The Wandering God

39 Goose Claws In The Snow 1/3

He found them, standing on tiptoes to trace the circles and lines. Not long after they had arrived, someone had scratched a long gouge through his mother's name and his own, and written vulgar words beneath. But Sanli's eyes had grown accustomed to blocking out the unwanted words.

His hand, a child's hand, pushed open the door.

No, no, please, please let me wake up—

Inside was dark. It was near evening. He had come to ask his mother about dinner after all, driven back at last by his hunger. He had stayed away from the courtyard all day, guilty at the words he had said, but not wanting to apologize for them, because then that would mean he had done wrong.

His mother was there, waiting for him. But then, she wasn't.

Sanli did not understand at first. Her feet were not touching the floor. Why was she like that? And why was her belt around her neck, and not her middle? It was the pretty grass belt she had woven for herself, using berries to dye the pink and purple strands—

She's not here. She's gone.

Sanli blinked, stepping into the room, staring up at what had once been his mother. If she was gone then did that mean the boys and girls and everyone in the Valley would stop treating him like an unwanted thing? Like a stray dog they needed to drive away? Would they leave him in peace?

She's gone.

And suddenly Sanli realized what that meant.

He choked, he sobbed. His sobs turned to howls, his howls to inhuman screams. In his dream, he fell to the floor, clawing at his hair as though that would wake him from this nightmare.

Please let me wake up—

The pain and shame and grief of his nine year old self washed over him, undulled by time. He screamed and screamed and screamed, as if that could expel the agony he felt from his chest. As if his screams could cut his mother down from that beam and set her on her feet, alive again.

Please, please, I just want to wake up—

And then suddenly it was not his own hair but the smooth pelt of an animal's fur beneath his hands. The waking world. Sanli took it and held on to it, refusing to let go.

Dragging himself from his dream was like pulling himself from deep water, but he at last emerged, gasping, hands clutching at the animal furs thrown around and over him.

Sanli pulled air into his lungs and looked around, vision still blurred from waking. He was in a cabin. There was a fire burning just beside him, and in its dim light he could see Zakhar sat before it. The big man's hand was gripping his mouth as though trying to keep something inside it.

Zakhar was crying. Wet streamed down his face, reflected in the firelight.

"Zakhar, what's—"

Sanli then realized the screaming had not stopped with his waking. It carried on, and on, endlessly, echoing through the night, coming from somewhere outside the cabin. It was a woman's voice, not the screams of his nine-year old self.

"Zakhar?" asked Sanli, dazedly. "Who—"

That is Ao's voice.

"Zakhar! What's happening? Where's Ao?!" Sanli tried to sit up, but his head spun, and Zakhar was able to push him back with a minimum of effort.

Zakhar lay a thick arm across Sanli's chest, holding him down.

"Zakhar, stop! Where's Ao? Why is she screaming?" Sanli thrashed, trying to free himself. His shoulder throbbed, and he remembered the arrows, remembered the cave.