Rhapsody: Child of Blood

5

On the rare occasions that Achmed deemed a campfire safe, Rhapsody made sure to sleep as near to it as possible. Despite the blistering heat of midsummer, which lingered on well into the night, she found the crackle and smoke comforting, a reminder of the home she hadn’t seen in so long.

Near the fire the voices in her dreams changed. They no longer repeated the jeering words of Michael and his ilk, but rather harked back to a deeper, farther Past, earlier, sweeter days near a different fire, drawing those days, if only for a moment, into the Present. Wrapped as she was in the fitful sleep of the outdoors, memories in the dark brought warmth, instead of fear, to her soul.

“Mama, tell me about the great forest.”

“Get into the tub first. Here, hold my hand.” Soap bubbles glistening in firelight, spinning in round whirling prisms, hovering for a moment, then disappearing before her mother’s smile.

Warmth closing in with the water and the hot air from the hearth. “What did you put in the water this time?”

“Sit all the way down. Lavender, lemon verbena, rose hips, snow fern—”

“Snow fern? We eat that!”

“Exactly. Why do you think the water is so warm? I’m not bathing you, I’m making soup.”

“Mama, stop teasing. Please tell me about the forest. Are the Lirin that live there like us?”

Her mother sitting back on her heels, crossing arms with rolled-up sleeves, leaned on the edge of the metal washtub. Her face was serene, but her eyes clouded over with memory, as they always had when thinking about the Past.

“In some ways, yes. They look like us, at least more than the humans do, but their coloring is different.”

“Different how?”

“Their coloring matches the forest more. Ours is a reflection of the open sky and the fields where our people, the Liringlas, live.” The hair ribbon pulling free with a gentle tug. “Now, for instance, if you were of the forest, this beautiful golden hair that your father is so fond of would probably be brown or russet-colored; those green eyes might be as well. Your skin would be darker, less rosy; that way you could blend in, walk the greenwood unseen, as they do.” A cascade of warm water; sputtering, blinking.

“Mama!”

“I’m sorry; I didn’t expect you’d turn like that. Hold still for a moment.”

“Do the forest Lirin have little girls, too?”

“Of course. And little boys. And women and men, and houses and cities; they’re just different from the ones we live in.”

“Will I see them someday, too? Will I have a Blossoming Year and go to the forest like you did?”

A gentle caress on her cheek, the sadness in her mother’s eyes growing deeper. “We’ll see. We live among the humans, child; this is our home. Your father may not want you following the customs of my family, especially if it means you would leave for such a long time. And who can blame him? Why, what would we do without our girl?”

“I’d be safe among the Lirin, Mama—wouldn’t I? They wouldn’t hate me because I’m part human?”

Her mother had looked away. “No one will hate you. No one.” The opening of a wide drying cloth. “Here, stand up, little one, and step out carefully.” The harsh chill of the air, the rough fabric rubbing briskly on her wet skin. The soft warmth of her nightgown closing around her along with her mother’s arms. “Sit in my lap, and I’ll comb your hair.”

“Tell me about the forest, please.”

A deep, musical sigh. “It’s as wide as your eyes can see—bigger than you can possible imagine—and full of the scent and sound of life. The trees within it grow in more colors than you have ever seen, even in your dreams. You can feel the song of the wood itself, humming in every living thing there. The humans call it the Enchanted Forest because many of the things that grow and live there are unfamiliar to them, but the Lirin know it by its true name: Yliessan, the holy place. If you are ever lost, the wood will welcome you because of your Lirin blood.”

The crackle of the fire, its flickering light on her hair, so like her mother’s. “Tell me about Windershins Stream, and the Pool of the Heart’s Desire, and Grayrock. And the Tree—Mama, tell me about Sagia.”

“You know these stories better than I do.”

“Please?”

A gentle hand running smoothly down her hair, the bite of the comb. “All right, I’ll tell you of Sagia, and then it will be time for devotions.”

“The Great Tree grows in the heart of the forest Yliessan, on the northern crescent. It is so tall you can barely see the bottom branches. You could never see the top unless you were a bird, because those branches touch the sky.”

“The legends say it grows at one of the places where Time began, where the light of the stars first touched the Earth. Sagia is as old as the ages, and its power is tied to Time itself. It is sometimes called the Oak of Deep Roots, because those roots reach out to the other places on Earth where Time began.”

