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(I'm posting the entire book here 1 chapter/day.)
(Previously published as The Third Scroll.)
CHAPTER ONE
(Twelve Blue Crystals)
“One eagle from the north. An omen
for change,” Koro said next to me in the tree top.
He hung on to the nearest branch
with both hands, his sateen tunic—befitting the only son of a wealthy trader—soiled
from the climb. The wind ruffled his golden hair, pushing it into his eyes, the
exact mellow brown shade as the tree bark.
The endless canopy of the forest
stretched in front of us, the sea—with a narrow strip of rocky beach where my
father would be even now fishing—at our back. The knar eagle, rarely seen this
far south, circled above.
My people, the Shahala, did not
believe in omens, but Koro’s father had brought Koro’s mother from a distant
land.
I sized up the eagle. “Change in
what?”
I had passed into womanhood from
childhood, but my healing powers had not arrived. I was desperate for change in
that.
Since my mother had died, people no
longer came from far away for healing. Few of the sick made the trek to our
rocky beach, even from the nearby village.
We did not have rice to eat with the
fish my father, Jarim, might catch. We have not had rice for a long time. We
did not always have fish, either. As I sat in the swaying branches on the top
of the tallest numaba tree, I prayed that we would have something for that night.
But Koro had a different change in
mind. A nervous smile danced on his face. “I talked to my father about visiting
yours tonight.”
I looked away. “Jarim is in a bad
mood. He had nothing but the most rotten luck with fishing lately. Maybe another
day.”
“Tomorrow my father will leave on
another trading trip.”
“When he comes back, then.” I turned
back to Koro whose smile had disappeared.
Guilt pricked me, but at the same
time despair welled inside my chest at the thought of him coming with his
father to present an offering. I would never have my healing powers if I
married now.
“Tera, you are—” he began in that
soft voice of his that had comforted me so many times after my mother’s death.
“When your father returns from his
journey,” I cut him off in a rush.
A trip to the farthest Shahala
villages could take a full moon crossing or more. Maybe enough time to cajole
the spirits into sending my powers to me. Powers like my mother’s, not like my
great-grandmother’s, I added silently, to make sure that no spirit who might be
listening to my thoughts would misunderstand.
Koro nodded, his disappointment
already clearing, his eyes holding nothing but kindness and full understanding.
Truly his face was welcome in my sight, his friendship valued from the bottom
of my heart, but I could not give him what he longed for, not yet, not for a
while.
My stomach growled.
My resolution wavered.
I could refuse Koro, but how long
could I say no to the bride price? Even if I could endure the hunger, a good
daughter would not starve her father.
“My father’s caravan will hurry on
this trip.” Koro glanced up at the lone cloud above us, the eagle gone now. “The
traders will want to be back before the rainy season begins.”
For a second I saw the sky as it
would be soon, a damp gray blanket thrown on the sun, keeping it captive. I
swallowed the lump in my throat, blinking the image away.
Jarim and I could not survive
another rainy season like the last. Toward the end, only the occasional strand
of seaweed washed up on the rocks had kept us from starving. I could still feel
the dark, gnawing pain in my belly every time I thought back.
Those hunger-filled days taught me one
harsh lesson: if I could not heal, I was nothing.
The breeze from the sea strengthened
and moved the branches around us. Our perch swayed. Koro held on tightly, his
face turning pale.
I felt as safe as a babe rocked in
loving arms. “Maybe you should go. Your mother might need help with the twins.”
“Of course. And you would want to
perform your ceremonies.” Nothing but kindness sounded in his voice.
Yet I caught a flash of
disappointment in his eyes, along with a faint trace of hurt. I had managed to
offend him, at once implying he could not handle the height, and that I did not
want him with me.
He slipped to a lower branch with
care. “I will visit again in a few days, if you do not mind.”
“Of course not.” But even to my own
ears, the words sounded insincere. I did care for Koro, my childhood friend, but
the great shadow of marriage had come between us lately, threatening the only
thing I ever wanted.
I watched him lower himself with
awkward movements then disappear in the dense foliage, swallowed by a profusion
of round leaves, each as big as his head. Then I turned to the task that had
brought me to my perilous perch. As a healer, or almost one, I spent a fair
amount of time potion gathering.
I said my prayers to the spirits and
bowed before them. I thanked the numaba tree for sheltering the moonflowers
that lived in the crook of its branches. As befitting a great gift, I thanked
the flowers at length for their dew.
Then I lifted one of the large
flowers, the haunting color of the twin moons, and tipped it to the phial that
hung on a cord around my neck, collecting the tiny drops that nestled inside
the creamy soft petals. Once the dew ran down the inside of the glass, I moved
on to the next flower and the next.
