4 – 3

My dream brings me back into the depths of the Timberland. I move alone and silent through swaying trees as a driving wind hisses through their autumn-sparse canopies overhead. Fat drops of rain fall hard and fast, making the air cold and wet. Somehow, I'm untouched by both. Somehow, despite moving slowly, I cover a vast distance in the space of an eye blink. I cross rivers without disturbing their waters, summit hills with no effort expended, and pass near animals of all kinds without garnering so much as a twitch.

I'm back in the clearing, the place my family had called home for some time. Their absence leaves it a hollow, empty thing. It was once home. The circle made from days of my practice and Mother's instruction, stamped into the thick grass by hundreds of repetitions, is gone. The tracks our wagon rolled into the earth with its laden wheels are gone. The stretch of naked bushes, splintered branches, and shortened grass that our mules, Soulful and Doleful, created is gone. It's a place untouched by us, as if we were never there at all. As if we never were at all.

I turn in a slow, swift circle. When it's finished, I'm no longer alone. It's Harlan; old, graying, with as strong and straight a back as ever. He wears his fraying, wide-brimmed hat low over his brow, sheltering his face from the falling snow. It falls in thick, heavy flakes, each one made gray by autumn's late afternoon light. Without hearing a word, I know that he's grumbling about it. Probably something about how much longer it takes to get anywhere in the snow. I grin as I imagine the sour twist of his mouth and downward draw of his brow. When he sees me he pushes the brim of his hat up enough for me to see his face, and the one-eyed squint of a smile he sends my way. “Alright there?”

I laugh and say, “I am! I'm alright.”

He grunts and nods. “Good,” he declares, “S'real good.”

My smile lessens a little as I watch the snow gather on his shoulders and hat, clinging to his bared forearms and streaking across his skin. “Are you well?” I know what he'll say, but concern bids me ask.

“M'always well, Miss Zira,” Harlan says, and before he can say anything else he is gone. Which is just as well, as I was about to call him a liar, and that would have been pleasant for no one. Silence falls once more in the clearing. The falling snow drapes a carpet of ashen gray over the trees, the grass, everything except me. It's good that he's taking care of himself. His antlers looked clean and well polished. A man his age should take pride in that.

Dawn is coming. I can see it rising in the sky; reddened gold like flame and rumbling up from the horizon as it climbs into the sky. Clarke stands next to me, brown eyes bright and lovely, her ink-black hair spotted with thick flakes of smoldering snow. “So, what will you do next?”

The ice at the hollow of her throat burns like a star. I don't want to lie to her. I want to impress her. I want something, and it grows stronger the more I look at her. Her hand is warm at my shoulder, its weight as reassuring as it is distracting. “I don't know,” I tell her, and because of the way she's looking at me I say it again, “I...I don't know.”

“You will,” she says, belief – no, faith – strong in her voice. My arms feel heavy and useless as that flutter once more takes up residence in my belly. I feel the touch of the cold wind, balanced by her warmth and that of the blanketing snow. I shake my head in doubt. “You will,” she says again, except it's not her voice. It's not her hand on my shoulder.

It's the elk.

He stands as a man, bare and barrel-chested with broad shoulders. His legs are furred in brown, ending with hooves, and his skin is marked with moss-green whorls and spirals. The hand on my shoulder is his, its nails pointed and blackly gleaming like the talons of a diving hawk. Pain wells from where they dig into my skin, but no blood. His face is fierce and beautiful, eyes blazing. Blinding. “You must,” he commands.

“Why?” I ask. Dawn is risen, bringing with it the roar of the sun as She climbs into a sky made gray by ashen clouds. The snow falls thicker, hotter, each flake edged in a burning-red reflection of the light.

“It is time,” says the elk, “You must awaken, and swiftly! Trust your heart, keep sharp your eyes, and let nothing be assumed!” Dawn is here. It floods between the trees and withers them to blackened sticks. The grass shrivels and the cold flashes to heat. “Now!” he cries, “Awaken! Awaken!”

I open my eyes. The clearing is gone. The light, and the roar, remains.

- - -

The waterfront burns.