“It is said that its trunk root runs along the Axis Mundi, the centerline of the Earth, and its smaller roots spread throughout the Island, tying it to all things that grow. I know this is at least true in the great forest—it is the power of Sagia that creates Yliessan’s song, keeps the forest safe. Now, come; the sun is setting.”

The chill of the evening wind, the smudges of inky clouds lining the horizon on the final edge of the pale-blue sky. The glow of the bright star, appearing over the fields and valleys of the wide, rolling land. The sweet clarity of her mother’s voice, her own awkward attempts to match the tone. The single tear on her mother’s translucent cheek.

“That was very good, little one; you’re learning. Can you name the bright star?”

“Of course, Mama; that’s Seren, the name-star of our land.”

Her mother’s embrace, warm, strong. “That is also your star, child; you were born beneath it. Do you remember how to say ‘my guiding star’ in our tongue?”

“Aria? ”

“Good, very good. Remember, though you live in the human world, though you have a human name, you are also descended of another proud and noble people, you have a Lirin name as well. The music of the sky is in you; you are one of its children, as are all Lirin. Seren hangs in the southern sky over the forest Yliessan. When all else fails, you will be welcome there. If you watch the sky and can find your guiding star, you will never be lost, never.”

The grip of the huge, taloned hand, the caustic smoke of the campfire. The sting of the morning air. The deep voice ringing in her ears, drowning out the sweet one in her memory.

“Miss? Ya ’wake?”

If you watch the sky and can find your guiding star, you will never be lost, never.

Rhapsody sat up, clutching at the air in one last attempt to retain the memory. It was of little use; the dream was gone. She choked on the loss that welled up from inside her, then rose to a stand, brushing grass and twigs off her cloak.

“Yes. I’m ready to go now.”

They had been in sight of the Lirin forest for several days before Rhapsody realized what it was.

Initially when she saw it, across the Wide Meadows at the edge of her vision, she was certain they must have inadvertently traveled east, that the broad, dark expanse in the distance was the shoreline of the sea. Like the sea it radiated a shimmering, undulating pattern of heat above it, lending it a mystical air, even from tremendously far away. Her mother’s teachings notwithstanding, she was unprepared for the immensity of the forest, and the power that vibrated in the air around it.

They were hiding in a grassy thicket at midday in the endless meadow when the realization of what the dark panorama really was first occurred to her. Without thinking she stood, as if enchanted, and looked in the direction of the vast wood. Immediately Grunthor’s enormous hand grasped the back of her vest and dragged her down into the brush again.

“What’s the matter with you? Get down.”

Angrily she twisted free and cuffed his hand away. “Let go. What’s the matter with you? There’s no one in sight, and I want to see the forest.”

“Settle,” whispered the sandy voice next to her. Rhapsody’s protest died in her mouth, her words choked off by the authority in Achmed’s tone. He was staring off to the west, crouched low behind the highgrass, his palm open to the air, the forefinger raised at an angle. “They’ve seen you.”

There was the slight rustle of the wind in the distance ahead, then nothing more. After several long moments Rhapsody glanced to her side and saw Achmed still frozen in his crouch, his eyes closed, listening intently. She looked west again and saw the highgrass of the field ripple beneath the hot breeze. Still nothing.

Then, closer than she possibly could have imagined, off to the southwest she saw a face rise infinitesimally out of the scrub, its colors matching the dry brush so completely as to be almost indiscernible. The brown-gold hair crowning its head flowed in crimped waves that blended into the highgrass, the face itself almost the same color, shaped in the slender planes and angles that made her throat tighten with memory.

The large, almond-shaped eyes, the high cheekbones, the translucent skin, the slight build of the body hidden within the scrub, long of limb and muscle—Lirin. Darker somewhat than her mother had been, and than the Liringlas she had met the one and only time she had ventured into the meadows west of Easton. Perhaps these were the people known as Lirinved, the In-between, nomads that were at home in either the forest or the fields, settling in neither.

Suddenly she was aware of many others, not too far behind the scout, spread out through the billowing highgrass of the meadow to the west. A cloud passed in front of the sun overhead, casting a shadow onto the field, and in that brief moment of darkness she saw the glitter from two score or so eyes. Then it was gone.

