Khell, seventeen Summers before
Overheated by the dense tangle of sleeping bodies, Maia crawled out of the furs, oblivious to the complaints of the other children she tread on. Once she was out, she was almost immediately cold again, but she did not care to re-immerse herself in the suffocating furs. She was restless after months in the egla. The wind howled outside, beating against the thick walls like an attacking tribe.
The Liathua had reached the Doaltooth Mountains well ahead of the worst of the winter storms. They set up a permanent camp of sturdy ice egla, nestled on the leeward side, the boareal snuggled in a pile in the pens for warmth, several families together in each egla, sharing fires and stories. Maia lived in the egla of three small families, and she and the other children piled together like the boareal, along with the sled-doal, all under one big hide. No one would have guessed that she was to be given in the next tithing while they would be protected.
Part of her welcomed the sacrifice. Antahua, healer of the Liathua, had condemned her, telling the others that she was bad for escaping while her whole tribe was taken. In the eyes of the Liathua, being given to the Dhuciri in the tithing was no less than she deserved. It would right a wrong, restore balance to the lives of all Khell. Her sacrifice was not just to save the life of one of the other children snuggled against her, but to save all Khell. Or so the healer said.
There was no way of knowing when the next tithing would occur. Chief Lubar, Hakua's father, had expressed his hope that it would not happen until next summer, when the skies were clear, the dark birds could be seen from far away, and the Liathua had more captives from summer raids to offer. If it happened during the winter storms, the birds would be obscured, the Khell would not be able to hide until it was too late, and they would only have Maia to offer in the place of one of their own. Maia secretly agreed with the Chief. A summer tithing would give her time to convince Hakua to plead for her, and it would give her more captives to hide amongst. If there were enough new captives, perhaps she would be spared.
The Liathua traveling camp had been busy, not sleepy and almost dead as this winter camp was. Every morning before the sun they rose and packed everything they owned, tents, hides, weapons, all on the backs of the sluggish boareal and on sleds dragged by teams of doal. They were moving, Hakua told her, from their summer camp at Pebble Beach to their winter camp, snug in the southern Doaltooth Mountains. The mountain range she had been hugging when they found her was the northern reach of these Doaltooth Mountains. All day, every day, they traveled over snow and ice. Maia usually walked, but they had replaced her tattered moccasins with good, thick, traveling ones. Sometimes different riders would swing her up on their boareal and she would rest.
Her life was so close to normal that the ache of losing her family and everything she’d known began to dull. She did not forget her mother’s face, but it no longer turned to dust every night in her dreams. Her fear of the Dhuciri did not diminish, but she no longer saw them in every shadow. She was allowed to sleep on furs in various tents, fed when there was food, and played with other children as she had in the Nuambe camp.
Often when she walked, Hakua would escape his father's eye and scamper beside her. Hakua had become her friend in spite of his father's objections. His father was the chief, and Hakua, eldest of his brothers, would be chief when his father took his ice-journey. The chief of the Liathua was too busy, Maia soon realized, keeping the camp organized and planning the summer raids with his brothers, to keep a firm hand on his son. At first, Maia encouraged Hakua’s attention out of the understanding that he could speak for her and save her from the tithing. In time, though, it grew to more than that. While there were many children to play with, only Hakua’s efforts could bring a true smile to Maia’s lips. She loved him as a brother, though he was also as irritating as only a brother could be. He was only one winter younger, but he often acted much more childish. Especially when he spoke of being chief.
“When I am chief, all the warriors will do as I say,” he said after being chastised by one of his uncles.
“When I am chief, all the girls will play with me everyday,” he said after being chased out of the girls’ games.
“When I am chief, my father will never tell me what to do again,” he said after his father pulled him away from Maia's side.
In the crowded egla, Maia trod on the broad tail of a doal, and it woke squealing. She stroked its sleek back soothingly, and it burrowed further under the hides with a sigh. Maia thought of her parents. Her father had been Chief of the Nuambe. Her mother had been the Healer. They had been rare, a healer and chief who mated exclusively. The healer and chief of a tribe were not allowed to live together, and they often took other mates, but they could and sometimes did mate. Never had a Healer and a Chief shared as much love as her mother and father. Or so Grandmother said.
They were all dust now. Maia tried to imagine that she was the Healer in this tribe, beside Hakua-as-chief. How would she counsel him? What soft words would she whisper in his ears? All she could imagine telling him was to grow up and stop being so childish. But that would surely lose her his friendship and condemn her to being given at the tithing.
