The act contained a sunset provision and was scheduled to expire on September 30, 2011.  During this five-year period, scientists conducted many genetic studies and other basic research aimed at identifying potential causes of autism.  As it turned out, the uncharted terrain over which the holy warrior-knights rode out to battle wasn’t quite what they had anticipated.  There were plenty of interesting topics for well-funded scientists to delve into, but nobody found any dragons to slay.  Like other crusades throughout history, it got harder to keep the foot soldiers obediently marching toward that Promised Land of pure-minded souls purged of their neurological differences.

When a reauthorization bill was introduced in Congress to continue the research funding beyond the original five years, the tenor of the debate couldn’t have been more different.  Words like “eradicate” were nowhere to be heard.  Instead, the bill’s proponents argued that the research would lead to new therapies that would help to integrate autistic people into society.  Conservative opponents said that they’d prefer to see medical research funded without allocating specific amounts to autism or other conditions, so that the agencies would have discretion to spend the funds as they judged most useful.  Self-advocates pointed out that the strong focus on causation research had done a disservice to the autistic population by reducing the funds available for much-needed research in other areas, such as education, communication, and service provision.

On all sides of the debate, there was a general agreement (at least publicly) that supporting autistic citizens should be a goal of autism research.  The dispute had to do with how that goal might best be accomplished — whether by passing the reauthorization bill or by letting the act expire and starting afresh.  In short, the war that began in 2006 had thoroughly fizzled out, leaving only politics as usual.

House Majority Leader Eric Cantor, who had made clear his opposition to funding medical research through condition-specific legislation, initially refused to bring the reauthorization bill up for a vote in the House.  After a frenzied flurry of lobbying by the bill’s proponents, Cantor agreed to bring it up.  It passed the House on Tuesday evening, the 20th of September, but continued to face opposition in the Senate and no prospect of a floor vote there.  Because Congress was scheduled to leave for a weeklong recess on Friday evening, Sept. 23, the situation in the Senate seemed likely to cause the funding to expire by operation of the sunset deadline.

Friday came and went without the Senate having taken any action on the reauthorization bill.  Other events caused the Senate to stay in session, however.  Although the House had passed a continuing resolution to keep the government running at the end of the fiscal year, Senate Democrats objected to it because they were concerned that it might not provide enough money for disaster relief.  Accordingly, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid scheduled a vote on the continuing resolution for Monday.  Upon finding that there was indeed enough disaster-relief money, the Senate passed the resolution.  Taking advantage of the unexpected opportunity for more discussion of autism research, proponents of the reauthorization bill reached a compromise whereby Senate conservatives withdrew their opposition in exchange for greater fiscal oversight.  Literally at the last minute, the bill passed the Senate by voice vote.

It’s worth noting that even under the original act (which has now been extended for three more years), federal research agencies have not been micromanaged to the extent of being required to fund specific studies; the act simply provides a general structure for making funding decisions.  Thus, it remains possible that the research might at some point take a more neurodiversity-friendly direction.  In any case, the discoveries made so far about the complexity of autism suggest that there is no prenatal test or other history-book event on the research horizon.

Of more interest than the actual disposition of the funds, I’d say, is what the debate has revealed about the political landscape.  The cure lobby often has boasted of its vast influence in the halls of power; but when put to the test, it barely managed to squeak out a victory through a highly improbable series of events.  Further, the intemperate language used (such as, among other things, calling House Leader Cantor a dishonest betrayer for not promptly scheduling a vote on the reauthorization bill) surely has burned major bridges in Congress and will have lasting repercussions.  To the extent that the public has even been paying attention to the last remnants of this overblown crusade, it is now obvious that autism’s would-be emperor has no clothes.

related: Which War Are We In: Good vs. Evil, or The One vs. The Many?

related: The Autism Gene: Maybe Not So Scary

[image via Flickr/Creative Commons]

]]> http://www.shiftjournal.com/2011/09/30/autism-war-fizzles-out/feed/ 0 http://www.shiftjournal.com/2011/09/20/a-safer-world/ http://www.shiftjournal.com/2011/09/20/a-safer-world/#comments Tue, 20 Sep 2011 14:36:26 +0000 Gwen McKay http://www.shiftjournal.com/?p=6803 Over the past decade, the United States and other countries have worked to stop terrorism, educating citizens to recognize and report potential dangers. Some terrorist attacks have indeed been prevented. But the public’s fear of fiendish new enemies also has caused many abuses of civil liberties. Thousands of people worldwide have been convicted on charges of terrorism, although some of them did nothing more than take part in political demonstrations or otherwise peacefully criticize their governments.

Terrorism is, of course, nothing new. Nations in the modern era have been dealing with it since Guy Fawkes tried to blow up Parliament with barrels of gunpowder on November 5, 1605. He was captured and tortured until he revealed the identities of the other conspirators. The British still celebrate Guy Fawkes Day by shooting off fireworks and by lighting bonfires on which effigies of the terrorist, referred to as “guys,” are burned.

A century ago, the public had a great fear of anarchists who committed terrorist acts with the aim of making governments collapse. Although some anarchists were peaceful philosophers such as Leo Tolstoy, others schemed to carry out acts of violence. U.S. President William McKinley was assassinated by an anarchist in 1901. During this period, union organizers and others who sought social reform often were suspected of being violent anarchists and were beaten and jailed.

Eventually the American public’s fear of anarchist conspiracies morphed into a similar fear of communist plotters in our midst, which went on for several decades more. When civil rights demonstrators were attacked and beaten in the 1950s, many people thought they were communist agitators and deserved the abuse.

Yet despite these widespread fears, the labor unions and the civil rights advocates prevailed. It seems absurd now that union members walking picket lines once were seen as anarchist mobs bent on destroying our society, and that the FBI kept Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. under surveillance for many years because he was suspected of being a dangerous communist agent. Ultimately the public has been capable of looking beyond its fears and of making reasoned judgments. As Dr. King put it, “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”

In today’s world, autistics often come under suspicion based on characteristics such as looking anxious, avoiding eye contact, and having difficulty speaking, which have been described for purposes of behavioral profiling as indicators that a person is likely to be a terrorist. Autistic rights advocates are working to educate policymakers that, in fact, these characteristics often indicate nothing more than harmless quirks of neurological wiring. But although fear of terrorism has drawn attention to this issue, the underlying prejudices existed long before now. Most autistics, at one time or another, have been unfairly accused of wrongdoing or have been denied jobs or other opportunities because of them. Indeed, these prejudices run so deep that many people cannot imagine a world without them, which seems to be why there are so many ABA programs that focus on training autistic children to pass as non-autistic.

By setting out these prejudices and their consequences in such stark terms, behavioral profiling and the controversy about it may help to raise the public’s awareness of our society’s mistreatment of autistics—much as, in past generations, the extreme and unreasonable accusations against unionists and civil rights activists failed to stand up to closer examination. People who had always taken the prevailing assumptions for granted, as the natural order, began to notice that there were other ways of looking at things. Future generations may well consider today’s behavioral stereotypes to be just as senseless as what we think of yesterday’s prejudices.

When that happens, we’ll have a safer world for everyone.

[image via Flickr/Creative Commons]

]]> http://www.shiftjournal.com/2011/09/20/a-safer-world/feed/ 0 http://www.shiftjournal.com/2011/09/06/aliens-invade-psychiatric-conference/ http://www.shiftjournal.com/2011/09/06/aliens-invade-psychiatric-conference/#comments Tue, 06 Sep 2011 05:00:48 +0000 Gwen McKay http://www.shiftjournal.com/?p=6740 Autistics Blamed, As Usual:  Confusion in Satire City

Earlier today, a small group of extraterrestrial visitors landed their flying saucer in the courtyard of a convention center just as an American Psychiatric Association conference was beginning.  According to several witnesses’ reports, one of the alien envoys approached a committee vice-chair, Dr. Stepford Wiseacre, saying “Take me to your leader.”

Dr. Wiseacre stamped his foot and shouted, “I’ve had more than enough of you uppity autistics interfering in normal people’s business!  How many times do I have to tell you that we’re not ‘the regime’ and your disordered sense of humor isn’t funny!  Now go on back to the group homes and institutions where you’re supposed to be, you annoying freaks.”

