The Dreaming: Dark Star (Book 5)

A reason and a place

The elder began to hum softly, a beautiful tune that put Imorah at ease. She missed the singing in the Shelter. She'd been a part of the choir since she was old enough to walk.

She closed her eyes and let the music take her away, and for the first time since she'd arrived on the Surface, she felt safe. She exhaled and felt a million pounds of stress drop off her shoulders. She forgot about Liran outside and Tashin under a pile of rocks and the impossible journey ahead of her. She relaxed-her belly was full and she was safe.

Everything is going to be okay. Surely she couldn't sing like this if she was going to kill me.

The woman stopped singing and looked up, shaking her head.

Imorah froze. She heard me!?

"Ayah," the old woman answered. "I hear."

"You heard me?" Imorah repeated. She'd only ever used thoughtspeech with her grandma, the Elder Liorah, and even that had been on rare occasions. Her ability was a big secret she'd tried to hide her entire life. Suddenly the world broke open. "You can hear my thoughts?" she repeated.

"Ayah," the woman shrugged, turning back to her work as if it was no big deal. She picked up a knife and spat on a smooth, flat stone between her feet. She rocked in a circular motion, both hands on the blade, rubbing it on the rock, sharpening it.

Imorah licked her lips and watched the Grandmother. This was fabulous. She'd always thought she was alone. She'd thought that it was only her Grandma and herself. But perhaps there were others. Many others. Or was this old woman special like her? Is that why she lived alone in the desert?

She was certain the woman could help her find her place in this world.

She had a million questions, but frustratingly, the old woman didn't speak Standard, and she didn't dare ask more questions lest the old woman invite Liran to translate again.

The woman started humming again, and Imorah looked around carefully for the first time. She'd never seen anything like this before and felt like she might be witnessing herself at an old age.

The dwelling was made of cloth-animal skins, Imorah guessed-and painted with black designs that had merged with the soot of the fire pit, fading from a deep black brown to orange and yellow. The room itself was tall enough to stand in, but Imorah couldn't stand up because there were herbs and plants hanging from thin ropes suspended everywhere above her.

Every nook and cranny was full, from the fireplace to the walls of the yurt, with earthenware jars, blackened pots, musical instruments, animal skins, and sacks full of more herbs, roots, clothing and dried vegetables.

The firepit was much larger than the one in Tashin's cave. Surrounding it was an oil lamp, a dented and sooty tin can with a makeshift handle for tea, some pots and pans, and a large stone bowl that was well-used with age, like its owner. On the other side of the fire was an alter of sorts, with a huge glistening crystal, a statue of what Imorah could only guess was a very fat woman with feathers and other decorations draped on it. All around these objects was a well worn path covered in filthy and matted sheep skins. This was obviously where the woman spent most of her time-sleeping, cooking, and eating.

The Grandmother carefully put down the leather handled knife next to the oil lamp and turned her head sideways to cast her eyes over Imorah. Her glance was silent and probing. While she slowly reached into a bag behind her with one hand, she patted the sheepskin beside her with the other, and said quietly, "Come."

Imorah's heart raced as she crawled towards the fire and sat down cross-legged in front of the freshly sharpened knife. She didn't want to be scared, but her belly was on fire.

The old woman threw a piece of dried goat's manure onto fire. The red coals slowly ate the dried matter and began to smoke until finally, it caught and a small flame leaped out of the centre. Imorah watched, transfixed, and grateful for something to stare at other than the large knife in front of her.

Then the Elder took some dried flowers from the sack behind her and crushed them in the stone bowl with a knobby rock.

Imorah took a deep breath, not knowing where to begin or what to say. She felt she should say something, but what? She watched the rhythmic motion of the withered yet strong hands of the old woman and slowly it came to her, where she could begin. "I'm Imorah," she said.

The noise of rock on rock grating softly paused for a second and then continued. The woman didn't respond.

Imorah exhaled, both relieved and frustrated simultaneously. She briefly considered asking the Elder's name, but decided against it. She looked instead, around the fire pit, examining the objects there again, now that she was closer. Her eyes fell on the statue of the fat woman on the other side of the fire. What had looked like soot from far away, showed clearly as blood from this nearness. The lower half of the statue was covered in brown, dried blood. Imorah felt a knot somewhere below her belly beginning to form.

The circular motion of grinding rocks stopped. The silence was heavy.

Imorah kept her eyes averted, knowing that the Elder was looking at her now, and turned to look instead at the crystal to her right. The small flame of the fire danced its light on the smooth faces of the clean glass. Imorah had a strong desire to reach out and touch that exquisitely flat surface and wondered immediately how the huge crystal had gotten here in this lonely place in the middle of nowhere. She thought of asking, but realised it would be foolish.

"I stole that rock."

Imorah looked at the Elder, uncertain whether she'd heard correctly. Had she spoken perfect Standard?

"Ayah." The old woman bobbed her head slowly, and looked deeply into Imorah eyes. "I stole it because I knew it belonged here."

Imorah was shocked. Her Standard was flawless, without an accent. "What? How?"

"I carried it on my shoulders."

"No, I mean-you speak Standard. Why...?"

"Oh, that. Yes, I used to speak Standard another lifetime ago."

"But... why...?"

"Why did I pretend not to speak it?"

"Yeah, exactly. Why?"

"Well, how else was I going to get the two of you to talk?" the woman shrugged.

Imorah gulped down a stone of anger. "You tricked me?"

"Ayah, I've done worse," the woman shrugged. Her voice rasped, deep from years of smoking fires. She picked up the knife again.

Imorah couldn't help but shrink back. She was confused. Her heart was pounding.

The woman used the knife to tap the large crystal on its smooth, flat surface. "I packed this son of a bitch on my shoulders through the desert because I knew it belonged here. It whispered to me that it wanted to come home." She looked at Imorah with dark eyes that filled up her entire face.

Imorah turned to look at the crystal; at anything to get out of that gaze.

"All things have a reason and a place, child." The rhythm of the old woman's grinding began again.

Imorah felt that ball of energy rising up from somewhere below her belly to rest somewhere near her throat. She couldn't swallow. "What are you saying?"

The Elder groaned into a hunched standing position, and reached into a pouch hanging from a cord above them. She took out a dried up stick and slowly sat back down. Taking the knife, she began to whittle small pieces of the stick into the bowl. "You want me to tell you what you need to do, where you need to go, but only you know your reason and your place. You've been waiting for others for too long child." She took up the stone pestle and began grinding again. The shadows danced.