Ever (20 page)

OLUS

W
HEN
K
EZI HAS BEEN
in Wadir for eight days, Puru appears before me on the temple roof.

I rush away from him, shouting to Admat, “Save Kezi. As you wish, so it will be.” My festival was four days ago, and now I am wild again, filthy, unshaven, starving. But I'm sane enough to want to drown out whatever Puru has come to say. “Admat! Mighty one! Save Kezi. As you wish, so it will be.”

Puru waits. An hour passes before I will listen. Finally I quiet.

“I . . . fear . . . it . . . is too late for your Kezi. She must have sprouted feathers by now. She will not return.”

I call my swift wind and my wailing wind.

“She . . . has . . . reached . . . her destiny.”

My winds and I shriek high across the mountains of Akka, the hills of Hyte, the other city-kingdoms of the south. Mortals run into their houses. Sheep race in circles. Birds dive out of the air.

I am the god of loneliness and grief.

A day and night of this and I circle back to Enshi Rock at dawn. Even if Kezi must remain in Wadir, we needn't be apart. I'll join her and grow feathers too.
We'll make a nest and roost together, dead immortals in the netherworld.

I go to Puru's hut. He stands between his bed and his painted chest, juggling nine silver sticks, miraculously keeping them in the air despite his wrapped fingers. I tell him my plan.

“Endure . . . what . . . you . . . must endure.”

Death. “When I'm safely dead, tell Hannu and Arduk.”

He nods while juggling. “Your . . . winds . . .”

Without my control, they'll rage. “I'll contain all but my gentlest winds.”

I take a huge jug from the temple kitchen, one of Hannu's by its shape. Then I fly off Enshi Rock on my smooth wind. I savor gliding on this, my last flight but one.

It's time for me to sacrifice myself. Admat, is this what you want? My death? The death of a god? All along, have you schemed for this?

On the lip of the volcano I put down my jug and begin to draw my winds into it. They curl in slowly, reluctantly. I coax in the ones I want to imprison and keep out the ones that can safely roam free.

KEZI

T
ARAM APPROACHES ME
, carrying a goblet.

I hear, both at once, “Pfhisxtrooou,” and “Aren't you thirsty?”

Although I drank a few minutes before, I am very thirsty, but I shake my head.

I close my left eye. Wadir is bright and gay. I open my left eye and close my right. Wadir is dim and dreary.

I place my hand over my left ear.

“Are you hungry? I can . . .”

I'm starving. I move my hand to cover my right ear.

“Nflusqrthbla.”

“Taram . . .” I say, still blocking sound in my right ear. I don't hear myself say
Taram
. Instead I hear
Jbomnc
. Again, I say, “Taram,” and now I hear
Rzsoipkb
.

I think that warkis speak dream talk in which words change.

“Yes, Eshar?” Taram says. “Udmnhpl.”

The name
Eshar
almost robs me of my memory again.
Kezi
. I pluck a feather from my thigh. It comes out easily, although the plucking hurts. The tip of a new feather instantly pokes through the pore.

I remember Puru's last words.
Fate may be thwarted. I long for a happy outcome
.

“Taram? Is there a way out of Wadir?”

“Where else is there, Eshar?”

Kezi!
It was the wrong question. I try again. “Where did you come from?”

“I began here, silly Eshar.”

The repetition of
Eshar
is having an effect. “I'm silly Kezi.”

“And you're thirsty, silly Eshar.” Taram holds out the drink.

The mice invade my mind again. I accept the goblet and raise it to my lips. But the foul smell wakes me. Kezi.

I wonder if Taram had another name once, if she came seeking someone she loved and the golden god took her memories too. “What was your first name, Taram?”

Taram drops the goblet. Her down-lashed eyes weep. “I don't know.” She starts away from me. After a few steps, she turns. “It was Taram! As yours is Eshar.”

Kezi! I turn my back on her and march through the kitchen and past the dining warkis.

She calls after me, “Silly Eshar, you'll drink when you're thirsty enough.”

Kezi! I won't. Better eternal thirst and hunger than no thoughts and no memory. The gloomy air asks, Truly better? Knowing you're forever separated from Olus? Knowing your mati and pado suffered when you didn't return to fulfill the oath?

I wave my hands around my head, fending off the air itself. The brook of violet liquid is a few yards ahead.

A hand grips my shoulder.

“Taram . . .” I say. But the hand is gold—copper—both. The warki god!

