Ever (25 page)

Olus claps. Thank you, my love.

What else do mortals need that I can give them?

I remember Belet's wedding, the ecstasy of the dance, the sound of the copper rattle, the taste of the food. I remember Olus's lips in our first kiss.

Dip, step.

I remember Wadir, where the sleepy mice dulled me, where I savored nothing and where I lost count of my days and nights.

Dip, slide.

Ursag claps. Puru taps his feet.

I know what else I can give.

OLUS

S
HE STOPS DANCING,
but I continue to clap. “Dance, love!” I shout. “Don't give up!”

Looking at Puru, she raises the goblet and announces, “My power . . .”

I stop clapping.

“. . . will be to save mortals from dreaming away
their days. When people are forgetful, I'll bring them a color, a song, a scent, a face. I will especially help those whose end is near. I will be the goddess of awareness and of uncertainty.”

She tilts the chalice and drinks. I see her swallow. She staggers as the drink runs through her, but my protecting wind keeps her from falling.

I am reeling myself. Kezi is safe. She comes into my arms—

But doesn't stay. Hannu dances to us and takes her hand. They dance into the aisles of tablets. I clasp Arduk's hand. We dance too, with Ursag joining in, then Puru, not holding anyone's hand, but following us in time with the rhythm of our feet, singing, “Fate . . . may . . . be . . . thwarted. Happy outcome. Glad fate. Fortunate Akka.”

KEZI

O
UR DANCING FEET ARE
loudest, but beyond them I hear voices, which I take to be the voices of the other gods. I even hear their breathing. I hear the winged steeds munching hay in the stable. Farther off are more voices. “Please . . .” “. . . rain . . .” “. . . old . . .” “Forgive. . .” They are prayers of Akkan mortals! So many I can't sort them out.

I see vast distances, too! It's hard to dance and
see
. A woman alone in a hut. A flock of sheep. Ursag's temple in Neme. I cling to Hannu's hand. I'm half blind with seeing and half deaf with hearing.

My nose is flooded. Familiar odors and odors I don't know. Most of all, the stinging scent of pine trees.

Hannu stops dancing and hugs me. “My daughter!”

When she lets me go, Olus tells everyone we must leave.

I do not ride Kastu. A winged horse would frighten the people of Hyte. On Olus's wind I teach myself to direct my eyes and ears.

Night is falling. Olus brings us to earth in a glade surrounded by evergreens. Twigs crack. Leaves rustle. Daytime animals are settling down.

We settle too, Olus a few inches away from me. I stare at the stars, which seem no closer than they ever did.

“How do you sleep through all the sounds?” I hear every night creature. I haven't stopped hearing Akkan voices, and now I hear snores and people rolling over.

“I'm accustomed to them; but when I was little, I imagined they were in my winds, and they put me to sleep.”

After a few minutes of not falling asleep, I say, “I'm still afraid of the priest's knife. It will hurt, won't it, even though I'll live?”

“Yes. But the wound will heal quickly.”

I wonder if Pado and Mati will be able to bear bringing me to the temple. Maybe they will decide to let me live.

They mustn't! If I'm not sacrificed, Pado's oath will become empty. Braving Wadir, becoming immortal, even saving Aunt Fedo will have been for nothing.

Olus says, “Kezi . . . we can't live in Hyte.”

“No?” I think. “No. We can't.” The priests and priestesses mustn't see me alive after my sacrifice. My family mustn't know, or they'll be terrified. So tomorrow will be my last time in Hyte with my family.

“You can knot rugs on Enshi Rock.”

But my loom won't be next to Mati's. Aunt Fedo won't be sitting with us, describing what her owl eyes have
seen. Pado won't be nearby in his counting room.

I'm being ungrateful. I say, “We'll be happy.”

“We will.” He adds, “But you'll miss them.”

“Yes.” I always will.

I listen to the notes and rhythms in the night. I picture a line of all the animals and people in Akka, dancing. In the middle of the imaginary line, stepping and gliding, are Mati and Pado and Aunt Fedo. I join them and slide into a dream.

When I wake up, it is my last day—would have been my last day. I awaken with an idea. I'm not a goddess of Hyte, but I can do something for the people of my city. The city that used to be mine.

As soon as we cross over the falls of Zago, I can see and hear as far as Hyte. I find my street. In the alley behind my pado's house, while beating rugs, Nia is praying that my sacrifice will be glorious. In his counting room Pado lies prostrate, praying for a sign that I may be spared. In our courtyard Mati and Aunt Fedo simply weep. None seem to doubt that I will return. Thank you for your faith in me.

Olus sets us down outside the city gates. No fire in the market today. No music. No pretend wool merchant to cause a miracle. We walk to my street. I am home.

OLUS

K
EZI LEANS HER FOREHEAD
against the painted wood of her pado's door, then presses her whole body against it. Her hand finds mine as she pushes open the door. “Pado? Mati? Aunt Fedo?”

Merem is first into the reception room, then Senat, and last Aunt Fedo, who is the only one to see me. They engulf Kezi. The mass of them rocks back and forth. Senat's bass voice rumbles “Kezi” over and over. The reception room is small. I back into a corner next to the altar. In the faces of Kezi's parents and her aunt I see the lines of grief.

Finally they separate.

Senat says, “We searched everywhere for you.”

Merem touches Kezi's hair. Then “Your tunic . . .” She bends down to examine the hem. “Gold—”

“You brought a guest,” Aunt Fedo says.

Senat sees me. “Olus? Olus, the goatherd? Is that you?”

I nod. Merem and Aunt Fedo bow their heads politely to me. I raise my fist to my forehead.

“He knows,” Kezi says. “Everything.”

I feel my face redden.

Senat flushes too. “You know my shame.”

“Kezi,” Merem says, “why did you leave us?”

It's Kezi's turn to blush. “We were so sad. I had only a month. I didn't want to be sad every minute of my last month.”

Merem nods. “Are you hungry?” She laughs, the same pained, ironic laugh as when she was sick. “You might as well eat.” She addresses me. “Olus, have you broken your fast? We are hospitable to guests”—she laughs again—“no matter what.”

Without waiting for an answer, she leads the way into the courtyard and from there to the eating room at the back of the house. Three chairs are pulled up to a square table from which the remains of breakfast have not yet
been removed. Two servants bustle in from the kitchen. One clears the table. The other opens the doors to the alley behind the house. In wafts my mischievous breeze, stinking of refuse.

“Bring food for our guest and Kezi,” Merem says.

“Bring chairs,” Aunt Fedo adds. “Sit, Olus.”

I look to Kezi to see if I should sit when there aren't enough chairs for all, but her eyes are on her family.

“Sit, Olus,” Senat says.

“Thank you for your kindness.” I sit and wish someone else would sit too, but they all stand. How can everything be so ordinary: the hospitality, the awkwardness of strangers?

A servant brings in a large barley cake, goat cheese, dates. Another servant carries in chairs. Everyone sits at last, Merem and Aunt Fedo on either side of Kezi. Senat rises immediately. He tells the servants to leave and gives each a task in a distant room of the house. Then he goes to the kitchen and sends the cook and his helper to the market. When he returns, Merem fills a plate for Kezi and me.

“Olus,” Senat says, seating himself, “how do you come to be here with my daughter?”