Wing & Nien Page 4

  And now, this morning.

  I can hardly bear the weight of my own expectations, Nien thought. How does he bear those of our entire race?

  Chapter 4

  Wing

  W ing slid from his horse’s back and hit the dirt.

  As if the earth were opening behind her, the filly had run to the far end of the valley and their family’s fields before Wing had been able to draw her in. Stopped at last, the filly stood by now, lathered and winded, as Wing knelt on the ground, swaying a little, knees pressed into the dirt, one hand splayed to keep himself from tipping over completely. His nose continued to bleed freely, wetting the soft black soil beneath him.

  A shuddering breath shook him and he let the exhaustion in his body pull him forward. Resting his forehead on the ground, he inhaled, small particles of dirt causing him to cough as he drew slow, deliberate breaths.

  Long beats passed.

  Spasms lanced through his back and pain like lightning shot from his nose up into his forehead. He grunted and pressed a hand to his temple as he lifted his head. The dirt where he’d buried his face was slick with his blood. He let his head fall back and, closing his eyes, dabbed his sleeve to his nose again. It was probably broken.

  The filly had thrown her head and struck him in the face after being hit with…

  He wasn’t sure exactly what it had been. A book, maybe?

  Wing had only gotten a fleeting glimpse before it had struck the filly and she’d gone mad. He’d thought the pain of contact between his face and the filly’s head would have dropped him clean from the saddle. Adrenaline, however, had kept him on her back.

  The front and right sleeve of his white shirt was scarlet and the smell of it clearly unsettling to the filly as she flared her nostrils, snorting and throwing her head at him.

  Rubbing dirt over his mouth and chin and sleeve, Wing coughed, spit out the blood running down his throat, and once again pressed his shirtsleeve to his face wondering if a body could bleed to death through a nose.

  Sitting back on his heels, the crisp, cold cut of Kive air soothed the heat in his chest. Pain radiated between his eyes as he gingerly touched the bridge of his nose. Breathing through his mouth, it appeared that the blood was finally beginning to ebb.

  The wind stirred the tall lengths of grass behind him, caressing his pulsing nerves with a fondness perhaps only he would have noticed. He inhaled deeply and raised his face to the sun.

  The sky at this early time of revolution was clean, clear, almost translucent — a vastness of pale lavender fading to a silvery-blue on the horizon. In the air was the scent of fresh black soil, herbs, and young green plants.

  As the revolution drew on, the sky would grow deeper and richer into the season of Kojko. That time of revolution would see the savory hues of sky and earth and the crunch of ripe challak leaves and by its end the sky would drip with colour so heavy it would look as if the sun had melted.

  Wing could taste Kojko sunsets in his mouth.

  And then there were the high deep nights of snowy Ime, when beneath the glistening sheen of stars the fields would glow like the internal light of an angel’s breast, transporting Wing to times and places far beyond their glittery bent.

  However, no matter the season, there was always a preternatural calm that accompanied him in the fields, soothing his mind, calming his heart.

  Reaching out, he pushed his hand into a recently plowed furrow, turned it beneath the surface, and brought the dirt up slowly. Lowering his head, he sniffed. Normally, in scent and flavour, the soil spoke to him. There were the higher notes: footprints of animals or birds that had landed or nestled there. Deeper lay the history of the soil, the health of its mineral content, its strength for the next season of growing. And beneath that ran the channels and arteries carrying the land’s lifeblood, that which answered to the sun’s light creating the riotous dance of life.

  But today he could only smell blood. It seemed fitting.

  Wing let himself roll forward, touching a shoulder briefly in an odd sort of twisted repose before coming to lie flat on his back. He may not be able to smell the soil today, but he could still feel it, able to speak with the valley much in the same way his father spoke with the great trees in the Mesko forest.

  The blood beginning to dry upon his lips, Wing felt his body sink as the earth reached up to draw him in. In the silence, under the vast wine-coloured sky, Wing disappeared into a state of mindlessness, floating, at once rooted and weightless.

