The Feverbird's Claw (5 page)

“I've learned to speak both Arkera and Delagua.” Pride flickered over his face like sunlight. “Luckily, the two are sister languages.”

“What a lie.” Moralin spoke with such force that Figt turned around to give her a quick look.

“Not at all.” Song-maker played one long, high note. “They descended from the same mother tongue.”

She spit.

He grinned at her. “Many words are different by now. The Arkera word for ‘old' is
hadde.
But can you guess the Arkera word for ‘young'?”

The fields had ended. She looked around trying to find some landmark to memorize.

“
Yon.
Some words are exactly the same. I can't think of one right now.” He laughed again. “Such a look you are giving me. Listen for yourself.”

Along the line a chant had begun. The boy translated.

“Recognize any words?” Song-maker asked.

“No.” Moralin spit again. “I heard nothing but babbling.”

“T
HEY TOLD ME TO TELL YOU THEY WOULD
not harm you on the journey to …” Song-maker used a word Moralin didn't know. “‘Deep mother,'” he translated. “But you must not think of escape. The girl there will make sure.” He pointed at Figt with his chin.

These trees had trunks as thick as the temple pillars. She studied one, wondering if it was as smooth as it looked. He was wrong. She would escape.

Figt bent down and said something to the panting animal. A woman replied sharply. “What is she saying?” Moralin asked. Maybe she could use the boy to learn of Arkera weakness.

He translated. “This one talks to a beast. Not even a good beast, not even a carrying beast, but foolish like the first beast.”

A rock was flung toward the beastie. It yelped and ran off among the trees. Figt sucked in her breath but said nothing.

Somewhere behind them a child whimpered. Moralin heard the mother's quick hushing. People glanced around with frightened eyes.

Why? Did the boy know?

A woman with a crinkled face spoke loudly. “‘Here is my story,'” Song-maker translated.

People up and down the line echoed “story … story.” Reluctantly Moralin recognized the word.

The boy tipped his head to listen. Whenever the woman paused, he quickly filled in for Moralin.

“When the world was young, Mama Koy, ancestor of all the tree spirits, sent word to the animals that a new creature had come to the forest, clever but often unwise. Mama Koy said, ‘Because of thy love for me, give thy gifts to help the new one.' Obediently the animals came. The one-who-buzzes brought a drop of shining sweetness. The one-who-hops gave soft fur for healing when the new one fell in the fire and was burned. Each animal had its gift. Best of all, the one-who-slithers offered the twelve medicines. To him, Mama Koy said fondly, ‘Oh, most generous one, and may the new one always revere thee because of thy gift.'”

Song-maker had a gift for mimicry. He hopped and buzzed so perfectly that Moralin almost smiled.

“Mama Koy stopped. ‘But one of the animals under the sun is not here.' All the other animals looked around. They saw the one-who-flies and the one-who-swims. They saw the one-who-burrows and the one-who-bleats. A whisper rippled around the circle, growing into a rushing wind.

“Black-beak-who-soars-on-swift-wings flew swiftly off and returned. ‘Oh, just and merciful Mama Koy,' he cried, wheeling above their heads, ‘I found this one-who-barks. He was too busy to bring a gift because he was foolishly chasing his tail.'”

The woman finished. Song-maker played a mournful flute sound. “Thus Mama Koy ordered that since the one-who-barks did not give his gift obediently, he must work hard all the days of his life and find his own food so as not to take food from the mouths of the children.”

A man spoke in a low voice. Song-maker translated. “I have heard that this one-who-barks can steal the skin of any animal and run about the forest at night.”

From their fearful murmurs Moralin could see the others agreed.

That night they slept where they dropped. Moralin, huddled under her blanket, dreamed of a swirling mist with a strange shape looming. She was about to recognize the shape when Figt jostled her awake, rubbing the oils onto her burning feet.

Could she get information from the boy? Was there any way to do it without revealing that her intention was escape? She winced away from Figt's fingers. If he did guess, would he tell the elders?

For a while as they walked, she did not see him. When she heard the haunting notes, she was filled with relief. He ran up, gave her an elaborate bow, and fell in beside her. Figt walked in front of them, muttering. “What is she saying?” Moralin asked.

Song-maker didn't answer.

Moralin studied him furtively. She had to make her move soon. Had he ever seen her city? If he had, he would understand. What was Mother doing right now? Watching the pots as the servants stirred shining threads in the bubbling dye and shadows crept close to the dangerous fires to put on more wood?

She looked around at the reddish trees, brown brush, and brown clothes and longed for sky-turquoise, honey-gold, fire-orange, all the colors of Delagua cloth. No wonder other people craved it; no wonder the temple elders worked hard to keep hold of the secrets of making it. She was ashamed that she had not seen how valuable it was. Now she couldn't imagine that she had not wanted to learn all the important things a Delagua woman needed to know about cloth. When she got back, how much better she would do.

“How did you reach the Arkera?” she asked.

“On my own feet of course.” He stretched proudly. “I am almost a man. My people are those who walk bravely from one corner of the flat earth to the other.”

“My people are those who stand bravely and defend their city.” Moralin gave him a glance of scorn. “And you are no more man than I am woman.”

He raised the flute to his lips and played a tune so sad she felt the scorn melt. After a while he said, “At first I was a little frightened to walk alone. When I return home—if they let me return—it will be easier.”

