The Feverbird's Claw Page 7

  “Stop,” Ooden told them gravely.

  They ran off, still laughing.

  Whenever people taunted her for her mistakes, she smiled, but only with her mouth. I will soon have hold of your powers and your secrets, she told herself.

  By the time another full-eyed moon came and went, no one had yet approached her for any kind of information. She did not think Green Cloak would tap her shoulder and say, “Come tell us everything of the Delagua city so we may better plan our attack.” But she had hoped she might uncover some small clue to how she could save her people.

  How long did she have? She watched women pounding yellow seeds in hollow cylinders, their sticks moving urgently up and down in tune with their chanting, and thought the sticks were like her own heart. She had to know more. Quickly.

  “Does everyone go to the camps when the rains come?” she asked Ooden.

  The girl hesitated and then told her that most were needed to grow and gather food, but some stayed back.

  What if Green Cloak’s plan was to get answers from her and then leave her behind?

  Finally she was allowed to go with Ooden and the others to the place above the village where they gathered plants. Now she could study the shape of the land. She looked out over the rough buttes to the faint outline of mountains beyond. Those must be the Brown Turtle Mountains. The red forest was to the left of the range. To the right lay a slash of chasm and the ginger-brown land that was said to dry people’s lifeblood and leave them shriveled lumps. From up here the sun turned a faraway haze of brown sand-dust into something golden and beautiful.

  Pretending to work, Moralin tried out one plan and then another. Make them trust her enough to take her with them if they attacked the city? At the least they must choose her to be among those who went to the red forest when the rains returned. Starting now she’d be ready for anything. She’d begin by making a small store of supplies.

  That evening she crept out to the eastern fields and drew close to the place where the skulkuk was held in a huge cage. Bones littered the ground. The Arkera were feeding it, of course, hoping to gain its trust that way. It didn’t seem much bigger. Skulkuks must grow slowly.

  It lifted half-grown wings at her and growled in its throat. Its purplish eyes gaped, sharp and malevolent. But she felt only sadness for it. Even an ugly creature belonged somewhere. Probably under its dark scales, it, too, longed to go home.

  On her way back she saw Figt, scuttling along the eastern fields, alone except—Moralin was surprised to see—for the beastie at her heels. So it hadn’t died. Was the girl spying on her?

  Moralin’s favorite place became the clifftop above the village, where they dug and gathered roots and plants, soaking in the smells of their savory leaves. Anything that seemed helpful she slipped into a pouch that she carried with her always. Sometimes she sat for a moment with her toes buried in the warm earth, watching Ooden, thinking about Lan. Did her little sister miss her? Did they all assume her dead?

  When the girls fell silent, working hard, the only sound was creaking birdsong. One particular call reminded Moralin of Song-maker’s flute.

  Quite often the girls laughed and shoved one another playfully. Then she remembered the times, long ago, when the house owned by her grandmother was full of wonderful smells and good food, and the servants spoiled Moralin, letting her run among their vats of dye—even if she spilled them—smiling indulgently when she became demanding. Her mother and grandmother moved on the edges of the rooms, always serene, always beautiful, always a little mysterious. When they took her to visit Old Tamlin’s house, he made no secret, even then, that he thought her special.

  Later she and her mother had rubbed like sand against each other. Now Moralin could hardly remember what they had argued about, except Mother was so disappointed she hated the weaving work. “Mamita,” Moralin murmured often, choosing to use the name from when she was little.

  Slowly the plant keepers seemed to accept her presence with them. She let them comb her hair with the red oil that kept it from flying in her face. They showed her green seeds she could eat when she needed to work long hours without falling down from tiredness and where to dig for insects that were made into paste for stomach illness. She learned the uses of many herbs.

  Each day brought hard work, more than she had ever done at home, where shadows did the back-bending chores. But work made her arms and legs stronger and kept her thoughts from wandering to fearful places.

  One dry afternoon the herb gathering led them high above the village. She and Ooden wandered far from the others, following a bird that Ooden said would lead them to a food of shining sweetness. Moralin was pushing branches aside when she heard Ooden hiss sharply. She stopped.