When I was young, and very little, I saw a fire burn unchecked for the first time. My family traveled the Grasslands in those days, following the gentle rise and fall of its endless plains of amber grass. I remember how vast they seemed, even endless, stretching away forever in all directions beneath a sky sprawling unbroken to the horizon. This was long ago, when Djan was a baby and Tals not yet born.

He was a restless, uncooperative baby. There were times when the only thing that could calm him was Mother's singing, and times when nothing at all would. When that happened, and her mood would begin to unravel at the seams, I would climb up to sit with Father as he drove our wagon onward. That day was of those second times, and I spent half an afternoon leaning against Father's side as the mules whined and the road rolled away beneath our wheels.

I must have fallen asleep, for my next clearest memory is of being gently shaken into waking. It was darker now, and colder; the sun having all but finished Her descent into night behind us. I remember a feeling of profound confusion. How could the sun be in two places at once? I felt Her warmth on my back, and could look over shoulder to see Her setting, but also could see Her light as She rose in front of us.

Then my nose filled with the heated, stinging burn of ash and smoke. My ears, with a dull and distant roar. I had never seen an unchecked flame before, yet without being able to name it I knew it was something to fear. “What's that?” I remember asking.

It was Mother who answered me. She had climbed up to join us at some point, Djan in a sling around her chest and for once asleep. It was her hand on my shoulder and she who must have shaken me awake. “Kels,” she said, and the way her voice tightened with urgency filled me even more with fear.

“What is it?” I had asked again, “What's happening?”

Again, I was ignored. Father's narrow-eyed glare didn't move away from the burn in front of us. His jaw was tight, his shoulders tense. When he answered Mother, his voice had been full of forced calm. “I know.”

“We're too close,” Mother said. She drew me to her side and held me tight around my shoulders. I wrapped my arms around her middle.

“I know,” Father said again. “We should be alright. The wind's died down. Once the mules settle enough they won't break their harnesses, we'll move on. We'll be alright.”

None of us made a sound for the entirety of that tense, worrisome wait. My throat burned from the smoke of that distant fire. I smothered every cough that tried to wrestle free. When it became clear that the mules weren't settling, Father dismounted and went to them. He spoke to them, gentle and quiet words, and led them by their halters to turn the wagon away from the unchecked burn. He walked with them for hours, until their fearful noises ceased. Djan, for once being cooperative, slept through the whole thing.

We had been miles away from that flame.

I'm less than one hundred feet from this one.

I can't look away. The burn is so, so bright that it hurts to look at. In my horrified awe, I can't look away. Thick pillars of flame rise from where the fishing boats, filled with nets, traps, and lines, char in their berths. The piers are gnarled, withered skeletons of what I, Clarke, and so many others walked just yesterday. The burn moves in lashing tongues, licking obscenely at the dry, wooden walls. Towards the fishery and its huge warehouse. Towards the Rest Luxuriant, where I am. Towards Valdenwood, where it will feast and feast until there is nothing left for it to eat.

The smoke is so thick in the air that it blackens out the sky. I can taste it on my tongue, even separated by a wall and closed window as I am. I'm shaking. Tears spill from my aching eyes. How did this happen? How could this happen?! The dull and howling roar of the gluttonous burn deafens me and fills my mind. I have to get away. Where and how doesn't matter, I have to get away! I dress, quick as I can, and then I see them.

There are people down there. Running, not away from the fire, but towards it. Enough of them to compare favorably to the crowded streets of Market Day run headlong to their doom. They're mad, or so full of despair that they seek to throw themselves in and be done with it. They can't mean to fight it, can they? There's no fighting it. It can only be fled. I see the buckets they hold, each one sloshing with water, slopping it heedlessly on themselves as they rush to throw it not on the flames, but on the buildings.

What are they doing? Someone strides into view, standing tall beneath the wide, fraying brim of his woven hat. This old, graying man catches people by the shoulder as they pass him by and points them in turn towards the advancing burn or the dampening buildings. Under his direction, this mad, foolish attempt at firefighting takes shape. I can't run. The certainty of it ties a knot in my throat, thorny and obstructive.

I can't. The man's face is hidden beneath his hat and covered by a scarf. I see its fraying ends draped over his sturdy shoulders. I wonder if he ever saw to the ache that had bothered him on the way here.

Harlan is my friend. I can't run when he needs my help. I take a deep breath, curl my shaking hands into fists, and go out into the storm.