XXII
Rebirth

Weeks passed and Selolo was no longer troubled. The dreams left her along with the dread they inspired. She stayed with Barlas and Atnan to help repair the vegetable sellers’ farm. The manual labor helped her, as though she herself were rebuilt with each stone she put in place, her life set a little more aright by each overturned cart she flipped or basket she mended.

Some things were beyond repair. A piece of Tortoise Hill had lodged itself in the couple’s field and couldn’t be removed, so Atnan inscribed a tortoise on it with the motto:

Here in the shadow of a new sun shining on a new world, Zakinder of Nepsilam and his wife Glesimel helped to awake the elder tortoise Shigshag to crush an invading army.

They held a memorial ceremony for all the city’s fallen at the rock with their family and neighbors, lighting lamps and singing long into the night. Devotees of new rites dedicated to the elder beasts held vigil around the stone, hoping for some revelation.

As the weeks passed, Selolo grew more restless. Eventually, news reached the city that the invaders had been chased back over the river and any stragglers captured or killed. The soldiers who were sent to Pelnu arrived with reinforcements, too late to fight, but not too late to help rebuild.

As it should be, but still I grieve. Taláni was no relation of mine and neither were his armies. Yet we are bound by a common language. Songs. Stories. No matter how hard I try, I cannot mourn for the dead of Kindhirak in the same way.

A stubborn longing remained with her, lodged deep like the tortoise stone Atnan inscribed. There was much work to be done in the city but it wasn’t hers to do. She couldn’t show her face there, configured as it was in the shape of an invader, so she skulked around the farm and shrank into her hooded cloak whenever there were strangers around.

Day by day she thought about the white tree from her dream. She couldn’t go back to travel the lopped-off branches to arrive at some other end, but she could move forward from where she was. For once, she knew the way. She had a people, her daughter Kirelítsu, and her sisters. She had Barlas to share life with, and with him would come all the fisher-folk who were his neighbors and kin. She wondered if they would accept her in that way — as neighbor, or kin, or both. At long last, she knew where she belonged, in a tiny village by the big water.

When she finally suggested to Barlas that they return, he agreed enthusiastically.

Barlas asked Atnan if he would come with them as well.

Atnan signed in the negative.

Barlas seemed unhappy with this response, but made no argument. For her part, it seemed right to leave him. Their only bond was a project, now complete. Owl had understood. He had moved the earth and the sky, and now he should remain wherever he felt most useful.

A person can be useful wherever they are, but joy and peace are another thing.

She had no reason to believe that joy and peace awaited her among the fisher-folk, but as they walked off, Barlas with his big arm around her shoulder, she had every reason to hope.

* * * * *

Barlas returned to Del with Selolo along the same road they had traveled the year before, which seemed both a long time ago and no time at all. They arrived in the afternoon when the fishermen were out in their boats.

They found Betalia first, mending a garment under the eaves of the roundhouse. She leaped up and wrapped them both in a long embrace. “I thought you two were gone forever. Come, let’s find my husband! There is much to do.”

Selolo’s expression told him she was confused, which made two of them.

Around the corner, they found Layram reclining with the other old men. “By the Five!” He hobbled toward them. “I thought you two were gone forever!”

Barlas bowed. “Huthra-Layram, I — ”

“Quiet boy! We’ve already worked it all out.”

“Worked?”

“To begin with, the two of you can’t be,” he waved his hand toward the both of them, “whatever it is you are.” To Selolo, he said, “Ya’oy bamba, de a tanga, de ya’oy palele.” Not good, you together, but not one. He laced his fingers together to underscore the point.

“Married? But — ”

Layram interrupted, “Neither of you is of the village. Yes, yes.”

Betalia put her hand on Barlas’s cheek, “Bah! Who is of this village more than our own son?”

Son? No, he was attached to their family not part of it, and that attachment was something he owed to them. It was something he did, not something he was.

“I am your mother, Layram is your father, and you are our son. It is past time for us to say so.”

Wondering if he needed to translate, Barlas looked to Selolo, who indicated she understood well enough.

Layram said, “Before that can happen, you must take your oaths and get an oar! And before you can marry her — ”

     “The sisters?” Selolo said in halting Fyrean.

“Yes. The sign in the heavens was clear.”

Barlas tried not to stare at Selolo too intently. “So … ?”

She smiled wide. “Hay-hay!”

The next day, the elders declared a holiday so that everyone could attend five ceremonies combined into one. This had never happened before, so the elders elected Omrik to determine the proper order. For one thing, Layram couldn’t lead a ceremony where he was a participant, and for another, Omrik had “a gift for speeches.”

