The next time I open my eyes, something is different, though at first I am not sure what.
The light? The location? No, we are still traveling in the Souterrain, and maybe we’ll never leave. I am alone in the roulotte, but that isn’t it either.
I push myself out of the nest of pillows that surrounds me and take a deep breath. The air is cool and clear. The crawling feeling is gone, replaced by a new energy under my skin.
The difference is in me.
I stretch my legs—I clench my fists. Suddenly I need something to do. Looking around the roulotte, I find it easily. The place is a mess, and so am I.
The first thing I do is strip off my old sarong and don a fresh one; the clean fabric is like heaven on my skin. I wipe my face with a damp scrap of cloth, then scrub it across my teeth till the mossy feeling is gone. Then I brush my hair and pull it into a low bun.
It seems like such a small thing—to comb hair, to clean teeth, to change clothes. Why is it so hard sometimes? And why does it make such a difference?
Refreshed, I toss the dirty things into the corner. They land atop my other ruined dresses—one tattered, one bloody. Kneeling beside the basket, I run the fabric through my hands, holding up the skirts to look at them from various angles, trying to consider what I might do with the remains, how I might give them new life. This panel might become the silk wing of a bird; this line of ruffles might be salvaged to decorate another skirt. My fingers itch for the shears, the steady challenge of the needle and thread. Of course I’ll have to wash the dresses first. With a sigh, I tuck them back into the basket for later.
Then I stand, brushing the dust off my knees. Though I am put back together, the roulotte is . . . not. There is bedding scattered everywhere, and a musty smell: dust and sorrow. So I collect my makeshift nest, shaking out the pillows and stacking them on my parents’ little bed. There is a soft straw broom in the corner; I run it across the floor, pushing the dust toward the back door of the wagon. But there—on the boards, a flattened ball of crumpled paper trembles.
The kitten. I had forgotten about her, poor thing. I set down the broom and pick up the page. It rustles on my palm. It’s long past time I freed her from this middling incarnation.
Tucked onto a shelf, beside my folded sarongs, there is a little bag I made from a scrap of silk and a drawstring ribbon. I tip the contents out onto the floor—some incense, a few grains of black rice, my brother’s letters, and his battered lighter.
He’d given it to me the day he’d left. I still use it to light the lanterns before any performance—a way to keep him with us. I rub the dented steel with my thumb as vana drift in through the scrollwork, drawn by the rice. Then I flip the cap and hit the strike. A little flame springs to the wick; I touch it to the paper. In a curl of flame and ash, the kitten’s soul tumbles free.
She sits at my feet for a moment, as though stunned. Then she flicks her tail and bounds after the spirit of a fly.
As she cavorts around the roulotte, I pluck up the grains of rice and pour them back into the bag, followed by the incense and the lighter. Then I finish sweeping as the soul of the kitten bats at the broom. Now I remember why I put her in the flyer in the first place. But she has to get bored soon. And if she doesn’t, it’s only three days.
What next? The floor is clean, the shelves are straight—rows and rows of fantouches wrapped in burlap bundles. All but one, still in pieces. My eye is drawn to it like an old friend’s face in a crowd: my dragon.
I flex my fingers, and a smile touches my lips at the thought of real work—of creation. I’ve been crafting this fantouche on and off for nearly two years—ever since our old one burned up in the fire. When it’s done, it will be a masterpiece. Is now the time to finish? Better now than later. After all, if Aquitan has different gods, the souls there may be different too. And the dragon is much too large to control without their help: twice as long as I am tall, cut and crafted from water buffalo hide. Each scale is scraped translucent and rubbed in gold and carmine; the teeth are carved of cow bone. The skin is painted with two pots of red kermes and one of saffron, along with half an ounce of ground gold for shine. But a soul is not the only thing the fantouche needs. We are still missing the rivets to hold it all together. I had hoped to find some along the way, but copper is much scarcer than spirits these days. In the battle between war and art, war has better weapons, and the armée needs its bullets.
Kneeling on the floor of the wagon, I lay out the pieces around me in a long arc, the way the dragon will look when it’s done. Should I string the joints with knotted leather, or will cords only fall apart mid-show? Absently, I shoo the kitten away from the tasseled tail. Then I frown as the roulotte slows and stops, rocking gently as someone hops down from the bench. A voice drifts in from outside—Leo’s.
“—another three days to the capital. We should make it well in time for the coronation. Might pick up a bit of extra cash there, if you want to do a play.”
