Child of Flame

Page 8

Dorren sat at Falling-down’s right hand. He taught a counting game to a handful of children hunkered down around the pebbles he tossed with his good hand out of a leather cup. Adica paused just behind the ragged half circle of children and watched Dorren.
Dorren looked up at once, sensing her. He smiled, sent the children away, and got to his feet, holding out his good hand in the greeting of cousins. She reached for him, then hesitated, and dropped her hand without touching him. His withered hand stirred, as if he meant to move it, but he smiled sadly and gestured toward Falling-down, who remained intent on his carving.
“None thought to see you here,” Dorren said, stepping aside so that Falling-down wouldn’t be distracted from his spell by their conversation.
Faced with Dorren, she didn’t know what to say. Her cheeks felt hot. She was a fool, truly. But he was glad to see her, wasn’t he? Dorren was a White Deer man from Old Fort who had been chosen as a Walking One of the White Deer tribe, those who traveled the stone looms to learn the speech of their allies. As Walking One, he received certain protections against magic.
“I heard that Beor made trouble for you in your village,” he said finally while she played nervously with one of her copper bracelets. “You endured him a long time. It isn’t easy for a woman and a man to live together when they don’t have temperaments to match.”
He had such gentle eyes. With the withered hand, he had never been able to hunt and swim like other children, but he had grown up healthy and strong and was valued for his cleverness and patience. That was why he had been chosen as Walking One. He had so many qualities that Beor so brazenly lacked.
“Some seem better suited than others,” he went on. Surely he guessed that she had watched him from afar for a long time.
Her heart pounded erratically. Remarkably, his steady gaze, on her, did not waver, although he must have heard by now about the doom pronounced over her and the other six Hallowed Ones. Seeing his courage, she knew the Fat One had guided her well.
He began anew, stammered to a halt, then spoke. “It must seem to you that the days pass swiftly. I have meant to tell you—” He broke off, blushing, as he glanced at the path which led to the village. A few children loitering at the head of the path scattered into the woodland, shrieking and giggling.
“There’s a woman here,” he said finally, in a rush, cheeks pink with emotion. “Her name is Wren, daughter of Red Belly and Laughing. She’s like running water to me, always a blessing. Now she says that I had the man’s part in the making of the child she’s growing in her belly. The tribe elders agreed that if I work seven seasons of labor for them, then I can be named as the child’s father and share a house in the village with her.”
She couldn’t imagine what he saw in her expression, but he went on quickly, leaping from what he knew to what he thought. Each word made her more sick at heart and more humiliated.
“You needn’t think I’ll shirk my duties as Walking One. I know what’s due to my people. But there’s no reason I can’t do both. I can still walk the looms and labor here, for she’s a good woman, is Wren, and I love her.”
Horribly, she began to cry, silent tears washing down her face although she wanted anything but to be seen crying.
“Adica! Yours is the most generous of hearts, and the bravest! I knew you would be happy for me despite your own sorrow!” Glancing toward Falling-down, he frowned in the way of someone thinking through a decision that’s been troubling him. “Now, listen, for you know how dear to me you are in my heart, Adica. I know it’s ill luck to speak of it, that it’s tempting the spirits, but I wanted you to know that if the child is born a girl and she lives and is healthy, we’ll call her after you. Your name will live on, not just in the songs of the tribe but in my child.”
“I am happy for your good fortune,” said Adica hoarsely through her tears.
“Adica!” Falling-down spoke her name sharply as he looked up from the fishing spear, his attention caught by her lie.
She fled.
Falling-down could see into her secret heart because of the link that bound them when they worked the weaving together, and anyway, she hadn’t truly come to see him. She had hoped a wild and irresponsible hope, she’d turned the night wind into a false riddle, and now she’d spent her magic and her time on a fool’s journey, a selfish detour. She was ashamed.
She ran down through the woodland, not wanting to be seen in the village. Dorren yelled after her, but she ignored him. She came down to the shore of the fens and splashed out through the cranberry bog. Berries shone deeply red along the water, almost ripe. She got wet to the thighs but managed to get out to the track without meeting anyone except a boy trolling for fish with hook and line. Farther out on the track, two women hauling a net out of the water called to her, but she couldn’t understand their words. It seemed to her that all of human intercourse was slowly receding from her, one link severed, another warm hand torn from her grasp, one by one, until she would face the great working alone except for the other six, Falling-down, Two Fingers, Shu-Sha, Spitslast, Horn, and Brightness-Hears-Me. They were a tribe unto themselves now: the ones severed from the rest of humankind. They were the sacrifice through which the human tribes would be freed from fear.