  Ooden stood as if her feet had turned into roots.

  Moralin squinted. She took a cautious step forward.

  “No,” Ooden whispered. “Do not even turn thy head toward that place.”

  Moralin had never seen the other girl frightened like this. “What is it?”

  Ooden was wheezing slightly. The air was hazy, but Moralin thought she could make out a chasm. She took another step. “Stop,” Ooden said, but she made no move to stop Moralin.

  “What? An animal?”

  Ooden opened her mouth but seemed unable to speak.

  “A poison plant?” Whatever this terrible danger was, she needed to know.

  A breeze stirred the dust. Was that some kind of swaying rope bridge that covered the chasm? Maybe enemies of the Arkera lived on the other side of that log. So close to the village? Impossible. But then what?

  The breeze carried a soft keening sound toward them.

  Moralin paused, not wanting to turn her back on danger. “Run!” Ooden shouted. They crashed through the brush. A whiff of something odd lifted the hair on the back of Moralin’s neck. She risked a quick glance behind her, but nothing that she could see or hear was chasing them.

  Ooden slowed, reaching for Moralin’s hand.

  “What is it?”

  “The place of the dead.” Whatever Moralin asked, she would say nothing more except “Tell no one where we were.”

  Late that night, when everyone seemed to be asleep, Moralin stared into the darkness, feeling the prickles of fear all over again. Ooden, on the mat beside her, moaned and moved in her sleep.

  Moralin touched the other girl’s arm.

  Ooden sat up, wiping at her eyes. Moralin handed her a waterskin and then whispered, “Why not tell the other girls about today?”

  Ooden spoke in a shocked, low voice. “The ancestors don’t like it.” She lay down again with a whimper, and soon Moralin heard from her breathing that she was asleep.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  THE NEXT MORNING OODEN LOOKED PALE and restless. “This morning we dry herbs,” she told Moralin. She walked off, not her usual friendly self. As they worked, Ooden didn’t join in the other girls’ chatter. After a while, intense and serious, she began to instruct Moralin. By watching Ooden’s face and gestures, listening for words she knew … and guessing … Moralin decided the girl was telling her about how workers were assigned to each village, but the system seemed to depend on complicated family lines and patterns that Moralin couldn’t figure out.

  “Who takes the bodies to the place of the dead?”

  Ooden glanced at her unhappily and changed the subject. “Know that one who came with thee to The People?”

  The other girls were chittering together, paying no attention. “I know,” Moralin said.

  “She is in another village. Married.”

  “So young?” Moralin swallowed, trying not to show her shock. “Is that …” What was the word for “custom”? Salla? Truly becoming Arkera? How could she?

  “And the warrior girl who was watching thee. Remember her?”

  “No.” The word burst out too quickly, but Ooden didn’t seem to notice.

  “She was to become a warrior because her mother and father died. Orphans make the best fighter
s.” Ooden’s voice was matter-of-fact. “If they fight well, a new family line is set up for them. Now she is a solitary.”

  “And what work can a solitary do?”

  “No work. Those who do not work are given no food. Soon—” Ooden stopped. “Come. Don’t talk of such things.” She jumped up. “This is the afternoon for gathering mantur berries.”

  The thought of mantur berries seemed to make everyone happy. Even Ooden brightened as they ran for their baskets, not beautiful, graceful Delagua baskets, just ugly ones of woven reeds. As they started up the path from the village, an old woman blocked their way. Each girl greeted the woman respectfully, but when the old woman shook her finger at Moralin and began to correct her pronunciation, only Ooden waited while the others ran on.

  “Listen,” the woman continued. “This is my story.” She’d had a dream the night before, a terrible dream of a monster coming out of the sky. “Beware,” she said. “Tell the other girls. Thee goes to the other girls? Tell them to beware.” Then she recited the dream again, from beginning to end.

  Moralin did not know how to move without being disrespectful. Finally, though, Ooden interrupted the woman to ask, “Should we not go then? Warn the others?”