Everyone crowded into the roundhouse, with Omrik, Layram, Betalia, Barlas, Selolo, and the other sisters arranged in the inner circle and split into two groups, the sisters on one side and the members of the Bear clan on the other.

Omrik said, “Five ceremonies is auspicious, on account of the Five Spirits: Mem blesses the adoption of Barlas because we are acknowledging the truth. Rish blesses Barlas taking his oaths, because it is justice, long in coming. Lom blesses the anointing of a new clan, as we honor the traditions of the ancestors and extend the circle of their descendants. Llyr blesses the consecration of my monument, as we celebrate these mysteries.”

One hand on Barlas’s shoulder and one on Selolo’s, he concluded, “In the shadow of that newly-blessed monument, these two will wed, and Selolo’s child will become Barlas’s as well, which is blessed by Nan — because what could be more beautiful than that?”

Oars clacked and the villagers cheered. Layram and Betalia encircled Barlas by placing Layram’s oar behind his back, the two of them holding either end and each other’s hands. They declared him to be their son and he acknowledged them as his parents.

Next, Barlas and the sisters kneeled in front of Omrik. “Since you haven’t had time to memorize the oaths, I will speak and you all repeat.”

The blade of his oar touched each of their shoulders in turn. “Let us speak of the Five, to seek them always, wherever they lead, even to death.” The group repeated.

“Repeat: For Mem, my mouth will declare wisdom and work to deal honestly with all.” They repeated, and he sprinkled oil on their outstretched hands with a brush of reeds dipped into a small bowl. “I mark you with oil, so that the truth will be a lamp for you to light the dark places.”

“Repeat: For Nan, my senses will revel in the world the spirits have made and work to increase its glory.” He poured sweet wine out of an urn on their hands. “I mark you with wine so that you may enjoy the good fruits of the earth.”

“Repeat: For Lom, my feet will walk the path laid before me and guide those who come after.” He smeared a small bit of mud on each of their palms. “I mark you with earth, so you will know where you come from and where you are going.”

“Repeat: For Rish, my hands will make wrong things right and work to uphold the weak and defenseless.” He spattered their hands with a grass brush dipped in shark’s blood. “I mark you with blood so that whomever you oppress or neglect to oppression, their blood will be upon you.”

“Repeat: For Llyr, my innards will observe the signs, learn the stories, and work to add to the songs of the people.” Finally, he lit a small bundle of incense and passed the smoke before them all. “I mark you with smoke, so the mysteries of the unseen world may infuse you.”

They assented by repeating, “Let it be thus.”

Omrik directed them to stand and presented them. “Have you chosen a sign?”

Selolo stepped forward and gestured to her sisters. “We will be Galdha, the Clade of Mountain-Eagles.” Her pronunciation of the Fyrean words amused Barlas but he tried not to show it.

Rather than say all their names, Omrik had them present themselves, starting with Galdha-Kilími, Galdha-Gwahália, on down the line to Galdha-Selolo, and at the end, Huthra-Barlas.

Omrik rapped his oar. “Do you accept these as citizens of Del?”

The villagers tapped their oars and feet on the floor, quietly at first. The sound of wood on stone grew louder, first like the sound of rain, then thunder, then the end of everything. Just as Barlas thought the sound could grow no louder, it stopped, almost in unison.

Barlas scanned down the line of faces, wondering if any of them felt the moment as deeply as he did.

Been here all my life, but never thought I’d be here, here.

He searched the circle of villagers for Layram and Betalia — no, his parents, a word he was not yet used to — and found them both weeping openly.

For the last two ceremonies, Omrik led them all to his monument on the bluff. Standing at the center, he declared it to be sacred ground and the site of all future marriages in the village. He arranged Barlas and Selolo in front of himself.

Layram interrupted. “There’s something missing.” He handed Barlas a long oar with a bear face painted on the flared bit.

Bowing, Barlas accepted the oar, running his fingers over the runes already carved there: Huthra-Barlas, son of Huthra-Layram, son of Huthra-Gamlagh  …

Peering into Selolo’s dark brown eyes, he wondered if everyone thought she was as beautiful as he did, or if he only thought so because of his feelings for her. Either way, he didn’t care if marrying her was a mistake, he was well-prepared to make it again and again. He wondered if she was thinking the same.

Her face beamed happiness back to him, and that was enough.

