Children of the Dawn (30 page)

“I miss her, too,” Tor said.

Ashan saw past the brave voice, saw emotions as plain as bones and blood. Tor was overwhelmed with anger and pain, but he
refused to scream, refused to weep.

Ashan longed to comfort her soulmate. She’d always thought they’d be able to feel each other after one of them died—their
love was that special. But she could not make Tor aware of her existence. He didn’t want to know of her existence. It might
light the way out of his black pit of grief, and he wasn’t ready for that. He clung to his grief, believing it was all he
had left of Ashan, that letting it go would mean letting go of her.

At least Kai El knew the spirit his mother had become. She could enter his dreams and comfort him. He was journeying through
grief on a straight path.

His father was not. Like a star when too much heat builds up, Tor could explode, flying apart with such force that he’d never
pull himself together again.

“I’m going upriver,” Tor said.

“Say hello to her for me,” Deyon said.

“I wish I could.”

Tsilka stepped out of her hut as Tor passed.

As always, it surprised the Spirit of Ashan to feel a flash of hatred for the woman.

…
I
would have thought spirits would be more understanding of humans
…

If not for Tor, Tsilka would be a different person. If not for Tor, there would be no fatherless twins.

…
I
should be more generous toward her
…

Tsilka ran after Tor and stopped him. She held out a piece of dried red meat.

“I made saltfish, the way you like it.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Try it, and tell me what you think. Does it have too much white rock?”

He tasted, and spat. “Too much.”

“That’s what I thought,” she said. “Drink this to clean your mouth.”

Tsilka held out a ram-horn cup. Ashan became the liquid in it: A tea of mushrooms sweetened with honey, shimnawa mushrooms
that could put a man’s better senses to sleep. She remembered finding the two of them on a moonlit night—Tor stupid with mushrooms,
Tsilka dancing naked.

…
With all these men, why can’t you leave Tor alone
…

Tsilka did not hear the Spirit of Ashan.

“It will make you feel better,” she said in a voice sweet as the honey in the poisoned cup.

…
No, Tor, don’t take it
…

He said, “I feel fine, Tsilka.”

“I know you better than that, my warrior god.” It was a name Tsilka used to call out when they made love.

Tor reached for the cup. Ashan heard him thinking,
What would I give to feel better for a while?

The spirit put all her effort into making a sound, any sound. She’d tried before, but maybe this time…

It was hard to get used to being nothing.

…
Why do I care if Tsilka makes him drunk
…
Doesn’t he deserve some relief from his misery
…

Tor drank the mushroom tea.

…
Stop it, Tor
…
She’s bad for you
…

The spirit wasn’t jealous, as she might have been in life, but she had to stop Tor from hurting himself. She liked to believe
he’d grown past that, but she knew better. If he drank enough mushroom tea, he’d give in to the part of his mind that lived
between his legs. Taking pleasure with Tsilka would be bad for him anytime, especially now. Tor was capable of desperate acts;
he might regret it enough to end his life. As much as the spirit longed to feel her mate’s embrace, it wasn’t time for him
to join her in the otherworld.

Tor drained the cup. Tsilka took it, and refilled it from a shoulder pouch.

…
What am I going to do
…
Tor can’t hear me
…
A bodiless creature can’t slap the cup from Tsilka’s hand
…

The Spirit of Ashan might have left. She could be anywhere faster than an eyeblink, didn’t have to know what happened
in this village. Part of her wanted to leave. It might be said that Tor deserved whatever he got at Tsilka’s hands.

Or… she could go further than a spirit should, and interfere in the affairs of humans. Ashan believed she had powers not yet
discovered. The spirit also knew the gravity of harming people. Just because she
could
do something did not mean that she
should.

… I can’t let Tor hurt himself…

Without knowing how it would end, the Spirit of Ashan pulled herself into a ball and exploded in Tsilka’s face.

“Fire!” Tsilka shrieked.

She dropped the ram-horn cup and fled.

…
I
can
get her attention
…

“Fire?” someone said. “What’s she talking about?”

“I don’t know,” Tor said. He hadn’t seen the flash, though he’d been looking at Tsilka, reaching for the cup.

“Maybe she had too much of the mushroom.”