He sounds in high spirits, and his voice is richer than I remember. There is a creaking sound, and suddenly—light. Even filtered through the scrollwork, the sun is blinding after so long in the dark. I lift my palm against the glare, then marvel at the scarlet glow limning the thin skin of my hand.
The roulotte rolls forward and a cool breeze pushes in, carrying a hint of greenery and the smell of rain. My ears feel like petals as they catch the light patter of droplets on the roof. We are back above the ground in the realm of the living. “Nuriya?” Leo shouts. “Das?”
I listen, but the only response is the wind in the leaves and the winnowing of a snipe. Leaving off my work, I crawl across the floor of the roulotte. The handle of the door feels strange in my fingers. But when it swings open, I’m looking out on a familiar clearing: a cottage, a kitchen garden, a grove of dragon-eye trees, the glossy green leaves shining with rain and the last flare of the setting sun through the clouds.
La Fête des Ombres always marked the end of the dry season, when rains like these—light and sun-dappled—would chase us back home to Lak Na. Is it raining in the village too? As I let the droplets kiss my cheeks, the soul of the kitten leaps down from the roulotte to stalk the grass outside the hut. I half expect Daiyu to open the door, tottering toward us with her faded sarong and her wicked humor. But we are alone. No one answers Leo’s call; when he ducks into the cottage, he comes back out shortly after, shaking his head.
“They’re gone,” he says. Then he sees me and stops in his tracks. “You’re outside.”
I shift a little on my feet. “So are you.”
It’s a glib answer, and he opens his mouth to retort—but Papa interrupts. “What do you mean, gone?”
Leo shrugs, affecting nonchalance, but I can see the little worry line, just between his brows. “They’ve packed and left. I don’t know why. There’s no sign of trouble. Just . . . no sign of them, either. This is still the best place to stop for the night,” he adds. “There’s good grazing for Lani and a spring behind the cottage. And we can all sleep indoors for once.”
Papa nods a little, but he studies the trees, the cottage, the dewy clearing. “They must have left for a reason.”
“Not all reasons are nefarious.” Leo glances at me again, hesitating, but by then Maman has seen me. She rushes over and smooths back my hair; under her hand, it feels lank and tangled.
“Are you hungry?” she says, standing a bit too close. “Will you finally eat?”
It takes me a moment to recognize the gnawing feeling in my stomach as emptiness—as hunger. Thinking back, I can’t remember my last meal. “D’accord, Maman.”
“I’ll make coconut rice. Your favorite.” She gives me that look I hate—the careful one, as though she is not sure if too strong a glance will push me over the edge.
But my mouth is watering at the thought, and I only nod. She takes the black pot behind the house to the spring while Papa unharnesses Lani and leads her to a stand of thick grass. I linger at the back of the wagon, a bit at odds with the world. My legs feel shaky and my skin, too delicate—like the outside air has a texture that isn’t entirely pleasant. Rain sticks to my shoulders; the air is too humid. And Leo is still standing there on the grass, watching me. A flush creeps up my neck as I remember our last conversation—his rejection, his mention of my malheur. “What?” I say at last, and he blinks.
“I just . . .” He shakes his head. “How are you feeling?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I haven’t seen you in over a week!” His tone is incredulous, as though the answer were obvious—but it takes me aback. A week? The memories are dim and distant: sleeping, waking, the long journey underground.
“I was working on a new fantouche,” I say, which is not technically a lie. Trepidation turns to interest on his face.
“Oh?”
“Look,” I say, gesturing inside the roulotte; he peers over my shoulder, frowning at the pieces scattered across the floor.
“Look at what, exactly?”
I scowl, crawling into the roulotte to gather the scraps—the horned head, the fearsome jaw. “Here, see? Like this.”
I lay them out under the eave, along on the back step. He traces a finger along the curve of a scale, then picks up a section, holding it to the light, so the fading flame of the setting sun rushes red through the thin leather. “It’s beautiful.”
Pride floods in; I try to summon some modesty. “It’s hard with the rationing. Copper rivets are impossible to find.”
He puts the piece back down, out of the rain, and gives me a crooked smile. “I’ll keep that in mind the next time I want something from you.”
I widen my eyes, taken aback. Is he toying with me, or have I misunderstood him? A week ago, his look might have made my heart beat faster, but after the temple, I’m not sure what to think. And more than that . . . I seem to have lost my rhythm during the long days in the dark; the spark has flared out, along with the manic energy of my malheur. Is that why he pushed me away in the first place? Not because I am mad, but because he knows my madness clouds my judgment? “I . . . I was only talking,” I say at last, leaning back, just a little. But he takes the cue, shifting on his feet, giving me space.