The ritual of the harvest filled me
with peace, but as soon as I finished, frustration nudged its way back into my
heart. I loved collecting potions, but the time had come when I wanted more
than this.
“The spirits know when the healer is
ready, Tera,” my mother had told me a hundred times, trying in vain to quell
the sea of impatience inside me.
I was so very ready. Why could the
spirits not see?
I pushed to my feet on a sudden
impulse, balancing on the swaying branch, and stood over the endless forest
that covered our hill. Mountain of No Top stretched on the horizon, the
dwelling place of the spirits.
Beyond the mountain lay the desert
and the Kadar lands. For all I cared, they could both fall into the sea. Of the
large Island of Dahru, I cared only about the Shahala lands of my people and my
family’s beach.
Careful of my center of balance, I
spread my arms and tipped my head to the sky, the wind whipping my hair around
my face.
I shouted my heart’s desire into
that salty wind. “Great spirits, I am ready!”
A wild gust rushed my words across
the undulating emerald carpet of the treetops, ruffling the leaves. Birds startled
into flight, a flurry of flapping winds—red, blue, yellow, green—like dazzling
jewels tossed into the air.
I waited for the spirits to respond
to me, to touch me, but I felt nothing. I could only hear my mother’s soft
voice in my ear, words I had heard a million times. “You cannot rush the spirits.”
I hung my head. My mother would have
been dismayed by my willfulness and impatience if she were with me.
Disappointment clenched my teeth as
I climbed down, watching where I put my feet at every step, even though I had
made the climb a thousand times before. I stepped from branch to branch, then from
one thick vine to the next as they wrapped themselves around the tree’s smooth
bark.
My clothes stuck to my skin. Up in
the treetops, I had the wind, and at our home on the beach, a constant breeze
blew from the sea. But in the woods, the hot air stood still.
I wished my mother were with me, showing
me wonders like the flowers and birds that lived on top of the tall trees.
Maybe she had many more secrets she had not had time to share, things I would
never know, could never show my own daughter someday.
I did want a family. But not before
my healing powers came to me. I could cure without them, help others with
potions and poultices, powders and teas. But true healing, my mother had warned
me—the knitting of bones and binding of spirits—would be lost to me forever if
I rushed the sharing of my body.
I had to make sure Jarim understood
this before anyone came to offer for me. I climbed faster. In my hurry, a
broken branch snagged the worn linen of my thudi, leaving a slight tear in one
of the puffy legs that gathered to narrow cuffs at the ankle. The thudi’s waist
was fastened with a twisted length of blue shawl, as tattered as the strip of
linen bound tightly around my middle up to my armpits.
I kept moving. I never thought that
the snag might be a warning from the good spirits resting on top of the numaba
tree. If they had whispered Little
Sister, do not rush, watch out, I did not hear.
On the beach side of the thick trunk
now, to avoid another sharp branch, I had to turn away from the tree. Jarim
stood in front of our home, four men around him. I brushed the hair out of my
face and pushed a leafy branch aside for a better glimpse of their strange clothing.
They were not Shahala. Maybe they
were foreign traders. If only we had
something to trade.
Jarim was gesturing as if trying to
convince them of something very important, his arms going up and down in a
choppy motion like the wings of the small chowa bird.
I smoothed a hand down my
breastbinding. I had left my dress and my veil at home, as always when going
for a climb. I could not let strange men see me like this.
But what if they had come for
healing?
I had tried to help the few who had
not heard of my mother’s death and made the arduous journey, but despite the
healing potions, I rarely succeeded. Jarim said I did not have the power in my
hands, but I knew the truth: I did not have the power in my heart.
Something inside me was missing, and
the spirits sensed it.
Sometimes, secretly, out of sheer
frustration, I blamed him. My mother
had been a Tika Shahala, a healer from the highest order. Jarim, a foreigner,
weakened her Shahala blood, robbing me of my heritage.
I slipped to the next branch, and it
dipped under my weight. As the leafy end shifted, I could see the visitors’
ship at last, bobbing in the water some distance from the beach. My fingers
went numb as I recognized the black sails. Despite the heat, I shivered.
A slaver.
I had seen a slave ship once, years
before. An illness on board had brought them to seek my mother. The fame of her
powers drew all manner of people to us day and night, never giving her a moment
of rest. She did not seem to mind. She did everything with a smile. She had the
kindest face of any woman, always comforting, making the sick believe they were
already well even before she began her cure.
