Children of the Wolves (4 page)

Again Michael wished he'd kept quiet. He couldn't ask her to clarify herself and describe her intentions; he couldn't say what was on his mind. The newlyborn were strictly enjoined from forming attachments or partnerships before they were awakened and he could tell the suggestion that she might have violated the law distressed Jelena. He tried to reassure her.

“You sound as if that were a source of frustration. A complaint. I'm only trying to keep you safe.” He winced. These words were no better than the previous ones. He had reassured her of nothing with them. What was he thinking? Ordinarily, he was considered gifted with words, but they came out all wrong now.

“You have no cause for concern about Viktor and me,” Jelena said, folding her arms over her chest, her lips thinning as she glared at him. He stifled a sound of frustration. Now he had made her angry. “At least not until we've all agreed that I'm unawakened,” she added defiantly.

“Ay,” Michael said, his chest tight. Did her concern and unhappiness over the seven years she'd spent under his protection stem from her desire to pursue a partnership with the musician? He studied her face with a calm, dispassionate air he didn't feel. Surely she could see that the musician was completely inappropriate for her? Much too melancholy and adrift, lost in the labyrinth of the past with no real desire to free himself. Michael wanted more than that twilight life for Jelena. And didn't she realize the difficulties of partnering when she was unawakened? The unawakened were forbidden to partner with one another for fear their offspring would be tainted. And while it was accepted for someone who was awakened to commit to partnership with an unawakened, it was extremely rare. Rare — and strongly discouraged. Did Jelena really think Viktor would want her if she were declared unawakened?

“Perhaps something will happen soon,” he said, wanting to console her for his ill-thought words. He stood looking at her for a long moment. Then he made a decision. He moved to the chest where he kept his belongings and removed a fabric pouch from the bottom. “Will you come with me?” he asked Jelena.

Her jaw tightened but she nodded and followed him as he left the main hall. He cut across the courtyard and around the paddock. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure she was keeping up with him as he started down the dirt path that led down to the river, threading between the tall trees that protected them. Some of the elders called it the creek, but the rememberer said that it was a river; rivers were much larger than creeks or streams. The storyteller insisted it was a brook, just to be contrary, but no one paid him any mind.

Jelena and Michael picked their way down the path, past the bath house, stepping over rocks and tree roots, skirting the gooseberry and prickly pear, slipping a bit in the mud — it never completely dried here among the trees, not even in mid-summer. Then they walked along the bluff overlooking the river until they came to the boulder-strewn point jutting out from among the trees. The sun shone steadily down on the rocks and the water flowing by made a tranquil and pleasing sound, flashing sparks of light like signals to the sky. A spray of water occasionally wetted the outer end of the point, but they sat back from there. A trout leapt in the air, splashing back into the water, creating a rainbow of iridescence in the warm air.

It was quiet and calm here; the clothes keepers washed the accumulated dirty garments in the river once a week, but not today; and sometimes the trueborn children bathed in the brisk water, but only rarely when no other chores could be devised for them. Not for the first time, Michael wondered why the river so frightened the people. Perhaps because of how exposed the water was, just beyond the protection of the trees. Didn't they realize the trees couldn't literally, physically protect them? Perhaps not.

Jelena and Michael often came here to talk and to find a bit of quiet. Almost never were they interrupted by other villagers. Michael craved silent time by himself, but he couldn't leave Jelena alone very often. She had learned to be silent, too, although he suspected her true nature to be slightly loquacious. If she weren't so unsure of her place, she would be a different woman. He wanted to know how; he wanted to find out who she would be when she finally awakened.

When he brought her here, sometimes they spoke of the nature of the Way, and sometimes of other things — who was ill, and who had recovered, and who was doing their work well for the community and who needed more guidance. Jelena, who watched unceasingly, often knew more than he did about the community.