  The old woman walked away, muttering. But when they reached the fork in the path that led to the cliff tops, they could see no one. Ooden frowned. “I am wondering why she told us and not the elders.”

  “True,” Moralin said. “The other girls are far beyond us now.”

  Ooden smiled for the first time that day. “Here is something my mother showed me.”

  They ran back to the village and pushed their way through some brush into a small side canyon. Ooden ducked behind a huge rock. A moment later Moralin saw that Ooden was climbing, balancing between the trunk of a slender tree and the rock.

  When she was high up the tree, she reached for the cliff wall. “It’s one of the old ways The People used,” she called. “The People know everything about climbing.”

  Moralin made herself step toward the rock. “What?” she whispered to herself, as Old Tamlin would. “Have you lost your courage?” She scrambled after Ooden, blocking out the fear. Up the tree. Yes, she could feel the handhold on the cliff wall.

  Think of nothing but the wall. The holes were easy, perfectly spaced, and well dug. She climbed up three steps. Then the trembling began. “I can’t do it,” she called.

  Ooden was halfway up the cliff, climbing quickly and surely. “Kadu, come.”

  “I can’t.” Moralin tried to ease herself back down. When she finally was on the ground, she sat, holding on to her shaking knees, pulling her imagination back from where it would make her go, dangling high above the ground and screaming.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  OODEN MADE A SAD-EYE FACE. “THE OTHERS will have the mantur berries all picked.”

  “We should …” Moralin wiggled her fingers away from her mouth, trying to remember the words. “The old woman?”

  Ooden clicked her tongue impatiently and indicated the cliffs above the village, where warriors kept constant watch. If the villagers ever heard the moaning note blown on a shell, everyone would know danger was upon them.

  Just before they reached the mats where herbs were drying, one of the adult plant keepers called Ooden over to help carry some gourds. As soon as the girl was out of sight, Moralin bent, searching for the things she most wanted for her pouch.

  When she saw Ooden coming, she hastily squatted and pretended to be busy. Ooden dropped down and rested her head against Moralin’s arm, rubbing with her finger at a drop of sweat. “Hot today,” Moralin said. “May the rains come soon.”

  “My mother says on such a day the earth spirits fought with the air spirits. The People had to hide in their houses until the ancestors sent a thunderstorm to split the earth open. The spirits tumbled in.” Ooden tumbled backward, showing Moralin what she meant.

  When Moralin laughed, Ooden shook her finger. “No, don’t upset the ancestors. The split is still there, between the red forest and the sand waste.”

  “The People do what in the little rains?” Moralin asked.

  Ooden made her hands into claws, showing the way the warriors would dance, tuning their spirits to the animal spirits that they would hunt for the village’s meat. “That one”—Ooden pointed with her chin at a warrior squatting nearby—“he wears snake spots on his back.” Her eyes were wide and amazed. “To learn snake secrets.”

  Moralin waggled her hand, palm down, the Arkera gesture for understanding. Yellow paint. Yellow birds.

  “Long ago only men danced and hunted.” Ooden tenderly sifted a handful of herbs. “Then, my mother says, the men all disappeared. Women had to learn to dance with big, manlike steps. Now they can be given a warrior path.”

  They worked silently for a few moments. “Hungry and thirsty will soon seize us?” Moralin asked.

  Ooden jumped up. “We have rikka sap. Wait. I’ll show you.”

  Fingering the sticky chunk Ooden held out, Moralin remembered the day she’d tasted it. Was she even the same person? When Ooden wasn’t looking, she put the sap into her pouch. Pay attention. Be ready for the unexpected.

  The next day a hot, swirling wind scorched the village, carrying stinging dust in its teeth. Ooden showed Moralin how to cover her nose and mouth with a cloth that had been soaked in tree juice. After the plant keepers had spread extra hides over the drying herbs and weighted everything well, the girls sat in the longhouse playing a game.

  Moralin was tossing a rock into the air and trying to scoop up a second before the first one hit the ground when Ooden looked at her and said, “This Kadu does not look like us.”

