Free Spirit Walker by David Farland Page A

drifted downstream, out to sea.
    Suddenly he felt a tug, a push as someone touched it. The bag budged a bit up from the river bottom, and then lifted quickly, as if pulled from the water by many hands.
    Tull gasped for air, but none could pass through the wet leather. He gasped frantically, sucking in the breaths he’d let out, hot and unsatisfying. His head reeled, and sweat formed on his brow.
    Suddenly, light pierced through the darkness, a slit opened. Old Vi stood above him. She had sunk her knife into the bag near his face, and Tull shoved his face forward, sucked the air desperately. Water spilled from the bag, widening the gash in it.
    Tull wriggled out on his belly.
    As Tull lay gasping on the ground, he saw that the bag had a leather rope tied to the top, so that it would not have gone downstream. It was an umbilical cord, binding him to the tribe.
    Now the Pwi circled him, holding burning brands of wood from the fire, so that he could see their faces, and they stood smiling at him. He saw love on their faces, and joy, and remembrance of children born before. His new mother was shedding tears, much as if she had birthed him herself. The woman who had lost her own son beamed proudly, and Tull realized, To her, I am her new son.
    “It is a boy child!” Vi shouted in mock surprise, raising her knife triumphantly. “Very large—the biggest I have ever delivered!”
    The Pwi laughed and cheered.
    With great ceremony Old Vi dragged the leather bag and its towline to the river and heaved it out into the water. “May this cord never be severed!” she cried.
    The Pwi raised their hands and shouted, as if it were a solemn oath.

    Fava was beside herself with joy. She twisted her hands together, holding them so tightly that her knuckles turned white and her nails made half-moon crescents in her palms. If the ceremony had been less solemn, she might have danced her happiness on the shores of Smilodon Bay.
    She was happy for Tull, for he had the family he always wanted. She was happy for the Pwi, who’d gained a strong, new son, and she was happy for herself for the new possibilities of the future. There were so many things to be happy about that Fava was sure one Pwi could not contain it all.
    Surely now that Tull was Tcho-Pwi no more, his heart would unlock itself. He would settle in Pwi Town to live among Pwi neighbors, play with Pwi children, and surely now he would see that he should marry a Pwi, a woman like Fava.
    Fava was so excited that she nearly missed Chaa’s pronouncement.
    “A new boy is born into our family,” Chaa announced, his voice frail and shaken. Everyone quieted to hear the name Chaa would give Tull. The name was very important, a portent of the type of person Tull would become. “I have walked the path of his future, and I shall call him Laschi Chamepar , Path of the Crushed Heart.”
    Fava’s grin fell, and her heart pounded in fear. It was not a formidable name for a Pwi; it was not the name of an animal or plant—like Chaa, the dark crow of magic and wisest of birds; or Fava, the pear, most generous of trees.
    A name should describe the qualities of the person named, or the qualities the person would develop. Tull stared hard at Chaa, and the Spirit Walker’s face was still drawn in horror, even though he tried to remain smiling like a Pwi.
    Then Fava understood: the name described the person Tull would become, a man with a crushed heart.
    The Pwi came forward and hugged Tull, welcomed him into the family, all of them talking at once.
    Fava hugged him, tried to console him. “I have seen you watch Isteria,” she said, pronouncing Wisteria as best she could, “that human girl. Now that you are Pwi, you should look at girls among your own people,” and Tull blushed. By Pwi standards he was obscenely old to be single, as was Fava.
    Twice, Fava knew, Pwi girls had set their belongings on Tull’s doorstep, asking him to marry him in the manner of the Pwi, and he had left the belongings on