  Wing passed into a haze of exhaustion after the rush of adrenaline and shock of what had happened in the Village, becoming unaware of how long he had lain when he felt a rising sensation of energy moving through him. His body resonated with it and, in his mind’s eye, could see its source: a massive crystal, buried deep beneath the valley, the living heart of their continent. Between Wing and the great crystal, the energy coursed, Wing one pole of their connection, the crystal the other. The crystal pulsated, radiating, vibrating in much in the same way Wing himself was, as if something had awoken a new energy within both of them.

  Awoken it, Wing thought. And knew: My blood.

  He lie now on the dark rich pattern in the earth where his nose had bled.

  In his mind, the living white light reminded him of the powerful platinum ray that had cut through him that very morning upon waking from the nightmare.

  Tears slid out from under his closed eyes, carving a shimmering path through the blood on his cheeks.

  His chest heaved, a quick, convulsive sob that he could not control.

  The power moved through his body, divesting him of the pain of the nightmare vision, even the confrontation with the villagers. Within its presence, Wing surrendered, releasing his identity into the merging.

  As the energy began to subside, Wing lay for a time, breathing in slow easy breaths as the outside world drew him carefully back into its awareness.

  Opening his eyes and finding the lavender sky still above him, Wing rolled over ever so slowly and pushed himself up, feeling peaceful but also very heavy. He sat back on his heels and his head spun. He waited a moment for it to steady before brushing the dirt from his hands and pants and rising to his feet. Unsteady, feeling his legs might give beneath him at any moment, he leaned, hands on his knees and sniffed, finding that he was still unable to breathe through his nose. The blood on his lips had crusted and caked, cracking as he moved his jaw. Beside him, the filly caught his attention. She had stopped grazing and stood, staring at him with her large, familiar eyes.

  “Did you feel that?” Wing asked. The filly cocked her ears forward. “Or are you wondering when I’m going to get us cleaned up?” The filly blinked at him. The blood on her white shoulder a rather stark reminder of the concerns of the material world. “Well come on then, let’s get us cleaned up.”

  Wing took the filly’s bridle and stopped. Raising his eyes over her back, he made a brief search of the sunsetting tree line, a familiar tingle running up his spine. He’d felt the sensation before, as if someone were watching him from the dark of the forest.

  Because there hasn’t been enough for one day, he thought ruefully.

  He sighed. Searching the darkness at the edge of the fields was futile, he’d tried that the other time or two he’d felt the sensation.

  Patting the filly’s wither, he turned back again.

  “Never mind me,” he said to her. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m losing my mind.”

  Walking beside the filly, his hand against her neck for some small support, Wing headed across the fields to the barn, his thoughts passing back to the Council, to his father and Nien.

  As peculiar as he was as a Rieevan, a love of the land was something he’d inherited from his father. The two of them lived for their time in the fields, but as the fever over Wing had continued to grow in the Village, Joash had taken up the majority of the construction projects and Wing had assumed primary responsibility for the crop. Wing felt bad for this and knew Nien felt even worse. Sinc
e the origination of the Cant, Nien had been torn between his duties there and the help the family needed.

  Nien, Wing thought. He saved me again last night. Were it not for the prophecy, perhaps the people could see Nien for who he is and see me for what I am — someone more lost and confused than any of them.

  Arriving at the long pasture bordering the Cawutt home to the sunrising, Wing headed past the corral and into the barn.

  Inside, he removed the filly’s saddle and bridle, and taking up a small bucket, dipped it into the barn’s big water barrel. Dumping half the bucket over the filly’s shoulder, he used an old saddle blanket to scrub at the dried blood.

  Against her white hair the dark stream of his blood formed a tiny sanguine river all the way down her front leg, creating a pool by her hoof upon the dark weathered wood of the barn floor. Wing used the rest of the water in the bucket and scrubbed her again with the dry portion of the saddle blanket. Taking up a brush, he stroked her down a few times before setting her into a stall with grain and water.

