The Burning Ground

2. Decision

Wintshikan laid out the cards and frowned at them, then glanced irritably at the radio Luca had found in the gear of the thieves. It was sitting on one of the packsaddles a short distance off, turned as loud as it would go, blaring out tinny, static-ridden music.

Luca and Wann were dancing what had once been a sacred dance from the Great Gathers, turning it into something wild and corrupt that troubled Wintshikan, especially when she saw how entranced Zaro and Kanilli were. That was the Mating Dance. They were too young to even see that.

Zell patted her arm, whistled a soft, comforting chirrup. +The last reading said Change,+ xe signed. +What God has set going, Pixa will not stop. Read the cards, Wintashi.+

They’d left the foothills behind a little past midafternoon and reached this barren shore as the sun went down, the back end of a long narrow bay like a blue finger of brine. There was no fresh water, so the place was left to the wind and the sand and the long-legged brown birds that ran along that sand.

Wintshikan touched the base card. “Death again. No matter how I mix them, Death is always the base card, Zizi.”

+I think it’s that we aren’t ready to be reborn yet.+

“It could be.” She contemplated the determinants. “Cauldron, Spindle, Drum. Cauldron with Spindle, that’s a plot. A plan is cooking and we’re part of the stew. I don’t understand the Drum being there. Rhythm, music? The plot’s march? Or that God-cursed radio interfering? I don’t know, Zizi. Have you any notion?”

+It will come clear later, such things always do.+

“I’ve no patience these days, I’ll admit that. Hm. The guides. The Eye of God. A blessing. That is a comfort. The Balance. Seek the balance when the change is done. Ah, Zizi, I’m afraid when that Balance comes, it will be so strange I won’t recognize it.”

She gathered the cards, began wrapping them in the silk scarf, troubled eyes on the children dancing and giggling while the others snapped their fingers in time with the music from the radio.

The music stopped. A man spoke. “For all those who have suffered, we play these songs. Let the killing stop.”

A woman’s voice came into the sudden stillness of the camp, strong, pure, unaccompanied, something about it that reached under the skin.

“Child of the hill,child of the city

Why do you march so happy to war? happy happy happy to war

Oh, Pixa upon your barren rock

Do I bend my neck in feigned complicity, march at your beck to the chopping block? chop chop the chopping block

Oh, Impix who bends and burns the heart of God in funeral urns: your factories foul, your mills. bow your head indeed and as you bleed in blessed simplicity

Praise the god who yearns for your return yearns oh yearns for your return.

I hide at my back the hacking knife in fatal duplicity.

I hold your head low let the blood flow. let it flow, let it flow.

From my leather jack

I drink your life.

So.

Child of the city, child of the hill

What will you do when all breath is still?

What will you do when there’s no one to kill? (the voice rose to the word kill until it was a crystal knife pointed at the heart, then dropped so the next words were tender, dulcet.)

What will you do when there’s only you two?

What will you do?”

Luca made a face and shut off the radio. She reached out for Wann, hugged xe tightly for a moment, then she laughed and spun away. “Mouth music,” she cried. “Let us have mouth music and finger music and Zaro and Kanilli will dance for us and chase the sorrow away.”

In the morning the radio was playing again as they rode along the shore of the inlet, mostly music, some news.

… bombardment of Khokuhl continues. The city is still holding against the attempts of the Pixa fighters to enter and destroy the Impix command there. Reports have come from the far south that the declared neutrality of Yaqshowal has for the first time been violated by artillery forces and repeated incursions by so far unidentified phelas apparently intent on raiding the storehouses for weapons, fartalk radios and other items of use in the war..”

It was easy going, the sand hardpacked and more or less level; there were a few patches of scraggly brush hardly higher than the ankle, but the rest of the green was mostly a mix of sea grass and broadleaf weeds. The jomayls walked steadily along, their necks curving in an easy arc, their dark crimson eyes half shut. Luca and Wann rode ahead, nearly out of sight, scouting for them, Nyen and Hidan rode rearguard. Wintshikan walked along near the middle of the line, leading the first of the packers, Zell perched on its panthers, Xaca and the children following with the others. She tried not to listen to the radio, focused instead on the sounds of the hooves: Crunch crunch, doin’ the job, doin’ the job.

… and here’s a song for all young bonclers, setting up families in hope and trust.”