When he tried to shove the alien, Dr. Wiseacre had the misfortune of being knocked senseless by an electrical shock from a personal force field.  By the time he came back to consciousness, government agents already had whisked the aliens and their ship away to Area 51, while telling the conference’s guests that it was just a Secret Service training exercise.

Sitting in a nearby coffee shop gulping down an oversized cup of strong espresso to regain his wits, Dr. Wiseacre was persuaded, by means fair or foul, to give an exclusive interview to Shift Journal’s Tabloid Division.  The topic under discussion was, of course, how he could have mistaken the visitors for autistics, given the aliens’ obvious physical differences from humans.

“Anyone could have made that mistake,” the psychiatrist declared.  “Autistic people are always dressing up like sci-fi characters and being disruptive, aren’t they?  Besides, it’s not as if we ever paid much attention to their real characteristics or thought of them as fully human, you know.”

After staring glumly into the depths of his cup for a minute or so, Dr. Wiseacre took a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed sweat from the top of his bald head, and proclaimed, “It’s all because of the gays.”

“Pardon?”

“Those gay activists who made a nuisance of themselves at our conferences forty years ago, demanding that we stop classifying homosexuality as a mental disorder.  Before that, when we told someone they were abnormal, they knew their place and didn’t give us any guff.  I always thought it was a big mistake to give in to the gays’ demands.  Now the autistics are getting out of line too, with all their yapping about neurodiversity.  Before you know it, everybody in the DSM will start thinking they’re entitled to the same rights as any other citizens.”

Dr. Wiseacre drained the last of his coffee and crushed the empty cup in his hand.  He went on, in a steadily rising voice, with his eyes bulging and the veins standing out on his forehead, “It’s got to be stopped before it goes any farther!  You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?  That upstart, evil, sneaky… SELF-ADVOCATE AGENDA!  Mark my words, if it’s not destroyed now, it’ll be the death of Western civilization!”

Everyone in the coffee shop turned to stare.  A few people started edging toward the exit.  Moments later, a pharmaceutical company representative, who was easily recognizable as such by her bulging satchel full of drug samples and bribes, got up from her chair and approached the psychiatrist.  Although she spoke in a voice too low to be overheard by the patrons, our intrepid reporter secretly recorded her words and played them back later, boosting the volume.

“Take your meds, Doctor.  These pesky outbursts of yours are not helping our plans for world domination.”

[image via Flickr/Creative Commons]

]]> http://www.shiftjournal.com/2011/09/06/aliens-invade-psychiatric-conference/feed/ 1 http://www.shiftjournal.com/2011/08/24/the-eternal-song-part-eighteen-coda/ http://www.shiftjournal.com/2011/08/24/the-eternal-song-part-eighteen-coda/#comments Wed, 24 Aug 2011 05:00:18 +0000 Gwen McKay http://www.shiftjournal.com/?p=6624 The hiking trail was well maintained, wide and smoothly graded, where it led inland from the beachfront hotel. Elaine Dalton looked up from her brightly colored map of tourist attractions, noticed that her sister Cathy had gotten several steps ahead of her, and hurried to catch up. The exertion left her puffing a bit; she had gained some weight over the past year, and she was getting hot. The midday sun in this southern climate was quite a change, in the first week of February, from the gray skies and heaps of snow back home in upstate New York.

“Somewhere around here, the map says there’s an old fort.” Elaine glanced from one side to the other, seeing only a flat expanse of grass broken by occasional trees and bushes. Ahead the trail sloped gently into a valley terraced with grapevines. Farther down, the red-tiled roofs of neatly kept cottages could be seen among orange and lemon groves, heavy with fruit.

“Look, there’s the historical marker.” Cathy pointed. The marker, a narrow sign on a metal post, stood considerably higher than the few decayed timbers that outlined the rectangular shape of the long-fallen structure. Rusted scraps of iron were barely recognizable as having been cannons. A brighter gleam of metal in a corner came from a discarded soda pop can.

Elaine heard a high warbling whistle nearby, but she saw no birds when she turned around. Two teenage girls came into view, dressed in blue jeans and embroidered peasant blouses, walking up the path from the valley. One girl was tall and thin, with shoulder-length blonde hair. She carried a basket of oranges. Her companion, darker and stockier, was holding two pieces of handcrafted pottery. As they approached, both began speaking Spanish too fast for Elaine to follow.

The girl carrying the pottery held up a decorative plate, evidently a sample of her wares. In the center of the plate, a unicorn stood on a mountain slope, framed by the setting sun. A row of small symbols that looked like hieroglyphics had been painted above it. Elaine ran her fingers over one of them, which consisted of interlocking circles. She put together a few words in her limited Spanish.

“These pictures, they are pretty. Are they traditional?”

“Yes.” The blonde girl smiled, her gaze drifting away from her visitors and toward the volcanic peak in the center of the island. She looked as if she might have been about to say something else; but her companion cut in, speaking slowly enough to be understood this time.

“We have more! All very pretty, and cheaper than the hotel gift shop!”

After a tour of the village and its pottery works, Elaine came away an hour later carrying a plate decorated with a forest scene. Bright green leaves and multicolored tropical birds had been painted in vivid detail. Several indistinct figures could be seen in the background, their faces hidden by rain and fog.

“These people, they look like ghosts,” Elaine had remarked, as she took out her money to pay for her purchase.

The blonde girl had smiled again as she replied, “From very long ago. They bring us good fortune.”

Turning back toward the hotel, Elaine decided that she’d had enough of hiking for the day. It was time to relax on the beach with a cold drink.

She heard the whistling again as she left the valley, a clear joyful sound, as if life were singing to itself in a celebration without pause.

The End (of the story, but not the song)

Author’s note: Although the culture and beliefs of “The People” are completely fictional, this story is loosely based on the history of La Gomera in the Canary Islands. When Spanish settlers arrived in the 15th century, the island was inhabited by a tribe called the Guanches, who were tall, blond, and blue-eyed. They kept goats and spoke a whistled language known as silbo. Driven off their land, some fled into the rainforest that surrounds the island’s central mountain peak. Hunger soon forced them to surrender. Recent cultural preservation efforts have included teaching a modern version of silbo as part of the island’s school curriculum.

Part Seventeen: Nightfall.
Part Sixteen: Unicorn.
Part Fifteen: Ebb Tide.
Part Fourteen: Light.
Part Thirteen: Pilgrim.
Part Twelve: Priestess.
Part Eleven: Scout.
Part Ten: Lost.
Part Nine: Mountain.
Part Eight: Forest.
Part Seven: Shards and Dust.
Part Six: Warning.
Part Five: Gifts.
Part Four: Midsummer.
Part Three: Hunters or Hunted.
Part Two: Rehearsal.
Part One: Beauty.

The feasting had ended some time ago, when every last scrap had been eaten. By tradition, the dancing always finished at nightfall, when the villagers assembled to hear the wisdom of the Grandmothers. Tonight, however, the Eldest’s chair on the raised central platform stood empty. At first Awiyan had thought that perhaps Hulda, so recently become the village’s leader, had planned a brief silence to honor Eldest-that-was. But more time passed, and still Hulda remained deep in conversation with Riadne, who stood writing intently on strips of bark by torchlight. Every now and then Hulda interjected a few words, her voice too low for anyone else to hear.

Several of the children already had fallen asleep in the grass. Awiyan counted the stars in five more constellations before Hulda finally made her way to the platform where the other Grandmothers waited. Ignoring the comfortable chair set up for her, Hulda remained standing while she addressed the restless, whispering crowd.

“Riadne saw the unicorn on the mountain, in the setting sun.”

Instantly the villagers fell silent. Hulda went on talking, her authoritative voice pitched to carry easily through the assembled group.

“His coming at such a time tells us what we already know—that the island is no longer a safe home given to us by the Gods. Our valley has been taken from us. If we stay in the forest, we starve. We cannot flee to other lands because we have lost our ancestors’ craft of shipbuilding; and even if we could learn it again, the settlers’ ships now control the seas. We cannot fight the settlers because we are too few and their weapons too strong. All of this means that we have been left with one choice only—to leave the forest and ask the settlers if we may live among them.”

A furious buzz of conversation followed that statement. A man’s deep voice rose above the others. “And what’s to stop them from shooting us all? We saw last year what sort of mercy they have, didn’t we?”

