Free The Feverbird's Claw by Jane Kurtz Page B

He held up a pouch and asked for its name. The whole circle seemed to watch her with one fierce eye. She took a deep breath and said the name, hoping she had pronounced the word close to right. She heard muffled laughter near the back.
    The man held up one thing after another. “This girl says thee wishes to become one of The People. True?”
    â€œTrue.” She looked briefly into his eyes.
    â€œWe ask the fire to give us a sign.” He motioned, and two men took sticks and pulled coals from the fire, a terrible orange-red path dusted with gray. Moralin shrank back. Grandmother had spoken of this barbaric custom, walking on fire. The stories said some survived. Others were badly burned. She could almost smell the stink of her own burning flesh.
    Green Cloak folded his arms. The orange glissim of the coals made her sick with terror.
    She forced herself to breathe calmly. She looked up at the moon, heard the far-off cries of tree animals, a wailing like a weird wind. How many times had Old Tamlin tried to get her to master her fear of high places and climb the wall? “Name your fear,” he would say.
    â€œIt’s a muddy river, pouring through my heart.”
    â€œGo into that river. Turn the mud to solid ground. Climb upon it.”
    She had never been able to go into the river of fear. Could she do it now? She made all her thoughts and feelings go up, up into the whirling in her head. Slowly she made the waves and trickles stop. The mud hardened. She saw herself, now a small girl, climb out. Sit on top. “Mamita,” the little girl on the solid river whispered over and over. “Help me.”
    The child in her head watched as Moralin walked calmly to the coals. She was silent and fearless as Moralin raised her foot and set it right down on the coals and then walked quickly, steadily across.
    Moralin was startled by the joy cry. Now the elder raised his hand. “This girl,” he said, “has entered the path to become one of The People. Her name will be Kadu.”
    He looked to Moralin. She said nothing, even though his words cut a hole in her heart.
    â€œMark it well,” the man cried loudly.
    â€œMark it well,” the people echoed.
    When their gazes turned away, Moralin quickly checked the bottoms of both feet. Nothing. Not one small blister.
    The next storyteller wrinkled her face and popped her eyes wide open as she told her tale, making those around the fire shriek with laughter. Moralin followed Ooden out of the circle. At the back she caught a glimpse of Figt. The girl, thin and unhappy, hung back from the rest. Moralin felt a flutter of triumph. No beastie. Good. The skulkuk must have killed it.
    Ooden showed her the longhouse where she would now sleep. “Yes,” Moralin said, and then: “Wait.” She ran to the place where she had stayed, lifted the reed cage and looked at the wood creature. Its nose twitched. Her chest crackled with sadness, a sadness so hot that if she had been a Great One, she would have been able to turn herself to fire and rain down on this village.
    She fumbled with the hair that tied the door shut. “I’m not to be a prisoner anymore,” she whispered. “You mustn’t be either. Go well, small friend.” She opened the door and watched the animal flick off into a dark corner. As she turned her face to the longhouse, she wondered how long it would be before she felt any stirring of love and care for another creature again. In the next weeks Moralin came to know the village well. People labored hard for long days always according to their ordered tasks. She shared the house of the young plant keepers.
    Each morning the women who were plant keepers gave instructions. The girls knelt and touched their foreheads to the elders’ feet. Then they hurried to their work.
    Whenever Moralin had a moment to rest, she looked for Salla but found nothing to show the other girl had reached this place alive. Perhaps