Dragonfly Song (4 page)

There are two ways of looking at Aissa's story. The searcher who found her under the bush still believes that she's the miracle girl who escaped the raiders. Everyone else thinks she's the cursed child who called the Bull King's ship to the island.

Spit the bad luck away when you see her; pinch or slap her to make her understand. Why bother talking to a girl who doesn't speak?

The worst time is the spring, when wobbly-legged kids are born to the goats in the warming air and the hills are fragrant with flowers. Now it's not only swallows and herons that return, but the Bull King's ship.

So that afternoon, when a sweet south wind blows and a smudge of colour glows on the waves, Aissa knows exactly what it is, long before she can see the red sails or great black horns on the bow.

She presses herself against a nook in the wall, trying to be invisible as the market square erupts, people crowding in through the gates for protection or out for news, running jostling and breathless down the road, the fisherfolk joining them as their little boats sail in too.

The ship nears the cove, below the town. The red sails drop and twenty-seven rows of oars flash from the black hull. Aissa can see the bronze glint of the
battleaxes and spears of the men standing in the bow. The oars lift; some of the rowers jump in and tow the ship towards the shore.

But the beach is out of view from here, and now the ship is too. The square hushes: the traders stop their bustle. No children run or dogs bark. For an instant even the air seems to stand still.

Then the wailing starts, rising from the beach to the Hall, gathering volume as it picks up mourners on its way.

Last year's bull dancers have not returned.

The wailing rises in waves. People are sobbing, wandering aimlessly or dropping to their knees, pounding their foreheads on the ground. The potter has torn out a great hank of her own hair; a baker has slashed the sleeves of his tunic. The grief is for the boy and girl who haven't returned; the fear is for the ones who will take their places. Every year it's harder to hope that the bull dancers will survive and return, covered in glory.

The chief strides out from the Hall. His hair is oiled and his beard trimmed square, his lion-skin cloak is flung over his shoulders, and a dagger gleams at his belt.

‘Close the gates!' he orders.

‘What's the point?' a guard mutters. ‘It's not as if we're going to fight.'

No one cares what they say in front of the girl who doesn't speak. Aissa learns a lot that way.

The gates' bronze latch clangs shut. The guard bangs his spear on the ground.

‘Listen to your chief!' he bellows.

The chief waits until every eye is focused on him. ‘The Lady has read the oracle, and the signs are clear: the skylark that escapes the eagle will rise again singing. Rebirth is a greater strength than force.'

Rebirth?
thinks Aissa. The word dances in her mind. It's never easy to understand exactly what the oracle means.

‘Don't let them think they've beaten us!' a guard shouts. The chief nods.

‘They've taken our children,' the potter sobs. ‘Of course they've beaten us!'

The ship's captain and his warriors are marching up the road. Islanders draggle after them, a safe twenty paces behind.

‘Welcome,' says the chief, as if he had a choice.

The guards fling the gates open, and the men enter. They crowd the market square more than any nine men should; their weapons and mission fill the air. Strangest of all, an animal has followed them. It looks like Milli-Cat except that its fur is black and its ears twitch as if it can hear.

Milli-Cat comes from a land where cats are worshipped. She was a gift to the Lady from a trader two springs ago, and is the only one on the island. Now everyone's wondering if this new beast will stay small like her or grow into a lion – it's hard to imagine that anything good could come with the bull ship. Aissa isn't the only one trying to be invisible against a wall.

The Lady, says the chief, is serving the goddess and can't be disturbed. The tall guard translates into the Bull King's harsh tongue.

He's lying!
Aissa thinks. She'd seen the Lady rush through the Hall to her private chambers when everyone else was running to the gate.

Then the Lady appears, and Aissa understands.

Sometimes the best way to serve is to look magnificent. The Lady's face is powdered white and her eyes painted dark. Her black curls are piled into an eagle feather headdress; a gold snake belts her red robe, and two twine up each arm. Power shimmers around her like her rose perfume.

The Bull King's men shrink a little closer to human size.

‘You will feast with us today,' the Lady announces, ‘and leave in the morning with those who are honoured to serve.'

Why doesn't she make them leave right away?
Aissa thinks.
We don't want them around stinking out our town!