Now that the father was safe, the spirit should have looked in on the son. And she should have left a gift, a prayer perhaps,
for the mixed-blood child. That’s why she’d come to Teahra Village instead of following the migrating whales. But Ashan had
had enough of people. She desired to return to the ocean, and she was there.

K
AI
E
L WAS SEVENTEEN SUMMERS, THE AGE OF UNEXPECTED
stiffening under his loinskin, of watching girls and imagining the unknown.

He was tall like his father, wide of shoulder, long of arm and leg; with well-shaped muscles under brown skin dusted with
gold; thin Shahala nose and high cheeks. Girls called him handsome. He saw in himself his Spirit Guardian, Skaina the Hawk—wings
folded in a dive, keen eyes focused, powerful legs thrust out to kill—but once a girl said he reminded her of a stalking cougar.
He tied his hair back with thongs, keeping it long for the night he’d loose it to brush across a woman’s breasts. He loved
the feel and smell of animal skin. Because people brought gifts to the Moonkeeper’s family, even now that she was dead, he
had many leathers and furs for different seasons. On this summer day, he wore only a fringed loinskin and moccasins that came
to his knees.

Kai El’s spirit brother, Jud, would never be mistaken for his birth brother. Except for their age, they were different in
every way. Who knew what made best friends?

Jud was short like most men of Tlikit blood, with muscles so large they threatened to burst through shiny, dark gold skin.
He could make his bearlike body do almost anything. When hair got in his face, he cut it off. He wore a loinskin because it
was expected, but it took an ice storm to make Jud cover the rest of himself.

The two stood watching the tribe’s young, unmated women. Kai El felt the throb of the great One Drum in his blood.

“TUN TUN TUN, tun tun tun, tuntuntun. TUN TUN TUN… ”

The fascinating creatures danced in a loose circle around the drum. Of different shapes and sizes, each dancer wore what she
liked best. Hair was tied up, or let loose to bounce and sway. Feathers swung across faces, fringed skirts opened for glimpses
of legs, breasts moved in pleasing ways. The young women were supposed to be dancing for the little one, Chanok, but the dance
was really for the unmated men—like Kai El and Jud.

Kai El stood tall, flexing his arms and shoulders. He snapped his head so his heavy black hair went behind, leaving the feather
of a red-tail hawk and some thin leather strips to brush his bare chest. He kept a disinterested look, as if he were only
watching them dance because there was nothing better to do.

Tsilka’s daughters of fourteen summers danced side by side with matching movements.

“Those twins,” Jud said. “It’s hard to tell them apart. If a man took his pleasure with one, it’d be like having both.”

Kai El elbowed him. “Where do you get your ideas?”

“I get them at night while lazier men sleep.”

Kai El laughed. Jud always made him laugh, one thing he liked about his friend.

Kai El said, “I have no trouble telling them apart. Have you ever looked in their eyes?”

Jud said, “I don’t waste my time looking at eyes when there are bodies to be looked at.”

Kai El watched the twins, thinking about when his feelings had changed.

One day last summer, he had looked at Tsagaia, and there was something different about the way she looked back. Maybe it was
that she
did
look back. She was so shy that Kai El and his friends laughed about it.

“Tsagaia must know every crease in her moccasins,” they said, “as much as she stares at them.”

Of all the girls of Teahra Village, Kai El knew Tsagaia the least. Long ago, when the twins lived with his family for a
time, Kai El and Tsagaia had started becoming friends, but that all changed when Rattlesnake Woman returned. Tsagaia changed
back to the way she was before: timid; afraid to play, or talk, or look in anyone’s eyes.

And then one day last summer, Tsagaia had looked at Kai El. From under thick lashes, soft eyes reached across a blackberry
bramble. Her eyes seemed to say: “No one has ever been inside me before, because no one has ever been trusted, and I am waiting.”

Then Kai El’s mother Ashan had disappeared, shaking his life to pieces, casting the pieces everywhere. He’d taken part in
the hopeless searching, though his heart knew that the one who loved him more than anything was dead. Some people still searched
for Ashan, as if she could be alive after all this time. But they said, “She’s been gone before,” and, “You know how Moonkeepers
are,” and refused to give up hope.

