VIII
A Minor Conjunction

Taláni and his delegation traveled into the midlands, tall-house after tall-house, arriving nearly a hundred strong, dressed in full regalia and carrying red banners without sigil.

At every house they followed the same pattern: Once received by the master of the tall-house, Taláni would make a show of reading them the charges against Wolkári while his mother or one of her numerologists performed whatever prognostication was required to win them over. He would then use the black knife to kill an animal and drink its blood — or if the local wekáru resisted, they killed him and his family instead and hung their bodies from the rafters before installing someone with more compatible ambitions.

In the outlying areas, they sought out anyone who was disgruntled with Wolkári’s tributes and regulations, his land-uses, and his redistributions. They picked up the most outrageous slanders about Wolkári and his ministers and relatives — inventing some of their own for good measure — and transferred them from valley to valley, each repetition more salacious than the last.

They made no effort to be secretive. Each time they moved on, they sent a local messenger to report to Wolkári, always with the same messages: Taláni is coming to visit his kinsman-brother Wolkári to discuss an urgent matter of mutual interest.

“He will be well agitated by the time you arrive,” Melíksi explained. “He will suspect everything and know nothing.”

Several weeks later, Taláni left his mother and her entourage behind and approached Wolkári’s tall house with a small party of warriors, wearing skirts, capes, and brightly colored necklaces. In honor of the Lord of Dying Things, he stained his fingers black from tip to knuckle.

To judge by the lines of people gawping as they passed by, word of their arrival had preceded them.

Dismissing Kaléntar and the rest of his party, he strode up to the guards at Wolkári’s door and surrendered his axe and club. With a loud thump and squeal of hinges, they opened the heavy wooden doors and escorted him down the long corridor toward Wolkári’s throne, leather armor squeaking as they went.

Inside, the hall was dimly lit. Cedar beams, columns, rafters — everything was carved and painted, commemorating the peace that Wolkári’s ancestors had forged among the lowlanders.

The architecture directed attention not-so-subtly toward the throne platform, a natural stone formation at the far end of the hall. Scores of tiny lamps arranged to look like stars illuminated Wolkári’s throne, which was woven from the branches of four live dwarf maples. It sat in front of the twin forks of a small waterfall that entered at the peak of the roof and tumbled down the cliff behind him. The streams wound around mossy terraces and emptied into two channels that ran the length of the hall where children floating toy boats stopped to watch Taláni pass.

Above a miniature landscape of dwarf fruit trees and boxwoods sat the man himself, Waliwali-wolkári-ya, greatest of greats, ruler of rulers, arrayed in absurd finery and positioned like a bloated toad-spirit overshadowing his tiny domain. A ring of advisors, their seconds, and their seconds’ seconds encircled him, heads lower than his, their hats and headdresses making up the difference. At his right hand sat the Singers of the Law, prim, robed in yellow, prepared to recite any statute he demanded. All along the upper terraces sat his wives and their attendants, his mother, daughters, sons, their wives, his concubines along with their children and attendants, all encrusted with precious stones and ornate headgear, all drowning in expensive fabric.

A carpet depicting the scene of Wolkári’s ancestors defeating the lowlanders and marsh-landers lay on the floor. Intentional in every detail, the scene sent an unmistakable message: I am better than you.

Taláni kneeled on the rug, touched his forehead to the cedar-plank floor, and settled back on his knees, hands resting on thighs, back stiff and straight.

I’ll give them a show, but not the one they want.

“Rise, kinsman-brother,” Wolkári announced in an obsequious tone. “Let us speak as equals.” His jaw flexed. “Your coming is an unplanned pleasure! I might have put out a banquet for you — had I known when you planned to arrive.” He leaned forward. “Why have you arrived, kinsman-brother?”

“To reason with you.”