Hulda waited until the crowd had quieted a little before she spoke again. “We can send out some of our boys first—young enough so that they will not be seen as a threat, but strong enough to be of use in the fields. When they have learned the language and ways of the settlers, they can bring the rest of us to live with them.”

Standing not far from the platform, Iwai looked as if he might have wanted to say something; but he only put his head down and shuffled his feet. After a year of hunger and hiding from the settlers, Iwai had lost much of his earlier brashness.

Tahu-at, glancing from his little brother to the group of Grandmothers, shifted his weight uneasily from one leg to the other. Then he said what Iwai had most likely been thinking. “The settlers will make slaves of our boys.”

Addressing him directly, Hulda softened her voice. “I do not make this decision lightly. We have reached a time when we must act, however painful it may be; and I shall not let the People perish because I failed to do my duty. If our boys are made slaves, then they will serve as they must—until the day comes when they are no longer seen as slaves, but as sons.”

Wiilu, her pregnancy just beginning to show under the frayed and shapeless dress she wore, stepped forward and spoke with her head high. “They should be sons of the People.”

Some of the villagers muttered in agreement, clenching their fists. Others stood passively, without speaking, as if they were not yet able to comprehend Hulda’s decision or were resigned to it. Awiyan looked out over the assembled tribe—her people, all of them, and this might be the last time she would see them together. Then, without conscious thought, the images in her mind shifted, and she found herself standing at the front of the platform and speaking in the high clear voice of prophecy.

“The unicorn chose to walk with Riadne. She is the one who will carry our traditions forward into the ages to come. When the People leave the forest, she will stay behind to tend the Earth Mother’s temple. In each generation, the children will be taught not only the settlers’ language and writing, but ours as well; and there will be girls sent to the mountain to serve in the temple and to take Riadne’s place after she is gathered to the Gods. The People will endure, no matter what burdens we must bear.”

Although she still felt the night air and smelled the torches’ smoke, Awiyan saw before her a bright midday scene from a far distant future, in which two girls in strange clothing stood in the valley laughing and whistling to each other in the People’s language. She felt the presence of the Gods in this moment more deeply than ever before, taking away the emptiness that had plagued her for the past year and leaving her with a light, joyful feeling, as if she could simply choose to leave her body and float above the earth.

Then some of the women were helping her up from the floor of the platform—it seemed she had fallen without knowing it. Hulda’s firm hands guided her into the Eldest’s chair. She tried to rise from it, meaning to say something about this breach of protocol; but she couldn’t quite remember how to do such mundane tasks as standing and talking.

Hulda gave her an understanding smile. “I expect the Gods won’t mind if you sit for a moment.”

Continue to Part Eighteen

Part Sixteen: Unicorn.
Part Fifteen: Ebb Tide.
Part Fourteen: Light.
Part Thirteen: Pilgrim.
Part Twelve: Priestess.
Part Eleven: Scout.
Part Ten: Lost.
Part Nine: Mountain.
Part Eight: Forest.
Part Seven: Shards and Dust.
Part Six: Warning.
Part Five: Gifts.
Part Four: Midsummer.
Part Three: Hunters or Hunted.
Part Two: Rehearsal.
Part One: Beauty.

With her head down and her eyes half-closed against the glare, Riadne heard the animal approaching before she saw it. The hoofbeats had an easy familiarity to her—a goat, larger than those her father had kept. She had heard the hunters’ tales of wild goats on the mountain, although she had never before come across one.

The animal’s pure white coat shone so brightly against the backdrop of sun and sky that it might have stepped straight out of the heavens. Riadne chided herself for being silly; it was only a goat, after all, with the usual four legs and curving horns. She squinted to see the animal’s head more clearly as it came closer, still framed by the setting sun. No, instead of having two horns in the center of its forehead, it had only one thick spiraling horn…

An image flashed into Riadne’s mind from one of the ancient urns, the very first of them. The Dawn-god had appeared in just this form to her ancestors—as a unicorn, stepping to earth out of the rising sun. The People had been a wandering tribe in those days, traveling in small ships from far northern lands. They had taken their encounter with the unicorn as a sign that they were meant to build a village on this island and that they would be safe here. What could it mean that the unicorn had returned, coming from the west this time, when the village was lost and there was no safety?

She could not ask the unicorn, at least not in spoken words; and in the old stories, the gods rarely spoke when they took animal form. Rather, those who recognized their divine nature simply walked with them. And so Riadne stepped forward, holding out her scarred right hand with the palm up, much as she would have done when feeding one of her father’s goats an apricot or a fig as a special treat. Her pockets were empty today; but in any case, she suspected it would have been disrespectful to try to feed a god like an ordinary beast.

The unicorn lowered his gleaming horn toward Riadne and snorted once as he sniffed her hand, sounding just like a goat. His breath felt warm on her fingers. Then he turned away, leaving the path to Riadne as he bounded away through a thicket of small flowering bushes. Within moments he was gone, leaving no tracks on the hard dry earth—nothing to show that he had ever been there.

Riadne blinked. There was something, caught on one of the bushes, almost invisible among the little white flowers. She reached down and, with infinite care, dislodged from the thorns one long hair from the unicorn’s tail. Closing her hand tightly around this precious gift, she resumed her journey down the mountain.

Continue to Part Seventeen

Part Fifteen: Ebb Tide.
Part Fourteen: Light.
Part Thirteen: Pilgrim.
Part Twelve: Priestess.
Part Eleven: Scout.
Part Ten: Lost.
Part Nine: Mountain.
Part Eight: Forest.
Part Seven: Shards and Dust.
Part Six: Warning.
Part Five: Gifts.
Part Four: Midsummer.
Part Three: Hunters or Hunted.
Part Two: Rehearsal.
Part One: Beauty.

Ko-ato made his way from one tide pool to another, net in hand. Whatever he caught today would be his contribution to the Midsummer feast. For the first time in all the years since the village’s founding, there would be no goat to roast. He had butchered his last goat a month ago, driven to it by the urgency of the People’s hunger.

A fish flopped and struggled in his net. He put it into a sack slung over his right shoulder and then glanced behind him, making sure he was alone on the beach. The settlers rarely came there, as it was a difficult walk down a steep cliff path; but one never could be sure of what they might do. They were all over the island now, building their homes and grazing their beasts wherever they pleased. More of them arrived every year in their large sailing vessels.

Today the horizon was empty of ships, a clear unbroken line marking the boundary between the realms of humankind and of the Gods. In his youth Ko-ato had thought the world to be as neatly ordered as that horizon—a world that made sense, with everyone having places and tasks that belonged to them, just as birds had their nests and rabbits had their burrows. He still felt that familiar certainty some mornings upon waking, before he was lucid enough for the memories of the past year to push it out of his mind.

Maybe the fish trapped in the tide pools also felt lost and uncertain, after they had been carried by the waves to a shore where they might easily fall prey to a man with a net. Or more likely, they never thought about it at all, simply trusting that the sea would rise again and bring them back to the waters they knew. Why should they not? The sea had always provided for their needs before.

Bright shimmering scales showed clearly through the shallow water as another fish left the safety of a rocky overhang, to be promptly scooped up in the net. As he dropped this latest victim of fate into the sack over his shoulder, Ko-ato knew that he never again would have enough faith to be as simple and trusting as a fish. And perhaps that was just as well, given the fact that the occupants of the tide pools—or as many of them as he could catch—would shortly become the villagers’ dinner.

Continue to Part Sixteen

Part Fourteen: Light.
Part Thirteen: Pilgrim.
Part Twelve: Priestess.
Part Eleven: Scout.
Part Ten: Lost.
Part Nine: Mountain.
Part Eight: Forest.
Part Seven: Shards and Dust.
Part Six: Warning.
Part Five: Gifts.
Part Four: Midsummer.
Part Three: Hunters or Hunted.
Part Two: Rehearsal.
Part One: Beauty.

Not much pain, now. The poppy draught had taken Eldest Grandmother’s pain away. It brought sleep, and tangled thoughts.

Hushed voices of women, soft footsteps.

“Riadne comes.”

Images of a little girl, blue eyes intent on her lessons, a well-inked brush in her small fingers. But no, Riadne was grown. She served the Earth Mother at a new temple, Hulda had said. A temple filled with light.

Rain, still falling, always falling. Damp air, thick with lavender: the scent of the death candles. That was one of the tasks allotted to the Earth Mother’s priestess, setting ablaze the candles that guided a spirit on the journey home to the Gods.

