I could not answer her. She should not have asked that. I turned my face from her and went to my place to sleep.
Halach, songfather of Cochim-Mahn, finished his salute to Lady Day, took the three ritual steps into her light, then fastened his robe and looked around for his breakfast. Someone should have come with it from the hive the moment he sang, “Go forth!”
He grumbled, his belly grumbling with him, missing Saluez. She had never been late with his breakfast. Shuddering, he put the thought aside. It was forbidden to think these things. One could not think kindly of someone who had doubted, who had had heretical ideas. And she had, had doubted, had fallen away from grace, other wise … otherwise she would not be down below with the other veiled doubters and recalcitrants. Lady Day had smitten them, and Weaving Woman had made dark patterns of them, and the Gracious One had turned his back upon them. Praise to the deities who knew the inner hearts of women, darker and more devious than those of men!
Shalumn hastily approached, bearing a bowl and ewer. He held out his hands for the ritual washing. Then Shalumn handed him his food bowl and politely turned away, looking out over the canyon.
He forgave her tardiness with his first bite.
“Only a little time until Tahs-uppi,” he remarked. “Would you like to see the ceremony?”
She was very still. What ailed her? He spared her a curious glance before returning to his meal.
“I am better suited to my duty here, songfather.”
Was she refusing to attend? For the goddesses’ sakes, he hadn’t been suggesting anything improper. Surely she didn’t think …
He made the matter clearer. “Hazini will be accompanying me, along with her father. I thought you might be company for her.”
She didn’t look at him. “Thank you, songfather. It is a kind thought. But I am better suited to my duty here.”
He put down the bowl and stared. “What is it, Shalumn? Something is troubling you.”
“Nothing one may speak of, songfather.”
He dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. “One may speak of anything to a songfather.”
She confronted him, her eyes filled with tears. “I fear Saluez has gone into shadow, songfather.”
Confused for the moment, he could not understand what she was saying. Those behind the veil were said to be in shadow, and of course Saluez was among them. “Into shadow? But …” Of course those who passed on were also said to be in shadow. Though veiled women couldn’t be said to pass on. Because they had doubted the Great Gift of the Gracious One, veiled women truly died. They were not accorded the right of living on in Kachis form. Shalumn must mean something else!
“Tell me!” he demanded in a whisper. “You think she’s gone”—he gestured outward, at the canyons, the mesas, the distant glinting mountain peaks, all the faraway that was Dinadh—“there?”
“Yes, songfather.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I haven’t seen … not for days.”
He sighed, surprising himself with the realization that it was a sigh of relief.
He reached out to shake the girl gently. “Shalumn. Shalumn, you were her friend. You recognize her shape, her walk. Of course you watch for her, even though you know it is forbidden. That’s quite common, my dear, and it is not a severe sin. But it’s customary for those behind the veil to spend days below, in their own place, unseen by anyone.”
“But she cares for the outlanders! No one else has been given the duty! And no one has seen them, either!”
“Put it out of your mind,” he said sternly. “Hear me, Shalumn. Put it out of your mind.” Her voice had been too full of grief. She should not feel so about a doubter!
“Songfather,” she said submissively, bowing her head. “I will do as you say.”
He turned his back on her and resumed eating. So no one had seen Saluez for a few days. Well, that was as it should be. No Dinadhi should see her at all. She was a trash-person. Just as the outlanders were trash-people. Dinadhi didn’t look at trash-people, or look for them, for that matter.
Still, it was strange no one had encountered the outlanders. On the ladders, perhaps. Even trash-persons took up space on the ladders. One had to wait. Or step aside. One noticed.
He scraped the sides of his bowl with his spoon. Not long now until there’d be some greens. Early greens, springing up along the streamlets, a welcome addition to the diet. If those gaufers that had gotten loose somehow didn’t eat them all first.
Strange, that. Six gaufers had escaped their pens. Song-father had assumed they’d been let loose by someone. Some child, too frightened to confess. But the six missing ones had been a hitch. Almost. Two leaders, right and left, who as mere gaufs had established their right to that position by kicking and biting their herd mates into submission. Two followers, right and left, who did not kick or bite at all, and two middles—though they were both left middles.
Who would steal a hitch? And for what? Some young man who wanted to prove himself, taking the animals onto the heights, maybe finding an unused wagon there. But to do what? To go where?
To Simidi-ala, perhaps? Sometimes young people did run off to Simidi-ala. They grew bored with the Dinadhi way of life. They did not treasure the Great Gift enough. They decided they wanted excitement, and off they went. Hive-reared, they knew the only way they could get there was in a herder’s wain. Fully half the population of Simidi-ala was made up of runaways, which was another reason for not trusting those at Simidi-ala. Apostates, all of them. Apostates and renegades.
He chewed the last bite thoughtfully. Young people were always interested in Simidi-ala. When Saluez was young, she had asked a lot of questions about the port city, so many that he’d taken
