102. Claim

I woke in sunlight, resting in a hammock-like split of two branches of a Nyossa tree.

The moss growing on the bark was like a bed beneath me.

The leaves above me allowed just enough sun in to see, but kept out enough so that, on the floor of the forest, the phosphorescent moss still glowed in the shadows.

I was resting in a daydream of dark green, pale blue and yellow, the scent of clematis and other growth soothing me.

I looked down at my left hand and saw that it was still attached to my wrist.

I was dead and resting in Nyossa.

“Does Tintar hold?”

I asked aloud, looking around me.

There was no answer and then I remembered that I could no longer commune with her.

Then, through the twitter of birdsong, the scuttle and slither of lizards in grasses, the soft pad of a fox or cat, I heard a voice from below me, on the forest floor.

I looked down to see a man kneeling at the roots of my tree.

Ferns folded over his frame and I thought it could be Alric, but it was too far down to see.

I could not make out what he said but it was a repetition.

I called out, but the figure did not move.

Then, a second voice came through, one that I could understand.

Squinting, I saw it was Mischa standing at the roots of the tree, a sour look on her face.

“You idiot,”

she said, glaring up at me.

“You never thought about what it would do to us to lose you.

You just went ahead and did it.

You godsdamn idiot, Edie.”

She wiped at her eyes with a jerky motion of her hand.

“I’m sorry,”

I said as loudly as I could from my tree bed, looking down.

But she walked away as if she did not hear me.

“Mischa, come back,” I cried.

She stepped into one of the crevices in between trees and disappeared.

Out from another crevice, stepped my niece, eyes puffy from tears.

She stood under my tree and sang me a song I had sung to her when she was a girl.

Then she left.

From a third crevice, Hazel emerged, hands over her heart.

She thanked me profusely, over and over, saying she would never let our country forget me.

She left too.

Bronwyn and Eefa peeked out through the trees, baby Winger asleep in Eefa’s arms.

They talked in worried voices and soon faded from my sight.

River and Catrin also came out of the woods, tearful and thankful and they also left.

Quinn walked into the small area at the roots of my new roost and looked up at me, not speaking, but she stood close enough, her feet planted next to the praying man and put her hand on the trunk.

And then she said, “you showed those bastards, didn’t you?”

And she left.

Next came Thalia and she sat on a knobby root from a tree nearby.

There was a sad smile on her old face.

“How did you figure it out? Tintarian earth worshippers have all dabbled in summoning the stone drakes, but no one ever interpreted the old texts correctly except Gareth.

But even he could not manage it and he, no offense, dear lady, was thrice the wielder of magic that you are.

Please, wake up so you can tell me.

I am fascinated.”

And then she put her hand over her mouth and shut her eyes.

“Wake up, woman.

Your country wants to thank you, not mourn you.

Gods, this hurts to watch.”

And she looked down at the praying man before she left for the thick of Nyossa.

I called down to all of them, but none of them could hear me.

Others came, a solemn Prince Peregrine thanking me for my sacrifice.

Yro and Bamber accompanied Thalia on a second visit and said prayers in an old Tintarian dialect I could not comprehend.

Zinnia and Beryl accompanied Hazel on another visit, setting bundles of flowers in tin pitchers next to the roots.

All four of my brothers-in-law visited the tree but they seemed more concerned with the kneeling man.

Procurers came, one by one, offering me their gratitude but again, like the Angler brothers, were more concerned with the kneeling figure, who I knew to be Alric.

But he never sat up and conversed with any of the figures.

Thatcher sat on the same eroded root Thalia had sat upon and told me he was grateful to me, that his child would live and be born in Pikestully, a free babe, not a refugee born in a ditch to a mother on the run for her life.

He told me he worried for his brother.

King Hinnom, attempting to disguise his satisfaction at the might of the drakes, told me that because of the display in the sea, offers of peace had already come from Ruskar and Perpatane.

He believed every country, city-state and settlement on the continent would soon follow, even Tintar’s old enemy, the Helmsmen clans.

Not one would want to ever tangle with the magic of Tintar.

Finally, Helena came.

Her eyes were dry.

Her manner was full of love for me.

“I am angry with you, Edie,”

she said but she was using a tone of charity.

She sighed.

“You have to wake up because I want to name this child after you and I do not want you to be a story I tell her.

I do not want her to live her life without her aunt being in it.

You have to wake up.

Wake. Please.”

She crossed her arms and closed her eyes.

“Caleb says he has never seen Alric like this.

They had to drag him to the baths and make him eat something, but he crawled back into this room.

You are in Prince Peregrine’s royal chambers, if you care to know.

He says it is the least he can do as the physicians care for you.

You did not bleed out, but neither have you woken and your body will die without food and water.

Wake up, please! Gods, Edie, I am so mad at you.”

She put a hand over her heart and stumbled back into the woods.

“What do I do?”

I cried into branches around me.

“They cannot hear me.”

Only birds replied.

I closed my eyes.

“I know that you cannot talk with me anymore, but I know, I know, you hear me.

I cannot rest in peace if I know everyone is grieving me, hoping for recovery.

Let my spirit depart from whatever hold it has on my body.”

There was a sigh on the breeze.

And, finally, she spoke.

You never ask.

You never ask for life.

You always ask for the smallest portion.

Ask for your return, girl.

Claim your life for once.

Do not bargain with it, the inevitable end of it always in mind.

Ask for the whole of it.

It breaks your goddess’s heart to watch you see it as worthless, as nothing but fodder for sacrifice.

I rested back in my mossy branches and pondered this.

She wanted me to awaken.

Mother Earth wanted me to claim life.

“I thought the sacrifice was my life.”

Was a hand not enough? Also, you spared life.

Yours can be spared.

If you value it.

I stared down at my tattooed hand, knowing it only belonged to me now in this half-life.

“I awaken and the pain will be unfathomable.

It could break me.

And I will lack a left hand.

I will have to live as a one-handed woman.”

This be true.

“It could be… hard.

It could be a harder life.”

But you would live.

“But I would live.”

I closed my eyes.

“I claim the rest of my days, those the fates originally allotted to me.

I claim life.

My life and all that it is.

It is a worthy life.”

I opened my eyes.