“We haven't been out here in a long time,” Jelena said now. She had taken off her boots and sat with her feet pulled in and her arms wrapped around her legs. She rested her cheek against her knees and took a deep breath of the sweet air and closed her eyes. She looked relaxed for the first time in many weeks.

He was glad he'd thought to bring her here. He dropped down to sit next to her, leaving his own boots on and stretching his legs out in front of him. The sun warmed his face. The gentle splash of the water was soothing music. More soothing than Viktor's music, anyway. Probably best not to say such a thing to Jelena, though.

“Why did we stop coming here?” she asked. “I don't remember.”

“That yellow rat snake dropped out of the trees and landed at your feet,” Michael reminded her. “You've refused to come back every time I've asked in the last few months.” A twinge of guilt. He hadn't asked often. He'd been busy with his tasks. And it could be so difficult to be alone with her. Too difficult lately, with her restlessness feeding his frustration.

Jelena smiled without opening her eyes. “I'd forgotten. I despise snakes. Loathsome and slimy … and don't you dare tell me they're not slimy, I don't believe you.”

“I offered to let you touch the one I killed. You would have discovered — ”

“That's not remotely amusing,” she said, but the smile curving her lips belied her words. Then she sighed and the smile disappeared. He tensed, waiting. Why must it always be like this? The smile disappearing, the difficult question asked?

She said, “Michael, why did you say it was wolves?”

He had wondered when they were going to have this discussion. He'd known she wouldn't let it go.

“It is what the elders wanted me to say,” he admitted. “I cannot fault them for wanting to protect the people.”

“Protect the people from what?” Jelena demanded. She opened her eyes and stared at him, accusing him, her flashing dark eyes dancing with anger. “From the truth?”

“From the fear,” Michael said gently. “We don't know what happened to the trader. Useless speculations only cause fear.” The people already had too much fear; their precarious existence could easily be upset, destroyed, and everyone knew it, though they might not talk about it.

“Then why don't we try to discover what happened to him? You wouldn't even let me say that I didn't think it was wolves. What would be wrong with the people thinking about what else might have happened? Why not let them ask questions and discuss the possibilities?”

“What good would it do?” Michael asked reasonably. “What do the people know of understanding the causes of violent death?”

“More than you might think,” she said flatly. “If anyone ever asked.”

From her unwillingness to meet his eyes, he knew she was accusing him of stifling dissent as much as she was accusing the elders of doing so. The people were complicit in their silence. That was what she thought, anyway. Nothing he had ever said would dissuade her from her opinion.

Their way was, perhaps, imperfect, but he had never seen a better way, and he was one of the most traveled members of the tribe. But he didn't repeat his arguments now. She had heard them before and discounted them. He hadn't thought of new arguments that would better persuade her. He didn't think there were enough arguments in the world to persuade her. Nothing he would ever say, no matter how brilliant and telling, would convince her. The frustration settled between his shoulder blades.

“You're a good man, Michael,” Jelena said, resting her cheek against her knee. “But I believe what I believe.”

“I know,” Michael said. He wished she wouldn't be so stubborn about what she believed, that was all. Perhaps if she had not gone so long without awakening, it would be easier to accept the Way. “We've had this discussion so many times, Jelena. Let's leave it now.”

He reached over to touch her hand. When she disagreed with him, she seemed so far away; she might say he was a good man but he felt her disappointment in him and her disappointment diminished him, made him somehow
less
. When he touched her, he felt their connection return, and he knew he had her esteem. And that made him somehow
more
.

She curled her fingers around his. “It's because you're a good man that I argue my point, Michael,” she said. “You're the only one who even tries to hear me.” Her eyes were sad as she spoke. He tried to hear her, but could not. Was that what she meant?

He sighed and withdrew his hand from hers. “I wanted to come here with you to give you something,” he said. He reached into his pocket for the fabric pouch and opened it, spilling the contents into his cupped hand. Then he lifted his hand and dangled a golden necklace from his fingers, resting it gently in her palm. She picked it up, her face alight with curiosity. A small oval pendant hung from the thin gold chain. A faint etching of a woman and a child was visible on the pendant.