  Over the large barrel of water, Wing shrugged carefully out of his shirt. Sinew, muscle, and tendon bit back at him as he peeled off the shirt that clung, sticky with blood, to his ribs. He looked down. There was a large bruise forming across the top of his chest — an imprint of his impact with the saddle.

  Joints laced with fatigue, he took a moment, leaning on the edge of the water barrel, his reflection cut through with tiny waves. He watched the reflection dance.

  “The Valley of Lou,” he said to himself. “All those people…”

  The return of the same dream only that morning, the long line of captives being herded into the chasm that stretched from ground to sky, the men on their huge chargers. Had they been Ka’ull or simply a dream-world representation of his own worst fears? The latter seemed unlikely now.

  From Commander Lant, Wing knew that the Ka’ull were a race from the northing — a tiny continent adrift at the top of their world, separated from the three main continental bodies that ringed the center. It seemed, even outside of Rieeve, little was known about them. Inside of Rieeve their existence would have been virtually unknown were it not for Lant.

  So many currents, Wing thought, flowing into and out of the world above and beneath our feet. So much happening just beyond our senses. What is the length of their reach? What powerful sway do they have over all that might be? Can they, he asked the rippling image before him, help me know what to do before this all goes too far?

  The reflection in the water was as muddled as the questions in his mind.

  Taking back up the smaller water bucket, he filled it again and used it to wash the blood off his face before dousing his bloody shirt in it, red sheets swirling out into the water. He dunked the shirt a few more times, wrung it, and hung it over the edge of an empty stall.

  He knew he probably shouldn’t return to the fields, but going into the house would equal a whirlwind of questions from his mother as soon as she saw his face and stained clothing.

  Haltering the plow team, he left the reins at their necks, and without a lead rope headed back out to the fields. The team followed behind him like obedient hounds, flanking him on either side. The sun upon his bare chest felt wondrous, warming him through to his bones. The small breeze in the air tickled his ribs, and caressed just under his hairline at the back of his neck, cooling the layer of sweat clinging there.

  All the land to the south-sunrise of the house and barn comprised their family’s fields — a grand and beautiful stretch.

  Whenever the Cawutt family had the rare visitor from the Village, Wing noticed how uncomfortable they appeared being surrounded by so much open space — no homes, no cobbled streets, no businesses or gathering places. Just one beautiful log home, a barn, brief corral, and fields reaching out to the feet of the mountains in both directions.

  Where they were lost, Wing could breathe. Where they were uncomfortable, Wing was at home.

  The large horses followed Wing to the farthest edge of the fields and the plow. The team stopped before the plow, waiting as Wing hooked up the harness hitch. Untying the reins, Wing ran them back through the guides and to the handles. Adjusting his long fingers around the worn leather grips, fitted perfectly by sweat and countless sunsteps to his hands, Wing kissed with his lips and the team started out.

  As the plow settled in, Wing focused on the only thing ahead of him: the broad hindquarters of the plow team. The sun shone off their bright brown and black pelts, glistening along the shiny, stiff hair of their tails, twitching now and then at pests. One of them snorted, shook his mane, and hit the harness to match step with his brother. The leather leads slid through Wing’s hands soothingly and he gave himself over to the subtle patterns around him, the roots of the valley rising through him, the glow of the sun penetrating his skin as it passed in and out of his pours, the smell of the horses — that of sun-heated dust on hair — the rich, warm smell of the reins, tanned over many long hours and seasons.

  Overhead, the day couldn’t have been more glorious. Like the night, it seemed to show no recognition of the troubles taking place below.

  Weak as he was, he’d made the right decision returning to the fields — the fatigue in his soul far outweighing the exhaustion in his body. His mind and heart needed what they could only get out here in the fields: the sun on his back, the breeze pulling at his shirt and pants, the calming smell of grass and dirt.

