Awakeners by Sheri S Tepper

“They are probably all dead,” answered Tharius, his voice emotionless. He had done grieving for the Thraish. His grief over Pamra Don had been all the grief he had left. “I was wrong, that’s all. A few survived for a time, eating stilt-lizards and the lesser birds, until there were no more. Except for a few, they wouldn’t eat fish, even to save their lives.”

“Medoor Babji told me a strange thing,” the lady said. “She said that at the time of the hunger, long and long ago, all the Thraish who could eat fish had done so. They left Northshore then, in fear of their lives. Only those who couldn’t do it had remained here on Northshore, and there were very few of them. And all those who lived here on Northshore were descendents of those few who could not. It wasn’t your fault, Tharius. It was bred in them. They couldn’t. That’s all.”

“It’s no one’s fault,” he said.

“Medoor Babji told me something else. She says that when the dead are put in the River, they are touched by blight and then taken by the strangeys to the islands. They go on living there, Tharius. They grow slower and slower, rooting themselves like trees, time all quiet around them. I want to go there.”

“Why? Why?”

“Because there has never been time for me. Only for the cause. It would be nice to have time for me.”

He buried his face in her hair and said nothing. He would grow roots beside her if she liked. He didn’t know whether to believe Medoor Babji’s tale or not.

“It’s a pity Pamra Don could not have been put in the River. What did you do with her body, Tharius?”

“Buried it,” he said. “Wrapped it in a robe and buried it beneath a thorn tree. There was nothing but bones. And a kind of child-shaped shell that Lila hatched out of. I think it was Lila.”

“Lila?”

He told her of Lila. He had heard more about Lila from Thrasne, though he wasn’t sure how much of that he believed, either. “I don’t know what it was that went into the River,” he said. “The strangeys called her their child. She was something strange.”

“They’re taking up the plank,” she said. “The oars are beginning to sweep.”

He looked out across the railing. The River slid between the Gift and the shore, and they began to move out onto the waters. All the deck was crowded with Noor amid a sprinkling of other folk. “Half a year,” he said. “To Southshore.”

“It is unlikely we will see it,” she said, contented. “I don’t care.”

Behind them on the bank, a few standabouts stood watching their slow progress. Most paid little attention. Too much else was happening. There were no workers anymore. The Towers were empty. There were no fliers, not anywhere. All of them had starved to death, it was said, though a good many had been killed when they’d attacked humans, trying to dose them with Tears or carry them off to the Talons. If one wanted excitement, one might think about joining the war going on, back on the steppes. Two Protectors of Man, one true, one false, fighting each other, and who knew which was which? There was even talk that one side wanted to kill off all the Noor. People were taking sides, joining up with one or the other, getting irate about one side or the other in taverns. Some were Peasimites, some Jondarites, and the gods knew where it would all end.

The gods knew; not that anyone meant the old gods. Potipur was finished. His image was scratched right off the Temple walls, and so were Viranel and Abricor. The Mother of Truth stood there now, shining, and people came from far away to make measurements of her so they could carve copies for their own Temples. The man who had carved her had actually known her, so it was said, before she was the Light Bringer. He had written it, right there on the image, for all the doubters to see.

Still, other carvers carved her differently. Sometimes they carved her with a child in her arms, sometimes with a flame-bird chick, for it was told how a flame-bird had hatched in her arms when she was put in the fire. Her soul, some said, which flew straight to the God of man. Something else, others said, which had not looked like a flame-bird at all. She had been burned by Jondarites, some said. By Peasimites, said others. By the fliers, said others yet. But who knew the truth? Priests used to answer questions like that, but they were gone, along with the Awakeners. Who knew where? They unbraided their hair, laid down their staffs, wiped the paint from their faces, and disappeared. Just like anyone else, now.