I only saw her sad once in all her
life, the day the slave traders came to shore. She helped them, like she would
anyone else, taking a boat to the ship and staying on it well into the night.
The Shahala did not own slaves—my
people found the practice distasteful. But the Kadar did, attracting
unscrupulous traders from the nearby kingdoms that dotted the sea.
The Kadar had to be the most
terrible people anywhere, I had thought, but it was not until months later that
I truly learned to despise them. Visitors brought news that the Kadar High Lord
had fallen gravely ill. My mother, with her caring heart, wished to go and heal
him.
She sailed away and never returned.
Two whole moon crossings passed before word reached us from a trade ship that
she had died on her journey. Whatever healing the Kadar had demanded of her had
killed her.
I had sworn many times that somehow
I would find out how and for what purpose she had died. I swore to the spirits
that someday, when I was a true healer and had enough crystals to afford the
long journey, I would find her resting place and recite the Last Blessing over
her grave.
After her death, many a night I had
lain on my tear-soaked pillow, wishing to be a sorceress of old, so I could
curse the Kadar. But as time passed, I let such thoughts drift away with the
outgoing tide, for I knew they would have saddened my mother. She could not
have borne to see me with hatred in my heart.
Still, forgiveness did not come
easy. The Kadar made war, brought injury and misery, while the Shahala healed
and lived in peace. I used to think the good spirits that sometimes rested on
top of the numaba trees must have been the spirits of the Shahala who had
passed on. The bad spirits that lived in the depths of Mirror Sea to grab after
anyone who sailed it, I believed to be those of the anguished Kadar who had
died in war, not finding peace even in death.
I was not surprised that Mirror Sea
churned under the slave ship. I could almost see all those restless Kadar
spirits angry because the traders no longer brought them slaves, trying to pull
the ship under so they would have servants once again.
When I finally slid to the ground
from the lowest branch of the tree, I ran through the forest, knowing every
rock, every root I had to jump over. Then I reached the edge of the woods, and
bending low, I rounded some boulders, ran down the stone stairs and kept to the
bushes until I reached the side entrance of our wooden house. Better to sneak
in and retrieve my clothes before the men saw me. I did not want to shame Jarim
or my mother’s memory.
The men made loud bragging noises as
they talked in the front. I frowned at the sound. Polite people talked little
and pleasantly, bringing no more attention to themselves than necessary.
To talk so loud was as if one
painted a sign on one’s forehead: Here I
am, look at me. Then everyone would have looked at him and seen him for a
fool.
I hoped they did not come for
healing, for I feared what people such as these would do when disappointed. I
hoped they had come for medicinal herbs. Dried herbs I had aplenty.
I hurried to my room and pulled on
my short tunic, regretting for a moment that not one piece of my worn clothing
matched any other. We had better clothes when my mother had been alive. We had
fine robes and food and laughter. Sometimes now those memories seemed less than
real, like legends from a golden age.
I put away the memories and my
vanity, and wrapped my veil around my head in the proper manner for a healer,
then hurried toward the front. I pushed through the wind-torn curtain that
covered the entrance.
“Apar,” I greeted Jamir—calling him
father for the last time.
The traders fell silent. Their gazes
poured over me like icy water.
I could scarce keep from staring
back at them. Shells and small disks of metal decorated their clothes in a
dizzying array of patterns I had never seen before. The richness of the
materials, the sheen of the fabric, the glitter…
Jarim caught my gaze and smoothed
down his thin tunic. He wore better clothes than I, but still he could have
been mistaken for a servant next to the strangers.
“Everything you say is true?” the
tallest man, made taller yet by his wrapped silk headpiece, asked Jarim.
I sucked in my breath at his
rudeness. To question the word of a Shahala was unthinkable. Though no Shahala
blood flowed in Jarim’s veins, since he’d been married to my mother, people had
always extended him the same respect.
“Very good healer. Only daughter of
a Tika Shahala,” Jarim boasted just as rudely, as if not at all offended.
He spoke a little of most languages
used around our area. I knew them as well as my own, learned from the many
visitors who had come to my mother.
I wished Jarim had not said such a
thing, even if he said it only because he did not want to shame me.
The leader’s eyes narrowed. “Ten
blue crystals.”
I stifled a gasp. Ten blue crystals
were more than we had seen in a long time, many times more than my help was
worth had I been willing to give it. I tugged Jarim’s sleeve.
“She is worth twice that,” Jarim
insisted and hushed me when I tried to speak.
I had never seen him like that
before. A healer did not bargain over healing or ask payment. The sick gave
gifts according to their abilities, despite reassurances that no payment was
necessary.
