“Because they are so few,” Thenike had said. “Because their sisters’ mothers are also their choose-mothers’ sisters. They’re born too close. All their memories interlock and look down the same path to the same places. Each memory reflects another, repeats, reinforces, until the known becomes the only. For the Echraidhe, it’s not real if it can’t be seen elsewhere, in their mother’s memory, or their mother’s mother. For them, perhaps, there is no such thing as the unknown.” Thenike shook her head. “It’s a danger to all who are able to deepsearch into their memories well, or often.”
“Viajeras.”
“And those who might have become viajeras,” Thenike agreed. She seemed focused somewhere deep inside. “You can see so much of the world through others’ memories, places you’ve never been, faces you’ve never seen and never will, weather you’ve never felt and food you’ve never tasted, that sometimes it’s hard not to want to just feel, taste, see those familiar things over and over. Truly new things become alien, other, not to be trusted. There are those who know their village so well, through the eyes and hearts of so many before them, that they can’t leave it to go somewhere else, they can’t bear to place their feet on a path they have never trodden, on soil they have never planted with a thousand seeds in some past life as lover or child. Some become unable to leave their lodge or tent, or can’t sail past the sight of familiar cliffs. Many who can deepsearch powerfully enough to be a viajera end like this.”
“And you?”
Here Thenike had smiled, though Marghe saw memories of bitter times written on her face. “I’m fortunate enough to have the memories of a thousand different foremothers, some clear, some not. Fortunate, too, to become bored with the past and eager to sail over the horizon or walk over the crest of the hill and see what’s on the other side.”
Strike the gong, it was just after midday. Marghe shivered, cold after sitting all morning.
The results of the virus, the abilities it conferred, could send a person mad.
Uaithne had been proof enough of that. How would it affect her? Would she be able to see into her past, the past of her mother, her aunts? Her father? No one at Port Central had mentioned any of this to her, no strange memory effects… but how many had tried? It was not a thing that just happened. It involved ritual and discipline. Perhaps, though, it involved more than that. Perhaps the virus had to be part of the cells from birth, even before birth.
Strike the gong.
Early afternoon. Marghe saw a tiny figure walking out of the gathering dark and across the snow toward her. She could not spare the figure her whole attention; part of her body was always listening, attuned to Jeep. Waiting. The figure grew, stepping carefully. Carrying something. Food. Gerrel put down the covered tray an arm’s length from Marghe’s feet and withdrew without speaking. It struck Marghe, then, just how much she knew about Gerreclass="underline" not only her name, her house, soestre and antecedents, but what foods made her wrinkle her upper lip in distaste, what stories she liked to be told when it was cold and gloomy outside, what made her laugh or blush. That knowledge told her a great deal about herself, about her attitudes to this place: these people were becoming real to her.
She could live here, for a while.
Marghe ate, listened, struck the gong. Listened and felt and struck the gong. It grew dark. The stars came out, and the moons, but the clouds reduced them to shimmery blurs. The blurs sank down into the horizon, faded. The smell of the forest changed, grew wilder, darker; Marghe thought she heard something large prowling along its edge.
Gerrel brought her breakfast before dawn. She did not eat it. The world seemed very wide and thin.
When the sun came up, Marghe waited, struck the gong one more time, then stilled its vibration with her fingertips and laid the padded stick along the top. She stood, swaying a little, then bent and took the half goura from the bowl on the untouched tray. The trees seemed to call her. Listen, they said to her, we ring to the same beat as you, to the same beat as the virus, the same beat of the world. This might be the place to stay and finally learn what it meant to have a family and friends.
She wandered off into the forest; she did not want to see anyone just yet.
When Marghe came out of the trees, she walked through the gardens and up the path that led through Ollfoss to Thenike’s door. She lifted her hand to knock and realized she was still holding the half-eaten fruit. She knocked with her other hand.
No one answered. She knocked again.
Thenike came to the door. Her eyes sharpened when she saw Marghe.
Marghe spoke without preamble. “I want to stay here, at Ollfoss. There are things I have to learn. Help me.”
Chapter Eleven
IF YOU WANT to stay, you need to talk to Leifin,” Thenike had said that morning.
“She found you and brought you here. If she didn’t have a good reason for it at the time, then she does now, though I couldn’t begin to guess what. She always has a reason for everything, a plan, an explanation.” She paused to rake out the ashes and blow the embers to a glow.“She found you; in that sense, she’s responsible for you and will have a large say in what happens next.”
“Do you like her?”
“Huellis said to me once that she thought Leifin spent too much of her time thinking and not enough feeling.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“No. But it’s an answer you’ll have to wait for until you’ve made up your own mind. Go see her. Talk to her. Tell her you want to stay. See what she has to say.”
Marghe suddenly felt reluctant to talk to Leifin. “There’s no other way?”
“Of course there are other ways.” Thenike sounded irritable. “Nothing will get decided without the whole family’s approval, and yours. But it’ll help you to know Leifin’s reason, or reasons. She’s the right place to start.”
Leifin was sitting on a stool by the south hearth in the great room, carefully shaving layers from a small block of wood on her lap. Stone and olla tools lay in a neat row on a worn strip of leather; shavings curled in a heap at her feet. Marghe could smell the new wood from the doorway. The infant soestre, Otter and Moss, were lying on a beautiful fur rug near the fire; one—Marghe could not tell them apart—was awake, with her fist in her mouth. The great room was long and slope-ceilinged. It took up the whole of the west side of the house and was the only room Marghe had seen so far in Ollfoss that had a vertical window. In proportion to the room, the window was small, but it was glazed—thick, wavy olla glass stained with hints of cream and rose. The floor was polished wood, like the heavy furniture, and there was a hearth at both ends.
The room was full of beauty: wall carvings, tapestries, furs—on the floor and the walls—intricately patterned doorframes, and gorgeous wooden candlestick holders.
But the centerpiece of the whole room was a huge sculpture, low on the floor—the torso and arms of a woman swimming, arching her back as she reached as far as sinew and bone would permit for her next backstroke.
When Marghe stepped into the room and closed the door behind her, Leifin looked up briefly, nodded, then returned her attention to her carving. The expression on her face was the same one Marghe had seen when she had first stepped out of the trees just behind the goth: intent, focused. A hunter’s look.
Marghe went to the fire and sat down next to the sleeping baby, content to wait.
Eventually, Leifin put down the knife she had been using and selected a chisel.
“Is that your work?” Marghe asked, gesturing at the floor sculpture.
“Yes.”