World Whisperer Box Set

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The crying went on and on as Isika ran toward the house. Benayeem burst out of the front door and ran to the gate, fumbling with the latch until he finally got it open. He flung the gate wide and ran out into the street without closing it behind him.

"Ben!" Isika called, and he paused to look at her with wild, red eyes, then kept running. Truly alarmed, Isika walked to the house, her stomach rolling and tossing with fear. Her body went cold when she saw Jerutha sitting in the kitchen garden rocking back and forth. The walk to the door seemed very, very long. Had Nirloth died?

In the clean, swept earth before the door, Ibba and Kital sat with their arms around each other. Ibba was crying. Kital's eyes were wet, wide, and shocked, the color of morning tea in his light brown face, shaped just like their mother's.

"What happened?" Isika cried, falling to her knees to put her arms around the two of them. "Is it Father? Is he… did he…?"

But whatever had happened, he hadn't died, because there he was at the door, looking down at her, standing for the first time in weeks, though he held tightly onto his cane. His white hair stood up from his head and steely gray eyes flashed from his set face. A deep dread filled her as she stood to face him.

"What is happening?" she asked, remembering to aim her eyes away at the last moment. It was unspeakably rude to ask a question while looking into someone's eyes, it was the most invasive thing you could do toward a person's soul.

"I feel strong," he said, almost to himself. He lifted his head. "The strength I feel confirms my decision," he said, and she couldn't help it, her eyes flew up toward his. He was looking off into the distance, toward the temple. "I will give Kital over at dawn, the day after tomorrow."

The world blinked red. "No," Isika said, and her voice seemed to come from somewhere old and dead. Ibba began to wail again. "No," Isika said again, her voice increasing in volume on the word until she was screaming and screaming and screaming. Her father withdrew, into the shadow of the dark house, and she followed him.

"You can't!" she shrieked. "You can't!"

"It's done," he said. "I announced my intention while you were away. Great downfall will descend on the whole village if I turn back now."

He had sent her to the temple so he could announce this evil without her there to stop him. The blood left Isika's face and her legs shook as though she would faint. She sat on a nearby chair with a thud. She watched, unbelieving, as he limped to the house altar and picked up the small brass horn. When she saw his intention, she leapt up to stop him, but she was too slow, and he sounded the blast. The horn rang out, signaling to the village that a child from this house would be given over. She listened to the strident ringing in stunned silence. When it ended, Nirloth put the horn back in its place on the altar and leaned heavily on his cane.

"We gave Aria over," she said, pleading now, tears running down her face. "No family is expected to give more than one child over."

"Except in times of extremity."

"Extremity? Your illness? An old man dying is not extremity! You'll give his life for yours?" She flew at him to grasp his sleeve and beg for her brother's life, but he lifted his cane and struck her on the side of her head. A blast of pain echoed in her ears and she fell to the floor, holding her hands over her head, trying to block the cane that came down on her, again and again. And still she wailed and shouted. "He's not yours to give over! He's mine!" Until the cane struck her above the ear and all was black.

When she opened her eyes, Jerutha was bending over her, weeping as she wiped Isika's face with a cold cloth. Isika winced as the water stung the many cuts where the cane had dug into her skin. In the past her father had slapped her, or used his fists on her, many times over, but he had never done this. She didn't know what was happening to him. He had always been serious and hard, but never cruel.

Kital's life for his. Tears came to her eyes again, then spilled over, burning the scrapes on her face.

"Hush," Jerutha said. "You must not fight this, Isika. It is the way."

"The way?" Isika's voice was rough from screaming. She sounded broken.

"Hush, hush."

"Where is Kital?"

"Sleeping beside Ibba," Jerutha said. "They're worn out." She put a hand over her full belly, her face falling, her kind blue eyes filling with tears. She stroked Isika's face. "I'm so sorry, my love."

"It must not happen," Isika said, clenching her fists, wincing with the pain from moving her mouth. She wondered whether she would be disfigured. She lifted her hand to her face and lightly touched it.