  Surprised, Moralin dropped both rocks.

  “Wait.” Ooden grabbed a facecloth and ran outside. She returned with pods that the girls squeezed between their hands until a thin, clear liquid ran into a gourd. They brightened their own designs. Then Ooden turned to the girl named Nazeti. “Cover her eyes,” Ooden told her, reaching to pull back Moralin’s hair.

  Moralin tried not to laugh as small brushes tickled her face. She watched the leaf designs appear on her forearms and hands. The girls stood around her, admiring their work. Curious fingers reached out to tug a hair on her arm. Moralin pretended to growl, and Nazeti leaped back, shrieking. For a moment there was silence.

  Then somebody pushed somebody else, and Moralin found herself in the middle of a warm, wiggling pile. They giggled and wrestled until they were tired. That night, just before she fell asleep, Moralin felt a small hand slip into hers.

  The next morning she stepped to the door of the longhouse, smiling. Something was different. No, it wasn’t. The village was moving in its morning rhythms, small fires smoldering, mothers murmuring to their babies. In the light she studied her bright arms and hands.

  Then a long, low note moaned. Moralin stared up at the cliffs. A child shrieked.

  Another note answered the first. “Seek water.” Shouts sang out. “The river.” Instantly the village began to pound with running feet.

  She whirled and saw that the young girls were already right behind her. Another long, low note moaned. Moralin looked for a moment into Ooden’s wide, scared eyes. “Go. I will come.”

  Inside, she knelt and rolled the blanket, forcing her fingers to be calm. She grabbed the soaked cloth and wrapped it around her head, fumbled for her pouch and a waterskin, and then rushed back to the door.

  By now people were tripping over one another in air thick with panic. Babies were wailing. An animal barked wildly, and another began to howl. Bold enough? Someone that looked a little like Figt ran by, and Moralin made up her mind. Whoever would attack the Arkera was a friend of hers. She dashed in the opposite direction.

  As she ran, a whistling roar drowned the other noises, louder and louder, then so loud she covered her ears and ducked into a hut, yelping in fear. She peeked out. An immense skulkuk, even bigger than the one painted on the canyon wall, was sweeping toward the
village with fire streaming from its mouth.

  For a moment everything was trembling and noise. The roar died. Moralin saw that the roofs of several houses near her were on fire.

  She ran again, coughing, dodging fires that sprouted everywhere. When she was almost to the side canyon, the skulkuk passed over the village from the west. She heard its scream and an answering scream from the eastern fields.

  Run. Her feet were heavy and hot. Her eyes streamed salt. Her chest felt like fire itself, but she didn’t slow down. Ahead, the slender tree was smoking. Heat ripped her hands as she climbed.

  This time she didn’t pause until she reached rock. For one awful moment she clung to the swaying tree. A faint memory of Old Tamlin’s voice brought her back to herself.

  Falling from the cliff would be better than being burned up in the skulkuk’s fire or wasting away in an Arkera village. If she was going to die, she could die a Delagua death.

  Up she went, groping for unseen handholds, barely aware of the supplies that flapped around her waist. At the top she grabbed handfuls of grass and hauled herself over.

  She rolled away from the edge and looked back. A sick feeling twisted her stomach. “Old Tamlin,” she gasped. “I did it.”

  Beneath her the village was a mass of fire. A pleasant smell of burning herbs and roasting meat wafted upward as if this were some feast day. How would they rebuild the village, now with the dry times upon them? Had Ooden and Nazeti and the other girls made it to the river?

  She staggered to her feet, pulling the cloth from her head, panting. Arkera problems weren’t hers anymore. She would have a hard enough time just finding food to keep herself alive.

  As she groped in her pouch for the helicht plant to rub on her blistered hands, far away she saw the skulkuk climbing in the eastern sky, only a black blotch from here. Behind it trailed a smaller blotch. So … the mother skulkuk had come for its young one after all.

  She gave a shout. Then fear slammed her. Just because one prisoner escaped did not mean the other would. After the fires were out … the Arkera were excellent trackers.