A question, unvoiced. The Gods took whom they would. Such was the way of things. But what would become of the People, in their dark exile in the forest? How would they endure?

The weight of the body, less than it had been. Above, a bright path taking shape. Spirits of loved ones beckoning, their faces clearly seen, smiling in the warm glow. Yet there were strong ties binding, thick as ropes: worry, duty, fear.

A struggle for breath, words gasped from failing lungs.

“The People…”

Open hands, empty and limp on the bedding; they held nothing more to give. But a woman—Riadne?—took up one of them in her own rough, scarred hands, tracing a shape across the wrinkled palm. Circles overlapping one another, the symbol for eternity.

The People will endure forever.

Eldest Grandmother felt herself smile as the ties holding her to earth parted, thin and insubstantial. Spirits reached to help her into the light.

Continue to Part Fifteen

Part Thirteen: Pilgrim.
Part Twelve: Priestess.
Part Eleven: Scout.
Part Ten: Lost.
Part Nine: Mountain.
Part Eight: Forest.
Part Seven: Shards and Dust.
Part Six: Warning.
Part Five: Gifts.
Part Four: Midsummer.
Part Three: Hunters or Hunted.
Part Two: Rehearsal.
Part One: Beauty.

The ache returned in full force when Awiyan descended into the fog once more, carrying a full sack of greens. She plonked it down in a corner of her hut, next to a jar of dried mushrooms. Not much was left of the mushrooms, Awiyan knew. She opened the jar and ate the last small handful. That, along with the dandelion greens that she had eaten while picking, was her lunch. Chewing the mushrooms left her jaw feeling worse.

Why couldn’t the villagers have built their new huts in the sunny foothills? Awiyan already knew the answer: Because the fog kept them out of the settlers’ view. Without it, they would be visible, and thus a target. Eldest Grandmother had made a wise choice to stay hidden in the forest, where the clouds rarely lifted. The long spasms of coughing that now wracked Eldest Grandmother’s frail body made clear that this choice would be a fatal one for her. Awiyan, having so recently become the youngest of the Grandmothers, felt keenly the loss of the wisdom and compassion on which she relied for guidance.

Riadne came through the fog, a tall gaunt figure in her goatskin cloak and boots, on her way to the mountain temple where she spent every afternoon. She was carrying flowers for the altar, pale orchids that she had gathered from the dark recesses of the forest.

Although the women of the tribe were always welcome to go along, Awiyan had never visited the new temple. She could find no reason to make such a pilgrimage, now that she no longer saw visions of the Gods in her dreams, but only images of loss and absence. So she was as much taken by surprise as Riadne when, driven by a sudden impulse that she did not understand, she demanded of the younger woman, “Take me with you!”

Snatching up a shawl for warmth on the mountain’s heights, Awiyan followed the muddy trail that led out of the forest. After walking through the hills where she had gathered dandelion greens that morning, Awiyan found herself on unfamiliar stony ground where little but pines grew. High, thin clouds dotted the sky. The wind whistled through narrow ravines. Awiyan clutched her shawl tightly around her shoulders. She could see no path now, but Riadne continued on with a steady stride.

Upon reaching the temple, Awiyan almost walked past it, so well concealed was the entrance. When Riadne suddenly disappeared from view, it took Awiyan a moment to realize that there was a path behind the pines that hugged the sheer rock face. She followed Riadne through the hidden doorway and glanced from one side of the cave to the other, feeling out of place and wondering why she was there. The simple scenes of village life that Riadne had painted on the urns looked like something out of a dream, distant and unreachable.

Riadne went up to the altar, which was just starting to brighten as sunlight touched the crystal above it. She placed the orchids on both sides of the pedestal where the Goddess statue stood. The base of the altar had been shaped roughly into a semicircle. A hammer and chisel resting against the left side of the altar showed what Riadne had been doing the day before.

Today the young priestess had given herself a quieter task, as she sat cross-legged on the straw mat beside the doorway and started to paint an urn. Awiyan, left to her own devices, breathed in the fragrance of the orchids as she knelt before the altar. So many times she had sought answers in just this way, going humbly into the temple and asking the Earth Mother for guidance.

Only the soft strokes of Riadne’s paintbrush broke the silence. Awiyan tried to calm her breathing and clear her mind, but the disciplines that once had come so easily to her now seemed out of reach. The crystal filled with light and then began to dim. Awiyan forced herself to recite the familiar prayers in her thoughts. The words slipped away from her like the pebbles over which she had trod on the slopes, bouncing and falling into her inner emptiness. She dared not give voice to them.

When the crystal had fallen into shadow, she turned toward Riadne and spoke.

“There is a stone in my heart where the Gods once dwelt.”

Riadne put down the urn, now bright with images of laughing children at play. She approached the altar, bending to pick up the hammer and chisel, which she held out toward Awiyan.

That coaxed forth a small smile from the older woman. “I wish it could be so easy.”

Reaching for Awiyan’s hands, Riadne firmly pressed the hammer and chisel into them. Then she picked up the icon to move it safely away from the work area.

A small spider made its way across the uneven base of the altar, moving with the busy determination of a creature that had somewhere to go. Awiyan envied it the simple boon of knowing where its home was. She waited until the spider was out of sight before she placed the chisel against the granite. Something about the motion felt right to her, and she realized that this, also, was a blessing—to have work that was not focused entirely on survival, even if it was only for an afternoon.

At first the echoing strikes of the hammer sounded strangely loud, after so many months spent in the heavy, stifling air of the forest. Then, as she developed more of a rhythm and swung the hammer with greater confidence, Awiyan sensed that something inside herself might be close to breaking loose along with the stone chips from the base of the altar. Her breathing had become calm and steady, and her mind was free of all thoughts beyond her immediate task. But all too soon the cave grew dark in twilight, and there was nothing to do but set aside the tools and follow Riadne back down into the clammy grasp of the fog.

Continue to Part Fourteen

Part Twelve: Priestess.
Part Eleven: Scout.
Part Ten: Lost.
Part Nine: Mountain.
Part Eight: Forest.
Part Seven: Shards and Dust.
Part Six: Warning.
Part Five: Gifts.
Part Four: Midsummer.
Part Three: Hunters or Hunted.
Part Two: Rehearsal.
Part One: Beauty.

Three long rows of urns, all freshly dusted, occupied the right side of the cave. On the left the stone floor was still bare, except for Riadne’s hammer and chisel, which she had placed in the corner along with her broom and dustcloth. She also had a jug, painted like the urns in bright colors, for carrying water from a nearby stream.

Riadne’s visitor crouched down to enter the cave’s narrow opening and then stood up inside, rather slowly, her bright hazel eyes taking in the scene. The hood of her cloak had fallen to her shoulders, revealing thin hair gone fully gray. Her name was Hulda; she was the second-eldest of the Grandmothers and had been the priestess of the temple in the valley. She had taught Riadne to read and write, along with many other girls and a few boys over the years. Like any other skilled craft, Hulda had lectured her young students, writing demanded both love and precision. Simply rendering the bare shapes of the glyphs was not enough. One had to put one’s spirit into them, forming each stroke with joyful appreciation for the object or action that the glyph represented. Writing, properly done, was both a gift of magic from the Gods and a way of showing one’s gratitude to them.

“Ah! A garland of light. You do the Earth Mother honor.”

Hulda turned aside from the altar and surveyed the urns with their simple pastoral scenes before adding, “You show the truth of our people’s lives also. The brushes of the ancient storytellers told tales no less real in their day. When the Dawn-god came down from the mountain in the shape of a unicorn, welcoming our ancestors to this island from distant shores, so it was set down in the scrolls at the village’s founding. Yet those of us who have not walked with gods can speak only to what we have seen.”

The crystal now glowed only at its highest point, as the sun sank lower outside the cave’s front wall. Riadne watched its light fade, thinking of gods and legends, and wondering how far she could trust what her own senses told her.

She went back outside with Hulda, kneeling to crawl through the tiny doorway and then walking through the tunnel formed by the pine trees. For once there was no wind on the mountain’s high slopes. The afternoon sun felt pleasantly warm on this early spring day. Riadne pushed up her sleeves, enjoying the warmth. Hulda looked at her hands, work-roughened and crisscrossed with pale scars, some of which extended over her wrists and up onto her forearms.

