “Oh, poor lamb.” She elbowed Brantley out of the way. “I’ll care for her.”
He raised his hands in surrender. “Good. But”—he lifted my chin and stared deep into my eyes—“don’t go anywhere after you’ve rested. We have things to say.”
Ginerva gave me little time to stare at his back as he strode away, but his words lingered. He’d more than honored his promise to guide me. All that remained to say was our goodbyes.
Somehow that thought was one too many to bear.
“Why do I feel so empty? Everything has been made right.” I squirmed as Ginerva applied another poultice to my ankle the next afternoon. I’d lain down for a nap and slept through the night. Rest had restored some of my strength, but my melancholy hadn’t eased. I felt guilty for my heavy gloom. The whole Order seemed to ring with new hope, but I hid inside the walls of the borrowed dancer cell. I had every reason for joy, but the sharp ache of my leg permeated my whole being. I wrinkled my nose against the overly sweet scent of the poultice. “I know I should feel grateful.”
She wiped her hands on a linen towel and gave me a nurturing squeeze. “You’re exhausted, is all. And yes, much has been made right, but it hasn’t been without cost. Feel what you need to feel. The Maker understands.”
I managed a half-hearted nod.
She pressed a mug into my hand. “Have some soup. Saltar Kemp would like to meet with you, but I told her you needed some hot food first. Oh, and that young man of yours has been hovering around. He met with the rimmers, and they’ve returned to their camps and inns in Middlemost, but he refuses to leave.”
A heavier wave of sorrow rolled through my chest. “He wants to say goodbye.”
Ginerva snorted. “He doesn’t have the look of a man waiting to fare thee well.”
A flicker of curiosity cut through my lassitude. “What does he look like?”
“Eat.” She guided the mug of soup to my lips.
I submitted, rolling bits of cooked tubers around my tongue. Not as refreshing as rimmer soups made with fresh seawater, but the meal did strengthen me, at least enough to unravel the reasons I felt deflated. I’d focused so long on reaching the Order, on fulfilling the impossible task of freeing our world, on sharing the letter, but I’d never thought beyond. Now that the confrontation was over, I had no idea what to do next. Would the Maker ever meet with me again? Was my usefulness at an end? I was certain that refusing to become High Saltar was the right decision. My old mentor would fill the role far better than I ever could. But what would become of me now?
I lowered my foot to the floor and tried putting weight on it, then winced.
“Stop that,” Ginerva said. “Give it time to rest.”
I managed a wan smile. “I’ll have nothing but time now. But you know rest won’t repair a hobbled tendon, not enough for me to dance again.”
Her mouth pursed, opened, then she thought better of what she had planned to say and sighed instead. With a last pat on my shoulder, she bustled to the door. “Remember. Saltar Kemp is waiting at the office when you’re ready.”
I lingered over the soup and brought my questions to the Maker. I told Him how difficult it was for me to recover from the marvels He’d performed, the depths of fear and heights of ecstasy I’d experienced, and my confusion about where I fit now. I didn’t hear the mighty Voice but did sense gentle arms wrap me in love. With that light touch, I was finally ready to take my staff and limp to the office.
In the doorway, I couldn’t help but remember being called here as a novitiate, when a busy Saltar Kemp had assigned me a teaching task. I’d been consumed with reverence for the High Saltar, full of eagerness to prove my worth, and horrified I might make a misstep. I shook my head. I’d been so young, so indoctrinated. Maker, if the current novitiates stay, let them serve in truth and joy and humility instead of the fear and competition that dogged my every step.
In the outer office, a handful of attendants were cleaning and reorganizing desks, and several saltars interrupted their animated discussion to smile and nod at me. I hobbled through to the High Saltar’s office. Saltar Kemp stood by the full-length window facing the center ground, watching with the soft smile of a grandmother observing children at play. Instead of the formal embroidered robes of the High Saltar, she wore a simple white tunic and leggings. The drummers were back at work with a vigorous harvest pattern. Dancers performed the steps but added occasional spontaneous improvisations. An attendant and even a young novitiate also gamboled along the daygrass near the edges.
Saltar Kemp turned her sparkling eyes toward me. “What do you think? Can we still value training and work together as a community, while also allowing a place for freedom and welcome for anyone to dance?”