Omrik had them hold Barlas’s new oar, said a few more words, then tied a rope around the oar and both their hands. At his signal, Hennamis brought Kirelítsu. They encircled the baby with the oar and both of their arms, as Layram and Betalia had done with him.

Thus far Barlas had been able to hold his emotions, but now tears rolled down his face.

Selolo, no longer a widow, and you and I, little one, no longer orphans. One moment a foundling, the next, a patriarch, eh?

When Omrik declared the end of the ceremonies and presented them as a family, Barlas worried that his fluids might burst through his skin for joy. Instead, he held his new daughter on one arm and wrapped the other around his new wife. “So when’s the dancing start, eh?”

Atnan smoothed the wild blue tufts of his garment. Forty scribes of the first order sat cross-legged around him inside the scroll-room awaiting his lesson.

He stood beside his interpreter, an angular woman named Pella whose dark green sash marked her as a follower of the Order of the Shigshag. He signed as she spoke, mostly for show, since she had being hearing his speeches for going on a dozen years and had long since committed them to memory. “I am known here as Lemmanu-Apsisu, the Sapient Stone, part praise and part insult since I am a mute and a Fyrean. Still, I helped to raise the great tortoise Shigshag and I knew about the rebirth of the sun before it happened. I have three rings painted on my head while you have only one. If anyone has the keys to advancement, it must be me. Are you ready to learn my secrets?”

The students murmured enthusiastically.

“Do whatever work you are assigned, which will be something your superiors find boring or distasteful. The more menial, the better. The more tasks you accept the more will follow, each its own opportunity and its own reward.

“Indeed, you must expect no compensation but the greater glory of Kindhirak, by which I mean the fruits of your labor will be enjoyed by someone else, likely of higher station.

“Hold your thoughts privately. Seldom speak, and then only to flatter. Press any advantage you have, but be careful to hide it. When you speak, say one thing and mean another, and expect others to do the same.

“Never sleep, always mindful that your position determines your worth. Increase the city’s investment in you by outpacing your circle of peers to advance to a more inner circle. No position is ever secure but is conditioned on performance and favors. The current pushes outward and downward, so you must swim all the harder as you rise.

“This is the path of success, the way of the Seven Cities: a maze without exit. Oh, but eventually you will die, and they will mark your position on the great dial of history: Thus far and no farther.”

That line always earned some collective grumbling from the students and this lot didn’t disappoint.

“Along the way, there are neither righteous nor wicked, only constituencies to be aroused or placated — and billed as exorbitantly as possible.”

Some of the students laughed uncomfortably.

“What? Do you not believe all these things? Your parents and their parents did — and their parents as well.” He paused for a while, hands at his side. When the murmuring began, he started up again. “What if they were mistaken?”

With a practiced flick of his wrist, he pulled a ribbon to unfurl the tapestry of Kindhir standing on a burned stump beneath a black sun, now hanging behind him on the wall.

“Long ago, spirits roamed the land, fishing and hunting alongside our ancestors and the elder beasts. They traveled between our world and theirs along the elder trees.

“The last such tree was broken with fire by this city’s forebear, Kindhir the Great, to block the spirits from meddling in human affairs. Thus he ended the rivalries between the seven cities and secured four centuries of peace and prosperity.

“So your grandmother told you, but she left out the rest of the story. Where much was gained, much was also lost. Worse, you were born into the world as it is, not as it was. You will never feel the loss of what you never knew.

“Only echoes of the former world remain: texts half-read, traditions half-remembered, ceremonies half-understood, stories half-true.

“Debate replaced violence, for the better; but songs gave way to speeches, gratitude to appetite, reverence to self-aggrandizement — all for the worse. Commerce replaced plunder, for the better; but where is the gain in singing and dancing when there is always more work to be done, always more glory to pursue, always more wealth to accumulate?

“In order to build up, Kindhir had to tear down. He chased away the elder beasts and barred the spirits entry. He marked the land with new cities, new rulers, new commands, and new stories to tell. Under a new sun, they worshipped a new spirit, whose name was Prosperity.

“I say the sun that rose with Kindhir shined on an empty and futile age, as Kindhir himself says: A carpet spread over a marsh is lovely, unless you try to walk on it.

“None of you are old enough to have walked under Kindhir’s sun, nor to have witnessed its death, which came to pass on my prediction. Nor am I old enough to have walked under Kindhir’s gaze. I do not know the man’s heart and I hope to have judged him fairly. Nevertheless, we all walk on his carpets, spread over the marshes.