"You will heal fine," Jerutha said, taking Isika's hand and moving it away. "The scrapes are shallow. Oh Isika, little sister. How could you rush toward him? You know better."

"It must not happen," Isika repeated, but she felt a deep sense of panic. It was happening again. She had been too small to stop her sister being given over, to prevent her mother's death. Deep shame washed over her, the sense of being undeserving of life because she hadn't been able to save their lives.

"There is nothing for it," Jerutha said. "We must accept it." Through the door, which was still open, Isika saw the last rays of the sun touch the kitchen garden. Her mother had made flowers grow where flowers had never grown. People had whispered that she was a sorceress, to make colors come from the dull earth, but she shook her head and laughed. "Treat the earth well," she told Isika, "and it will respond to your hand. This is the true way." But when Isika pressed her for more, she had shaken her head and pinched her lips, looking distressed as she glanced at Nirloth, who sat in the shadow of the porch.

In the afternoon light Isika saw the bean vines glowing, soft and golden, the curling tendrils of green grasping at one another, holding onto each another in their urge to grow tall and reach for light.

"This must not be," she repeated.

Jerutha sighed and shook her head. She washed the cloth out in a bowl of water and dabbed at Isika's neck.

"We have work to do," she said.

There was preparation to be done for the sending. They needed to make the sleeping tea, and fold the cloths they would put in the boat, red for penance, white for purity, green for the envy of the goddesses, the envy that prompted the Workers to assuage them by giving their children to the goddesses. Isika thought she might vomit.

"Jerutha," she said, putting her hand on her stepmother's hand. Her voice was choked and low and the room swam in front of her. If she wasn't careful she was going to pass out again. She realized that she was half lying on Jerutha's crossed legs. Her stepmother stroked her forehead gently with her free hand. She had always been so kind to the children, ever since she came to them, barely more than a child herself.

"Jerutha, Kital is my baby. I can't give my baby over. This will be your child one day, Jerutha! Everyone gives one child, that is the way. It is not the way, to give over so many. He won't stop! What if he wants to send your baby out, once it is the ripened age?" The Workers didn't give their children over before the age of two. The goddesses cruelly insisted on the bonding between mother and child before snatching the children from their parents.

Jerutha's face paled and she gripped her belly with one hand. She carefully lifted Isika's shoulders off of her lap, shifting so she could heave herself to her feet. Her belly stood out against her thin body like a melon. Jerutha was only ten years older than Isika, but she had lived a lot in a short time. Her mother was one of those who couldn't accept the life of a Worker, destined to feed the goddesses with time and sweat and children until death. Jerutha's mother had been altered, even broken, when her oldest daughter was given over many years before Jerutha was born. Her mother had later given birth to Jerutha and two other children, but she hadn't been right in her mind, and finally, she had wandered out into the wilderness, never to return. Jerutha had taken care of her younger siblings for much of her life. She and Isika were alike in many ways.

Jerutha paced, gathering the things they needed for the sending preparation: herbs for the sending tea, colored cloths. She opened drawers, searching for things they hadn't used in four years; she pulled bundles of herbs out of dusty baskets. In between, she paced. She walked from one window to the other, gazing out at the garden, her hands spread over her belly as though she could guard it from the world.

She looked up at Isika, who hadn't moved from where she sat.

"Rest, daughter," she said. Her voice was very quiet. "I'll finish here."

Isika stood and limped toward the main sleeping room. In his sleep, Benayeem had rolled himself into a corner, and Ibba and Kital were piled like puppies on the center mat. No, as she drew near, she saw that Kital's eyes were open. He turned toward Isika and she hurried to curl up beside him.

He caught her hand as tears came to her eyes again.

"Don't cry, Isika," he said. "I am not afraid."

She looked at his small, beloved face. His tea-colored eyes and perfect little nose, the small gap between his teeth, his long eyelashes. She thought of all the nights she had held him as a baby, while those eyelashes drifted shut ever so slowly and then opened wide again as he jerked back to wakefulness. Her exhaustion, singing him endless lullabies, rocking him back and forth and trying not to nod off to sleep before he did.

