*Poisoned Wells is BACK! I would love to say that we return to our story on a happy note, but we find ourselves in the middle of goodbyes. Karfa and Inye have both died in battle. Peter is inconsolable. And Cara finds solace in stories. In this installment, we are solemn as we pay our respects to the Eivyns that have fallen.*
Zejiin happened 3 days after burial. In that time, Eivyn Karfa and Eivyn Inye were bathed, clothed in simple, white garments and placed in the ground with their weapons. The hashmal, Atuine Cauli, who had fought in the dust against the demi-liches, had been the one to collect the rocks and pebbles that were placed atop the fresh dirt. He did this task so that the rest of the earth soldiers could gather and grieve. For three days they cried, whispered, thought of their fallen comrades; they told stories, told Cara of the beginnings: the men and women that they had once called maisan.
Everyone took turns caring for Peter, who slept fitfully in Karfa’s bedroll. At night Cara, ink stained and body sore from longs hours of scribe work, would hold Peter tightly. He would tell his friend stories—not of the earth soldiers, but of simpler tales: of mouse, of the rabbit and lion, of the wise goats of Trelay, of the bear that searched for ingredients for the stew that would make him human.
Cara wasn’t sure if Peter was paying attention, but he hoped that his words would simply seep into his friend so that his dreams would be crowded with curious animals and not of Karfa’s death.
On the third day, Eivyn Meroc and Thea carried Peter to the river to bathe and dress for the last ceremony. Maeve adjusted the white linen shirt and pants she’d made for Cara, her deft fingers making sure not to prick his skin with pins.
At noon they all met by the graves, the women shedding their armor and coming in simple, white dresses. Thea held each boy by the hand, rubbing her thumb against their skin as a way of comfort. When a figure robed in many sheets of thick, black fabric appeared though, Peter let go and ran forward. Death and Peter embraced tightly and Cara watched how gently she wiped the tears off Peter’s face and kissed his temple lightly.
Saravia was no longer pregnant, though the baby was not far off—she was in the arms of Sharu Time, who stood atop the hill, observing blankly the ceremony and the interactions. She winked at the Sharu before turning away.
Holding Peter’s hand, Saravia made her way towards the group, embracing Thea Sun as she had Peter. Then turning to all the women, to the hashmal, to the boys, she said, “I want to hear from all of you. I’ll do my best to ease your grief but I think it’s only right we send Eivyn Karfa and Eivyn Inye to their next destination.”
Motioning everyone to be seated on the ground, she began to give gentle instructions. Breathe. Listen. Keep the weight of the quiet around the body. Throughout, she held Peter’s hand and Cara was grateful for this small kindness. He leaned against Eivyn Mari, who whispered, “Keep your eyes open, scribe. You’ll need to write even this faithfully, and in detail, no?” He nodded and she hugged him so tightly, he was suddenly homesick for his mother. Not the Matriarch but his mother—the woman she was when it was only him and his father watching.
Saravia whispered to the earth and to the sky, to the nearby trees and the animals hidden within the foliage. Only breaths. No more sound. Their world grew still. The clouds paused in their travels and even Time stopped to watch the final rights.
Her song came from the very ground and out of her mouth. The words she sang were dense and shadowy but also of the brightest light the sun could bestow. Her voice sang but Death herself flew. Past the waiting room, past the boats full of souls in travel, and to the gate of the great beyond where Skala Karfa and Tana Inye waited to pass completely.
Anya se rut, amas col nos
Anya se rut, amas cel tu
Co me Sa na, anya se rut
Through it all, the warriors kept their breaths in fluid rhythm with the chants, and wishing that they too could see their fighting kin once more.
Finally, in the distance, a baby’s joyous exclamation signaled the end of the ceremony.
Upon opening her eyes, Saravia grasped Thea’s elbow as she said, “Saën, bul setra?”
Cara had picked up enough of the warrior’s tongue to know she was asking if they wanted her to stay a day. “Yes,” he murmured louder than he intended, making the warriors giggle.
Thea nodded in agreement. “Cara is right in this decision.” She smirked as she added, “Skala did say these boys would outrank me one day.” The thought caused a bittersweet taste for everyone: their companion was not here to say it herself. She was no longer an eivyn. She was free from the burden of waged war. Beyond grief and, hopefully, with her beloved maisan. Without scars. Renewed.
Saravia smiled at those around her. There was mending to be seen to. She looked to Cara for help: “Would you go up to the hill and inform Saudade of my stay?”
“Yes, Lady Death.” He scrambled up and bowed politely. The warriors laughed a bit more openly this time.
“Be polite to Time. He likes being bowed to. I prefer laughter.”
“Yes, my lady.” He headed up the hill. If Saravia could bring the lightness to Peter’s heart again, he would do whatever Death dictated until every ember in the Dali grew cold.
jaedawson 