“You had it in your hand when you were newlyborn,” Michael explained, when she glanced up at him, a question in her eyes. “The newlyborn are naked, they have nothing, no clothing, no belongings, nothing. But you had that in your hand, curled tight in your fist as if you wanted to keep it but didn't want anyone to know you had it.”

Jelena stared at the engraved mother and daughter on the pendant. She made no move to put the necklace on. Her eyes filled with tears and she could not seem to catch her breath. Michael watched her, catching his own breath. He had some idea that the pendant might be a talisman, a stimulus that would awaken the slumbering part of her mind. He sat still, his hands clenched into fists, and he waited. If only —

“I'm sorry,” she said hoarsely. “I don't know what it means.”

What had he expected?
Jelena furiously jabbed the needle into the woven cloth on her lap. She worked cross-legged on the floor in the weaving room with the others who were involved in making fabric and clothing, the spinners and the weavers and the sewers and the other embroiderers like herself. She had to exercise considerable self control to keep from showing her frustration and her anger to anyone else in the room. To be so restrained of emotion didn't seem to be entirely in character for her, although she had no way of comparing the way she was now to the way she used to be. All she knew was that her jaw ached from keeping her words to herself.

Had Michael really believed the shock of seeing an object that belonged to her pastself would miraculously result in her awakening? Had he believed giving her the necklace was all he needed to do, and then — then what? He would be free of her, she supposed. Yes. That was exactly what he'd thought. He'd given her the token and waited, still and silent and breathless, thinking that this time, this time, she might awaken. And she had failed him yet again. The acid taste of her failure had poisoned the meal she'd tried to eat at mid-day, tainted the words she wanted to say to him.
What did you think?
she wanted to scream.
Why did you do it?
What baffled her even more than his action was that it had taken him
seven years
to do it. Seven years he had been her protector before finally deciding to try the stimulus. A treasured belonging might have sparked a reckoning, she surely understood his reasoning there. But he'd had the token in his possession all this time and had never used it before. A bitter laugh welled in her throat but she bit it back. How like Michael to wait seven years before taking action. How many more before he — before he —

Never. That was easy enough to answer. Never, just as she would never awaken. That was easy enough, too. Dammit. Damn him, for making her feel this way, hopeless and inadequate. Did he think she didn't realize when he held his breath, his body still, hoping
this
memory would be the one,
this
time she would have her reckoning? Did he think she didn't hear the sigh as she disappointed him yet again? It could not go on, endless and without hope. Dammit. Tears blurred her vision and her throat ached with the words she couldn't say. Damn him.

Jelena yanked the needle through the fabric, the thread snarling into a hopeless knot. She wanted to throw the tunic across the floor and stomp out of the room, but that would never do. Michael would haul her back into the room and have a compassionate conversation with her about her duty and the expectations the people had for appropriate behavior. Why couldn't she have been newlyborn into a tribe where everyone threw things? She would fare better.

Why did her lack so enrage her? The fear and the anger welled up uncontrollably until her hands shook and she wanted to scream in frustration. Was she the only one who ever felt this way? How could everyone else be so calm and controlled? Emotionless, she'd thought at first, but that had been unfair. Different, was what she realized now. They were different from her.

It didn't help that Teresa sat working peacefully in the corner with the other weavers — Tomas and Mary and Annibal. Teresa, tall and bony, with black hair and eyes, who reminded Jelena of nothing so much as a crow, had been so terrified as a newlyborn. Now she was offensively confident, even arrogant, as if she never had a moment's doubt. She hadn't awakened yet — she'd been newlyborn for not quite two years — but obviously it never even occurred to her that she could be one of the unawakened. Equally obviously, she felt certain her calling would transform the people. Jelena suspected that if all else failed, Teresa would pretend to awaken. If anyone could carry off such a deceit, it was that woman.