The Feverbird's Claw (12 page)

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 the 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.

M
ORALIN 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.

“Think I'm talking stupid talk? Thee is the stupid one.” Figt glared at Moralin with warrior eyes.

Moralin looked around. Had the food come from here? She didn't see any more. Figt must have brought it with her.

The other girl began to talk rapidly. Moralin listened intently, trying to piece together the words and gestures.

Figt had decided not to return to the village. The life of a solitary was … she used a word Moralin didn't know, but noting Figt's expression, Moralin almost felt the beginning of pity. Figt continued, talking in such a low, angry voice that Moralin had to strain to catch familiar words. Now Figt had a new plan, and maybe even a stupid one like this girl could be of some use.

“Come.” Figt's tone was imperious, but Moralin just shrugged. If anything, they'd been equally stupid.

Once they both were on the low, broad branch she could see that far below them at the foot of the butte the land stretched to the north as if it were a huge piece of quilted cloth. Bare trees of the red forest. Smooth and endless yellow of the sands. The Brown Turtle mountain range and gash of canyon that separated them.

“We go that way.” Figt pointed with her chin.

Moralin squinted. “The sand waste? Where no living beings dare go?”

“It is the only way.”

The beastie whined and scratched at the foot of the tree. Moralin eased down from the low branch until she was on the ground beside him. Ooden had said, “No work, no food.” A solitary might manage to find or steal provisions through one dry season … but year after year? It seemed unthinkable, but the Arkera were certainly capable of starving one of their own.

No, it wasn't astonishing if Figt, now that she had shaken free of the village, would decide not to return. But the yellow sands?

Figt dropped, light as a wildcat, and adjusted her waterskin around her waist. “It is the only way, Kadu.” Moralin thought she saw fear mixed in with the fierceness on the other girl's face.

“My name is not Kadu. My name is Moralin.”

Figt gave her a look she couldn't read. Was it disgust? Was it sadness? “Does this Kadu have a plan?” She grabbed Moralin's wrist.

“Stop!” Moralin pulled away. “Tell me what you … tell me what thee wants.”

Figt looked off in the distance for a long moment. “When I was young,” she said in a strange, halting voice, “my family traveled often in the sands. My mother, my older sister, my little brother, my father.”

Moralin turned her head from the pain in Figt's face.

“In those days my people and”—Figt spit—“the dwellers of the sand waste kept clear of each other. We gathered food.”

The beastie whined and rubbed against Figt as if it could smell the fierce sadness that seemed to rise from her skin. Figt cleared her throat. “This is my story.”

Moralin leaned forward, trying to catch enough words to understand.

One day Figt had begged to stay in the village with her friends. That afternoon The People were attacked in the sand waste. Figt coughed. “My father, my mother … the others carried their bodies back to the village.”

“Dead?”

“Understand this,” Figt said. “When I crossed the bridge, I was not afraid. I knew their spirits would keep me safe.”

Dead. Moralin swallowed, remembering whimpers and speared bodies. “Thy brother? Sister?”

“They did not come back.”

“How good that thee was not with thy family.” It was all she could think to say.

Figt glared at her. “I
should
have been with them.” She paused, her face suddenly blank of any expression. “When I wandered alone in the fields, I made a vow to find those who killed them.”

So had she now concluded that since she was going to die anyway, she would do it seeking revenge?

“This decision's time has come.” Figt chin-pointed at Moralin's pouch. “The plant keepers taught thee things that can help me in the sands. And I can be of use to thee.”

Moralin considered. If they survived the sand long enough to find Figt's enemies, Figt could seek a good death by killing some of those who had taken her family.

She herself would most likely also die. But if she managed to survive? She would be among the enemies of the Arkera. Perhaps they would also be allies of the Delagua who could help her find her way home. Her leg was hurting so much it was hard to think, but she looked around for her things.