Unwilling to look away even for a moment, Rhapsody could see out of the corner of her vision a glint of metal in the grass beside her. Achmed had drawn the cwellan as silently as the cloud had passed; it rested in his thin hands, ready but not yet aimed.

Grunthor’s grip on her had eased and disappeared. Rhapsody’s heart sank in the knowledge that the giant Firbolg was undoubtedly armed as well. Panic coursed through her, though she was only aware of it when she felt her cheeks redden; she was too busy trying to think of a way back from the abyss on which they now found themselves.

The hooded man had held his fire, which she took as a hopeful sign that Achmed didn’t want the bloodbath that she knew was looming before them. That notwithstanding, having witnessed her two companions dispense with Michael’s men, she had no doubt that they were capable of surviving being outnumbered, and were intent on doing so. This was the Lirin’s land, however. She had no idea what advantage they had because of it.

In addition, Rhapsody was not sure on which side of the impending conflict she was safer. Though her two traveling companions had rescued her and had not tried to harm her, she did not trust them. The slaughter of Michael’s soldiers had instilled in her a deep sense of apprehension, bordering on dread.

The Lirin were, in a sense, her own people with whom she felt a soul-deep bond, but to them she was a stranger, possibly an enemy. The woods are in sight, Achmed had said. Those that defend them are not. These are bad days; they take no risks with wanderers strolling near their outposts. Either way, she knew she was expendable. She felt a silent click on her neck as the cwellan disks were loaded next to her.

A stalk of dry scrub slapped her face, buffeted by the wind. Rhapsody closed her eyes against the onslaught of tiny grains she knew would be released by the bleached seedpod; she had studied highgrass in her training as a Namer. Hymialacia,her mentor had called it. Meadow grass, the fodder of the open spaces of the world. Its true name.

Its true name. The sense of danger vanished in the clarity of the answer. Rhapsody cleared her throat, parched by the heat and the fear she had been holding within it, and began to whisper.

Hymialacia, she said, speaking in the musical language of her profession. Hymialacia. Hymialacia. Hymialacia. Her skin hummed as the vibration she emitted naturally altered into a new pattern, pulsating, reverberating in the air around her.

Beside her Achmed reached out and touched her back; there was a tenuousness to the contact that told her he couldn’t see her. She had blended as smoothly into the meadow grass as the Lirin; more so—for all intents and purposes, she was the meadow grass.

Rhapsody reached a trembling hand behind her and felt for Achmed’s hand. Carefully she slid her fingers into the thinly gloved fist, whispering the song of the grass all the while. It had become a roundelay, a repetitive melody.

I am the Hymialacia. Achmed the Snake is the Hymialacia.

Over and over she whispered their names, blending into the roundelay the song of the wind, the clouds passing overhead, the name of silence. The grip tightened and pulsed like a heartbeat. Achmed was signaling his understanding.

A moment later he whispered something in a language she didn’t recognize, and Grunthor turned his head to look at her. This would be harder: she did not know Grunthor’s true name. A rustle in the grass a few dozen feet ahead almost broke her concentration. The Lirin had closed the gap, were almost upon them, spread thinly but resolutely through the meadows, approaching silently, relentlessly. Rhapsody closed her eyes and touched the giant’s shoulder.

Hummock, she sang softly. It was a word she had learned early in her training when studying herbal lore, a word she had known from her childhood treks with her father through the wide open fields, over the swales and hillocks of her homeland. A knoll, a clumped elevation rising above the ground like a mound of soil. Hummock.

Rhapsody opened her eyes, still chanting her namesong over and over. Before her where Grunthor had been crouched appeared to be a small grassy hillock, with thin saplings of scrub trees sprouting from the ground atop it. She ran her hand over the brush on the knoll. Hummock. Hymialacia. The wind. The clouds above. Nothing here but the meadow grass.

Through the brush in front of her she could see legs clad in fawn-colored leather boots and trousers, close enough to feel her breath. Hummock, she whispered, trying to keep her voice steady. Obstacle. Dangerous footing. Pit. Hummock.

The gait of the approaching legs slowed, never stopping, then stepped smoothly to the south, circumventing the place where she knew Achmed was. She could see nothing there herself but the waving grass of the meadow, hear nothing above her own chant but the rhythmic buzz of hovering insects, the faint crack of the ground beneath Lirin feet, feel nothing near her but the heat of the blistering sun, the whipping of her brittle hair in the dry wind. Hymialacia.

