It is June, and the midnight sun will not leave the sky for another two moons. It is with us day and night, rising to the apex, then descending northwest to loll on the horizon for several hours before rising again.
The baby was born close to midday, so as I head back into the forest to where I spend most of my time with the horses, my stomach growls.
I use a knife to scrape off the tough outer bark of a pine tree down to the softer white pulp. Then I peel a little off and chew to suck out the juices. The white pulp has a bitter taste. It's stringy and doesn't fill me up, but I'm not ready to return to the longhouse.
I spend some time brushing Dancer, the mare the Prince bought me. Then I move the horses to where there is some grazing at the forest edge.
I cannot relax. My parents have never said how soon after the baby's birth they intended for us to leave. Perhaps Ma will want to stay and help Sara a little. But Pa is ready to go.
I pick up the blunt wooden sword I have carved and move into the fighting stance of the Carucan Elite training. Days after we arrived here and I could not sleep, I found Tug in the valley, practicing the fighting art.
Night after night, I came and watched him. Once I could move about without crutches, I came and practiced, keeping my distance, copying him as best as I could. Alone in the woods, I made myself a wooden sword.
I go through the basic stances now, emptying my mind of thought, imagining I am a bird on the wind, my movements precise, swings and lunges fluid. I try to do what I see Tug doing—making the breath and body one with the sword. I know what it feels like to do it well because I have found memories of Tug at sixteen years old before his father died and Lord Strik stole his lands. He spent a year training in a fort not far from his father's home. Like the Prince once trained, Tug also trained to become an Elite Commander.
It is Pa who finds me. I am so immersed in the moves, and an intense feeling of being in the forest, fully present and aware of my body, that I only sense his mind when he is close enough to see me through the trees. Aware that he is watching me, I stop.
He takes it as a signal to come closer. By the look in his eye, he disapproves of my sword training. But I have practiced throwing knives until my arms ached since I was four, and he never complained about that.
He approaches, scratching his chin. He's looking for a way to start a conversation that might offend, without offending me. I pinch my lips together, telling myself I do not want to argue. But it's as though everything we say is at crossed purposes these days.
Pa gestures to my wooden sword. "May I?" I pass it to him. He goes through several basic moves, swinging the wood blade to the left, and stepping forward with his right foot. Then he repeats the same move on the opposite side.
I've never seen Pa wield a sword. He did not carry one when we were living in Blackfoot forest.
And though I can enter minds and see the pasts that people have lived, I stopped scouring my parents' memories when I was eight or nine. It had seemed too invasive of their privacy.
"I joined the army when I was seventeen," Pa says, swinging the sword for an imaginary block above his head, "regiment four, under Baron Sifet. That's how I met your mother. We were posted at Nebraska."
"A town," Pa continues, "almost as beautiful as your mother." Nebraska is the wealthy port town where Ma grew up. Pa stops going through the six basic fighting moves and inspects my handiwork on the wooden sword. "Whitewashed houses up a hillside overlooking the sea. The sea in the south is a thing to behold. You'd love the sea."
In the mind-world, beyond ragged cliffs and beaches, a vast ocean stretches to the horizon. Sunlight flashes on the water as the ocean breathes in and out like an enormous, sleeping beast.
I have never seen the sea. For a moment I am enraptured by Pa's memory, stunned by the peacefulness, the beauty, and the vastness. It reminds me of Auran, the Island of the Rushing Winds, from where my ancestors, the Uru Ana came. Before our blood mixed with the Carucans and Eteans, all Uru Ana were born with the glittering eyes that distinguish us as having the sight.
"It is warm in the summer," Pa continues. "The waves are tame, and you can swim out for miles. Ma and I have been talking. What if we move south and return to her home? I could get a job with the fishermen in the ports. Your mother could weave and sell baskets and shoes in the market. You could meet your grandmother."
My grandmother has the sight. It skipped a generation, missing Ma, but I have seen in Ma's memories that it is my grandmother from whom I inherited my sandy skin and black hair, my heart-shaped face, and little upturned nose. I've always been curious about her.
Pa keeps talking, his voice speeding up with enthusiasm because I haven't interrupted. "Now the fighting has ended on the border, there is nothing to prevent us from going back."
"I thought you wanted to stay in the north."
"Well, things have changed. We realize there would be more for you in Nebraska. You could even go to school." Pa watches me expectantly.
