The Feverbird's Claw Page 8

  She felt like a plant suddenly split. How could the unexpected have come this fast? She’d have to find a plan. For now just get as far as possible from the village.

  Her feet seemed to know where to go. Of course. Before long she could see the gorge. She didn’t pause until she reached the bridge, where she slid one foot onto the woven ropes that seemed sickeningly fragile, dancing high above the ground.

  Her fingers found the hand rope. She closed her eyes and carefully moved the other foot forward. Winds swept from below, and under her the bridge swayed perilously with each step. Pay attention. Manage your fear. She crept forward, ignoring the choked sound of her breathing.

  Out over the deep gorge she imagined that she could feel the air grow thin. Her head was floating. Only the bridge held her to the earth.

  Something whispered that she should let go, but her hands kept edging along. She was a Delagua spider, high in the air, clinging to her web. Finally she felt the air grow thick again, and she swallowed it in noisy gulps.

  When her foot touched earth, she opened her eyes, grabbed the branch of a nearby bush, and pulled her heavy body off the bridge. She stumbled forward.

  Into Arkera death.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  DEATH WAS EVERYWHERE. SHE SMELLED IT. IT choked the air and made her faint.

  In the trees before her, something clinked softly in the wind. She didn’t dare guess what it was.

  She began to walk quickly, singing a Delagua war song Old Tamlin had taught her. If the only way home was through Arkera death, so be it.

  As she reached the first tree, the air around her crackled with a high, faint sound. She sternly told her foot to lift, advance. Speaking loudly in Delagua, she said, “I’m not one of your people. Your taboos and punishments cannot touch me.” The sound didn’t lessen.

  The gaping eye of a skull grinned down at her. A body had been placed in a reed cage that swung from the branches. One of the angry ancestors? Her throat tightened with disgust and fear, but she forced herself to sing louder, watching the ground so she would not look up at the skeletons.

  Everyone knew spirits hovered until bodies were wrapped in cloth. A death-white feeling drenched this place.

  The hair bristled on her arms, but nothing reached out to grab her. Nothing touched her except the sweat that trickled down the back of her neck and made her want to whirl around and look behind. She filled her mind with her grandfather’s face, wrinkled like old fruit, his hawk-fierce eyes that could turn soft and lively with laughter when he looked at her. “Manage your fear,” his voice whispered to her.

  Her steps created a drumbeat, and she listened to the sound until it became a kind of rhythm river that pushed her forward. Only once she hesitated—for a large, brown snake that rustled through the grass just ahead of her. She squatted, wary, until it hissed and slithered away. After a while she glanced up and saw one tree without a skeleton. A long time later—or perhaps it wasn’t a long time at all—she realized she could look up and not see any bones. But a few trees later a skull grinned. As if Arkera death were reaching after her.

  Finally she was sure she had left the place of the ancestors behind. Now she must get quickly off this high ground. “Cora Linga,” she said out loud. “How long must I walk before you can hear me and help me again?” No sleeping tonight. Move on.

  As blessed darkness wrapped around her, she kept walking. The moon. The moon. Forget the moon. She had walked to deep mother under its open eye yet lived. Strange shapes loomed, moving and shifting and making her wince. Keep going. Keep going down.

  Even when a bank of clouds blew up and began to extinguish the stars, one by one, she kept lurching forward. Suddenly her left foot came down into emptiness. She relaxed into the fall, as Old Tamlin had taught her. Still, the jolt of the ground knocked her breath away. She began to roll. With the taste of panic hot in her mouth, she grabbed for anything to slow herself, but she tumbled and slid until she thudded against something. Her side burned from ankle to shoulder, where rocks had scraped her.

  Close by, she could make out tree roots that swelled out of the ground. After pushing in among them, she struggled to untie the blanket.

  A bird screech woke her up in the early morning. She wanted to curl tightly into the roots and whimper. Instead she rubbed her hand gingerly along her thigh, glad for the pain that helped her know she was alive.