“And I’m just listening.” His smile softens; I return it. Around us, vana shine, bright spots in the gathering dark. “We should go in,” he adds then. “I don’t want to miss out on that coconut rice.”
Carefully, so as not to brush my skin, he reaches past me into the roulotte, gathering an armful of bedding and starting toward the cottage. Bemused, I watch his back as he goes, and after a moment, I follow.
The hut is a typical Chakran home, lifted a little off the ground on poles of thick bamboo and thatched with palm leaves. More bamboo makes up the springy floor, covered with an old woven mat. There are two rooms, separated by a curtain, but aside from the grass screen hanging from the ceiling, there is not much left behind.
A flat stone fire pit, some broken bowls, and a few chipped pots full of brine. Pickled vegetables float in the pungent liquid, too old to risk eating. Papa has a fire going to chase away the damp, and Maman is boiling rice fragrant with sweet oil. But despite the scent of food and the cheery flames, the cottage is anything but welcoming. The fire casts long shadows against the bare walls, and the rain rustles in the wet thatch. It’s not a cool night, but I sit close to the fire.
While the rice is cooking, Leo ducks outside once more, returning with a bottle of rice wine crusted with earth—stored in the dusty dark beneath the hut. He breaks the twine seal and lifts the jar by the neck. “To those who aren’t here.” He takes a deep draft and whistles before passing the bottle to Papa. “And everything they leave behind.”
“To those we miss,” Papa agrees. He drinks and passes the bottle. Maman wipes the rim with her sleeve before she takes a mouthful. Then she adds a splash to the pot and passes the wine to me. The glass is cool and heavy in my hands; I watch the three of them across the fire, feeling a bit at loose ends. Something has happened over the last few days—some sort of harmony between them, a melody coalescing while I wasn’t listening. “To Akra,” I whisper under my breath. The wine is bittersweet.
We pass the bottle around again. My cheeks get warm and my head begins to float. I haven’t eaten enough to drink deeply. The next time Papa takes the bottle, he holds it awhile, turning it over in his hands. “The people who lived here. They were your friends?”
“Oh,” Leo says, leaning back against the wall. “Nuriya worked at La Perl years ago. Das was a cane cutter who came in to see her. My mother got them a post here when she heard Nuriya was pregnant.” He gives Papa a little smile—sad, or mocking—and gestures to himself. “La Perl was clearly no place to raise a child.”
When dinner is ready, Maman gives me a heaping bowlful—the silky rice salty sweet and rich with coconut meat. My mouth waters as the fragrant steam purls across the back of my throat. Still, I send another quick prayer to my brother before shoveling the rice into my mouth, and I leave a bit of food in the bottom of my bowl. Maman does too, though she can’t see the souls collecting in the air, or the kitten that has wandered in to circle the offerings.
I watch the little arvana as she plays at eating, then curls up beside the fire. Around us, tiny spirits dance and dip. What do they do with the things we give? Can they smell but not taste? See but not touch? Or is it not the substance but the sacrifice that they cherish? The value we assign when we deny ourselves something they can never consume? Or is it something else entirely? Something I will never understand in this life? Maudlin thoughts swirl around me like the souls, broken then by the sound of a violin.
Leo has set his empty bowl aside and settled his instrument in the crook of his arm, and as the last of the daylight fades, he plays a song that brings the dark to life. He is even more beautiful to watch than his shadow was, that night at La Perl. In concentration, his mouth is soft and his eyes are distant. He moves as though the music inhabits his body—or perhaps it is the other way around. Embers drift up with the notes of his song, another tune I know. The one about the lovers—the one we perform each time we visit a new town. Papa joins in at the chorus as Maman drums gently on her knees.
A smile creeps across my face. This is the rhythm I had missed, and I am more hungry for the kinship than the coconut rice.
The fire is still high enough to cast a good shadow. I rush outside to the roulotte to rummage through the fantouches. The rain has stopped, and the tattered clouds drape a lacy shawl over the half-moon. I search by the silvery light—I know I have something here, at the bottom of the pile. An older puppet, soulless silk—a swallow on a stick. It will paint a graceful picture on the walls as I twirl it in swooping circles overhead. Grinning, I shut the door of the roulotte just as a filthy hand clamps down over my mouth and an arm snakes around my waist. Struggling, screaming into a stranger’s palm, I am dragged backward into the jungle.