"What about the Pit?" I ask.
The brightness in his eyes dulls. "The Pit?"
"The Pit in the Hybourg where they sell the Ura Ana children."
"I imagine it is still open for business," he says in a clipped voice.
I nod. Precisely. The main business of the Pit is slavery; a few weeks ago, the Queen issued a royal decree legalizing Uru Ana in the Carucan Kingdom, but that in itself will not change anything for the glitter-eyed children captured by bounty hunters. There has been a law forbidding slavery in Caruca for six decades, yet slavery flourishes all over the kingdom. Particularly in the north.
Pa clenches his jaw. "You have always been so bent on fighting back, Mirra."
"Is that wrong? Is it wrong to want to stand up and do something when you see injustice?"
"Fighting for a cause is noble, but it is not simple." He shakes his head and gazes off through the trees. "A man who puts a cause above all else loses himself. The cause becomes more important than the actions undertaken to obtain it. Men use a just cause to justify atrocities. They say they are fighting for freedom and murder without remorse along the way."
"And so we are to be afraid of doing anything lest we get caught in that trap? I think it would be better to risk losing oneself than to delude oneself that inaction is a more noble way to live.'
Pa looks at me. The harsh sun creates shadows in the lines fanning out from the creases of his eyes. It adds intensity and weight to his gaze.
"You cannot create peace," he says, "by sowing war." And then he hands me back the wooden sword and turns, heading through the pines and oaks in the direction of the longhouse.
Our conversation leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I understand the choices Pa made to keep himself to himself and to protect his family. Perhaps in his place, I would have done the same. But I am not in his place, and I cannot go with my parents to the wealthy southern town of Ma's childhood and live a content, quiet life when I know what my life could have been. I could have been one of those children sold into misery or sent to the tundra mines. Kel only just escaped such a fate. It was not our destiny, but it could have been.
Shortly after Pa has gone, I return to the longhouse to scrounge something to eat before dinner. On entering, I hear noises and soft laughter from Tug and Sara's bedroom. The door is open. Across the living area I glimpse the inside of the room, David, and Jen perched on the edge of the double bed. Jen, almost ten, holds the baby. Sara is sitting up. The nurse moves about tidying, and Kel is standing nearby.
Ma comes out of the bedroom she and Pa sleep in, carrying towels. She sees me and smiles as she crosses the living room and enters Tug and Sara's bedroom.
"Come on," she says to the children. "Your mother needs to rest a little. Let's go out and get some fresh air before dinner." The children kiss Sara and the baby. The baby is handed to the midwife, and Ma troops out with Kel, David, and Jen, followed by the midwife and the baby.
The midwife closes the door behind her. I go to the kitchen area, unwrap the bread cloth and take a bread roll. I bite into it, watching from the side window as Pa sits on a stool on the porch, sharpening arrows.
Suddenly there is a crash. I jump at the sound, alert, heart pounding. The midwife comes running out of the children's room. She hurries across the dining room and I follow her to Tug and Sara's bedroom. The midwife is about to open the door when Sara's raised voice stops us both in our tracks.
"If you go, don't come back! If you go, I never want to see you again!'
The midwife glances at me and then retreats to the children's bedroom where presumably she's left the newborn in the crib Pa made. I move to the side and press myself into the wall. Tug is leaving? Where is he going?
The bedroom door flies open and Tug stalks out. He doesn't see me as he storms past. I glimpse Sara kneeling in the bed. Her white robe crushed around her, her long brown hair falling over her shoulders, her face blotchy from childbirth and tears.
"Mirra?" she calls. I duck out of sight. But she calls my name again, and I feel obliged to go to her.
I enter the bedroom, remembering only hours ago the small life that had come into the world via this human doorway. Sara brushes aside tears with the back of her sleeve and slumps into the covers.
"Why Mirra? Why is he going?"
"Going where?" I manage to get out.
Sara reaches for my hand and grips it between her own. "Please Mirra, tell him not to go. Tell him to stay."
"Going where?" I repeat, panic rising in me. I was the one who was supposed to be leaving. Not him.
"The Hybourg. Tomorrow! If he leaves, this time he'll not return. I feel it." I stare at Sara, understanding her fear completely. Tug's presence has made the worst times of the last two months bearable. I cannot lose him.
QUICK ASIDE: Let me know in the comments if Friday is a good day for updates or if you'd prefer a different day. Thanks!