“Here we are.” Meera ran for a tunnel hidden in prickly bushes. It led to the transgressor huts. Awa limped behind her.
Rokiat smiled at Awa. “You sing like whispering leaves.” He turned to Meera. “You taste like sunshine.” He unlocked the tunnel gate then kissed Meera’s navel.
Meera pulled away. “We have to go.”
Rokiat groaned, wanting to lick Meera all over. He watched her with a greedy eye, then came to his senses and locked the passageway behind them.
“I started off pretending with Rokiat…” Meera shivered with lust as they picked their way through the dark.
“Do you love him?” Awa was jealous, even though she didn’t want Meera the way Rokiat did. A swarm of demon-flies flashed green and blue, lighting the way.
“Torch-bugs mean we deserve good luck.” Meera smiled, in a grand mood.
“Everyone deserves luck.” Awa sighed. “We call them demon-flies.”
Meera squeezed Awa. “Something is about to change. I feel it.”
The days before the festival, high priest Hezram freed transgressors at the ice god’s whim; acolytes also bled some transgressors to death to fortify Dream Gates for the next season. Acolytes joked that Hezram might spare Meera. She was ugly—brassy yellow hair and freckled skin, but perfect body—big belly, breasts, and thighs. Or Hezram might spare Awa because she was beautiful—sable skin and midnight eyes, but broken—a burnt arm and crippled leg. Sacrifices should be one thing or the other, not a mish mash. Too much hope made Awa stomach-sick. Not knowing was torture.
“We don’t want anybody to know about our tunnel adventures,” Meera said, her feet flying over rocky ground.
“No.” Awa gritted her teeth and kept up.
“Jod says, Iyalawo Kyrie is against bleeding transgressors to death. He worries she’ll ride into Holy City on feast day with a troupe of spark demons to burn priests and acolytes and rescue transgressors. I told him not to worry. Kyrie won’t do this.”
“Why talk to Jod?”
Meera sighed and took Awa’s good arm. “Kyrie only cares about her mountain and her trees, and her haint people. Ice Mountain is Iyalawo Tembe’s concern.”
Awa leaned into Meera. “Iyalawos marry their mountains.”
“That wrecks the heart for everyday men.” Meera shuddered. “Floating-city Babalawos plotted to poison Kyrie, but she made her one true love drink the lethal brew instead, and he died.”
“I heard a different story.” Awa couldn’t remember the details.
“Kyrie is black lava and bitter ice,” Meera insisted. “She eats her enemies’ hearts and makes demon gates from stolen phalluses. Tembe is not that bad.”
“Really?”
“Tembe loves Hezram. Kyrie loves no one. She calls up earthquakes and bad weather. A monster.” Meera quivered, happy to have someone to rage against as they slipped from the cave into the back of their hut—a dead end for anyone without the key Rokiat let Meera steal. “We don’t need monster Kyrie rescuing us.” Meera kissed Awa’s cheek. “We’ll save ourselves.”
Awa grunted at this fantasy, then touched Meera’s smile and relented. “Yes, we will.”
Sometimes illusions were torture. But not always.
5
Gifts from the Crows
The Crows watch as people throw good food in a deep hole and cover it with dirt. They screech and caw at stupid waste. They drop feces on faces and heads. An archer sends an arrow their way and only nicks one wing. The Crows take to the trees, blending into shadows to avoid his bad aim. They hope for carelessness, for bits of flesh left lying.
The sun is almost gone and people are tired from filling holes all day. They sweat and curse and gripe and finally drift back inside the gates. The Crows count. Three remain: Rokiat, Meera, and Awa. Rokiat and Meera roll in the grass, caressing and sucking one another. They are no danger. Awa uncovers the last dead bodies. She strips off yellow robes and caws, not the nonsense most humans do. Awa knows how to speak of good food or danger or all is safe. Awa sits in grass, chattering as Crows swoop down, watching as they pick and peck at a feast.
A wild dog pokes his head in her crotch and sprawls in her lap. Awa rubs his big gray head and keeps him occupied as Crows fill empty bellies. She knows their hungry days in endless desert that once was many, many forests. Too many forests to count, gone. Awa knows sweet water and poison berries that humans can’t eat, but Crows love. In these dry times, Crows face great dangers feeding anywhere. A hawk or night owl has better aim than Holy City archers, so Crows come whenever Awa caws. She never forgets them, never leads them astray.
A Crow with several white wing feathers does not feed with the others. This Crow flies close to Awa. She sits up, quiet and still, and the Crow hops toward her, despite the wild dog. He snores, lulled to dreams by Awa’s fingers.
“I’m not dead meat yet.” Awa says what many humans say to a curious bird.
This Crow aches from barbs caught in the chest and face. Eating is hard and pain is constant. Awa has hands that have plucked berries from bushes and honeycombs from a hive. The Crow has also seen these hands pull barbs from the wild dog and warhorses and from Meera and Rokiat. The Crow hops on a boulder, close enough for Awa to reach the barbs and pluck them out. Awa holds her breath. The Crow caws, speaking of pain, asking for help, hoping Awa is not stupid like most other humans.
The wild dog stirs and the Crow almost flies away, but Awa leans in, squinting at the barbs and shaking her head. A bee buzzes in a puff of hair. The Crow caws and caws. Awa reaches her hand out. The Crow pecks her fingers to make sure she will be gentle. Awa jerks away from the beak. The Crow caws again. Quick as an arrow, Awa pulls a barb from the Crow’s white feathered breast. The Crow pecks her thumb.
“Zst!” Awa hisses.
The Crow pecks Awa after each barb, but she even tugs out one buried in the Crow’s face. Relief.
“Farts and fleas!” Awa shakes bloody fingers. “Thanks to you too.”
The wild dog jerks awake. His big head tilts to the side and his tail slaps the dirt. He dips down on his elbows and sticks his hind parts in the air. An invitation. The Crow spreads iridescent wings (which hold only a memory of pain) and struts toward the dog who lunges. The Crow flies just out of reach of powerful jaws and lands on the dog’s back. Awa laughs as the Crow walks toward the tail. The dog twists around, catching a few wing feathers in his mouth. He tugs gently then releases. The Crow soars high and swoops down to tug the dog’s tail before flying off to join the feast. Some succulent flesh remains. Awa holds her sides, laughing. Meera and Rokiat are laughing too. The dog licks Awa’s fingers and trots into mist rising from the Amethyst River.
Rokiat and Meera take out a picnic of fruit bread and coconut wine. They enjoy a good meal in moonlight with the Crows. They leave many crumbs. There are warm updrafts and sparkly threads and stones from the yellow robes to play with.
Awa shoves the bones into a hole and covers them with rocks. “Green Elders bury the dead on high biers or in a rocky stream bed. This is where they buried Neth. Why take forever to become dirt?” She sings to the wind.
Meera and Rokiat listen before another roll in the grass. Awa has no human to roll with, not even the dog. She caws a lonely song. Crows answer and toss shiny stones at her. She catches one and smiles.