They do stink, too. Stale sweat mostly, but also a whiff of fear. Only nine of them, after all, enclosed in this courtyard with a hundred people wishing them dead. Their shipmates would avenge them, sure as a rock smashing an egg, but it would be too late to bring these warriors back to life.

‘We wouldn't wish to dishonour your gods with a hasty choice of tribute,' the Lady is saying.

Another lie!
The two new bull dancers have lived in the Hall for the past year, training and preparing. It would be easier to prepare if there were bulls on the island, but the rocky soil is too harsh for cattle, and
the calves so carefully, expensively brought in by boat have always sickened and died. It would also be easier if they knew exactly what they were training for, but no one on the island has seen the dances that the Bull King loves so much.

In fact the only thing they know for sure is the promise: if a dancer survives the year, they will be free to return home, and their island will be free of tribute forever.

And, of course, the other fact – that so far no one's ever survived the year.

Then, as if the Lady has put the thought straight into her mind, Aissa understands. Her mouth twitches into an almost-smile, and Milli-Cat purrs at her feet as if she's understood too.

Though the tribute is a heavy load for this poor, rocky island, they'd pay four times that to keep their children safe at home. They don't have that choice. All they have is the small secret of knowing that the new bull dancers, gone now for one last day with their families, have been given the best chance possible.

Aissa understands small silent victories. Things like knowing that a rat is nesting in the corner of the kitchen where Half-One and Half-Two sleep, even if it never bites those wasp-tongued twins . . . she knows how that is.

But she's never thought of how the bull dancers feel, or that they could be afraid. Even though they're only a year older than she is, and have been living just a wall away from the servants' kitchen, they're as distant
as the eagles soaring over the mountain crags. The differences are so complete she can't even be jealous. Except for one thing:
No one spits at the sight of them
. If the gods gave her one wish, that would be it: to have a day when no one spat at her. One full day. She sees it like a smooth pebble to hold in her hand, a jewel that would make the rest of her life bearable.

Suddenly, like a chasm opening beneath her feet, a thought cracks her world.

The dancers will leave tomorrow morning. Eight days after that, next year's dancers will be chosen. Every twelve year old on the island has a chance.

Even me
, she thinks. The voice in her head, that no one else has ever heard, is full of doubt and wonder, almost awe.
Even me
.

Aissa doesn't go to her spying place that morning. Already the world is busy and awake; she can see the captain and his men through the open door of the Hall. They're yawning and stretching just like normal people. One of them passes on his way to the privy. Aissa shrinks against the wall, waiting for
the first-sight-of-the-day spit to keep her evil luck away from him.

He doesn't spit. His eyes glance over and ignore her, as if she was any other servant girl.

The crack in Aissa's world opens wider.

She should be cleaning; she should have already swept out the Great Room where the Bull King's men slept, and hauled buckets from the well for scrubbing tables. But she hasn't even started. She's back in her nook against the wall, watching the Lady call the sun to rise.

Everyone on the island seems to be there: townsfolk packed tight in the square, children in front, toddlers on shoulders; fishers, herders and farmers crowded outside the gate, where Fox Lady left Aissa so long ago. Maybe she's there now; Aissa doesn't know. And tells herself she doesn't care.

Even the Bull King's men, watchful as wolves, shiver when they hear the Lady's strange, high notes and see the snake coiling up to her neck. Gold streaks appear in the sky behind the mountain, blinding the watchers. The singing Lady, the sanctuary and the mountain behind it, all disappear in the sun's slanting rays.

But the instant that the sun appears and the song stops, the captain strides impatiently to the gate.

The olive oil, wine, grain, dried fish and cloth have been stored for weeks now, ready for this day. Now twelve goat kids are led in through the garden gate, bleating for their mothers.

Goats can cry, but people can't. The only chance of the bull god being merciful is to trick him into thinking that the island is happy to send tribute. When the two dancers come out from the Hall, their faces as white as their fresh new tunics, they're greeted by a cheer of a thousand voices.

Even Aissa opens her mouth, though no sound comes out.

The Lady kisses the dancers' foreheads. ‘Given freely,' she chants, and the people echo.