When Kai El had stopped looking for the shell of his mother, and instead welcomed her spirit to his dreams, healing had begun.

Lately he’d been thinking of Tsagaia again…
Gaia,
the voice in his mind called her.

The unmated women finished their gift of dancing.

“They’ll be going to bathe. Maybe we can get a look.”

“Grow up, Jud. That’s for boys.”

“You grow up, Kai El. It’s for men.”

“Men need to eat. Let’s go see what the women put out.”

A group of girls headed down the river trail.

“I can eat anytime,” Jud said, going after them.

“Don’t let Tahna catch you again,” Kai El said, shaking his head.

The gray-haired drummers stood, stretched, walked around, then took up their sticks again and began a lively song. Little
ones danced next—some playful, others serious, small adults. They made Kai El smile.

He saw Tsagaia off by herself, unlacing her knee-high moccasins, special ones for dancing. He swallowed, licked his lips,
and went to her. She looked up long enough to see who he was, and went back to her laces. Inside the tan leather painted with
flowers, her feet were small.

“Have you seen the world from my mother’s place?” he asked.

“Up in the cliffs? Where She Who Watches lives?”

He smiled. “She doesn’t live there.”

The girl shook her head. Loosed from the dance feathers, her shiny black hair swayed back and forth.

“People are afraid of the Moonkeeper’s place,” she said.

Kai El smiled. “There’s nothing up there but wonderful sights. I’d like to show you.”

“I shouldn’t… the celebration… ”

“We won’t be missed. Rattlesnake Wo—I mean—your mother is hiding in her hut. After her screaming fit, I doubt we’ll see her
till tomorrow.”

Tsagaia looked down. A wing of hair fell over her face.

Kai El thought it must be embarrassing to have Tsilka for a mother. He didn’t like the woman who gave him strange looks that
he didn’t understand. He couldn’t think of anyone who
did
like Tsilka. Especially since she’d left the tribe to go with the strangers who came up the river. Even though she’d returned,
with wild stories about being kidnapped and killing a chief, people never trusted her again.

Tsagaia brushed her hair back and looked at him with a shy smile on her pretty face.

“I would like to see the world from up there.”

The girl stayed close behind Kai El as they climbed. She said nothing, but he felt her there. His chest swelled. He would
show her things she’d never see if not for him, give her gifts for her eyes.

She reminded him of the lynx kitten left behind when his family abandoned Ehr’s cave—Ayah was its name. Tsagaia would be soft
like that kitten, he could tell, though he’d never touched her… except once, when they’d huddled together in a creek while
wildfire swept over them. He liked her scent. He liked the way her long hair hung down her back, how it swayed when she walked—a
graceful walk that made her seem smaller, and somehow vulnerable. Tsagaia was a quiet girl, but Kai El knew that didn’t mean
she wasn’t thinking. She was comfortable to be with, like being with the grandfather Ehr, who’d had no tongue and couldn’t
talk.

Ehr had taught Kai El and his mother to speak with their
thoughts. Kai El missed thought-speaking, now that Ashan was dead.

I should teach Gaia. We could have secrets, laugh at people without their knowing why, tell each other things that would get
us in trouble if we spoke them out loud.

The long climb brought them near the top of the cliffs. A level stretch of trail opened onto the place Ashan had loved—and
disappeared from: the Moonkeeper’s takoma, overlooking Teahra Village and the Great River beyond.

Kai El and Tsagaia sat on the stone seat, leaning back, not quite touching. The mysterious carving called She Who Watches
was above and behind them.

Hearing the cry of a hawk, Kai El looked up. A pair of red-tails soared above the Great River. He wondered if they were fishing,
or just enjoying being here, being with each other. As he was.

“Skaina, the Hawk, is your Spirit Guardian,” Tsagaia said. “I think hawks are beautiful.”

Kai El was surprised, and flattered, that she knew it.

“Why didn’t you take your guardian’s name?” she asked. “Why did you keep your birth name?”

“You Tlikit people think one name is enough. I like my name. How it sounds. What it means.”

“Sun River.” Her voice was easy in his ears. “That makes a nice picture. I like it, too.”