“Conversation must be in short supply in the woodlands to walk twenty days over the mountains to ‘reason’ with an old man!” There was a smattering of nervous laughter. “What should we reason about? Why the wind blows? What’s over the mountains? Beyond the sea?”

He stoops to mockery. He is alone and afraid, even when surrounded by his full court. This pride will be his undoing.

Calm, Taláni said, “Consider two rulers, one powerful, and the other, more powerful. Which will serve and which will be served?”

“Ha! I take it you are the ‘more powerful’ ruler in this bit of ‘reasoning’?”

“Yes, and I accept your challenge.”

“Challenge? Me? You?” Wolkári burst into derisive laughter and his advisors joined in. “We outnumber you woodlanders — what? — sixty to one? If I wanted what was yours, I would walk in and take it — no challenge at all.”

“The spirits do not count by numbers.”

“Count by strength, then. My spears are longer and my shields sturdier. Will you come at me with threshing forks and sewing bones?”

“A spear cannot wield itself.”

“Oh? Nineteen dynastic houses pay me tribute. You will find the Midlanders remain loyal to me when pressed. You are a minor ruler — and that by intrigue!”

“Beyond your ridgelines, only my banner is flown.”

“Yes, I’ve heard: the ragged remnant of a fallen house, cast-off, reprobates lapping up blood like fleas and spiders. You are no ruler.”

The conversation proceeded according to his mother’s predictions. Insults were inevitable at this point, so Taláni waited, patient.

Wolkári continued. “Your brother — your half-brother — he was a legitimate ruler. A true son. You are nothing, the half-son of a blood witch. You think you control the spirits? They control you, and they will destroy you.” Wolkári settled back into his throne. “Consider two rulers. One, powerful, and the other, a madman, hungry for destruction. What should the powerful ruler do?”

Taláni stood and slipped the dagger from his belt, sliding his left palm along the blade. Fat drops of blood ran down his clenched fist onto Wolkári’s carpet.

The onlookers gasped. Wolkári bolted up out of his throne and stood motionless.

Spears lowered, the guards advanced, but Taláni turned and flicked some of his blood at them, muttering a curse. They stumbled back, as though repelled. The guards at the door ran at him; he held up his bloody palm and commanded them to stop, which they did.

“What should the powerful ruler do?” Taláni said. “Kill the madman before he kills you.”

Wolkári slumped back into his throne laughing. “By all the spirits! You are more crazed than I thought. Drain all your blood if you like. You remain at my mercy.”

Taláni took the knife and held it overhead while the guards tensed. “No, you are at my mercy.” Slowly, he pulled out the flap of the assassin’s skin his mother had harvested, wrapped the knife in it, and presented the parcel with open hands. A nearby minister leaned down to snatch it and hand it over to Wolkári.

Reading the charge to himself, Wolkári muttered, “There were rumors that you meant to bring a charge. I expected it to be nonsensical, but this — ” He laughed.

“Do you not recognize the knife?”

“Why should I?” Wolkári waved dismissively.

“Then do you recognize these?” Taláni pulled a ringlet of finger bones and teeth from around his neck and tossed it at Wolkári’s feet. “These are the bones of the man you sent to kill me, and you are holding his skin.”

Wolkári dropped the charge as though it were a live animal that had just bitten him and stared straight at Taláni, jaw clenched, blood rising in his cheeks. He seemed as though he meant to speak, but was unable.

The realization struck Taláni suddenly; the young noble assassin had been unfamiliar but in that moment the family resemblance became unmistakable. “You have my claim along with two witnesses: the knife my mother gave you at the birth of your son, and the bones of that same son you sent to murder me with it!”

The hall went crazy with noise. The onlookers shouted insults and curses at Taláni. Wolkári’s advisors encircled him, all talking at once.

Wolkári’s sweeping hand silenced them. He picked up the ringlet and handed it to one of his wives, whose expression changed from shock to rage as she touched them.

