Tears of the Dead (23 page)

Morning Star halted. Fu Xi looked up and saw the ravine ended in a narrow fissure, through which poured blinding light. He held up his hand to shield his eyes, and felt warmth caress his palm.

“Go,” he commanded and pointed to the crack.

“I cannot! There is nothing left, I am empty.”

“Then be filled. You carry a god’s burden, Fu Xi, but you do not carry it alone.

“You have other children to save. Bring them to this place of safety, so they may lay their burdens down. You are the answer to a prayer they have yet to utter. Like me, they must not be forgotten.”

Fu Xi gazed upon the crack, doubtful he could squeeze through. He turned to Morning Star, but the Iceman had vanished, as did the rain.

“Do not leave me!” Fu Xi cried, but only echoes answered him.

Summoning the remainder of his strength, Fu Xi wedged himself into the narrow gap as a faint voice called from behind.

“A land of promise lies beyond this darkness. The way home is always forward.”

Naked and alone, Fu Xi slipped through the crack and fell into sunlight.

Soon after the men departed to fish, the women and children would congregate in shore camp to gather reeds. By mid-morning, their rafts piled high with lush stalks, they sailed to the köy-lo-hely. While the children played around them, the women would sit and chat while stripping stalks into soft, yellow fibers. After the mid-day meal, they hung the strips over long cross-poles to dry for several days. These eventually would be used for cloth and rope.

As the shadows stretched east, the patesi-le would lay out strips of raw reeds lengthwise, signaling to others weaving time had begun.

The women knelt in a long line facing the sea and began to arrange their reeds. Each arun-ki had its own distinct pattern, a mark by which clans recognized one another. As they weaved, they slapped the stalks flat where weft and warp embraced. Soon, the women pounded the deck in perfect unity. The arun-ki’s unique weave gave birth to its own harmony.

It only took a birdsong, a breeze, or perhaps a cricket’s chirp for one of the women to begin the ai – the reed. Her voice chased the natural sound the way a child gleefully pursues a firefly. Immersed in the weave’s rhythm, the other women joined in. They inched forward across the köy-lo-hely, weave and song edging toward the sea. Then, far away, the first halah – the wood, answered them.

The Home Song called the men to shore and bound the arun-ki into one clan, one family.

T
he Chronicle of Fu Xi

***

Ghosts of the dead drifted through Atamoda’s thoughts as the arun-ki slid from one wave to the next.

Lace under, lace over, slap. Lace under, lace over, slap...

The sound of palms striking stalks rippled left and right across the Supply Barge. Every time the women developed some degree of rhythm, someone would slap out of time and destroy the harmony. The line of Minnow women kneeling to her left could not sync with the Crane kneeling to her right. What should have been a comforting ritual, now devolved into a necessary, but disjointed noise.

The urgency they shared over the past two weeks had evaporated. Thanks to Okta, death’s visage transformed from an angry sea trying to rip the arun-ki apart, to a growing ache in their bellies. Now the people had time to reflect and think. After the new sea anchor, laughter could occasionally be heard above the rain. But now the women worked in glum silence, thoughts on their hunger, the dead, and the long journey ahead.

Atamoda tried not to think of the dead, but as the rainy days passed, their faces did not diminish. Instead they grew clearer in her mind. Friends washed away, children ripped from mothers’ arms, fathers swallowed by the sea; all of them reminded Atamoda that her family lived. If she wasn’t thinking of the dead, she worried about the living.

She glanced at Sahti. The young woman’s dirty blond hair cast a lifeless shadow over her pale face and dark circles lined her eyes. Atamoda always gave Xva’s wife the biggest fish cakes, and Xva gave her most of his ration as well. Atamoda told her to go lay down, but she wouldn’t listen.

“It makes me forget, and it keeps Xva from worrying over me,” she had told Atamoda.

She’ll likely deliver in the next month.
She closed her eyes and offered a silent prayer to the Nameless God.
Please, no more pregnancies until the fish return.

The rain continued its relentless assault as curtains of water poured off the makeshift canopies. She differentiated night only by its absoluteness. Lightning, which once terrified the Lo, was now welcomed as little slices of daylight.

Her hands slid in and out of the weave in time with the only reliable rhythm, the rocking deck. Atamoda lifted the canopy section and inspected it as Su-gar dumped a fresh pile of soggy reeds between her and Kus-ge.