She approached the fire pit. The embers burned low. A Grandfather sat beside it, nearly asleep, head drooping over, skin spotted and tough like an old hide. Maia poked his ribs, and he startled, then leaned over and wedged another boareal chip into the coals. Flames sprang up; he mumbled something incomprehensible and began to droop again.
Maia stared at the flames until her eyes became sore and dry. She looked round the egla; everyone else was sleeping. The Grandfather was too senile to take notice. She reached into her fur tunic and pulled out Grandmother's pouch. From the beginning, she had kept the pouch close and did not show it to anyone. She had heard of other tribes taking valuables from their captives and she did not want to lose it. Even though her Mother and Grandmother's bones were dust now, the pouch was still a connection to them. She hesitated, then thrust her hand inside and felt the contents.
The first thing she pulled out was a small mat folded in a tiny square, woven from the finest grass fibers, traded centuries ago from a tribe far to the north, where the lands were covered with dust and stones, not ice. She unfolded the mat and spread it between her and the fire as she had seen her mother do. The next item was a smaller pouch. It was full of a bluish powder, sea urchin spine. Mimicking her mother, she took a pinch and threw it on the fire. Flames sprang up, casting wild shadows on the walls of the egla. The Grandfather stirred, then drooped again. The flames were a myriad of colors, like the brightest seashells Maia had ever seen.
Upending her pouch, Maia shook the remaining contents of the bag into her palm, then opened her fist and stared at them.
The bones were small, each the longest bone of the littlest finger. There were exactly ten, one from each of her greatmothers. One day, it could be hoped, there would be eleven bones in the pouch. That would not happen if she were offered in the tithing.
Guide me true, greatmothers, she thought, as she rolled the bones between her palms and then cast them on the mat. Tell what awaits me.
The ten narrow, long bones fell across the mat. They were browning with age, and several of them were beginning to split, tiny flakes falling off the sides. The lay of each bone in relation to the other told a story, and only those of the blood of the bones could read it. Maia had watched her mother cast the bones since she was out of the carry-board.
The whitest bone, that of her own great grandmother, and the oldest, brownest one, lay crossed in an X at the very center of the mat. The others lay in a rough circle around the X. She could see a few things in that circle, but what concerned her most was the X.
“Crossbones,” she muttered into the stillness. “Darkness coming. It is not the appointed time, but they come. On the day the storm passes they will be upon us.”
Other images filtered through her mind, strange things that she could not put words to, dark wings and a hole in the earth and a fire burning in her belly. She did not notice when the images stopped and sleep took her.
When Maia came to, the Grandfather was holding her shoulder and looking into her eyes. His face was alert and aware. Why had she thought he would be oblivious to what she was doing? He began to yell for the healer to come.
She was woozy and disoriented. What had she done? She remembered taking her pouch out, colorful flames . . . Her pouch. She tried to sit up, but could not. Her eyes fell across the mat. The bones were still spread out before her. “Please don't take them,” she tried to say, but her voice sounded distant even to her own ears. As if she was talking through snow. Then Antahua was standing over her, staring at the bones, arguing with the Grandfather, dousing the fire. She saw a bowl lifted to her lips and a strange broth was forced down her throat. After a moment, her vertigo passed and she was able to sit up. The Healer was watching her sharply.
“I'm sorry,” Maia said. “I didn't mean—”
“Bone casting was lost to the Liathua many greatmothers past.” Antahua’s dark eyes were large and frightening in the dim light of the coals.
“I'm sorry,” Maia said again.
“If you are truly a Seer of the bones, your art could be useful for the tribe. If the tithing comes when this storm clears, as you have predicted, you will move your furs into my egla.”
Maia was silent, hardly daring to hope that she was hearing what she thought she was hearing. Living in the healer's egla meant being her apprentice. A healer's apprentice was never sacrificed.
“If, however, the tithing does not come on the day you predicted, I will not wait for it. I will cast you onto the ice. Someone who plays with such magic for her own gain cannot be anything but a danger to the tribe. Now clean up this mess and get more chips for the fire.”
Maia was not made afraid by her ominous words. She had seen her mother cast the bones many times and be right. She knew she was right about the tithing. “Thank you,” she said, not to Antahua but to her greatmothers. The camp was waking, the storm slowing—not stopping, she knew now that it would not stop for another five days, but slowing enough for the tunnels to the boareal egla to be cleared. Maia felt safe for the first time in many months as she scooped up her greatmothers' bones. Her place among the Liathua was secure.
Sorry for the hiatus between postings, I guess the holidays were a little distracting! Thanks so much to everyone who has continued to read "Dream" this far! I hope you are enjoying the story! ~Selah