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the
other side. But Zanja was the last of her people and so she had to tell those
stories of her life to herself. This must be what the god wanted of her.
ôWhere shall I start?ö she asked.
ôStart where it begins,ö said Death.
So she began with her earliest memories of the clattering looms and the light
drifting in to make the patterns shine as they were slowly revealed on the
weaverÆs loom. She explained that her mother had been a weaver, and had been
sorely disappointed when her daughter left the weaverÆs house as soon as she
could walk on her own two feet, to return only by force. She told about the
first time she realized the elders were watching her, the first time she
understood that she was not like other children, the first time she and
Ransel
became friends in the midst of a desperate fistfight. As the night cracked
with
cold and her heart failed in her chest and her flesh moldered in the straw,
she
told Death all she knew: all that once had mattered, all that shaped her and
now
left her, like trash tossed into a midden heap to be eaten by worms.
When Karis awoke in the winter woods, it was still dark, and the stars were
falling. They briefly flared and then were quenched, their spectacular
suicides
watched, surely, by none but her, for even the poorest people of the earth
would
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have found some kind of shelter from this bitter night. Stiff hair prickled
against her face. For warmth, she had curled against the belly of a shaggy
gray
plow horse. When she lay down to sleep, she apparently had not concerned
herself
with the danger that she might be smothered by her gigantic bedfellow.
Stupidity, or daring, or innocence, she never knew what to call the peculiar
logic of herself under smoke.
She got clumsily to her knees in a loud crackling of frost. The horse lifted
his
huge head and yawned, ground his teeth, then snorted wetly. They had made
their
bed in the undergrowth at the edge of a wood, where the snow had largely
collected overhead rather than on the ground. That had been sensible of them,
though most of the sense had probably come from the horse.
Karis tried to stand up, but staggered to her knees again. The horse
blundered
to his feet, dislodging a sudden avalanche of snow from overhead. He nosed
her
encouragingly. ôSmoke,ö Karis explained. ôBut never graceful. No more than
you.ö
With the help of a slender tree trunk, she hauled herself upright. Despair
was
always worst in the morning; she fended it off with curses and eventually was
able to drag her ungainly body onto the horseÆs back. Stung by her urgency,
the
horse jumped forward. She clung to him grimly, angry at her weakness, angry
at
the irresistible impulse that drove her out on this insane foolÆs errand,
angry
at the bitter poverty of spirit from which her anger came. This dark and
frigid
morning, where dawn seemed unlikely ever to break, did not bode well at all
for
the day that lay ahead.
ZanjaÆs voice gave out. In the bitter cold, the god stood sentinel, silent
long
after she had ceased to weep. When she turned her head, the straw crackled
where
her tears had frozen. A hush had fallen, and she saw the faint shimmer of
snowfall outside the window.
ZanjaÆs story was nearly done, and soon Lord Death would let her go free. She
continued, ôI donÆt know why the Sainnites didnÆt kill me. When they reached
their garrison, it seems they were disgraced. Perhaps, in the confusion,
orders
were bungled, papers were mislaid. Perhaps they simply wanted to get me out
of
their sight. I donÆt know how, but somehow I ended up here.ö
ôHa!ö said the god.
ôSo I did not set out to cheat you. HavenÆt I spent my days in pleading with
the
gods to allow me to die? I am tortured even in my dreams. I walk the path to
my
village and I see it filled with my people. Ransel is there waiting for me.
How
will I explain my long delay?ô The raven seemed to shrug, and Zanja was
tempted
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to grab hold of him and twist his neck until the backbone popped, just to let
him know what paralysis was like. She could no longer take deep breaths to
calm
herself. The god moved cautiously out of reach. Zanja spoke, her voice
shaking.
öYou bid me die in joy rather than in despair, but the only joy I can imagine
is
to walk down that path, to enter the Land of the Sun and be free of this
body,
this prison. Is that too much to ask?ô
The god said, ôYou ask not for too much, but for too little.ö
ôWhat?ö Zanja peered into the shadows at the black shape of the raven, who
she
suddenly remembered was a trickster. ôI am too stupid for riddles.ö
ôIt is no riddle, but a choice. Do you choose to die?ö
She stared at him. Her heartbeat sputtered like a candle about to go out. In
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