“What then is the secret of success? You must answer for yourself: Under what shadows do we now walk? If the prior age hollowed out the world, how will we fill it again? If the stories we tell ourselves are broken, how will we know, and knowing, how will we repair them? Which is better, a rival to climb over or a friend to walk beside? What is the point of dying rich and living unhappy?”

He folded his hands behind his back and walked out, followed by Pella. Behind him, the sound of general disappointment was punctuated by a few optimistic voices. This was the best he could hope for.

These lessons are hard-fought and hard-won but they don’t go down easy. Everyone has learned a different tune, and I always seem off-key. How fortunate for everyone that I can’t actually sing!

Through everything, Shemulak remained his dearest friend. He had many associates with whom he enjoyed many projects, but none stayed long after their shared work was done. After attempting a few short-lived romances, he decided that such relationships were incompatible with his constitution and his energies would be better directed toward study. His greatest accomplishment was the establishment of a school within the Academy for the deaf and mute, who he instructed in the art of sign-talk.

He kept up with Glesimel until Zakinder died of a broken leg and fever in the bone. Atnan brought the best physicians, but there was nothing they could do. Eventually, she married her former landlord. This new man was suspicious of scribes in general and friends of his wife in particular. He resented the taxes, fees, levies, excises, tributes, ceremonial payments, and bribes exacted by the city and the Academy and wasn’t shy about saying so. This man’s speeches were not so different than Zakinder’s had been but sounded different coming from someone relatively rich and influential.

Once, at the market, Atnan ran into Glesimel with several small children in tow. She seemed as hard-pressed as ever, only with better clothes and a worse sense of humor. That, apparently, had been Zakinder’s influence.

She seemed exhausted, and if he was honest, so was he.

He had not quite reached the rank of Sage Minor when he took delivery of a small square of cane-leaf, bent from its journey. Unfolding it, he recognized his grandmother’s oversized handwriting, which he showed to Shemulak.

Shemulak handed the letter back. “I still can’t read these.”

Atnan signed, “Grandmother writes. Father dying.”

Shemulak noticed him rubbing the scar on his hand. “You are allowed to return?”

“Many years ago.”

“Then go, immediately.” Shemulak gestured toward the letter. “For your family’s sake.”

“With me, come.”

“Ha! I’ve no feelings for the place and the people are no more than strangers to me.”

To me as well, Atnan thought; nevertheless, he slipped the letter into his robe, bowed, and took his leave.

For her sake.

When he arrived in Del, Hennamis leaped up and embraced him. She felt small in his arms, frail and brittle. Her elbows and knuckles were knobby and arthritic, her eyes and mouth like boats sunk beneath dark waves of wrinkles.

She gestured toward Omrik’s monument on the bluff, now completed. “He’s buried up there if you want to sing over him.”

Atnan gestured in a non-committal way.

“He insisted we leave the final celebration for you.” She sniffled. “If I can forgive that bucket of guts then so can you.” She patted his shoulder. “In your own time.”

Just then, Barlas ambled up, or rather, a round-bellied man who looked like he should have been Barlas’s father. “Inky-fingers!” He lifted Atnan off the ground.

Selolo stood beside him, also older and softer. “Will you stay with us for long, Owl?” Her Fyrean was now barely accented.

He signed that he hadn’t thought about it.

“You mean you thought about it too much, and couldn’t decide!”

They all laughed because she was right. Atnan noticed a young girl snuggled underneath Barlas’s arms. Hands rounded in front of his belly, he gestured to the girl.

Selolo laughed and said in jargon, “Pakele, masu?” Little one, inside? She presented the girl as her daughter, Kirelítsu.

Atnan bowed stiffly to the girl while doing some quick sums in his head. She must be almost twelve winters by now.

The girl bowed back in precise imitation. “They told me to call you Uncle Owl.”

Barlas indicated that they should move toward the roundhouse as the girl continued, “Owls are extremely odd creatures, don’t you agree?”

He signed affirmatively. After grabbing Barlas’ attention, he signed out a story, which Barlas interpreted. “Once, Owl was at a brookside, looking for a meal. He spied a fat fish in the stream and waited for it to come to the surface. A mouse scampered by. ‘Be quiet, silly mouse. You’ll scare away my fish!’ Then a bluejay sang. ‘Be quiet — ”

The girl interrupted: “He faints from hunger because he should have eaten the mouse.”

Atnan pointed to his ear, and then to her.

She grinned. “No I haven’t heard it before, but it’s obvious.” She eyed him, skeptical. “Is it true that you fought an elder beast?”