The ginger-brown and yellow ground that had seemed smooth from high on the cliffs was actually lumpy and rough. Spiny bushes and patches of grass dotted the tan hills. As Moralin climbed down a ragged gash in the land and up the other side, a small whirlwind of sand blew up. When it twirled off, she coughed, spitting out grit. The sky above them was almost white.

Figt gave a wide wave. “The Arkera say that many travelers stand and look upon this place. Those who enter soon have only the hollow eyes of death.”

The hollow eyes of death. Moralin hesitated. Maybe she could still find another way.

Figt caught her arm.

Moralin shook herself free. She squatted and picked up a handful of sand. Slowly she let it trickle through her fingers. Might as well die trying to get home.

A
FTER HOURS OF FOLLOWING
F
IGT
, M
ORALIN
felt as if she had swallowed mouthfuls of sand. By a small gray bush, Figt knelt and began to dig. The beastie joined in, spraying dirt and sand in an arc. Water began to seep into the hole. It was dirty, but Moralin knelt and slurped from both hands. The bright designs were fading. Figt held water in her own hand for the beastie to drink.

They walked on. After a long, dusty time Moralin knelt and tried digging as Figt had. The beastie helped, just as it had before. But though Moralin stubbornly dug and dug, no water appeared.

Finally, she pulled the rikka sap out and gave each of them a nibble. She held hers in her mouth for a long time, letting the drops leak into her throat. Her feet were swollen rocks. Up and down. Up over a sand dune and down the other side to green and brown patches licked by fat tongues of sand. “Mamita,” Moralin whispered through salt-dry lips. She couldn't remember exactly what anyone back home looked like anymore.

Thirst traveled with them always, sometimes a few steps in the distance, sometimes choking their throats. At first Moralin spent her time trying to make plans. In the end she could think of nothing except thirst. Every time she decided she must sink down in the sand and sing her death song, Figt seemed to find a place to dig, some strange plant, a bit of water trapped in the rocks.

With her warrior training, Figt knew little of herbs. Moralin was the one, using the things from her pouch, who cared for the welts that appeared on their skin from stinging insects, who handed out the hard green berries that gave them strength to walk for hours in the early morning and again as soon as the sun slipped down the sky. “
Nazet,
” Figt told her, holding one up.

“The name of these berries? Like Nazeti, the plant keeper?”

“It's a common name. For a boy, too. It was—” She coughed, a dry, choked sound. “It was the name of my brother.”

Moralin nodded. After that, sadness stirred in her every time she took out the berries. Even the beastie learned to chew them.

When they rested in whatever shade they could find, they sat as still as stones, trying not to sweat out precious moisture. During the day they could usually find their bearings from the line of purple mountains. At night Figt used the Arkera constellations: the black-beaked bird and coiled snake, the hunter with his spear, the skulkuk and child.

Moralin no longer felt afraid of the flecked sky. She wished she had listened when Old Tamlin talked about stars. Soldiers had once used them when they needed to capture prisoners for the great ceremonies. Priests still consulted them in temple duties. If she had known she would one day walk openly under the stars, that they could even determine her own life and death, she would have made better use of the moon-dark times when Delagua dared to go outside. She would have learned more than the feverbird with its giant wings spread wide.

Sometimes they traveled in silence, but often it was necessary to talk to stay awake, to keep going. “Tell me about thy city,” Figt said one night.

Moralin searched for words to make Figt understand. How huge it was. The strong houses, some covered with flowers, and stone streets with the channels of water running beside. The lake. The temple, which was the center of Delagua life. The fighting yard, where she had been happy.

How to explain Delagua traditions? Not secrets, of course. Just things anyone could see. That women wore velees when they went outside so their faces would be protected from the eyes of others. That the grinding of flour and the other back-bending work was done by the shadows, wearing masks.

“These masks.” Figt interrupted. “Like The People's black-beak masks?”

“No, white. Made of cloth.” Soaked in resin, but there was no way to explain that. She showed the way the masks were molded to a shadow's face and allowed to harden. Holes carved for eyes, nostrils, mouths. “The masks do not come off.”