“Those scars should have been mine.” Hulda spoke quietly, gazing down upon the low clouds that almost always covered the forest. “But I couldn’t bear the thought of breaking the urns. When Awiyan told me that you went to get the scrolls, I left the village with the others, instead of going to the temple as I should have done. I failed to carry out my duty. After that, ashamed of my failure, I gave you no help in your tasks here.”

Riadne let her sleeves fall, covering most of the scars. The hem of each sleeve of her cloak had been embroidered in blue with a border of interlocking circles, a symbol of eternity.

“You have made no accusations against me, in all the months you labored here alone,” Hulda continued, “but we both know this to be true. And it will not be long before my resolve is tested once again, with decisions even more difficult. Eldest Grandmother falters. Her mind and spirit are still strong, but her body is nearly spent. She will not see another Midsummer. Soon the task of protecting the People in these times of danger will fall to me, and I must be ready for it. No matter how hard it may be, when the time comes to act, I shall not fail again. This I vow.”

Hulda glanced back toward the hidden cave before she spoke once more.

“You are the Earth Mother’s priestess now, Riadne.”

Continue to Part Thirteen

Part Eleven: Scout.
Part Ten: Lost.
Part Nine: Mountain.
Part Eight: Forest.
Part Seven: Shards and Dust.
Part Six: Warning.
Part Five: Gifts.
Part Four: Midsummer.
Part Three: Hunters or Hunted.
Part Two: Rehearsal.
Part One: Beauty.

His instructions from the Grandmothers were clear: go to the valley and watch from a safe distance to find out what the settlers were doing there. Then hurry back to the forest, making sure he wasn’t followed. This was a job well suited to a ten-year-old boy, the Grandmothers had assured him, because he was small and quick and therefore not likely to be caught.

Iwai had felt surprised to be chosen for such a task, no matter how well he could do it. After a few hesitant tries, he finally blurted out what was bothering him.

“It was my fault the settlers burned our village, wasn’t it?”

Awiyan, who had been shelling nuts while the senior Grandmothers told Iwai his duties, put her bowl down with a thump as she turned to face him. Iwai looked at his feet, expecting to hear a recital of all his shortcomings. Although she was now his aunt, Awiyan still made him feel nervous with her blunt manner of speaking. But instead of lecturing him, she gave only a simple explanation.

“No. They wanted our land. If it had not happened the way it did, it would have happened some other way.”

Later she poured all the nuts from her bowl into a leather pouch for him to carry, along with a generous handful of dried figs and several strips of jerky, telling him that a growing boy should not go hungry. Iwai thought it was likely she meant to go hungry herself; but if so, he knew that she couldn’t be talked out of it.

The pouch hung at his side as he came closer to the valley. It was much lighter now; he’d eaten half its contents before he even set out. Soon the site where the village had once stood came into view. Iwai took up a position next to a fire-blackened tree, peering out from behind it.

Several solidly built log houses now occupied the space where the villagers’ huts had been. Ruts and hoofprints clearly showed where oxen had dragged the logs across the bare ground. Another building, considerably larger, overlooked the valley. Its windows were narrow slots that bristled with long metal cylinders. Iwai stared at them for some time before he realized that they were weapons like the thunder-sticks that the settlers carried, but bigger and more powerful.

Saplings had been planted on both sides of the valley. They all seemed to be of the same two or three varieties, which Iwai didn’t recognize. At a guess, they were fruit-bearing trees from the settlers’ homeland, wherever that might be. In flat places, fields were being plowed. Steeper areas were being terraced and planted with vines.

A settler girl of about Iwai’s age, with thick dark braids dangling from a white bonnet, had been sent to fetch water from the stream. She filled her buckets and stood up with the yoke across her shoulders, glancing in Iwai’s direction as she did so. He shrank back behind the sooty trunk of the tree, which didn’t give much cover to his pale skin. If anyone saw him there, he could run—but did the weapons in the building have enough range to shoot that far?

Stillness, silence, the Grandmothers had told him: be like the rabbit in the shadow of the hawk. He stood motionless and closed his eyes, replaying in his mind all he had seen. The largest building was rectangular and had weapons on all sides. There were four terraces with vines and seven plowed fields, with saplings planted between them. Ten log houses had been built—or was it nine?

Iwai scowled, going over his mental images again, but still unsure of the number. He would take another quick look before he turned to leave, just to make sure he got it right; but he knew that it really didn’t matter. The People wouldn’t be going home any time soon.

Continue to Part Twelve

Part Ten: Lost.
Part Nine: Mountain.
Part Eight: Forest.
Part Seven: Shards and Dust.
Part Six: Warning.
Part Five: Gifts.
Part Four: Midsummer.
Part Three: Hunters or Hunted.
Part Two: Rehearsal.
Part One: Beauty.

“The Gods have left us. We are lost.”

Wiilu sat up. Her mother’s gaunt face came into focus, silhouetted in the dim light from the hearth. A jug stood next to the sullenly burning embers, which hissed and sizzled whenever a drop from the leaking roof struck them.

“Mother, it’s all right. We are all here and safe. Let me bring you a hot cup of the calming brew.”

Now that Awiyan’s night terrors had become chronic, Wiilu made a habit of leaving the jug beside the fire every night. The herbs used in the calming brew were among the few useful things that could be found in abundance in the forest. Maybe the Gods—assuming they existed, as to which Wiilu now had her doubts—had indeed abandoned the villagers to starve. But at least it was possible to drug oneself enough not to think about it.

As Wiilu made her way toward the hearth, Tahu-at sighed, rolled over and went back to snoring. Though he was always polite to his new mother-in-law by day, Tahu-at had shown no interest in soothing her night fears.

Reaching for a cup, Wiilu stepped into a puddle and stifled the curse that was on her lips. No matter how much she and Tahu-at patched the roof with thick bundles of straw, it always found another place to leak. Maybe if the rain would ever stop… but that wasn’t likely to happen any time soon. She hadn’t seen the sun for ages.

If only the People could have stayed in the cozy huts in their old village. Those huts hadn’t leaked, and they hadn’t been full of giant spiders and snakes either. Wiilu had woken one morning, not long ago, to find herself looking an enormous green snake in the eye. Tahu-at, when she poked him enough to wake him up, had grabbed his hunting knife and whacked off the snake’s head, gleefully declaring that they would eat well that night. She had to admit that when they roasted the snake, it tasted better than their usual fare of rat-and-tuber stew. Still, she would have preferred to do without the excitement.

Wiilu put the cup into her mother’s hand and waited by her side until Awiyan drank the hot brew and fell back to sleep. Someone was coughing in another hut nearby, perhaps Eldest Grandmother, whose health had been declining for several months. Or perhaps it was another of the elders; the sudden move into the forest hadn’t been good for any of them. Lilaya’s grandfather had died just three days ago, his body laid to rest in wet ground under moss-draped trees, far from the bones of the People’s ancestors.

Along with the others Wiilu had wept, her rivalry with Lilaya long forgotten. It was hard to believe she had once thought of Lilaya as an enemy because they had disputed who could sing better. She’d had no idea of what an enemy really was.

Returning to the hearth, Wiilu poured herself a cup of the hot brew and drank it all down. Its harsh taste seemed a fair price to rid herself of the harsh thoughts it banished.

Continue to Part Eleven

Part Nine: Mountain.
Part Eight: Forest.
Part Seven: Shards and Dust.
Part Six: Warning.
Part Five: Gifts.
Part Four: Midsummer.
Part Three: Hunters or Hunted.
Part Two: Rehearsal.
Part One: Beauty.

Today the wind was in the east, tasting of snow, although the western sky had some clear patches where the afternoon sun shone brightly. Occasional flurries landed on Riadne’s goatskin cloak, melting almost at once. The cloak and matching boots had been a gift from her father, who had slaughtered the goat and tanned the hide, and from the village women who had lined the cloak warmly with down and had embroidered both it and the boots with symbols of good fortune.

At first she had tried to give them back, protesting that they were too fine for her needs and had taken too much of the villagers’ time away from other needful tasks. And surely there were more important uses to which a goatskin could be put? But the women would have none of that, after she picked up a stick and wrote her concerns in the muddy ground.

“You take too many of our cares upon yourself, Riadne. It is not for you to tell us what we may do with a goatskin or how we may spend our time.” Awiyan spoke with her usual directness, in a tone she might have used to rebuke a young girl for poor scholarship.