She chanted the roundelay over and over until the angle of the sun changed and moved into her eyes. Rhapsody blinked; midday had given way to afternoon, shafts of light now bathing the rippling fields of gold and amber grass. The namesong faltered to a stop, her voice dry and swollen from exertion.

On her left side the grass parted. Achmed released her hand and rose to a stand.

“They’re gone, out of range,” he said.

Rhapsody looked to her right. The small hummock in front of her flexed and uncoiled, growing tall before her eyes again. What had appeared as the saplings of brush trees took on a more solid form as Grunthor’s myriad weapons rose with him, still jutting out from the bandoliers and scabbards on his back. The former hill turned and smiled at her broadly.

“Well, miss, that was impressif.”

“Indeed,” said Achmed wryly. “Are you going to tell us that was another ‘first’ for you?”

As Rhapsody opened her mouth to reply, the clouds lurched overhead and the sky tilted at a strange angle. Achmed’s hand shot out and grabbed her elbow, assisting her shaking descent to the ground. Once down she lay on her back and stared at the pinnacle of the sky above her, noting the swimming blue circles that hovered in the air. “Water, please,” she croaked, then slipped into throbbing unconsciousness.

Dusk settled over the field like a gray mist, and still Rhapsody had not awakened. She lay silent, without moving, in a state of deep sleep the men had rarely seen. The girl was given to nightmares, and over the course of their journey they had become grudgingly accustomed to her fretful whispering and the occasional moans, as she tossed and trembled in the grip of night terrors that sometimes ended in her bolting upright with a heart-stopping gasp.

“No wonder she gave up the bizness,” Grunthor had commented after one particularly wrenching performance. “Oi imagine ’er customers didn’t get much sleep one way t’other.” Achmed had just smiled.

Now she shifted slightly on her side, then lay quiet. The sun disappeared beyond the world’s far rim, and the night watch passed from Achmed to Grunthor, who had been busy tallying and repacking the remaining supplies they had pilfered from the saddlebags of Michael’s soldiers.

The Dhracian handed the Bolg Sergeant the waterskin from which he had been giving occasional drops to the unconscious Singer, then lay down on the northern side of the camp to sleep.

As the twilight deepened, Grunthor squinted for a moment, then strained to look harder into the distant horizon. After a moment he shook his head and settled back into his watch, only to sit forward again. He extended a foot and nudged the sleeping Dhracian, who did not move but opened his eyes.

“Oi see somethin’.”

Achmed rolled to his side and sat up, looking off in the same direction as Grunthor. His vision was generally superior to his companion’s, especially in the open air, but he saw nothing. After a moment’s concentration he could sense no heartbeat drumming in the distance, a more certain sign that they were alone. He shook his head.

Grunthor shrugged, and Achmed started to lie down again, only to freeze as the Bolg quickly stood up.

“There it is again, sir. Oi’m sure. Far off, but somethin’s there.”

Achmed rose to a stand as well and walked to the top of a grassy swale, the crest of a rolling wave of earth. He stared off northward into the night, still seeing nothing. He waited.

Then a moment later he saw it too, a host of flickering lights, barely visible in the gray half-dark. In a heartbeat they glimmered, then disappeared again. There were hundreds, perhaps a thousand of them, crossing the distant meadows, spread uniformly out in a endless, near-invisible line, moving slowly south. A search party ? he wondered. But for what? Who or what might be so important that so many men were sent out in the dark to find it, guided only by lantern-light, here in the middle of nowhere?

Achmed closed his eyes and threw back his hood to better allow the vibrations of the oncoming heartbeats to impact his skin. He held his hand aloft, one finger in the air, tasting the wind in his open mouth to try and ascertain the source of the thousand different rhythms coming toward him. But there was nothing on the wind, no taste, no rhythm, no heartbeat. Only silence and evening breeze.

Once more he opened his eyes and stared, and saw it again, an infinitesimal flicker a thousand times over, moving steadily toward them, still far away but closer than a moment before. Movement, a twinkling light, repeated a thousand times, then darkness. Nothing on the wind.

Now the heartbeat that filled his ears, bristled on his skin, was his own.

“Gods,” he whispered. “Shing.”

Like crows before the coming storm they gathered up the sleeping Singer and their gear and fled blindly in the direction of the great Lirin forest.