Taláni continued. “My kinsmen and I will stay in your meadow. At dawn, we will keep the challenge form: three-in-battle. If you wish to spill my blood then do it with honor, before the people. We will bring our claims and the spirits will decide. Consult your singers. They know the statute, and they know it cannot be broken.”

The crowd murmured. The eldest Singer stood as though preparing to recite the regulation, but Wolkári waved her off, slumping in his throne, hands covering his face.

Satisfied, Taláni turned his back to the throne and marched out, anointing the hall with drops of blood as he went. Wolkári was already dead, he just didn’t know it yet.

A contract, by consent of Limiya, Heptarch of Shiriwak:

The Sage Prime of Mek hires Lutoparak of Kusumnu to construct a monument on the island of Khet Manak according to a predetermined plan. Construction will commence this day and will take no more than three years.

With this contract are delivered from the treasury of Mek four hundred weights of gold, four hundred of silver, four hundred of bronze, two hundred of copper, and two hundred of lapis.

Sealed by sacrifices to Radu the Eldest, Etreya the Sea-Mother, and Mek Most Wise. According to the laws of Kindhir. Prepared by Shemulak, a scribe of the Academy of Mek.

Eleven days after the summer solstice, in the fourteenth year of Shenefret, Heptarch of Nepsilam, before the throne of Limiya, Heptarch of Shiriwak.

Mekvat sent his entourage back to the capital, retaining only Shemulak, one of the regulars from his evening conversations, as his personal assistant. Someone trustworthy the he knew he could talk to would be invaluable to him, if only to keep him from being bored and lonely during the construction.

He planned to remain at the worksite through the summer, but Luto objected. “I always forbid the owners of a property from  … ah, lingering. It makes the workers anxious — the more honorable the client the more timid they become.”

“I have no intention of slowing you down.”

“Nevertheless, you would, you would! Besides, why concern yourself with toil and drudgery? Of all eight seasons of the year, this is the most pleasant — the flower festival at Kusumnu begins soon. I am sad to miss it myself this year, but that can’t be helped. But you should go! Enjoy the scenery. Eat, dance. Get drunk. Get  whatever you like! I’ve already arranged for couriers to send you regular reports.”

“How will they find me, prancing around the countryside?”

“Wherever the Sage Prime appears, it will be known!”

Perhaps Luto was right. He didn’t know anything about construction, and he hadn’t been to this part of the country since he was a child.

There are monasteries to inspect, relationships to shore up, appearances to make. Indeed, this may be my final opportunity.

Mekvat and his young companion spent the following weeks visiting cloisters and monasteries, archives, and shrines. The enthusiasm with which he was received made him regret that he hadn’t traveled more. In the capital, he was one more official; out here, his arrival was a major event.

Luto was right about the couriers. They came every ten days or so and never had any difficulty finding him, sometimes even arriving at his planned destination ahead of him. He received them with a solemn bow, gave the report a perfunctory glance, and turned it over to Shemulak to file away.

He has a fondness for lists, this contractor of mine.

They traveled by cart but never paid for rent or driver. On one such trip, he told Shemulak, “We have the privilege of owning nothing, and yet needing nothing.”

“Indeed, minister! I’ve never had better food or lodgings.”

“Drop a little hint, and they trip over themselves to please you.” Mekvat smoothed some wild tufts on his garment, grinning. “A less scrupulous man might take advantage.”

“You pay for everything you receive, minister, in knowledge and wisdom.”

“You might say I overpay — except that nobody cares about ‘knowledge and wisdom.’ It’s favor they want. Proximity. Kindhir says: Inside every circle is another yet smaller. Which reminds me, I am overdue to repay you as well.” He patted the young man’s shoulder. “These many days of humoring me, all satchels and sandals like a common page.”

“Oh, I am overpaid as it is! However, if you wish to indulge me, there is something I would like to know more about.”

“Kindhir says: To name a thing is halfway to possessing it.”

“What is the key to advancement within the order?”