“Anya Alina, oh, love of our hearts, be the true bond that closes our ring, Anya Alina, oh, star of our…”

Around midmorning the land on the right began to tilt upward. The brush was taller and thornier, there were patches of berry vines with canes so thick with thorns that they resembled saw blades. Wintshikan began to see trees again, wind-twisted nyenzas and bushy bohalas. Long-legged brown birds ran on the sand and songbirds hid among the foliage. Large white seabirds rode the winds high overhead, their raucous calls falling like stones through the blare of the music from the radio.

Luca and Wann were out of sight for a short time as the line of jomayls began to turn the end of the hills to start north again. They came galloping back. Luca slid off her mount and held up a hand to stop the others.

“There’s a village about half an hour on. It backs up onto the shore, and there’s a wall around it, the trunks of lekath trees with the limbs chopped off and the top ends sharpened to points. We need water, but they don’t look very friendly.”

Wintshilcan frowned. “We’re Pilgrims. Surely…”

Luca shrugged. “How do they know that? If we’d trusted Old Bukha, we’d be bones for the boyals to fight over.”

“There’s truth in that. How much open space is there in front of that wall? Enough so all but one can wait and be safe from the guns they’ll have?”

“Far as we could tell.”

“Good.” She took the Shawl from Zell and wrapped it round her shoulders to show she was speaking as Heka of the Remnant. I am still that, she thought. For a while yet. “Listen to what I say. The Remnant will stop out of range and line up so that the villagers can see that you are ferns, anyas, and children. I am what I am and it’s easy enough to see what that is. I’ll do the approaching and the talking. Luca, if you see anything that bothers you, get the Remnant away. If I can talk myself loose, I’ll join you. If not, so be it.”

Zell tugged at her arm. +I’m going with you.+

“No, Zell. Anyas in this war attract more evil than ferns and mals combined. Come with me and you may bring on trouble that wouldn’t happen otherwise.” A knot twisted tight around her heart as she saw the pain in her anya’s eyes, but Zell knew she spoke the truth though it was a very hard truth. “If they won’t give us water, at least they may tell us where to find some.” She glanced at the sun. “The day’s sliding away from us. We’d best get started.”

There were mals on the wall, standing behind the pales, silent, stone-faced, looking down at Wintshikan as she crossed the open sand and stopped before the door. She looked up. “I am Wintshikan Heka of the Remnant of Ixis Shishi. We are Pilgrims bound for Linojin and mean harm to none. We have no water and would ask of you, give us water or tell us where to find it.”

The mals looked at each other, then one of them leaned over and spoke. “That all there are of you? I don’t see any mals.”

“Our mals are dead. We are the Remnant of Shishim.”

“Those little ‘ns, they anyas, huh?”

“The littlest are femlits, but, yes, there are anyas among us. Will you give us water? Will you help us on the way to Linojin?”

“Why go on? We can give you shelter here.”

“We have sworn an Obligation to visit the Grave of the Prophet and pray for our dead. Until this is done, we cannot think of our own needs.”

“Vumah vumay, so be it. Follow the wall around the corner, you’ll see a corral with some milkers in it. There’s a well by the fence. You can get water from there. And don’t worry, we won’t interfere with you.”

Luca stayed back, the rifle she’d taken from the thieves held visible. The anyas and the children waited with her while Nyen and Xaca led the packers over to join Wintshikan. More villagers joined the men on the wall and stood silently watching them as they worked, watering the stock and filling the skins.

As they started to leave, the man who’d spoken before raised his voice again. “There’s a river about a day’s ride north of here, be sure to fill up good when you get there, it’s five days to Linojin from there and you won’t find more. It’s all salt marsh and sand. Go with God, Pilgrims. Pray for us as well as your own. And pray with us all for peace and destruction to the Fence.”

As the sun went down behind the rounded hills, Luca stood on a patch of grass that grew near the top of a dune and stared out across the sea at the golden glimmer that turned copper where it pulled down red from the sunset sky.

Wintshikan joined her. “What are you thinking?”

“About that.” She jabbed her thumb at the Fence. “About one of those songs that fem sang. The one that calls us puppets dancing to the jerk of Ptakkan strings. Do you think that’s it, Heka? Do you think that’s why we’re dying?”

“I don’t know. The war’s gone on so long. It’s hard to know why.”

Luca moved her shoulders impatiently. “I can’t remember when I knew what I wanted or why I was born. I’ve been looking at that thing out there and I think I do know.

Now. I’m going to pull it down, Heka. I don’t know how, but that’s what I’m going to do.”