  As a child, he should have been killed and eaten by the shy’teh in the dark of the mountains as he lay, helpless, his hand caught in a trap. A dozen times since, he should have died taking down one of the great trees in the Mesko forest. It was true, he did have a connection with the shy’teh. It was true, he had a connection with the earth, with growing and wild things. But he could no more explain any of that than he could the visions that came to him, nor why he bore no physical resemblance to his race. Neither could he explain what had just happened after he’d lain down in the fields, nursing his broken nose, and felt the awakening of the great crystal.

  The words of the prophecy floated into Wing’s mind — that Merehr’s blood would open the gates of the other-worlds.

  His mouth went dry.

  The other-worlds were thought to be terrifying realms, ones which, once opened would bring desolation and ruin to their world. But what he’d experienced with the giant crystal was anything but that.

  No, Wing told himself again, he was not the Leader. He was not Merehr. He wished there were a way to convince the people of that. The nightmare visions didn’t clarify anything, and were clearly no good in prediction — the valley of Lou had already been taken.

  In his contemplations, he hadn’t noticed that the team had come to the end of the row. One of them snorted, shook his head at a pestering fly, and then turned his big head to look back at Wing.

  “E’te,” Wing said to him. “All three of us need to be paying attention. To the right then.” Wing clucked once and gave a cursory tap with the reins. “Walk on.”

  The team stepped out, jerking the plow round to the right beneath his hands, and the dirt turned over.

  The sun was dropping toward the rise of Llow Peak when Wing finally had to stop. Tired as he was, he’d still managed to keep up with horses through six long rows. But something in his head was not quite right, and his nose had begun to throb unmercifully.

  Leaving the fields, he entered the barn with the team following along behind him, and met Joash putting away the family’s oldest stallion.

  “Son,” Joash said. Wing felt his father look him over as he asked, “How did it go in the fields?” It was not, Wing could tell, what his father really wanted to know.

  “Fine. Six more rows turned in the sunsetting section.”

  “Here,” Joash said, taking the halter of one of the team horses.

  In silence, father and son turned the team into their stalls, hanging grain buckets and filling water before heading up to the house.

  They walked side by side, Win
g still aware of Joash’s desire to inquire after him, but he felt too tried to revisit the event with the Council and Villagers and so let the silence be.

  They entered the house together, hanging up cloaks and relieving themselves of gear.

  From the large cooking stove, Reean turned to see them come in. At the sight of Wing she stopped up short.

  “Son? What happened?”

  Bruising was developing over Wing’s nose, reaching out toward his eyes.

  “He didn’t tell you?” Joash asked.

  “I haven’t seen him,” she answered, glancing from husband to son.

  “I went straight out to the fields,” Wing said.

  “The, uh, Council met us on the way into the Village today,” Joash said. “And there’s other news.”

  “What?”

  As Wing continued into the back room he shared with Nien and Jake, Joash guided Reean to the far side of the kitchen near the sunsetting window where he explained what had happened that morning.

  As they’d spoken quietly, Wing had returned to the large main room where he lay down upon the divan, throwing one arm up over his eyes.

  Reean turned from talking with Joash and passed across the room to Wing’s side. Wing moved his arm away from his face as she sat on the edge of the lounge. Reaching up, she steadied his jaw in her palm, examining his swollen nose and bruised chin. “Is your nose broken?” she asked.

  “Feels like it.”

  “How did that happen?”

  Wing shrugged. “Maybe when fa kicked Faintsly in the flank.”

  Across the room, Wing saw Joash shrug.

  Reean touched his nose carefully. “You took the silver filly into the Village? She’s barely broke. There’s a reason we got her at such a good price.” Wing winced. She pulled her hand away. “Well, if it is broken, there’s not much we can do about it. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault, mother.”

  “You boys always say that, as if saying it somehow invalidates the fact that I’m your mother.” Reean placed her hand upon his shoulder and stood. “Rest a bit. We’ll eat as soon as Nien gets here.”