  Slowly she rolled her blanket and stared at the designs on her arms, thinking again about Ooden. Nazeti. Then she looked around and said a prayer of thanks that she had not tumbled off a cliff in the dark. Searching, she discovered yellow berries. They made her mouth dry but took away the hunger.

  Be strong. As she found her stride, the sun came out, and she felt a bubbling of joy. Who would have believed anyone could get free from Arkera deep mother? She laughed out loud, then clapped her hand over her mouth.

  If only she had a guide. When did Song-maker’s work begin? Had he walked to Arkera deep mother or joined the Arkera somewhere in the red forest? What if he had managed to stay alive? Would he work for the Arkera again? She wondered what he would think when he heard of her escape.

  Soon thick brush began to crowd her, and she had to fight for each step. Where the bushes ended, a field of stubby trees hunched like angry little men. She whirled. No one.

  Cautiously she skirted the trees. They seemed human. Were they evil spirits in disguise? She didn’t dare take her gaze from them. In her fear, she missed the dropoff until she had begun to slide again. She grabbed for wiry branches that stuck out from between rocks like scrawny arms. Pain seared her palms. But better hurt hands than a smashed body. Gasping, she eased herself down, using the branches as if they were pieces of rope to cling to.

  Then the branches ran out. She blinked away sweat, trying to see what was below. Finally she let go, slid, and landed with a thump.

  It was a while before she could ease onto her back. After she had treated her torn palms and scratches with more helicht oil, she sat up and looked around. Smooth rocks stretched in front of her as far as she could see. This must be the bed of some ancient dried-up lake.

  She longed to let out a howling wail. The cliff was too steep for her to climb back the way she had come. But going out onto the lake of rocks, with no tree or other cover in sight, would expose her to any enemy or beast.

  Shhh-shhh-shhh. Just try it. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. When she took her first step onto the rocks, they clacked under her feet with a loud, grating noise. She jumped off. Back at the cliff, she grabbed a handful of grass and tried to hoist herself up; but the roots pulled loose, and she fell backward.

  While the sun crawled high into the sky, she stomped up and down the shore, waving her arms in frustration, looking wildly for some other way.

  Eventually she rubbed her head, scowling at the rocks. No choice. But every footstep made her grimace. When she slipped, the rocks crackled even more loudly.

  She stopped, squatted low against the rocks, and thought about what would come next. Impossible to get far in this dry time, because moving among trees without leaves, she would be nearly as vulnerable and visible as she was here on this lake of stones. What about the cave where the Arkera had gotten salt? Could it shelter her until rainy season? Food. What was salt without food?

  Sweating, she stood and went clumsily on. After a long time she thought she could make out gray shapes against the horizon. Rocks? Trees? She balanced on one foot and prodded her sandal to dislodge a pebble.

  Click. Someone or something was walking on the rocks behind her.

  She stood stone-still. The clicking stopped.

  Cautiously, she looked around. Nothing. Well, it couldn’t sneak up on her. If she could be heard, she could also hear. She wobbled hastily on. When she could clearly see gray ghost trees ahead, she dropped all caution.

  Rushing now. Forward on the tottering rocks. She leaped off the last one and began to run. Trees, even leafless, would give her some cover. Over her p
anting, she thought she could hear the clicking of stones.

  All afternoon she traveled fast. Moving down, always going down. She didn’t stop to eat, gulping a swallow or two of water as she walked. The silence was broken only by the rustling of creeping things and other sounds of small animals, but she felt sure something was still following.

  Down.

  Night began to come on. As the sun dropped, a breeze blew up. At least the half-moon was draped with a soft gray cloth of clouds.

  Something sushed behind her. She whirled. Only leaves, lifted by a sudden gust.

  The ground became uneven, pocked with holes. After she had fallen for the third time, she gave a despairing cry.

  No banks. No exposed roots. These sleek trees were too thin to climb. Anyway, she didn’t want to touch them. She looked up. The breeze kept trying to tug the clouds away. The moon. The moon. Forget the moon. It was the least of her worries. She curled in a small depression in the ground, wishing for a weapon.