Mekvat tapped his lips. “Oh, you have some idea already — you’ve made it to the rank of Sage Minor.”

“Yes, minister. I like to think I am well-known for diligence, punctuality, and competence. I do everything required of me and more. I work day and night — first to arrive, last to leave.”

“Kindhir says: Carp float, but salmon swim upstream.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Influence flows from the powerful to the powerless, and every stream has its own current. If you want to swim upstream, follow struggle, not contentment.”

“So I have done, minister. I have devoted myself to mastering the art of horticulture, and not to be immodest, I have. If it grows, I can tend it. I have cataloged all varieties of verge: trees, bushes, grasses, food crops, medicines, fragrances — even poisons. I amended the almanacs, charted the seasons — when to plant, when to harvest — ”

“The proper spreading of dung and how to preserve seeds in urine?”

“You tease, minister, but my writings on that subject are authoritative.”

“And riveting, I’m sure.” Mekvat made a flourish with his hand. “You are the oligarch of oleander, the demigod of daisies!” He let his hand go limp and drop into his lap with a thump. “Now what?”

“That is my dilemma.” Shemulak motioned to the mules pulling the cart. “Animal husbandry?”

“Kindhir says: The cook memorizes the kitchen, but a ruler surveys the city from a great height. You know much about a little thing, but to advance, you must know a little about many things. Don’t be the best, be the most needed — in as many areas as possible.” Mekvat yawned and folded his hands across his belly, ready for an afternoon nap. “The world has plenty of gardeners. What doesn’t it have? The more you can make yourself the best answer to that question, the further along you’ll be.”

Mekvat became increasingly restless. They had been staying in a country monastery for several days, but a steady driving rain kept them indoors.

Nor are the locals here as diverting as they could be!

He was never long without something to occupy himself, despite his reputation for — how had Pabirak put it? “A charmingly liberal attitude toward the use of other people’s time”.

He may think what he likes — I get my work done in half the time by delegation, and the rest is for exploration.

Now the weather was taking liberties with his time, which he resented.

He entertained himself by reading Luto’s reports, which his young colleague had been toting in a small trunk.

“Have you read these?”

“I have, minister, every word.”

“Are you not alarmed?”

“Everything seems to be in order.”

“Seems to be!” He waved one of the scrolls in Shemulak’s general direction. “What does this tell you? Hm?”

Shemulak scanned the document. “It lists the quarrymen — ”

“You’re reading the words.”

“Forgive me, minister, but what else should I — ?”

“Think, think! Why these words and not some other? Why a list of quarrymen, as though I should care about their names? What purpose does it serve but to fill parchments?” He gestured toward several other parchments lying unfurled on a table. “See? Each one longer than the last. Each one more grandiloquent, more  delusional. This last report, how would you summarize it?”

“Workers, materials, schedules. Everything in hand  — nothing to worry about?”

Seeing Shemulak’s confusion, he softened his tone. “Kindhir says: Treasure lies underground, not underfoot. Put aside what Luto says. How does he say it, and what is he not saying?”

Shemulak scanned the reports again. “Oh, no!” Collapsing on a bench, he read closer. “They have started many tasks, but have any of them been completed?” Some shuffling. “His earlier reports concern projects well underway, but as we go on, he begins reporting on items that are not yet started, indeed, starting further into the future every time — it’s all so positive. As though they have experienced no delays, no setbacks of any kind.” His shoulders drooped. “How could I have missed it?”

Now he sees it.

“We require an alternative source of information. Prepare to leave for Shiriwak tonight.”

“But minister , the storm — ” Shemulak stuffed the documents back in their trunk, packed the rest of their things.

Mekvat flung the door open, inviting the wind and rain inside. “I assure you, the storm has not yet begun!”

