Ancient of Dunáya Chapter 7: Thirst

Lives may burn and souls shattered. People rise from the ashes triumphant or bitter, depending on how they are capable of love. ---Wesley of Dunáya

They followed the path to what had been Kareth's home. Stones cradled puddles of ash, the tallest mound reaching Kareth's waist. Nothing was left inside but the slate floor and a triangle of wall. The nectarine tree was little more than a charred stump. She fingered the heap of sodden ash that had once been books, the memories of all those who had come before: She had never read them, now she never would. The stories were lost, her history and the memories of those who came before were simply gone. She could not replace them. She was alone.

Emotion fluxed her bones. Her throat hurt. Water dripped down her nose and chilled her flesh as she collapsed to her knees.

"Bun," said Sirah. She touched Kareth's shoulder.

"This was my home.” Kareth looked into Sirah’s concerned eyes. “It's gone, and so is my power."

Sirah held out her one good hand."Fend."

"Thank you, Sirah." Kareth stood and embraced her frail shoulders. "I'm not alone after all."

Sirah couldn't tell her what was in the books, yet her soul filled a portion of what lacked inside Kareth.

Hand in hand, they stepped into the forest. The icy drizzle seemed less in thicker parts where the feathery branches of the trees shielded them; this gave Kareth an idea. "We can make a small shelter out of branches, until we can figure out how to make something more permanent. We can share your shawl for warmth."

"Fie," said Sirah.

Kareth tensed, dropping Sirah’s hand. "No fire!" She had no idea how to make one anyway.

One hundred paces down the path, they found a broad, fallen tree and a rocky overhang within the forest clutter. They leaned the tree and a dozen branches around the rock. The mossy ground was damp, but not icy as the sun rose.

"Dirsty," said Sirah. She stood with her hand on her hip outside the shelter.

"We don't have anything to drink," said Kareth, tucking one last branch in place.

"Poo'."

"Don't drink from the pool! I don't know what would happen to you!"

"Hungi."

"So am I," said Kareth. "I suppose we could buy food, but I don't know what that horrible man did with his gold. I wish we still had the nectarine tree." The thought of the sweet fruit and warm summer day filled her with a little warmth and joy as she felt the details of it. All the little sparks, the little points of light and energy, when they came together they sung and danced the song of a nectarine. It was music, it was color and life.

If she could remember their dance and sing their song, the nectarine would form right there in her hand. But she must concentrate in order to call the sparks to dance and that would be impossible to do while seated so uncomfortably in a pile of twigs.

She grasped Sirah's arm for support. “Help me up please, I have an idea,” said Kareth as she struggled to find her feet.

She grabbed Sirah’s good hand and turned it palm up; the other hand clenched at Sirah’s chest. Holding Sirah’s hand, she pushed some thoughts to Sirah’s mind. “Sing and dance with me,”

They closed their eyes and hummed a song, Kareth keeping in her mind the way each little flash of energy danced. Energy from as far away the mountains in the south were drawn to the dance and warmed them. These sparks wanted to obey her will and become a nectarine. They heard the song and they came and they danced.

The fruits began to form, particle by particle, in the spaces between her and Sirah’s hands. Firm juicy, delicious. Sirah’s song was just a little off key. Kareth thought it was cute and stifled a laugh, but some of the notes Sirah was hitting were disruptive.

“Listen again to my voice,” said Kareth, pulling her just a little closer. “Try to keep the tone more even and not so loud.

The sun rose higher, and the song ended with each woman bearing a glistening fruit in her hand.

Sirah squeeked with glee, showing all her large teeth in a grin. She plopped down and took a bite.

Then threw the fruit. “Agh! Poo!” she yelled. “I no good.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Kareth sat next to Sirah and placed an arm around her.

“I no good!” insisted Sirah.

“Of course you are,” said Kareth, then braved the fruit with a tentative bite. Such a small taste filled her mouth with the taste of death, like the rotting corpse at her pool. She spat it into the grass. “I guess I’m no good either. At least at making food.”

They spent the rest of the day and night hungry and with bitter mouths, sleeping in their shelter. The next morning dawned bright, with golden sunlight shimmering on droplets of water hanging from leaves. The ground hadn't been comfortable, and Kareth felt achy and chilled when she rose. Sirah already stood outside their shelter looking more wrinkled and dirty than ever.

"Hung," she said. "Dirsty." The lack of spittle on her lip verified her thirst.

Kareth nodded. "So am I. Mona had a nectarine tree. There must be more trees in the forest we can eat. You've seen more fruit than I have. Tell me if you see anything familiar."

