Waterborn

She tried to concentrate on what the dreams might mean. Royalty were said to live by dreams, to make them and understand them. But every dream she had ever heard of had to do with the River, with Nhol, with the Kingdoms. She had never even heard of a place with such large trees. Not in the desert, certainly, and not in the Swamp Kingdoms, though she had heard of thick stands of mangrove in the fens near the sea. But huge trees, like wooden castles…

When she got back to the library, she would steal a moment or two, when Ghan wasn't watching. She knew where to find at least one geography.

Something caught the corner of her vision, a small movement. Curious, she rolled her head that way. It was her little ghost, the one she had begun thinking of as a scribe. She smiled at the faint curdling in the air.

'Do you know?' she asked him. 'Do you know where such a land is to be found?'

She was faintly astonished when he moved closer; in the past he had approached her only when she was asleep or when she was studying some writing she had copied. Now he came close for no apparent cause, though he seemed indecisive, now approaching, now retreating. She watched in fascination as he did this little dance, tried to recall his face as she had seen it once, years ago. Despite his vacillation, he sidled nearer and nearer, until, like a child stealing something behind an adult's back, a little appendage of distorted air resembling nothing so much as an arm reached out and touched her, down there, where she was bleeding. Outraged, she jerked away, but then paused, riveted by what happened.

The ghost was as a clear glass suddenly filled with dark wine. Color raced up the arm and poured into him, so that he was no longer a wavering in the air but a man, as sharp and distinct and real as any person she had ever seen. As distinct, in fact, as the monstrous ghost that had attacked her the day before. She shrieked, kicked away from him; from earliest childhood she knew the more solid-seeming a ghost was, the more power it had. The young man did not look powerful or terrible; he looked sad and rather frightened himself. He opened his mouth, as if trying to speak—and his color and form faded, became a wavery outline, vanished entirely.

Despite the fact that she was shaking with retreating fear, Hezhi bolted up to look at where he had been standing. There, on the floor, was a spattering of water, as if someone had spilled a small glass. One of the droplets held a spot of ruby red, expanding and fading to pink. It could only be a droplet of blood.

At that moment, Qey rushed into the room. 'What is it?' she asked frantically.

Hezhi leaned back onto the mattress, studiously avoiding glancing at the damp place on the floor.

'Nothing,' she told Qey. 'Just a bad dream.'

 

 

The next day, she felt better and returned to the library. Ghan signaled her to halt as she walked in, and she did so, waiting impatiently near his desk. After ignoring her for a few moments, Ghan looked up from his writing board and nodded.

'Sit down,' he said. Surprised, she did as he commanded, sat down on her calves with her dress tucked under. Ghan regarded her severely for a moment, then handed her a sheaf of paper and a thread-bound book. Next he shoved dry ink, a mixing stone, a little jar of water, and a pen across the desk.

'Copy the glyphs on the first seven pages,' he said. 'Memorize them. This evening I will test you, and I expect you to know them all. Do you understand?'

'I…' Hezhi began, but Ghan cut her off.

'I'm sorry,' he said, his tone as insincere as his sudden smile. 'That was really a rhetorical question. You do understand, and if you don't, I will know by this afternoon, won't I?' He returned his scrutiny to whatever it was he was working on. 'You may use the table across the room,' he concluded, not looking back up.

Puzzled, Hezhi retreated to the table with the things he had given her, but as she opened the book, a sudden elation swept her confusion out the door and away. Ghan was teaching her to read the old script! And to write it.

Excited, she bent to the task. Many of the characters were already familiar to her, but she copied them anyway. Still, it was daunting how many she didn't know; she wondered how she could possibly memorize them in such a short time. She wrote them carefully, repeating the names written to the sides of the glyphs in the modern syllabary. It was a bit frustrating; she could never quite draw them the way they were pictured. The ones in the book were elegant, flowing. Hers looked like little blobs of ink.

She blinked owlishly when she suddenly realized that Ghan was standing over her. Was it time already? She had scarcely noticed.

Ghan regarded her attempts at writing without comment, while Hezhi sat nervously, fingering the hem of her skirt. She knew he wouldn't be pleased—Ghan was never pleased with anything she did—but she hoped he would not be too displeased.

Finally he nodded and sat down across the table from her.

'Draw me sungulh,' he said. Her heart sank. She could draw it—it was one of the easiest. But she was not so certain she could do them all. She had hoped he would point to them in the book and she would name them—but that was stupid, because they had their names written, right there, in the syllabary. Carefully, she traced out the open oval that meant 'pot'; sungulh in the ancient tongue, shengun in the modern. He continued asking her the glyphs, and with each one she drew she became more and more uncertain. Her earlier happiness was beginning to evaporate; she suspected that for Ghan, this was merely another chance to humiliate her into quitting the library altogether. Yet she couldn't, especially now, when she had so many questions. Her quest had begun as one of several ways of finding D'en, but without ever finding the answer to that first question, she had inexorably been drawn into more and more questions. And she felt the answers were there, if she only knew how and where to look.

'Now draw jwegh,' Ghan demanded. She merely stared at her paper, unable to remember that one at all.

'Well?' Ghan asked, after what seemed an eternity.

'May I speak?' she whispered.

'Go on.'

'I'm sorry, Ghan. I tried—I really tried—but I couldn't remember them all.' She kept her eyes averted; she knew Ghan hated for her to look at him.

Ghan sighed, gazed slowly around the library. Save for themselves it was empty. Hezhi silently braced herself.

'Nobody could,' he said.

She gaped at him.

'Close your mouth and listen,' Ghan admonished as he leaned across the table toward her. 'What I meant to say is that no one could learn this script the way you have been doing it. Frankly, I'm astonished that you read as well as you do.' He shook his head. 'Digression after digression,' he complained. 'To teach you to index I must teach you to read. To teach you to read, I must teach you to learn.' He straightened. 'But you will not slip out of our bargain by being ignorant,' he snapped. He took up the pen and handed it to her.

'Write sungulh again,' he commanded.

Hezhi complied, more confused than ever. Sungulh was easy because it was the old word for shengun, or 'pot.' It looked like a pot, almost—oval, not closed at the top.

'Fine,' said Ghan. 'Now write qwen.'

Hezhi knew that one, too. It meant 'fire' and was also very simple: a curvy line going up and down, two other lines sprouting from its base and going off to the sides, at angles. Like the glyph for 'pot,' it looked something like what it meant.

'Now wad,' Ghan continued. Hezhi marveled at how uncharacteristically patient he seemed to be, yet still felt fortunate that she knew this one, too. It meant 'cook'; she had scribbled it on the doorway to the kitchen one day. Halfway through drawing it, she stopped, amazed.

'I… I never noticed that,' she breathed.