My heart swelled. “It seems like a beautiful combination.”
She beckoned me toward a chair, and we settled in for a long and fruitful conversation. She had uncovered lost patterns that had been designed as thanks and worship to the Maker, and wanted to teach these to the novitiates from their earliest age. Her ambitious plans included a larger garden to provide more food for the Order, so they would rely less on gifts and taxes from the villages. She had already abolished the policy of stealing children for the Order. We discussed allowing families to move inland to be near their children who wished to train in the Order.
I shared everything I’d learned on my travels: the attacks on Foleshill and Undertow, the suffering even the midrange villages faced because of heavy taxes, the distrust of the rimmers. Most of the saltars had never known the extent of Tiarel’s abuses.
I learned that after frantic efforts to regain control, Saltar River had stormed from the Order, along with four prefects who were loyal to her, and a handful of the saltars. My brow furrowed. “Was it wise to let her leave? Seems she’ll cause trouble in the future.”
Saltar Kemp’s face fell, but she hastened to reassure me. “If we forced her to stay, we’d be no better than the former Order. I doubt she’ll find much support wherever she goes.”
Maybe she was right. How could Saltar River interfere anymore? Too much had altered along with the massive shift of our world.
Saltar Kemp was eager to tell me that the negotiations with the representatives from the rim villages had been fruitful. “One of the rimmers has offered to help us create parchments, so we can produce many copies of the Maker’s letter. Did you meet Brianna of Windswell on your travels?”
I beamed. “Yes, I did.” I marveled that Bri could extend forgiveness after the Order had wounded her family. Enough forgiveness even to offer her help.
Maker, you free our hearts as well as our world.
“If we focus on teaching writing skills in the younger forms, by the time they are in the tenth form they could spend some time each day working on that project.” As we talked, it was clear the Maker had restored a vision to her of what the Order could truly be—worshiping Him, serving the people of Meriel, and helping share His letter. Some dancers had chosen to leave the Order and find their home villages, but enough were staying to continue to aid our world from the central ground. A sense of peace began to brush away the remnants of wistful sadness I’d been feeling. Until her next question.
“And what are your plans, Carya of Undertow?”
My ribs contracted, and I fingered the hem of the white tunic Ginerva had provided. “I don’t know.”
“I would love your help teaching the new patterns to the children who stay with us.”
Her offer was sincere and touching, but as I weighed that option, I finally sensed a hint of direction—a different direction.
My shoulders eased back. “Thank you. Perhaps one day. Right now I think my place is with my birth village. Once my leg is strong enough to travel, I’d like to return there and help where I can.”
Sympathy swam in her eyes. “All the better,” she said. “We need representatives from the Order to help the rim villages. They have
years of struggle to overcome. Let me know how I can help you and your village.”
We talked for hours more, and my spirits continued to lift as I saw the ripples of goodness that the Maker’s intervention had brought. When I took my leave, she was dusting off more old books of forsaken patterns. Her eagerness made me smile.
I wandered out to the gardens, dreaming about the expansion she had planned. She’d need new landkeepers. Too bad Brantley didn’t actually have those skills.
Uneven fences had been hastily constructed along the edge of the new canyon. Dislodged cobblestones littered the area where the earth had split. I limped as close as I dared. I could only wonder why the Maker had carved this mark across half our island.
A scrabbling sound drew me forward, and I peered down to the water below. Someone had ignored the fences and found uneven footholds to climb down. Fair, tousled hair glinted in the late-afternoon subsun. “Brantley!”
He looked up and flashed a grin. “Wait there. I’ll help you down.”
Again, I found myself wanting to skitter away from a challenge that he coaxed me to face. I couldn’t resist him. With his steady arm supporting me, I picked my way down to the river. A splash erupted and a familiar long neck and floppy ears rose from the water.
“Navar!” I reached forward and hugged her. “How did you get here?”
Brantley all but swaggered as he stepped onto her back. “She’s the fastest stenella I’ve seen. I whistled for her after the big confrontation yesterday morning, and she followed the new river up in mere hours. Do you realize what this means? Herders from the rim can travel back and forth in a day instead of weeks using this river.”
More incredible changes. The Order would no longer be an isolated tower but connected to the shore and the ocean that cradled our world.