Ko-ato, his forehead much more deeply lined than it had been just a few months ago, had spoken in a gentler tone to his daughter as he looked at the pinched, hungry faces of the village women.

“Take the cloak and boots, Riadne. There will be more goatskins.”

She was glad to have them now, up here on the mountain’s heights in the chill of late autumn. Under her left arm she carried a new urn, wrapped in a cloth sack with as much care as if it had been an infant in swaddling clothes. She had painted it with glyphs and images showing the events described on the scrolls sealed inside, along with the dates of their making. Unlike the fanciful creatures of myth that had adorned the urns in the temple, Riadne’s images were simple, realistic scenes of life in the village where she had grown up. All too soon, that life also would seem no more than a myth.

Below a steep rock outcropping, Riadne pressed close to the rough granite wall, shaded by a row of fragrant pines on her other side. Although her path appeared to end in an impenetrable tangle of dead branches, she reached for a smooth branch in the center and lifted the makeshift barrier aside, revealing the cave entrance beyond.

She had searched the mountain for over a month before finding this place. Although it did not have a wide natural doorway like the temple in the valley, its small narrow opening could be kept hidden from the settlers. And it was not for her to object if the Goddess demanded that she enter this new temple upon her knees.

Riadne first put the urn inside and then crawled in after it. A straw mat protected her new cloak from the bare rock. Once inside she could stand and move freely; the cave was more than twice her height, and nearly that wide. She removed the urn from its wrappings and placed it beside the right wall, in a neat row with the others of her making, which now numbered two tens plus one.

The afternoon sunlight streamed into the cave through a long horizontal crack in the granite, high enough on the sheer rock face so that no passers-by could see inside. On the far wall, the light struck a clear crystal formation and blazed far brighter than the candles in the old temple had done. The altar, as Riadne envisioned it, would go directly below the crystal. At present it was only an unformed lump of granite. The Goddess statue, her bright turquoise eyes reflecting the light from the crystal, stood alone on the left side of the cave.

With a hammer and chisel, Riadne set about the task of creating the altar. She was no mason, and the work would be rough; but others who came after her could add the finishing touches. For now, all that mattered was that the work needed to be done.

Continue to Part Ten

Part Eight: Forest.
Part Seven: Shards and Dust.
Part Six: Warning.
Part Five: Gifts.
Part Four: Midsummer.
Part Three: Hunters or Hunted.
Part Two: Rehearsal.
Part One: Beauty.

With an arrow on the string, Tahu-at waited silently in the hope of catching a glimpse of feathers or fur. There wasn’t much else to hunt. The island had no large game other than antelope, which had almost disappeared from the grasslands. It was said that wild goats still roamed the mountain above, but he’d wasted two days searching and had found no trace of them.

In the warm humid forest, he wore nothing but a loincloth. Any other clothing would only get soaked through, and there was no sense wearing out the few shirts and breeches he had. The other tribesmen had been doing the same. By now he’d mostly gotten used to damp leaves touching his bare skin and squishy ground under his feet.

His right arm started to tremble. Lowering his bow, Tahu-at rubbed the puckered scar, getting little relief from the pain that never quite went away. The Healer had told him that the bone was well mended; but his arm ached in this damp climate like the creaky joints of an old woman sitting next to her hut, predicting a storm on the way.

A large black spider crawled over his toes. Tahu-at ignored it. Spiders like that could be found all over the forest and were not venomous. They could even be eaten, if nothing better turned up. In his opinion, the spiders didn’t taste much worse than the mushy tubers that the women dug from the swampy ground near their new village. No matter how many herbs went into the cooking pot, those tubers still tasted like mud.

Some of the goatherds had gotten their beasts safely away and were keeping them penned at the edge of the forest. The goats would make easy pickings in a raid, but so far the settlers had not pursued the People into the murky gloom of their new dwelling-place. Tahu-at suspected that the settlers had a dread of the forest, believing it cursed by whatever strange gods they worshipped. They might well be right about that.

The birds and rats went on making their gleeful racket from unseen perches, as if mocking his efforts to hunt them. A branch swayed above his head, and he caught a glimpse of black fur that soon vanished again. In frustration, he snatched up a rock with his left hand and flung it into the canopy of the nearest tree.

“Curse you!”

Tahu-at wasn’t sure if he meant the tree itself, or the elusive prey in the branches, or the forest in its entirety. His voice carried only a short distance in the heavy air, as if the forest conspired to silence him. Some birds took wing; but by the time Tahu-at raised his bow, their ghostly silhouettes already had disappeared into the fog.

Ah, there, another spot of black fur was showing through the leaves. Taking careful aim, Tahu-at let an arrow fly. But his right arm started trembling again just as he took the shot, and he missed by several handsbreadth. The rat leaped for another branch and was lost from sight once more.

The ill-fated arrow fell toward the ground in a wide arc, barely disturbing the wet heavy leaves through which it passed, as if both the arrow and its owner had become insubstantial in the forest. Tahu-at heard no sound when it finally struck the earth.

Part Nine will be posted next Wednesday.

Part Seven: Shards and Dust.
Part Six: Warning.
Part Five: Gifts.
Part Four: Midsummer.
Part Three: Hunters or Hunted.
Part Two: Rehearsal.
Part One: Beauty.

When Riadne entered the village, everyone was gathering in the central clearing where the Midsummer festivities had been held. She passed Awiyan, who was bent almost double under the weight of several bags and baskets of food. Eldest Grandmother, leaning heavily on her walking stick and holding Awiyan’s arm, carried a much lighter bag of clothing across her stooped shoulders.

Riadne held up her sacks and pointed toward the temple.

“Yes, get the scrolls.” Awiyan looked at Riadne for no more than a moment before turning to give instructions to another young woman who had a group of wailing children in her charge.

Ducking her head to go through the low doorway, Riadne took a breath of fragrant air. Candles surrounded by red and white rose petals occupied both ends of a natural stone ledge at the far end of the cave, which served as the altar. The Goddess icon, big-breasted and pregnant, had the central place of honor. Sculpted of creamy marble and about the size of Riadne’s two hands, the Goddess gazed out from the altar with bright eyes of turquoise.

Adobe tiles in warm earth tones lined the path from the doorway to the altar. In long rows on both sides stood the urns that held the entire recorded history of the People. Each one had been painted with detailed scenes from the ancient stories, along with glyphs identifying the date and contents of each scroll inside. The urns were tightly sealed to protect the goatskin parchment.

When she had been a child tasked with dusting the urns, Riadne often had run her fingers over the ancient markings, daydreaming that she might be transported by the scrolls’ magic to a long-ago time of myth when the Gods walked the earth hand-in-hand with the People. She had rarely seen the actual scrolls themselves, which could be taken out only by the Grandmothers and only on certain occasions, after an elaborate unsealing ceremony.

For the last time, Riadne fell to her knees beside the altar and reached to touch the cool, smooth surface of the nearest urn. She closed her eyes and said a brief prayer in her thoughts, asking the Goddess to forgive her for what she was about to do. She had no choice; carrying the urns herself was impossible, the other villagers could not be expected to carry them instead of food and clothing, and there was no time to unseal them properly. Even if there had been enough time, anything left intact would only become loot for the settlers.

Riadne got to her feet slowly, trying to clear her thoughts of everything but the task before her. Then she picked up the urn with both hands and smashed it against the stone ledge. The violence of the sound was multiplied as it echoed from the walls of the cave. As the parchment fell out, Riadne grabbed it, heedless of the rough edges of the shards as they fell away. She went down the first line of urns, methodically breaking open each one and filling a sack with the scrolls.

Soon the air smelled of clay dust instead of rose petals. Everything looked hazy now, as Riadne’s tears ran down her face unchecked to fall on her hands, stinging the cuts made by the shards. The air grew darker and harder to breathe, tasting of failure and the end of days. Only then did she realize that smoke was coming into the cave.

Nothing could be heard from outside, and she had no time to go and look; there was still another row of urns. Tearing a strip of cloth from the last empty sack, which was one more than she needed to carry the scrolls, Riadne tied it around her nose and mouth to filter the air. She broke the remaining urns and gathered up their contents. Then she carefully lifted the Goddess icon from the altar and put it into the sack that had the most space. She made her way outside along the path of adobe tiles, now covered with shards and dust.