As though he knew what she was thinking, he began to sing one of Isika's lullabies, his voice soft and sweet. It was the song their mother had sung to her, the first thing she could remember beside the calm of her mother's face.

"Water flowing between earth and sky

Bright day, old night, gentle and wise

Birds on the wing, fire in the stars

Oh high one, earth is in your hands

Oh true one, we are in your hands."

The words had always been a mystery to Isika, and now she felt a spark of longing, a frustration at her lack of understanding. The song had come down to her from her mother's mother, and perhaps her mother before that, but she knew nothing of them, and she was adrift in a time when the words made no sense.

They must both have fallen asleep, because the next thing Isika knew was Jerutha shaking her awake. Kital was curled in a ball against her stomach.

"Wake up, Isika," Jerutha said, her voice urgent. "We don't have much time."

It was still dark, but Isika followed when Jerutha beckoned. She groaned softly as she stood, the memory of her father's decision slamming into her as she felt the bruises on her shoulders and legs, the cuts on her face. Her heart burned with pain. Jerutha led her into the garden and they huddled between the bean plants.

"You must," Jerutha whispered, "come to me if I ever send word that I need you. You must help me if I ask for you." Her eyes stared into Isika's, and startled, Isika looked away.

"What?" she asked. "I don't understand—"

"Hush. Wait and listen. The gates to the village will be closed tomorrow. There's no way out on a sending day. But you know my brother has many boats. I have tied one of the oldest boats to the dock that lies twenty steps beyond the last fishing house, out of sight, behind the tallest rocks. It is very near the sending ground. You will wait only until the sending boat has been untied and pushed off, and then you will run. Get the boat, follow him. Get him back. But you can't return. And I—" she sobbed and covered her face with her hand. "I don't know what your father will do as punishment, so all of you need to go. And you can't come back, Isika, do you understand?"

Isika nodded rapidly, her heart hammering, her mind sluggishly trying to understand what her stepmother was saying.

"Take Benayeem and Ibba," Jerutha continued. "You will need Benayeem, he is strong and smart. And Ibba needs to go with you. But I don't know what you children will do after you get Kital out of the boat. I don't know where you will go." She stared at Isika, her face stricken and pale. "You'll have to figure that part out," she whispered.

Isika stared at her stepmother in shock. Jerutha was telling them to leave the village and never return. Jerutha's face twisted, and tears spilled out of her eyes, already red from crying. Isika drew close and wrapped her arms around her young stepmother. Jerutha was beautiful. She had always been beautiful in Isika's eyes, ever since she had intervened when the village kids were keeping Isika away from the water pump, back when Isika was twelve and Jerutha was not yet her stepmother. Isika remembered her then, face flushed with anger as she sent the children running and held out her hand for Isika's pail, filling it herself and helping her to carry it back to their gate. It was the moment that Nirloth had first taken notice of Jerutha.

"I can't leave you," Isika said.

"You must."

Isika shook her head. Then, suddenly, she understood. She knew why Jerutha wanted her to promise she would come and help. One day Jerutha's own child would be given over and she wanted a way out. She wanted Isika to help her leave, on a bleak day when her own child was sending age. The weight of the dreaded brass horn hung over all of them.

"What is out there?" Isika breathed, her eyes wide. What did Jerutha expect her to find?

"I don't know," Jerutha answered. "I don't know what is beyond our village. But I know you, sweet Isika. I know you will find a way to do this thing."

To live alone in the wild? To build a new life with only children to help each other? Isika weighed it against letting Kital die in the waves. She thought of the grief and helplessness she had felt at Aria's sending. It was an easy choice.

"I will come back to you," she said. "I will fly to you when you need help."

"I know you will," Jerutha said. "And I know something good will come of this, of you, Isika. There is something special in you, something pure and strong. Now quickly, you must tell Benayeem and Ibba and we will prepare for the sending. We must gather food and hide it from Nirloth. And, little sister, you need to act as though nothing has changed. Don't let him know that you have any hope at all."