Atnan didn’t leave empty-handed. The other women dragged his grandmother away to mourn, or just as likely, to avoid her causing a scene. Meanwhile, his father packed him a travel-sling with some food and a few more essentials: a traveling cloak, hat, and extra poncho; a clay bowl with flint and tinder; and a little bag of imperial coins Omrik said he’d never found any use for. Atnan packed his satchel with the scrolls, his clay flute, and finally an ink-horn, a few cane-leaf sheets, and some extra pens and implements for cutting more.

All the while they were watched by the assembled villagers. Barlas arrived accompanied by his parents and carrying a bit more gear than Atnan. Nothing was said. Finally, everyone turned their backs while he and Barlas marched into the night.

For a day and a half they trudged over the dusty ridges. Barlas led the way with confidence, but if there was a path, Atnan couldn’t discern it. Instead, he focused on the churning of his innards, fueled by the litany of pains and offenses, some great, some petty, that he rehearsed in his mind at each step.

Among his smaller, but more immediate sufferings, he hated the actual process of the journey almost as much as he hated the reason he had to do it. It was too hot. His feet hurt. The straps of his travel-sling bit into his shoulders.

Late in the afternoon, they spotted a knee-high stone marker inscribed with a circular face: round ring of a mouth, straight nose, two beady little eyes, prominent brow, multiple concentric rings all around, like hair and beard.

“That-a-ways. Ulli men always face the roads, eh?”

Atnan made a puzzled face.

“I dunno why. Try asking them, eh?”

Atnan didn’t think that was very funny.

Barlas bit deeply into an apple and shrugged. “See that storehouse?”

The terrain was flatter and less stony, with hills covered in heather and dotted with round bushes and boulders set upright. Under different circumstances, it might be pleasant. In the distance stood a rock tower.

“Means we’re almost to the road, which means almost to Maur,” Barlas chattered. “Run-down guardhouse last I saw it, but at least we can sleep indoors. Nobody lives out this way anymore — if they ever did.”

Atnan stiffened. Maur was part of the Fyrean Knot, which Barlas might know more about if only he cared to.

“Just a lot of in-between now. Anyhow, we’ll start seeing homesteads closer to Gwetlak. That’s a proper city. Speaking of, it’s around time for the snail festival. That’ll put some life back in your bones, eh?”

Atnan doubted that.

By the time they reached the road, Atnan found himself more exhausted than vengeful. Maintaining his fury required as much effort as walking across the uneven terrain, and no matter how necessary each expenditure might be, his reserves were limited.

At the roadside, Barlas stretched out his hand as though presenting a gift. Stretching away in two directions, the road was a ribbon of irregular blocks sunk in the ground and canted at various shallow angles, many cracked and drowning in heather.

Unimpressed, Atnan kicked a dandelion head just for spite. Had not Kindhir the Wise laid the roads? Were they not the pride of the Seven Cities? Then why weren’t they in better condition? Why wasn’t anything what it should be?

Just then a soft scrabbling noise came from the other side of the road.

Barlas turned toward it. “Rabbits?” He picked up a small pebble and tossed it in the general direction of the noise.

Atnan flicked his shoulder. Whatever organ secreted juices to make one even-tempered, Barlas had been born without it.

Another rock came whizzing back over their heads. They both flinched.

“Not rabbits!” Barlas waved his arms. “Ho there! Come out! We’re friendly! Let’s travel together, eh?”

Faces peeked from behind a rocky berm, all black-haired women with golden brown faces and chapped red cheeks, dressed like hill-folk. Some wore scarves on their heads, others tall hats. One woman appeared pregnant. Another had her bow ready, arrow nocked and pointing downward.

“Mnak patkalach,” Barlas said.

“Shrap ka Hapak,” the archer replied.

Barlas whispered to Atnan, “If they don’t speak Hapak, they don’t match their clothes, eh?”

No, but she learned to say she doesn’t speak Hapak, so they must have come from there.

Atnan signed to Barlas: fingers tapping his mouth, then miming paddling a boat.