"Foot."

"Yes, fruit."

"Dirsty, Kayie. Now." Sirah had always had food and water, and she didn't understand why Kareth wouldn't give her any.

"It's not like the inn." Kareth put a hand on Sirah's shoulder. "We have to find things on our own."

They separated, Sirah with a tense frown. The mossy and leafy ground felt springy on Kareth's feet. The air was chilly, but not so much as the night before, and fresh. She wanted to look everywhere at once: to find any fruit and to be wary of any humans.

The sun rose.

An apple tree hung with shriveled fruit amidst vines and other trees; Kareth realized it was too late in the season for anything fresh. Still, it was food. Holding out her hand, she willed a fruit to come to her; nothing happened. She grunted in frustration. Faint life sparks quivered at her feet, but she failed to manipulate even those. She grasped two apples that hung low, then followed her sense back to the pool.

She hoped Sirah didn't get lost; Sirah lacked the sense of the pool's energy. And then another thought, more horrendous: What if Sirah did find the pool and drank from it and then became something horrible like the man?

Kareth ran.

She halted at the glen where the pool lay. Sirah knelt at the pool, staring at her reflection. The man, disgusting, moldered at the opposite side.

Sirah looked at her. "Dirsty, Kayie. Poo' spessy."

"It's a very special pool." Kareth approached her slowly. "Don't drink from it. I don't know what will happen. It's not water. I have apples for us. See?" She held one out for Sirah.

Sirah slapped it away; it plopped into the pool without a splash. "No! Poo' spessy. Dirsty." She understood the properties of the pool, and thirsted for more than water.

She knew she was more than the limitations of her body. Kareth's heart quavered. Sirah was a free individual, a human, who had every right to choose to drink from the pool. "All right, Sirah…. You'll still be my friend after?"

Sirah smiled. "Fend fo'e'r."

Trembling, she dipped her good hand into the pool. However, with only one good hand, she had nothing to lean on as she knelt. She fell head first into the water and disappeared before Kareth could take a breath.

Kareth’s soul shook. She leapt to the edge of the pool. Energy shimmered through Sirah, a mad, ferocious energy. Time slowed and Kareth found herself turned to stone of an entirely different character. The pool glowed, and the mouldering man disintegrated in a flash.

How long until Sirah also disintegrated, like the man’s head?

Kareth fell to her knees and stretched her body over the pool, grasping the fingers of Sirah’s crippled hand. They relaxed and stretched, then grasped Kareth’s hand. And Sirah’s expanding soul filled her mind.

A flash came from Sirah's memory of another time she was frightened and thirsty. The most painful moment of her life.

Sirah had been heavily with child from Master Manallister. She had almost died because Elnore didn't want to pay for a midwife. She's too dumb to mother anything, said Elnore after the baby had come out. Weary, frightened, thirsty, and happier than she'd ever been, Sirah held her daughter. And I ain't takin' care o' it, not another idjit like her.

We could give it to the priestess, said Master Manallister. She'd know what to do with it.

And have folks talk, Harl? Everyone'd know you's the only one what done it to her.

What then? he said.

It ain't like it's a real baby, she said. Not from her.

The look of grief on Harl Manallister's face told Kareth the horror: While he hated drowning his own daughter, he did anyway, with deepest resentment for his wife. He had so wanted a child, which Elnore had never given him, that he made one with Sirah. Likely, Kareth realized with clarity, Harl had drowned the baby right in this pool. My faul' she die made sense now. The Manallisters didn't think Sirah was good enough to have a baby – a replacement – so she felt responsible for the baby's death.

Kareth pulled Sirah to the grass, then squeezed her arm. "It wasn't your fault, it was those horrible people you used to live with. No one will hurt you any more, not with me."

"My baby," said Sirah. Her shoulders trembled and she clung to Kareth. The loss of her perfectly healthy baby still hung as a hole in her soul, even as her body loosened and lengthened as she lay in the grass. Her eyes deepened, her lips shrank, her face paled to a rosy glow of health. Though a cleaner golden, her hair was still matted, and her dress had not changed. Her bare feet were still dirty. She laughed a small laugh of pure joy.

"Kareth!" She looked at her hands. "I ---I fwee!"

"Sirah!" Relief swept through Kareth's bones.
“Not Sirah.” She smiled. “Sirah was slave, I Anath. Anath mean fwee.”

Images courtesy of:
Flickriver
Dreamstime.com

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This is chapter 7 of 8 that have been submitted to the ghostwriter project by the original author.
Here are the previous chapters in case you're just coming to this project now.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6