Eye of the Ocean Book 3 Ji'jin Station

Eye of the Ocean – Book 3: Ji’Jin Station
Morning brought mirsasitin weather, the sky barely higher than their heads
while sitting. Oimit was still alive, resting back against his shoulder, both his arms
around her as though he could hold the life inside by force.
It was a waiting calm, he felt void of emotion, something strange to him, much
as when he had woken earlier, still lying over the mark of the claw.
“Sister?” he whispered but she didn't answer. I have no place to go without
her, he thought, content to sit there.
A widely spaced webbing of darker lines formed deep within the shifting veil,
he watched the portion closest to him sink very slowly as the day passed. He
thought it might rise again or dissipate but the near side caught the spires around
them. A sizzle as the deep red touched stone and drifts of white crystals fell,
coating them. Would it reach the Sourrin freehold, he wondered. All who could
would gather the crystals, risking the virmiti to bring it in before the woi swarmed
to eat it. And a feast after the first handful was offered to the altar. Burning
sugar, he could almost smell it. Bread, a sweet dough...
“Do you remember?” he said and then was silent again. His mind drifted
through memories, he forgot almost at once which he had meant when the words
had been spoken. Whatever it had been left only a taste in his mouth, a taste
instead of words. A flicker at the edge of his eye, a woi pack in a whirling motion.
They brushed him, feeling like gauze floating across his exposed skin. Most of
what he saw was the wind they raised that drew the crystals into a funnel shape,
a miniature of what the mirsasitin did. He sang the first words of the wosinki to
the woi pack, a song from the Wind festival and Oimit stirred...
And then he did remember. The day he had first met Oimit. He was seven and
she had been sent to the Holding for her gin'tala, and was perhaps twice his age.
The old freeborn they all called Feather had been in the kitchen making the
special pastries, small buns in the shape of the a'Genn mark. They were rolled in
sugar before baking; the kitchen was sweet with the smell. After two days in the
open air to dry, they would shatter into flakes when bitten. It had been the
servant who had told him how the sasi spin was gathered by the freeborn as a
gift from the Wu'cass and how tithing dues brought much of it to the Clan
Holdings. For the gin'tala buns, only sasi spun sugar was used.
The servant's voice had risen and fallen to make the story a song as she
kneaded the dough. A formidable woman, old enough to get away with scolding
him when he tried to steal a bun still hot from the pans. Wind-of-the-Feather,
they called her, from the path of an old bird. Even the senior sister-wife spoke to
her as though she were human.
He reached with a cramped hand to gather a few of the crystals the woi had
missed and touched them to Oimit's tongue where the tip parted her lips. She
responded, her tongue narrowing to suck the sweetness.
“You amaze me,” he said into her hair.
Laurel Hickey www.2morrow.bc.ca