Barlas said, “Oh, trade jargon! Good idea.” Then to the woman, “Ke bango hay?” Can we trade?

“Hay-hay,” the pregnant woman replied. “De ya’oy ke bango.”

Barlas said in Fyrean, “They don’t want anything we — ”

Atnan indicated that he had heard.

“Heh, they probably don’t want to talk about the price of fish either, eh?” Barlas turned to the women and said, “Mana-suah, ke bamba. Ke laley Del  … oloke’oy.” He supplemented his words liberally with hand gestures. If you please, we are good. We are from Del  … travelers.

“Hay-hay. Ke bamba. Ke’a oloke’oy tanta,” the pregnant woman said. I understand. We are good. We are also travelers.

They continued back and forth like this while the other women milled around. The women were on a long journey but didn’t know about Maur. Supplies were running thin. They were sisters, and suspicious of strange men.

Then, in mid-sentence, the pregnant woman slumped over, unconscious. Atnan froze. He had never seen anyone faint — she might be dead or dying. One of the other women shoved him away as they crowded around her.

Without hesitation, Barlas squatted down next to the unconscious woman and scooped her up in his arms.

The others all started talking at once. The woman awoke with a start as he grabbed her, resting her head on his chest.

The archer tipped up her bow as though to shoot. Atnan signaled for her to wait with one hand while he offered a water skin to the woman in Barlas’s arms with the other. The woman took a drink and flopped back again. The woman with the bow held ready but did not draw.

Barlas shouted over his shoulder. “Olokeya, a ginoy!” Come with us, to shelter. He jerked his head toward the road. “Ay, ginoy, ginoy!”

Unsure what else to do, Atnan bowed down on his knees and indicated they should go after Barlas as urgently as his hands could convey. When he put his hands over his head like a roof, this seemed to convince them. The archer relaxed her grip and gestured for the others to follow.

Atnan fell in behind, keeping enough distance that he could run if it came to it. The situation had evolved into something unpredictable, dangerous — but what choice did they have? The list of duties to the Five was short, but hospitality was near the top. It would be unthinkable to leave travelers in need to die by the road.

What if the Five are testing us? Exacting some kind of penance?

He rubbed the runes on his mother’s necklace as he walked. MYNA LLW RYLA, always love together. He had never thought about it before: Why wasn’t love any of the Five?

Because every virtue at its uttermost is a kind of love.

He smeared an exhausted tear across his cheek with his sleeve and skipped to catch up.

* * * * *

Blurry shapes swarmed Selolo’s vision. At the outpost, one of the sisters made a nest out of travel packs for her to lie on and made her drink water until she was lucid enough to refuse.

By sunset she was able to take in the new surroundings: a vacant building, clean and dry as the tall man had described it — kept up by travelers, perhaps — with benches and rugs beside a few clay drawing pots. The plaster was scarred with graffiti, in strange letters.

It had been some time since they had an indoor sleeping spot. The sisters chatted and laughed as they prepared the space.

The smaller of the two strange men crouched down in the doorway, silent. If the man who had carried her here was the tall one, this was the skinny one. He seemed harmless enough.

He pointed to himself, then to his mouth, then away. He gestured to her and the other sisters.

I suppose he only knows the trade signs, not the words.

She decided he was asking their names, which she took as a sign of goodwill — the bad ones didn’t bother. She pointed to each of her sisters in turn. “Kilími. Gwahália, Melinítri, Lepríthi, Yóli, Táripel, and Saragánthi.” She gestured to herself. “Selolo. Súmi, Shúrimel.” She signaled with open hands in his direction to indicate it was his turn.

He made signs toward himself, Owl-Can-Write, then toward his friend, Bear-Went-Fishing.

Owl and Bear? Such absurd names!

She wanted to giggle but forced her face into a more serious configuration instead. Hands together, she said, “Ke’ay,” us, then pulled one of them apart and said, “De’ey,” you.