“Twelve.” The trader’s impatient
tone signaled the end of bargaining, and he handed Jarim a worn leather bag.
To my horror, Jarim counted the
crystals.
Then he nodded. Perhaps he did not
feel the need to show manners in front of people who had none, I thought,
dazed, and when the traders started toward the ship and motioned to me, I
obediently followed. I stopped after a moment when my mind cleared a little.
“My herbs.” I turned toward our
dwelling, rushing to take mental inventory. I should probably take a little of
everything.
But the man who had bargained for my
services said, “You will not need those.”
Of course. They traveled many
waters. They probably had their own herbs on the ship. Maybe I would even see
something new and exotic.
I looked at Jarim, but he would not
look at me.
“Come,” the lead trader ordered.
And I followed him.
I hoped they wanted me to heal
slaves, although I was unsure whether my ministrations would be much help. But
trying would have been easy, as my heart went out to the unfortunates. And I
had to try now, whether master or slave languished in the sickbed—Jarim had
already taken the payment.
Our shore met the sea not with a sandy
beach but with boulders and rocks the waves beat against. Because of this, most
ships docked in Sheharree, the nearest port, and our visitors completed the
journey over land. But this time a grizzled man, wet from the spray, waited for
us, holding the rope of a massive boat wedged between two scarred rocks, each
as large as the boat itself.
I eased in, fear stealing into my
lungs as we shoved off. The next wave could push us back and smash the boat
against the rocks. But the men who handled the oars handled them well and
mastered the waves.
What would they do to me if my
healing failed? Would they bother to bring me back and demand their crystals? I
could too easily see them tossing me overboard, into the rolling sea.
I wanted to tell them I was a fake, that
I was sorry my father had taken their payment. But none of them talked, so I
too remained silent. I did not want to make them angry, these people who stole
others’ lives to sell.
My heart beat a hurried rhythm at
the unfamiliarity of the boat ride. I squeezed my eyes shut against the fury of
the sea. My mother had always forbidden me from taking to the water, a habit I
had kept even after her death. The boat tossed, and I grabbed its side, trying
to pretend I stood atop a numaba tree, the branches swaying under me in the
wind.
A welcome calm spread through my
limbs at the fantasy, until the waves sprayed water in my face. I told myself I
stood atop the numaba tree, and the rain began to fall. But my mind no longer
believed the tale.
After an endless time, the traders
shouted, and I opened my eyes. We had reached the dark vessel, the side covered
with scars, the wood smelling moldy and sad, as if the sadness of the slaves
had poured out into the ship.
I looked at the traders and wondered
if anyone sailing on such a ship could ever be anything but unhappy, but their
faces were closed and hard as a naga shell, so I could not tell which way they
felt.
I climbed the rope ladder second
after the leader, the rest coming up behind me. I did not mind the short climb,
the ship not nearly as tall as the trees on our hillside. But I did mind when
the wind snatched my veil. The length of fabric, like a dead bird falling from
the sky, tossed on the waves but for a moment before it disappeared under the
churning water.
The man behind me did not give me
time to worry about the loss, he growled at me to hurry.
The deck stood deserted, the boards
weather-beaten, the black sails frayed. Worn ropes tied down a pile of firewood
to my left, two wooden buckets secured to the pile with twine. A handful of
barrels were tied to the ship’s railing on my other side.
The men shoved me down into the
belly of the ship that swallowed me like a large fish that had not eaten for
many days. I shivered even as my forehead beaded with sweat from the hot, stale
air. I opened my mouth to ask how many were sick, but a rough hand in the
middle of my back shoved me forward into a dark cabin. The door closed with a
loud thud behind me.
“I will need a lamp,” I called
through the door. “Or a torch.”
Nobody answered.
I turned back to the darkness and
lowered my voice. “Is anyone here? Anyone sick?”
No response came, nor could I hear
anyone breathing in there with me. I moved forward until I bumped into the
wall, then laid my hands on a roughly-hewn wood plank and followed it.
When I reached the door, I pushed
against it to no avail. I felt around for some furniture but found none. I was
in an empty cabin somewhere in the middle of the ship. With nothing else to do,
I sat down and waited for them to bring my patient to me.
Instead, I heard the scrape of the
anchor being pulled up. Voices rang out on deck. Sails snapped somewhere above
me. My heart shuddered when I finally realized there would be no sick coming.
I, Tera, daughter of Chalee, Tika Shahala, had been
sold by my own father to be a slave.
(To read the rest, scroll up and look on the right side for links to the rest of the chapters. Enjoy!)
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