chapter twenty-six #3
The wise one nods as if she expected as much.
“Anam’gate,” she says, raising her eyebrows.
Still, she doesn’t seem too surprised. “The gate of the soul.” Her gaze swipes across me and Seniia.
“I will not inquire into the nature of your mission at these foreboding gates. The path of the soul is inherently solitary. Three nights, then. And your priestess will heal anyone who needs it. You will leave the morning of the third day.” It is clear from her tone that this offer is not up for negotiation.
As Vilder accepts, I pray that will leave us with enough time. It has to.
“And so it shall be,” she repeats, sealing their agreement. She gestures toward the fire. “Please, have a seat. Our hearth is your hearth from this day until the last day.”
I bow my head in appreciation—it seems like the right thing to do—and find a seat by the fire.
I extend my hands, and it doesn’t take long before my eyes are welling up with the pain caused by the thawing of my frozen limbs.
Still, I’m grateful for the warmth and for the fact that we have a safe place to stay for the night.
And when a warm bowl of hot stew is pushed into my hands and a thick skin is laid across my shoulders, I would be blissfully happy if it weren’t for the looming uncertainty in front of us.
But then Vilder begins his tales, and I almost forget my troubles completely.
From the moment he starts to speak, it’s clear he’s a natural.
His words flow effortlessly, spinning captivating tales that move even the most hardened of men.
Laughter and tears flow freely, and I find it fascinating how Vilder, usually so reserved, can spellbind an entire tribe, causing even the most stoic of the Chìen warriors to wipe their eyes.
Once he finishes his stories, the tribe brings out their drums, and Vilder pulls out a harmonica I didn’t know he possessed.
Done with their dinner, half of the tribe joins the drummers, using their bowls as makeshift instruments, while the rest of the group begins to dance.
And as a background accompaniment, the deep rhythmic melody of the great mallochs resonates like a bass drum.
I smile at their obvious joy. Their life is so simple, yet so rich, their community strong and warm and welcoming.
Everything I have ever wished for. With my two best friends and family right here with me, laughing and dancing by my side, there’s a moment where I can almost forget all the death that has surrounded me.
The death that lingers right at the edges of the fire, where the warm light gives way to the darkness of the night.
For a heartbeat, I have everything I’ve ever dreamed of, and it’s almost as if staying here, close enough to the fire, within its ring of light, will allow me to escape the death reaching for me from the shadows.
Out of breath from the dance, I fall, laughing, onto a pile of skins. Squeezing my eyes tight, I etch this mesmerizing scene into my mind so I can sketch it in my journal and revisit it whenever I need a reminder that life can be good. That despite everything, hope can still be found.
“You are welcome to stay, you know,” a voice says. “Reāns and humans are equally welcome by our fires.”
I smile at the young Reān female sitting next to me.
“Thank you,” I say. “Your offer means more to me than you know.” I gesture toward the dancing crowd.
“I’ve never known anything such as this, and I’d be lying if I said it’s not tempting to stay here.
” I sigh. “Unfortunately, I’ll have to be on my way though.
But thank you for inviting me to stay in your home. ”
She beams at me, then jumps back up to join the dance, and Vilder sinks down next to me.
“Your stories are amazing,” I say, smiling at him. “The way you do the voices, the songs. How you play the harmonica. I’ve heard nothing like it.”
He shrugs. “It’s what I was trained to do.”
I give his arm a comforting squeeze, knowing what it must have cost him to revisit this part of himself. For a while, we are comfortable just lying on our backs, covered in warm skins, staring at the canopy of soul stars above.
“All Reāns are born of the fire. Of stars.” He points to the myriad of soul stars above. “Can you believe some of them have just been born?”
I follow his gaze, noticing once more the countless strings—each one attached to a separate soul star—shimmering faintly, weaving a golden tapestry across the dark night sky. “They’re beautiful,” I say. I don’t think I could ever tire of the breathtaking view of the night sky.
His pointer finger traces one of the golden orbs as it falls through space and disappears.
“Do you know that once our soul star flickers out, it can take anywhere from a breath to a millennium before a Reān is born again, but eventually, we all are?” He keeps his eyes on the night sky as he talks.
“We are born and die, but death is not the abyss it appears to be; it is a gateway to another life, not a final ending.”
I shake my head, not sure if the thought is comforting or not. For once, I’m happy to be human; I’d rather have peace in my death. “Where does the soul go in the meantime?”
“When a soul falls, it becomes part of the Sea of Souls,” he says, but before I can ask where that is, Vilder throws his blanket off and leaps to his feet. A heartbeat later, a resonant horn blasts through the air.
“It’s the great mallochs,” Vilder says in answer to my questioning stare. “Someone or something is approaching, and not in a friendly manner.”
The tribe springs to their feet in what initially seems like utter chaos but quickly transforms into an organized display of coordinated action. Ladders are raised to the backs of the great mallochs, and four of the Chìen males climb onto their backs.
“They have farsight,” Vilder explains. “The great mallochs can sense or hear movement through their feet over vast distances, and the gift of farsight those four warriors have is a form of lesser earth magic, granted by the earth moon. A tribe will commonly also have lesser magic, such as water finders granted by the water moon and fire wielders granted by the fire moon. If you possess a combination of lesser magic, you often become a wise one, like Rìven. Despite the relentless wind of these plains, the wind moon is not prevalent here in Chì, which is why they honor us singers so much.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard him refer to himself as one of them. “What about the wielders of elēn?” I ask. “The moonborn?”
“We have no place in a tribe. Our calling is to the Arc.”
Yet here they both are, with me.
We’re interrupted by Seniia, who comes running.
“We need to leave. Now,” she says, out of breath, her chest heaving.
“I was right next to the great mallochs when they sounded their warning.” She pauses, gulping down another breath.
“They have spotted at least two dozen warriors, and the great mallochs can sense several C’elēn amongst them. ”
“Void,” Vilder swears under his breath, his jaw flexing. If it’s due to the warriors or him having to break his word to the wise one, I don’t know. Maybe both. Before we can contemplate how to get out of this mess, the wise one, Rìven, is there.
“They seek you,” she declares, eyes locked on me.
How she knows this, I have no idea, but we all know she is right.
“I shall not hold any lives on my conscience. Please take what you require to stay alive. You have my permission to leave.” She turns to Vilder, then to Seniia, giving them both a small bow.
“Singer, Priestess. Until our strings cross again.”
“Until our strings cross again,” they say in unison, bowing to her.
“You should have a day or two on them,” Rìven says, her lips pressing into a thin line. Then, with one last incredulous stare toward me, she whirls and disappears into the crowd.