Atnan glanced toward the girl’s parents, unsure what they had told her.

Barlas said, “Well, it wasn’t much of a fight. He ran off rather than face your uncle, the coward!”

Their reunion moved inside, growing as neighbors and relatives joined the ongoing conversations. Hennamis told him that Layram and Betalia had died years ago and that Barlas and Selolo now lived in their house on the hill. Atnan recalled a day on the beach before his Acceptance when Barlas had declared this as his life’s ambition. Atnan was happy for him.

But have I gotten all I ever wanted from life?

If it was texts to study and riddles to solve, then he had, without question. Seeing all his family and neighbors together, he wondered.

Selolo told him how the ten sisters were now seven: Kilími, Súmi, and Shúrimel took passage on trade boats. The others still kept wind chimes in their doorways and wore different patterns in their embroidery, but they had settled in and started families. “There’s been a vast improvement in the local cuisine, eh?” Barlas nudged his wife.

His grandmother reported that Old Dub and Geminda had moved up-coast to be closer to their son and they were happy there — “or as happy as Dub ever gets.”

Atnan stiffened at the mention of Old Dub.

“I know, I know.” She patted his arm. “This place is seven seals on a six-seal rock sometimes, and we’ve had quite the collection — your father among them.”

Selolo broke in, “We all loved your father very much. And … he loved you, too.”

On rare occasions, muteness was a blessing. Atnan decided he was content to let whatever he might say about that wait until some other lifetime.

Barlas told the story of Omrik leading five ceremonies in one day, then pulled at his chin in a way that reminded Atnan of his father. “Way I see it, there’s two parties coming: one for Omrik moving on, one for Atnan coming back. You are back, eh?”

He hadn’t noticed Selolo slip away, but now she was returning with a long parcel covered in cloth, which she handed to her husband.

Barlas grinned wide in a way that made Atnan see him as much younger than he was. “Maybe this’ll convince you?”

Atnan took the parcel and drew the cloth away, revealing his oar, exactly as he had left it. Astonished, he signed Dub’s name and an interrogative.

Barlas laughed. “Oh, Omrik read your little note and threw it in the fire where it belonged. He told Dub to get himself straightened out, or else get himself straight out — which I reckon he did, eh?”

Hennamis gestured toward the oar. “Every year around Dark Day, he’d start looking for you to come claim it.” She trailed off. “You are going to stay, aren’t you?”

Warm faces, language that didn’t hurt his ears, well-seasoned food and utensils that made sense, the smell of clean salt air and fresh fish — it seemed that everything was beckoning him, conspiring to keep him there. In the city, his life had increased both in pace and complexity. There, he had obligations but here he had family — and obligations he had neglected.

The village seemed bigger somehow, growing. The roundhouse was in need of repair, he thought, and should be expanded.

Big enough for everyone, with room for more. There are things I’ve learned in the city that could be useful to share.

Atnan put his arm around Hennamis. He might as well stay as long as she was alive, at least, and he hoped she would live for a very long time.

Kirelítsu spent her days in study with her Uncle Owl asking him about history, animals, the cycles of the year, or the inner workings of a city — anything she could think to ask, he could answer.

First, he taught her to read and write, which her parents had somehow neglected. Then he taught her the trade jargon and how to sign. After a year of this, they could converse passably well, though sometimes they had to resort to beeswax slates for clarification.

She grew to love his oddness, especially his fuzzy blue robes and bald head — both of which he claimed were more comfortable than the usual fashions, though she had her doubts. She even loved his habit of pursuing her questions until his hands moved so fast she could no longer read his signs.

Once she asked him, “Which is the greatest of the Five?”

Usually, his answers came right away, but not this time. Instead, he waved her toward another lesson about calendars and planting.

The next day, he presented her with a sheet of cane leaf which he asked her to read aloud. Not particularly fond of this type of exercise, she began.

As to your question, which is the greatest of the Five, I ask instead: How many poles hold up the roundhouse? How many fingers make a hand?

Kirelítsu groaned aloud. “Wonderful! More riddles! If only I could keep my — ” She stopped herself before she said “tongue”, aware of the potential offense.

Atnan tapped the text in front of her, his expression inscrutable.

The easy answer is that none is greatest because none are least. All are held in balance, in a circle. But what if we asked instead: What pole are they arrayed around? Let us say that if they move away from this center, they diminish into vices, but as they approach, they are purified.

“Now it says I should ask for your necklace?” she asked. He had already removed it and handed it over.