Su-gar put her hands on her hips and exhaled through puffed cheeks. “The sea is choked with reeds and about every imaginable log and stick. I doubt we’ll ever run out. Why does Okta insists we gather more?”

“I wish the sea was choked with fish,” Kus-ge said. Atamoda wished her fellow patesi-le had said nothing, as it only served to remind everyone of their empty bellies.

Trying to quickly turn the subject, Atamoda considered the pile of ripped and crushed hulls lying behind them. “The men will use the rest to repair the old hulls and build more.”

“But we have enough boats and rafts,” Su-gar remarked. “Canopies cover the arun-ki end-to-end.”

Because if we don’t keep busy, we will think of food. If we don’t keep our hands occupied, we will turn them on one another.

Atamoda knew solitude flowed in the Lo blood as much as the sea. With the two clans cooped up together, nerves would soon fray.

“Because we don’t know when the next storm will shred a canopy or when a wave will snap a line,” Atamoda said. “Each destroyed boat represents our world growing a little smaller. When we repair a boat, our world pushes out a little farther.”

As restless as the sea, Su-gar paced back and forth. “I am so sick and tired of scooping grass out of the water.”

“
I
am so tired of listening to you complain!” Kus-ge snapped. “Sit down or leave. You’re driving me crazy.”

Su-gar shot Kus-ge a stare every bit as venomous as the water demons could muster. “You don’t tell me what to do.”

Kus-ge rose from behind her pile of reeds, stretching in a slow, threatening manner. She reminded Atamoda of a panther. Despite the wet, clammy atmosphere, Kus-ge wore summer garb – a simple loin cloth and deerskin covering her breast.

The slapping ceased as the line of Crane and Minnow women on either side of the Spine stopped to watch.

Atamoda stood and stepped between them.

“Su-gar, our need for rope is as great as our need for shelter.” She pointed to a large pile of unattended reeds. “Please start stripping those into fiber.”

Su-gar obeyed, never taking her eyes off Kus-ge. Finally, Kus-ge returned to her place next to Atamoda.

A smattering of palms slapped the deck, and the weaving resumed, along with Atamoda’s uneasiness.

Atamoda’s reed pile slowly transformed into a stack of square mats, each about twelve square feet. Once each woman completed her pile, she would begin joining them into sections of varying sizes, depending on where they were needed.

Atamoda reached for two of her mats and a handful of reeds, ready to join their ends by splicing the weaves. She glanced offhandedly at Kus-ge’s mats.

Now the disjointed slapping made sense.

Why didn’t I realize it earlier?

“Kus-ge, your sections are double weaves. I thought we discussed this.”

Kus-ge didn’t look up from her work. “Minnow double weaves keep the rain out. Crane single weaves leak.”

Atamoda looked down the line of Minnow women on the other side of Kus-ge. All their mats were double weaves.

“Single weaves keep us dry enough. Double weaves use far too many reeds. Every day fewer reeds float in the sea, and most of what we find now is already starting to rot. We agreed on this.”

“I changed my mind,” Kus-ge shrugged.

“It requires twice as many strips to join a single to a double weave. You’ve wasted half our reeds,” Atamoda exclaimed.

Kus-ge tossed a completed mat onto her pile and crossed her arms. “If the patesi-le of the Crane desires single weaves on her side of the Spine, she is welcome to them. The Minnow side will be dry.”

Once again, the line grew quiet. The Crane women looked on intently.

Atamoda took a deep breath and put on a patient smile. “We do not have enough reeds for double weaves. We will use single weaves.”

“Is this your will or the will of the Uros?”

Atamoda felt herself flush. She measured her words with great care. “They are one and the same.”

With a crooked smile, Kus-ge stood, arms still crossed. “Then the Uros and his wife can weave them.” She strolled away like a cat. The Minnow women silently filed in behind her.

Atamoda remained kneeling after they vanished to the far side of the arun-ki, flexing her hands and taking deep breaths.

Su-gar knelt next to her, touching her arm. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” She patted Su-gar’s hand and glanced up at the rest of the women.

My women.

“Go to your boats. Our work is done for the day. The hour of rations is almost upon us.”

“Are you sure?” Alaya asked.

“Go, yes, I’m fine. I need some time alone.”