The hillside where the women had picked berries that morning was now engulfed in flames, sweeping downward on a brisk wind. At this time of year, the stream at the bottom of the valley was at its narrowest and was not much of a firebreak. Already burning leaves and twigs had blown across the water, and the thatched roofs of the villagers’ huts were aflame on both sides of the stream. The smoke made it hard to see much else; but even if she had not heard a child’s cry in the distance, Riadne would have known the way. There was only one place where the People could go—upstream, into the fog-shrouded rainforest that surrounded the volcanic mountain at the island’s center.

Continue to Part Eight

Part Six: Warning.
Part Five: Gifts.
Part Four: Midsummer.
Part Three: Hunters or Hunted.
Part Two: Rehearsal.
Part One: Beauty.

A breeze blew down the slope, giving her some relief from the heat. It carried the sound of men’s voices: the low tones of settlers’ speech, not the whistled language of the People. Usually the settlers did not come this close to the village. There was a strange smell she couldn’t identify. Putting down her basket, Wiilu followed a narrow and twisting path upward, hidden from view by thick shrubs and trees.

She parted the branches cautiously and found herself looking at a brown ox, which stood hitched to a cart loaded with barrels. Men had taken some of the barrels and were pouring a thick dark liquid along the edge of the valley. That seemed to be where the strange smell was coming from: some sort of oil, or maybe paint. Did they want to mark a boundary-line, with the villagers in the valley and the settlers outside? No, that couldn’t be right; surely it would wash away with the next rain.

Feeling confused, Wiilu turned around, intending to go back the way she had come. That was when she saw, through a gap in the trees, the large group of settlers on the other side of the valley. She counted them on her fingers: three tens, at least. Sunlight glinted from the thunder-sticks they carried. Instead of entering the valley, the settlers were standing in a line just outside it, as if waiting. But for what?

The Grandmothers would know; they always had answers for everything. Wiilu ran back down the path, almost colliding with Riadne when she came out into the grassy clearing where she had picked berries. The goatherd’s daughter, staring with wide distraught eyes, caught Wiilu by the sleeve and made sure that she had stopped before reaching down to pluck some grass.

Riadne held out her left hand, palm up, and arranged the grass on it. Two pieces at the bottom were almost horizontal, crossing one another. Above them were three vertical lines, the central one longer than the others. It was the glyph for “fire.”

At once, Wiilu turned to look all around the clearing. A fire in the dry season would be devastating, with the wind blowing toward the village as it was now. Everything looked the same as it had earlier, though, and she heard no unusual sounds. The birds were still chirping and the insects buzzing. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, except for the smell of oil from above, which had grown stronger.

Oil was something that could burn. Was that what Riadne meant—that if the settlers weren’t careful, they might accidentally set the valley on fire? Or—could Riadne mean that the settlers wanted to use the oil to start a fire, so that they could burn the village and take the valley for their own use? If so, there was no one to stop them. The People were not warriors—they’d had no enemies on their island before the settlers came; and most of the men were out hunting or tending their goats, as usual.

Wiilu had once seen a wildfire that burned for days, forcing antelope and other animals to run before it. The tribesmen had taken full advantage of that hunting opportunity, waiting with their bows and spears for their disoriented prey to stumble out of the smoke.

Just like those settlers waiting in a line with their thunder-sticks on the other side of the valley.

“Do you mean… they’re going to start a fire, to burn us out?”

Riadne gestured agreement and, dropping the grass, beckoned for Wiilu to follow her. Wiilu did her best to keep up with Riadne’s longer strides as they ran, only one thought in mind: Was there enough time to give warning and to get everyone safely away from the village?

Continue to Part Seven

Part Five: Gifts.
Part Four: Midsummer.
Part Three: Hunters or Hunted.
Part Two: Rehearsal.
Part One: Beauty.

“My mother has been having bad dreams,” Wiilu told him, as he stood under a fig tree waiting for Awiyan. “Eldest Grandmother says that they are true visions and that she must pray in the temple. I don’t know what they are about, exactly. Something bad that’s going to happen to the village.”

“Old women’s foolishness.” Tahu-at shrugged, only to wish he hadn’t when the motion sent a twinge through his arm. The Healer had assured him that all looked well and that he should have full use of it; he was only eighteen and thus young enough to heal quickly and without lasting harm. But the bone was still mending, and any sudden movement or jostling caused him pain. He consoled himself with the thought that the settler he’d shot was probably in worse shape, if not dead.

“She really does have visions,” Wiilu insisted. “That’s why the Grandmothers chose her to become one of them. She is especially close to the Gods.”

Though unconvinced, Tahu-at decided to let this pass. After all, it wouldn’t be sensible to get into an argument with his future bride about her mother while he was waiting to ask her mother’s consent to the marriage. He glanced down at the sacks of bride-gifts he had brought: rabbit pelts, dried meat, antelope horns, shells strung on cords, and an assortment of bright feathers. Bride-gifts showed a suitor’s willingness to care for his mother-in-law in her old age, just as her daughter would do.

“She will like the feathers,” he said, to change the subject. “I brought many kinds that the Grandmothers use in their ceremonies.”

“If she says yes.” Wiilu paced in anxious circles, her sandaled feet sending up little puffs of dust in the dry heat of the afternoon. “But I don’t know what she will say. Because of her visions, she sometimes gets so distracted that it’s almost as if she is not really here. And when I try to speak with her about my future, all I see in her face is a look of sadness.”

Tahu-at frowned. “Surely she can’t believe I’m that bad.”

“No, it’s not about you at all, I think, but…”

“Hush, here she comes now.”

After spending most of the day in prayer and fasting inside the dimly lit temple, Awiyan had her eyes half-closed against the sunlight. She did not even notice Tahu-at until she was about to walk past him.

“Honored one, may I respectfully ask your favor?” Tahu-at had been rehearsing his words in his mind all morning; but he still felt awkward asking Awiyan, in the formal phrasing that custom demanded, for permission to marry her daughter. He managed to get through it without stumbling over any of his sentences or dropping any of the gifts that he held up for her inspection.

Awiyan gazed toward him without making eye contact, as if her focus might be on something else beyond him. After a long silence, she finally spoke.

“In ordinary times, I would not find you worthy. You are hotheaded and show little respect for our customs. You keep secrets from the Grandmothers. You have endangered the People with your lack of caution, foresight, and candor.”

Tahu-at kept his head down and did his best to appear meek and chastened. Although he privately thought that Awiyan was not being at all fair, he knew better than to argue.

“But these are not ordinary times,” Awiyan continued. She glanced from Tahu-at to Wiilu, who had been standing silently beside him. Then she took her daughter’s hand and put it into his, the traditional gesture of acceptance.

Because Awiyan had an encyclopedic memory of the People’s customs, Tahu-at fully expected to receive the formal—and notoriously lengthy—blessing given by a mother to a future son-in-law. Although he was not superstitious about the need for such things, he knew that Awiyan took them very seriously. He was much surprised when, instead, she spoke only one terse sentence.

“Be kind to my daughter, for as long as we have left.”

Continue to Part Six

Part Four: Midsummer.
Part Three: Hunters or Hunted.
Part Two: Rehearsal.
Part One: Beauty.

As the day progressed, she almost convinced herself that it had been no more than a dream. The village looked much as it always did, with everyone bustling about on this Midsummer feastday. A goat had been slaughtered at first light, its heart and head given in offering to the Gods. The remaining meat had been set to roasting, with a boy—Iwai—turning the spit.

This task had fallen to Iwai not as the feastday honor he thought it was, but chiefly to keep him out of trouble. One of the Grandmothers had overheard him telling the other children a preposterous story about killing four settlers. In this version of events, Tahu-at had fought back bravely after being shot several times from ambush with thunder-sticks, and the large bruise on Iwai’s shoulder came from fighting a settler twice his size.

Tahu-at, helping to set up the ceremonial grounds as best he could with his right arm splinted and in a sling, had explained away the injuries by saying that he and his brother took a tumble down a steep and rocky ravine. Awiyan found that story just as unlikely. Perhaps the Healer knew the truth of it; but the Healer’s oath to her God bound her, like all others who shared her calling, not to speak of things learned in confidence.