My old-mother gave it to me. Observe the inscription: MYNA LLW RYLA. Here, each spirit has its rune, and each rune its place. She has also given the answer: Always love together. Love is not itself a spirit, but the output of every spirit at its uttermost, the summit to which all aspire.

Verity’s peak is love of truth, a strong foundation. Harmony’s peak is love of creation, which celebrates the wonder of being alive. Probity’s peak is love for those whose paths we honor, so we may learn from their success and failure. Equity’s peak is love for doing right to all people, whether punishment or mercy. And Mystery’s peak is love for what is yet unknown, the great spirits, the elder things, or anything that lies beyond our grasp but binds all in all. Mystery is the story the world is telling, which animates the ceremonies, fills the songs, and brings meaning to the endless cycle of the ages.

She stopped reading, feeling a bit ashamed of herself. This was a thoughtful answer to her mostly thoughtless question. Her uncle tapped the text again, this time more gently.

Which of the five should we follow most? All of them! The great trees are broken and the spirits no longer walk with the children of flesh, but so long as love remains in us, the Five can sing with us and dance with us from afar, because we are aligned with them, revolving around the same pole, whose name is Love.

Setting the page aside, she said, “Why can’t I take an oath to become a citizen? My father was excluded for many years. He won’t say so, but I know he hated it. I hate it, too — and that’s the opposite of love, isn’t it?”

He signaled for her to continue.

“I’ll be fifteen soon, and this village is tiny! There’s almost nobody here. It’s not as though we have too many citizens. I think I should be able to take oaths like any boy, and I think your grandmother should be the elder. She’s the eldest — it’s right in the name! I think that would make things better. A lot better. I think this place might actually start growing if it wasn’t so … stuck. People talk a lot about virtue around here, but they don’t do as much about it as they should!”

He started putting their things away, his sign that they were done for the day. He hadn’t disagreed.

That evening while her father was out finishing chores, she relayed the conversation to her mother, who listened patiently. She was so patient she might wait until the world wound itself down and there was nothing left to wait on.

“You’re old enough now to know some things, Kira,” her mother said at last, staring as though she could see through the stone walls.

Kirelítsu’s eyes grew wider as her mother told her about the man whose blood she carried. They had always said he died, but nothing more. Now, she learned that he was evil, a murderous ruler who had tried to take over the world.

Her voice wavered. “Why tell me this?”

“I don’t mean to upset you. I think you’re right about the village. You reminded me of something your Uncle Owl once wrote: ‘A new sun shining on a new world.’ But he was wrong. It isn’t old or new, it’s old and new at the same time. The old grow old and die, and the young grow up.” She stroked Kirelítsu’s cheek. “You’re growing up, and I hope the world becomes the way you want it to be. You’re so brave, the way I never was. I hope the world is ready for you!”

“I think you were brave,” Kirelítsu said. “Most people would have given up, but you never did.”

Her mother smiled. “We’ve lived here your whole life, and you don’t know my language.”

“Because you never taught me!” Kirelítsu lowered her voice. “Now I know why.”     

“You don’t know why I called you Kirelítsu.”

“I never thought about it. Everyone is called what they’re called.”

“Your name is my name, before it was stolen: Wi’inaxáyo-wa’axána-kirelítsu.”

“It’s pretty.”

“It means dawn, waiting to break free. My mother thought I was her new day, fresh and full of possibility. Now you’re mine.”

Kirelítsu embraced her mother, burying her head in her chest. She didn’t know what to think about any of it.

Her mother sang softly in her own language, then translated:

The sun is a mountain of fire

Burning through the darkness;

Life is a bright and shining river

That flows around the stars.

“What does it mean?” Kirelítsu asked.

“I don’t know. I never did.”

“That’s so disappointing!”

“It’s something to think about. I can say this, though: The sun comes up and goes down, always the same sun, always a new day. The rivers run from mountains to sea and back again, always the same route, always a new flow. Cycles within cycles within cycles. Ask Uncle Owl. He can tell you more about it than you ever wanted to know!”

Kirelítsu sidled closer.

“Your father and I were born under a dying sun. But you, nedíriya, are highly favored, born into a world ready to be transformed. Life is a bright and shining river, and you never have to be afraid because you are a strong swimmer — and when you aren’t, we’re always swimming right alongside.”

“Always?”

Instead of saying anything, her mother began humming a different tune, one they both knew well. There, leaning against her mother, feeling the song reverberate in both their lungs, Kirelítsu was certain of the answer.

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