  Something big was still moving through the woods. She was sure of it.

  Or was it only the wind in the noisy leaves?

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  SHHH-SHHH-SHH. SHE MADE HERSELF TURTLE-SMALL under her blanket. Her legs quivered as if they belonged to some frightened animal and not to her. Calm. Manage your fear.

  But she was absolutely sure she did hear soft footsteps. She threw back the blanket and jumped up. Better to face it standing up.

  She stared into the darkness, waiting. Her arms tingled. Nothing. Nothing but the creaking of night insects. Then the thing was rushing out from the ghostly trees. It had hands, hands that reached for her.

  She and the thing struggled, bending, turning, gripping, and grabbing at each other until Moralin got the hold she had used on the woman by the fire and flipped her enemy onto the ground. The cloud moved from the face of the moon as the thing groaned.

  It was a girl whose eyes glittered and whose painted face she knew. Figt reached up and yanked Moralin’s wrist. “This Delagua girl must come back with me.”

  Fire-fierce rage roared in Moralin’s ears, but the other girl gave a hard tug, and she lost her footing. First she was on her knees, then spitting out dirt, then struggling to get free from the beast of a girl who was biting and scratching and trying to pin her to the ground.

  All the hard work in the Arkera village had made Moralin stronger, but Figt surely had a knife. She tried not to imagine the stab, the pain sliding into her. Then Figt grabbed a handful of hair, and Moralin screeched and scratched.

  They fell apart, panting. Moralin staggered upright, glaring down. Figt’s face twisted, and Moralin whirled to look behind her. But only the beastie appeared, loping through the leaves.

  Moralin clamped her hands to her hips so Figt couldn’t see them shaking. “You can’t make me go back.” She used the insulting lower form. Was it true? Figt could kill her with the knife. But could even a warrior girl drag a dead body over the lake of stones and up a cliff?

  Perhaps Figt was thinking the same thing. She said nothing, only crawled to a nearby tree. The beastie trotted over and curled on her feet. Figt seemed to fall asleep instantly, sitting up. Moralin took a step toward her, reaching out gingerly. Could she find the knife? She pulled back. Figt would no doubt wake at the slightest touch. The girl’s closed fists rested on her knees, fingers curled as though she were begging.

  The next morning Moralin ate yellow berries she had stored in her pouch, considering what to do next. Figt crouched nearby and watched. The beastie seemed to be laughing, its panting tongue hanging from its mouth.

  Figt was the first to break the silence. “Saw thee when the village was in flames. Saw what was in thy heart.” She glanced at Moralin with scorn. “Thy tracks were easy to follow.”

  “Thee walked on the …?” Moralin made the shape of a bridge with her hands.

  “I have no fear of it,” Figt said stiffly.

  Moralin looked at her curiously. Why not? And what now? If she tried to leave this place, Figt’s knife could be out blink-quick. Even if she could somehow outwit the other girl, where could she go to survive the rest of the dry times? She closed her eyes, coaxing back memories of what she had seen on the journey to deep mother.

  The red forest was an impossible barrier between her and the Delagua city. Streams would be dry now, even if leaves hadn’t crumbled from the trees.

  She crouched and spread out the things from her pouch. A little food. Herbs. A beautiful but useless bead. She had run impulsively, grabbing sweet luck. Now, whichever way she looked, death stared back at her.

  Don’t despair. If she managed to get away from Figt and find a way to survive until the Arkera were on the move again in rainy season, she could silently follow one of the small groups through the forest and get back to the camp. Find her way from there to the city.

  Figt seemed lost in thoughts of her own, using a stick to make markings in the dirt.

  Moralin paced. Eventually she was crazed with impatience. She took one cautious step and then another in the direction she had been going. Three more. Her shoulder blades prickled. But Figt just stood up and fell in behind her, moving when she moved, stopping when she stopped.

  Today the slope was more gentle. Birds whistled. Here in the open she wasn’t likely to be startled by a snake with its wrinkled gait. In other circumstances she would like this feeling of walking freely under the sun.