The chanting began again. If he knew how to walk away from this place, she must capture his trust. “I've been thinking about what you told me,” Moralin said. “Let me try again to hear the words.”

The boy looked pleased.

People stooped to fill waterskins. As Moralin waited for hers to fill, she tried to memorize the look of the gnarled roots of a tree that clung to the opposite bank. Figt gave her a shove.

All morning they traveled. This was a land cut with streambeds, and as they climbed up and down, Moralin felt her muscles cramping. She hoped someone was carrying Salla. The boy stumbled and caught his balance. “I trip.” He grinned at her. “Thee trips, you trip, he trips, she trips, we trip, they trip.” He repeated the words in Arkera. “You try it.”

“Why both ‘thee' and ‘you?'”

“Keep to ‘thee.' It's more polite.” He said something else. “I tripped,” he translated. “Hear the difference?”

Cautiously she tried the Arkera word. He corrected her. She turned her head to listen better, caught her foot on a root, and had to run a few steps to smooth her stride and her dignity.

“She trips.” He laughed. He bent and scooped up something. A little green creeper, leaf bright, surely a distant cousin to the ugly snakes on the Arkera sticks. “It does not trip. No legs.”

She surprised herself by laughing. He held it out, but as she reached for it, a shout startled her. The creeper dropped between them and whisked away into the grass. Three warriors trotted by, their heads covered again with the bird masks.

“Ferocious, aren't they?” Song-maker shuddered elaborately, perhaps as a joke, perhaps seriously. “Once these black-beak people forced us to work for them as part of our tribute. More recently they've begun trading with my people instead, so they're supposed to give me salt in exchange for my translating.” He paused. “Even so, I half expect to feel a spear sliding between my shoulder blades as I leave. Now that I know some of their secrets.” His face crinkled into a wry grin. “It would save them some salt.”

Moralin chewed on her thumbnail remembering baby bird faces looking helplessly up. She bit her thumb to stop the horror of her thoughts. “Why are they wearing the masks again?”

It was smooth enough here for Song-maker to walk beside her. He studied the soot-gray sky. “I suppose the masks give them some kind of power or protection. I don't know. Guests watch their conversation topics. I'm to be out of here soon. I'd like it to be alive.”

This was the opportunity. Moralin focused on the back of Figt's head and made her voice casual. “Have you ever wanted to see the Delagua city?”

He looked at her, and she was surprised to see in his amused expression that she had not fooled him. “Oho. In the feverbird's claw. The only place even worse than in the grip of the black-beak people.”

She could feel indignation flash in her.
Calm.
She needed him.

“What your people do to prisoners,” he went on. “Now that's the stuff of nightmares.”

“And I suppose
your
people—”

“Look.” She saw they were approaching a huge field. Warriors were already moving through the tall grasses, sweeping with their sticks. In the confusion, the beastie came slinking up to stand by Figt, who leaned down to whisper something in its ear. “Actually—” Song-maker said.

He was interrupted by a woman's voice speaking loudly to a group of children. “What is she saying?” Moralin asked.

“That the helicht grows here,” Song-maker said. “Once she found a plant so big that even a warrior hurt near to death could place the oils of the plant on the wound and be healed. She says, ‘Look hard, oh, my children, and do not forget to thank the helicht plant before taking its flower.'”

The old woman's face became grave, and her voice dropped. “Take care not to pull up any roots,” Song-maker translated, “lest earth spirits get pulled into the air, where they will shrivel and become angry.”

The children began to fan out, pushing the grass aside. Moralin lifted the hem of her dress and took a cautious step. “Skulkuks?” she asked. Even a small one of those fierce and biting lizard beings could attack people's ankles and cripple them.

During the deep dry time, when dust whirlwinds danced in the streets, Delagua women stayed inside their cool houses, weaving. Her grandmother would weave words along with her threads, terrifying stories of the red forest and the creatures living there. As a child Moralin had asked again and again for the stories of giant skulkuks, perhaps mutated by the red trees, huge flying beasts that could sweep down without warning, only one water-rippling cry. The stories gave her nightmares, but the next day she would ask to hear them again.

She saw that Figt was already deep in the grasses. Be careful, lest a mere story leave her hollow and quavering. She waded in.

“Wait,” Song-maker called, but she didn't dare. Oils like those Figt kept putting on her feet would be important for the journey home. “Skulkuk,” he shouted after her. “That's a word the same in both languages.”

When they were near the middle of the field, Figt dropped to her knees. Moralin saw a plant with a spike topped by a sinister white flower. Figt bowed slightly to the plant or perhaps to Mama Koy. With her shiny knife, she carefully began to cut. Moralin was filled with envy. The moon color of the flower made her uneasy, but she had to have one.

Just then the mournful note of the shell moaned. Obediently people began to move toward the sound. Moralin sighed. She took a step and then leaped back from whatever rustled in the grass almost under her foot.

As she fell, a gray bird whooshed up toward her face and into the air, its wings flapping as wildly as her heart. The grass broke her fall. By her hand she saw a tiny helicht plant. “Cora Linga,” she whispered. “Was this bird your messenger?”

Urgently she tugged on the flower. The whole plant slid out of the ground. “Earth spirits,” the old woman had said. Forget that. Moralin's fingers trembled with the haste of getting the plant into her pouch before Figt saw what she had seen, a brilliant blue bead tangled in the small roots.