He took a short hop backward.

She searched his face for any sign of dishonesty or displeasure. The strangeness of their faces made them difficult to read: long and dark, eyes too small, too round. The tall one had broad shoulders and long wavy black hair. He wasn’t quite as ugly — “Bear” was an apt description.

Kilími and Saragánthi had started a fire. The sisters had nothing left to cook, but the tall man shared food with them freely from his pack. That was also a good sign.

The young man in the doorway gestured to her round belly, then tapped his mouth and indicated a negative.

“Pakele, masu?” She didn’t know the words either, but “little one, inside” seemed close enough.

He gestured affirmatively then made several unintelligible signs that seemed to indicate genuine concern.

He was quite young, she thought. They might be brothers, Bear and Owl. They were helpful and kind but that might be temporary. Her experience had taught her that men could be both kind and cruel by turns, sometimes simultaneously.

She spied a necklace around his throat and gestured toward it, inviting him to speak.

Instead, he took it off and offered it to her to examine.

She didn’t take it. One person’s traveling courtesy might be another’s service rendered, and they could not afford to be indebted. As he held it out, her fingers brushed over the unknown letters on the shells. So straight, and not one connected to another!

“This, to you. Woman, no?” she asked.

Signing “mother,” he returned the necklace to his throat then pointed to the pathfinder around hers.

“Thirteen baskets.” She named the families of her people as she pointed to each bead along the main strand. His expression grew more confused as she went.

If they are strange to me, I must be just as strange to them.

Kilími overshadowed them both, speaking to her in Silgath. “Food’s ready. Can you walk?”

“Yes. My head was full of sticks before, but the water revived me. I was telling him about the pathfinder.”

“Don’t say too much.”

Selolo heaved herself up with Kilími’s help as everyone gathered around the fire outside. The men roasted game birds. While they cooked, they gulped hot brown liquid that smelled of rotting vegetation and left green bits in their teeth.

They offered to share but Selolo declined. After the suffusions and potions she had endured in Taláni’s camp, water was the only drink she would trust. She did try some of their dried fish: oily and much saltier than expected, but edible.

“Selolo, a story,” Kilími said in jargon.

Even though she was tired, Selolo agreed. “Long ago, spirits walked down from the sky, shaped like birds, fishes, animals, and people. They walked down the big tree. A big yellow flower grew in the tallest branches, the sun. Little flowers grew all around, the stars.

“A big white flower grew in a low branch, the moon, most beautiful. The sun grew and died every day, but the moon lasted many days. It grew and grew, a bright round fruit. It gave seed-pods shaped like people that fell to the ground.

“Then Huma-Lapsala, the great spirit, most beautiful, picked up the people seeds. She put them in thirteen baskets, the families of all people. She turned out each basket on the mountains. The people fell into the valleys, where they still live.”

Her jargon was nowhere near sufficient to tell the story. She supplemented with gestures and repeated herself anytime Bear and Owl signaled a lack of understanding, which was often. The sisters prompted her with new ideas for how to say things when she was stuck.

The story may not have come through, but it served her purpose: to keep the strange men engaged, to remind them that she and her sisters were human beings with voices and personalities, deserving of respect.

“Our people. In boats,” Bear said. “Way back ago. In the sea. From the islands, past the sea.” There was silence for a moment. “Short story.”

“Short story,” Selolo agreed.

Owl dug underneath one of his many cloaks — they wore so many layers! — and produced what looked like a little clay pot.

“Music stone,” Bear said.

Their trade jargon truly was terrible.

Owl blew into the “music stone,” starting up a slow, sad tune and Bear sang along:

How awkward and primitive their language was, as though they were always out of breath, tongues cut in half, leaking air with every syllable. Still, the song was beautiful in its own way.

Bear explained that it was about a traveler who reaches his destination after many hardships, and he hoped the sisters could take some comfort in it.

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