“Where are you going, Eshar?”

Kezi!

He turns me. I can't resist his strength, but I look down. I don't want to meet his eyes again!

“Eshar . . .” His hands tilt my head up.

I close my eyes and shout, “Kezi! Kezi! Kezi!”

One hand grips the back of my head. “Eshar.” A finger lifts my left eyelid. The metal nail digs in below my eyebrow.

I focus downward. We are motionless. He doesn't let
go. He cannot move my eyeball, but he can squeeze my head. My ear and scalp burn.

Finally he says, “I won't keep you against your will.” His finger leaves my eyelid. He lifts me by my head and shoulder and hurls me across the violet stream.

Aaa! I slam down. The breath shoots out of me. If it weren't for my own feathers and the feathers on the ground, my back would be broken.

I scramble up and limp off as quickly as I can, not looking to see if he is behind me. When my knees give out, I collapse.

If he'd pursued me, he'd have caught me. I dare to peek. He is gone. The warkis are small and dim in the distance. I sit up. Lightly, I touch my eyelid. My finger when I bring it away is not bloody. A relief, but my head and ear throb.

I haven't escaped. The stairs to the upper world disappeared when I arrived here—and I couldn't climb them anyway.

I yank feathers out of my arms and legs. New feathers grow in as quickly as the old come out. Both the plucking and the new growth burn. Imps of pain race along my skin.

After a few minutes I give up the plucking. I'm still a
warki. At least I can continue my search for Admat.

But I want Olus more than I want him. Forgive me, Admat! Olus is more real to me than you are.

I watch the lava bubbles drift overhead toward the other warkis. If I walk against the tide of bubbles, I should reach the bottom of the volcano. Maybe from there I can see the sky.

I stand and set out, no longer needing to limp. Gradually the carpet of feathers thins, exposing bare patches of packed dirt. The lava bubbles crowd together overhead. Before me is a thick mist. I hear hissing and gurgling. Thank you, Admat! Thank you, any gods who may be watching over me.

I run into the mist. Soon I am standing under a rock arch at the edge of the lava lake, which seethes and steams. I can't see the sky through the fog, but I know that above is the world of mortals and gods and night and day.

What day?

The air is fresher here. Rock walls rise on either side of me. They must be the bowl of the volcano.

Can a warki climb out?

On my right the rock is smooth, but on my left a ledge curves upward. The ledge is above my head, and few
handholds or footholds lead up to it. If I fall, I'll boil in lava.

I take off my sandals and slip them onto my arms, like bracelets. I need bare feet to have a chance at reaching the ledge. It is lucky that my fingertips and the bottoms of my feet are free of feathers.

The mud at the edge of the lava lake simmers. Hopping in place, I find fingerholds in the rock.

Admat! Olus! Puru! Any god who can help me! Make me able to lift my legs and climb. Mati! Pado! Aunt Fedo! Pray for me! Let me climb!

I can! I position my hands and feet carefully and climb, clinging to whatever I can find: chinks, cracks, tiny nicks. I am panting from fear and strain. After I catch my breath, I climb again. When I've placed myself a third time, the ledge is within reach. Muscles straining, I hoist myself up. Sitting tight against the wall, I don my sandals and stand.

The ledge is littered with rocks, and a few yards ahead it disappears into the lava mist. Still, it leads upward. I hurry. My month may not be over.

I halt, remembering. Olus may have failed at his championship trial. He may be trapped somewhere.

Maybe I can help him.

A hundred years may have passed. He may have forgotten me. My family may have died long ago.

The ledge slants steeply upward. I climb. The chill air of Wadir warms. I strain for speed. My breath comes in gasps, but I fight onward. Finally I have to rest. I turn to see how far I've come. The mist obscures the view, but what I do see is a trail of feathers. I'm shedding!

A few feathers poke from the pores on my arms. When I brush at them, they fall off and are not replaced. They drop off my legs too. I hold the tunic away from my body, and a shower of feathers falls on the path. Hardly daring to hope, I touch my face.

The down is gone! I am no longer a warki. And, without my noticing, I am no longer racked with hunger and thirst.

The only feather I still have is Taram's, threaded below the neckline of my tunic. I'll save it to show Puru when I tell him how I thwarted fate—if an end in Wadir was my fate. Maybe I was always destined to find my way out.

I laugh. Maybe it is all foolishness: fate, Puru's advice, Admat, the claims of the warki god.

I continue up the path as the mist begins to clear.