Su-gar and Alaya helped Sahti to her feet and, with the other Crane women, left Atamoda alone with only the rain and unfinished piles of mats as company.

Difficult enough before the Deluge, Kus-ge grew more confrontational with each passing day, as if purposely driving a wedge between the Minnow and Crane. The more Atamoda tried to collaborate with her, the more Kus-ge resisted. Atamoda knew she had to handle this herself. Aizarg’s power only extended so far, no matter how touched by a god.

Before the Deluge, Atamoda had little respect for the young woman who could not assume her patesi-le duties until Setenay’s passing. But following Kus-ge’s performance during the battle against the demons, Atamoda no longer doubted her power.

Atamoda knew a confrontation loomed ahead. She needed to talk to Kus-ge alone, without the pressure of onlookers, where she could delve into the emotions driving the young woman away.

From beyond the brazier’s flickering shadows, a familiar figure emerged. By the silhouette’s graceful, gliding stroll, Atamoda thought Kus-ge might be returning.

Perhaps she wants to talk.

Instead, Sana stepped onto the raft, Bat-or dancing around her feet.

The Scythian has learned to walk the deck like a Lo woman.

Seeing her little one with the Scythian girl lifted Atamoda’s spirits. She readjusted herself to a cross-legged position and patted the place beside her invitingly.

Bat-or plunged into the reed pile and then rolled into his mother’s lap. “Momma, I have a secret!” he whispered breathlessly.

Atamoda’s eyes grew wide. “What is it?”

Ba-tor leaned in. “Sana doesn’t know how to swim.”

Atamoda turned red. “I apologize for my son. He’s only a child and doesn’t know what he says.”

Sana sat down and shook her head. “I don’t understand?”

“To the Lo, telling someone they cannot swim is a grave insult.”

Sana placed her hands on her hips and gave Ba-tor a scolding look.

Bat-or’s eyes grew wide. “It’s okay, Momma. I’m going to teach her. And when I grow up, I’m going to marry her.”

Sana’s mock scowl melted into a stifled giggle. “If you are going to marry me, then you need to learn how to ride a horse. A proper Scythian bride must be carried away on a horse.”

Bat-or scrunched his face up, as if giving the subject deep thought. “Momma, do we have a horse?”

Atamoda’s stomach growled.
If I had a horse right now, I’d eat it.

Atamoda shook her head. “I think we forgot to bring one.”

“Sana, may I carry you off in a boat, instead?” Ba-tor asked.

“Of course, my brave warrior.” She giggled again with a smile so warm it made Atamoda question everything she knew about the Scythians.

“I’m going to find Daddy! He has to teach me to make a boat.” Ba-tor leapt off her lap and bounded toward the Köy-lo-hely.

“Tell you father and Ghalen I will be there in a moment to help dispense rations,” she called after him.

“Is it safe for him to go alone?” Sana asked.

“I don’t think he’ll go near the edges again.” Atamoda paused and watched her boy scamper away. “He’s taken quite a liking to you. I hope he isn’t being a pest.”

Sana grinned. “He’s wonderful. Other than you, he is the only one here who has shown me kindness.”

“I am sorry. My people will come to accept you.”

“Their hatred is understandable. My people grind our enemies into soil, including the Lo. We preyed on you even to the end.”

Atamoda did not know what to say, so she said nothing. Atamoda liked the way Sana’s voice sounded. Unlike Ezra’s guttural, halting accent, Sana’s voice flowed low and smooth like a deep, steady stream on a warm day, almost lulling her into a trance.

Sana picked up a mat, toying with the frayed hem.

“Bat-or reminds me of my little brother.”

Thankful for an insight for further conversation, Atamoda almost opened her mouth to ask about her family, but then remembered the fate of Sana’s people.

“I’m sorry.”

Sana turned to Atamoda. “Do not be. Death is a part of Scythian life. We prepare for it at the moment of birth. We don’t hide from it, but chase it like the wind across the open steppe. This death,” she motioned her head up toward the rain pounding on the tarp, “is different. There are no songs to sing which steel the heart and calm the trembling hand. It is a cold death sent by a cold god.” She gazed off into the distance. “I stay away from the edges, too.”

“Okta fashioned a small lagoon near the stern on the Crane side. The water there is tranquil enough, and the edges always in arm’s reach. Perhaps I can teach you.”