Several hours into the feasting and dancing, a crescent moon rose in a clear sky. Wiilu and Lilaya came forward in turn, both adorned with ceremonial beads and bangles, to be presented by Eldest Grandmother as women of the People. Then it was time for Awiyan herself to stand before the villagers in the torchlight, affirming her devotion to the People’s service as she took her place among the leaders.

“And now, we honor a young woman who has proven herself worthy in all respects to guide the People with her wisdom in future years.” Eldest Grandmother saw little with her milky cataract-filled eyes, but her voice was strong and carried easily through the crowd. “This young woman has a deep understanding of our stories and traditions, excels at reading and writing, and always shows good judgment and dedication to her work.”

Wiilu leaned forward eagerly, her green eyes wide and sparkling. A few paces away, Lilaya bit her fingernails until her mother gave her a sharp rap across the knuckles. The villagers, crowding closer, waited in expectant silence for Eldest Grandmother to speak the name of the one Chosen.

“Riadne.”

As the goatherd’s daughter stepped forward amidst the murmurs of the crowd, Wiilu scowled, while Lilaya hung her head and looked almost ready to cry. Riadne inclined her head respectfully toward the Grandmothers and then turned to face the audience.

At this point in the ceremony, a flawless performance of the ritual song would invoke the Gods’ favor. Although Riadne could not sing it because of her cleft lip, Eldest Grandmother herself took up the song, while Riadne began a graceful dance. Where the song spoke of the moon and stars, Riadne gazed skyward, raising her arms above her head. To show the rain that brought water and growing things to the Earth, she moved her fingers like falling raindrops. After a lifetime of using gestures to communicate, she performed the dance as easily and naturally as if having a conversation.

Wiilu managed to get through the festivities without losing her temper, much to Awiyan’s relief. When they left the ceremonial grounds late into the night, she made clear how much she felt slighted.

“It’s not fair.”

“Riadne was in her first year of womanhood. She was just as eligible to be Chosen as you were.”

“But, but,” Wiilu spluttered before getting to the main point of her objection, “she can’t even sing!”

“That does not matter. The Eternal Song flows through Riadne as it does through all of Creation. She sings in her own way.”

Wiilu opened her mouth as if to say more, but then looked down at the ground and scuffled her feet before finally admitting, “I don’t understand.”

Awiyan’s voice was gentle. “That, too, is all right. You will find your own way, as well.”

Continue to Part Five

Part Three: Hunters or Hunted.
Part Two: Rehearsal.
Part One: Beauty.

So far today the snares all had been empty, as he made the rounds with his brother Iwai. A talkative child of almost ten years, with sandy hair falling to his shoulders in tangled locks that much needed combing, Iwai was thinner than Tahu-at would have liked. Many of the People went hungry these days, while the settlers prospered with their fat herds and fishing boats.

Tahu-at plucked a few blades of grass and chewed them slowly. Their bitter taste distracted him from both his empty stomach and his resentful thoughts. Over the next rise, there would be another snare. Surely it was not too much to ask the God of the Hunt that there might be a rabbit in it. A nice fat rabbit, just right for stewing with some dried roots and spring greens…

He saw it clearly as he climbed higher. Exactly as he had pictured it in his mind, a large rabbit dangled in the branches of the olive tree where he had set his snare. His steps quickened, cresting the rise; and then he saw the settlers standing near the tree.

There were four of them, big brawny men with dark hair and close-cropped beards. Speaking among themselves in the alien language that sounded to Tahu-at like a pack of wild dogs snarling, they gestured to one another while looking up at the rabbit. Then one of them stepped toward it, making ready to cut it down.

“They’re stealing our rabbit!” Iwai’s high voice piped indignantly. “Thieves! And they don’t even need it, with all their sheep, and the strange crops they plant on the land they take from us…”

“Hush, they’ll hear you.” As Tahu-at spoke, he could still taste the bitter residue of the grass he had chewed. “It’s only a rabbit. We’ll find another.”

“If you’re too much of a coward to tell them to give it back, I will!”

Before Tahu-at could grab him, Iwai had taken off running toward the settlers. There was no doubt they saw him now, as they pointed and laughed. The man who had been about to take the rabbit turned instead to face Iwai, as the boy came nearer. He scratched his chin while listening to the boy’s words, which of course he could not understand, before taking a quick step forward. Then he seized Iwai by the shoulder, picking him up at arm’s length and shaking him as a dog might toss a rat in its jaws. The other settlers laughed again.

They didn’t look as amused a minute later, when Tahu-at had his bow in his hands and an arrow aimed at his brother’s captor. Iwai struggled and kicked, but to no avail. Another man raised a weapon, pointing it at Tahu-at. It was the settlers’ most feared weapon, the thunder-stick that could throw shot faster and farther than any sling. Tahu-at pivoted, sending his arrow at the armed settler. The thunder-stick fired at the same moment. Tahu-at felt a sharp pain in his right arm just as the settler crumpled with the arrow in his chest, dropping the alien weapon into the tall grass.

Iwai turned his head and sank his teeth deeply into the hand of the man holding him. With a yelp that sounded as much of surprise as hurt, the settler loosened his grip just enough for the boy to wriggle free. Iwai pelted back toward his brother, and both of them fled back down the hill they had just climbed.

There was a ravine not far away, thick with brush and trees that could hide them. Tahu-at flung himself down its steep slope, grabbing at branches with his left arm for balance, heedless of thorns. The right hung uselessly at his side, most likely with a broken bone. He could not look at it now.

Iwai, who had gotten several steps ahead of him, paused to look back. “You’re hurt, you’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing. Keep going.”

The brothers made their way along the ravine, pushing their way through the heavy brush, until the distance and the silence made it plain they were not being pursued. Only then did Tahu-at stop to let Iwai bandage his arm with strips of coarse cloth torn from his shirt. He would have to think of some explanation for his injury before they returned to the village. The Grandmothers always warned against trying to fight the settlers; and they would surely be displeased if they knew the truth of the matter, even though he had been left with no choice.

Continue to Part Four

Part Two: Rehearsal.
Part One: Beauty.

That was, rather, how it was supposed to go. But as she reached the high notes that represented the loving Moon gazing down from the midsummer sky, Wiilu thought instead about how much better she sang this part than her rival Lilaya. Both girls would celebrate their coming-of-age on Midsummer Night, now less than a month away. They would not, however, both begin the many years of training that prepared a woman to sit on the ruling council of the Grandmothers. Only one young woman, every two years, was found worthy to be a future leader of the People.

Wiilu had the advantage because her mother, Awiyan, had been Chosen. Although the leaders of the People did not inherit their positions, more often than not they came from the same families. By tradition, a Chosen woman took her place as a Grandmother when her eldest daughter came of age.

After she finished the song and stood in silence for a moment with her hands clasped as the ritual demanded, Wiilu glanced over at her mother. Sitting beside their hut in a wicker chair, with strands of graying hair escaping from a slightly askew headband, Awiyan did not look up from the elaborate dress that she was decorating with beads and feathers for the ceremony.

“How did I do this time?”

Taking another careful stitch to secure a long white gull’s feather, Awiyan did not answer. The setting sun behind her chair framed a face that might almost have belonged to a bird, with her long beaked nose and sharp focused gaze.

Wiilu tried again. “Don’t you think I sing much better than Lilaya?”

The brightly embellished dress, which had been held up to the sunlight, now sank down into Awiyan’s lap. Raising her head to meet her daughter’s gaze, she blinked in what appeared to be momentary confusion.

“You weren’t even listening!” Wiilu accused.

Awiyan’s blue-green eyes finally met those of her daughter. “You sing passably.”

Just in time to stifle the exasperated sigh that would have been her response, Wiilu reminded herself that she would be judged in part on her demeanor. Choosing a future leader was not simply a matter of how well she could sing, read, or recite the ancient stories—as to all of which, Wiilu thought smugly, the screeching half-literate Lilaya didn’t stand a chance.

“One who wishes to be a leader must cultivate humility and respect, not only in her singing, but also in how she relates to those around her.” Awiyan did not raise her voice, but the rebuke was plain nonetheless. “You have done enough singing for today. Now, go and fetch some water for Eldest Grandmother.”

This usually was a task given to a younger girl, but Wiilu knew better than to complain about it. She consoled herself with the thought that she would be of age in less than a month, and Chosen. Then she wouldn’t have to fetch and carry for anyone.

Continue to Part Three

Part One: Beauty.