  Soon they reached a rough place of thorny bushes. A few trees with gray bark spotted the landscape. Moralin paused, studying a rope-twisted trail in the dirt. “Garrag,” Figt said.

  The word sounded ugly.

  Pretending that she knew what she was doing, Moralin dropped to her knees and studied the pattern. The beastie trotted over and licked her cheek. She shoved him. What should she be looking for?

  The beastie gave a yelp and hunched miserably, scratching his ear with one left leg. As Figt bent over to examine him, the wind brought a faint sound of a growl.

  Figt froze with her hand still on the beastie’s ear.

  “Garrag?” Moralin leaped to her feet.

  Figt gave her head the shake that to the Arkera meant “yes” and to the Delagua meant “no.”

  No time to ask what to do or why. Figt started to run. Moralin and the beastie dashed after her. Sounds—growling, clicking—erupted around them. Her nostrils filled with the choking smell of fermenting fruit.

  A few steps ahead Moralin saw Figt scoop up the beastie and lift it into a crevice in the side of the butte. She scrambled after and managed to get her own shoulders into the opening by the time sharp claws stabbed her leg. She kicked wildly. The beastie began to bark with a coughing, frantic sound. Moralin dug her straining fingers into the dirt.

  She wiggled all the way into the trench and curled into a sitting position, looking over her shoulder. The ground below was a mass of squirming bodies, scrambling over one another. She recognized the sharp snouts and whip-thin tails of the kachee. The clicking pounded on her ears.

  Then, with a jolt, the clicking stopped. Silence, followed by a loud, throaty growl. Figt squeezed beside her in the narrow trench, straining to see what was happening.

  The grass began to ripple. The gray-green animal that waddled into view on powerful, stubby legs was about as long as two men. It had a great snout with bone-jagged teeth visible all up and down it, even though the thing’s mouth was closed.

  The wave of kachee began to flow the other way. The garrag waded into the squirming mass and whuffled several into its mouth. Moralin shivered at the crunch, crunch of kachee bones. Could the garrag climb? Maybe pain would turn everything blank before the teeth got to her neck.

  Figt shoved past.

  Moralin scooted back. She could feel blood oozing from her aching leg. Here the trench widened, and dead branches formed a roof. Had this place been made by people? In a moment she heard the soft puff of the other girl’s blowpipe and then the garrag’s growl of pain.

  In th
e gray light she eased the healing spike from her pouch, peeled the plant’s skin back with her teeth, and rubbed her leg, feeling the blood and oils under her fingertips. She couldn’t stop shaking. Slowly she loosened her blanket and looked around. Bones gleamed at the back of the trench. Human?

  Hunched under the cloth, she let her mind go smooth. She did not think about the garrag, the hopelessness of her situation, or what she was going to try next. Figt took out a small gourd, cupped her hands around it, and blew a soft, mournful note.

  When the beastie leaned against Moralin, smelling of dirt and musty leaves, she didn’t resist but sat, listening to the sound of its breathing and the sighing of Figt’s music.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  MORALIN CURLED IN THE CAVE, HALF AWAKE, thinking about the garrag, the hopelessness of her situation, and what she was going to try next. She opened her eyes and squirmed to the mouth of the trench and saw Figt standing on a broad tree branch, gazing into the distance. She was eating something brown, dropping pieces of it to the beastie. “I see the spirit of this dead did not steal thy breath in the night,” she said.

  Moralin eased out and dropped to the ground. Took a few stiff steps. Her leg was still sore, but the healing oils had done their work. She stooped and picked up a handful of dirt to clean the blood from her fingers.

  “Because of the music,” Figt added.

  Moralin made a noise of disbelief.

  Figt climbed down. She didn’t offer Moralin whatever she was eating. “All dead spirits want to be dangerous.” Her voice was matter-of-fact. “But this music keeps such in their place.”

  Moralin picked up a piece the beastie had missed. She sniffed at it and took a bite. It was sweet and waxy. Something crunched in her mouth. She tried not to think about what it might be. “Stupid talk,” she said.