That could have been her. Should have been her.
Aryl could see the pattern they made as it took shape, here and in the distance. Each Om’ray was running to his or her place along a curved line beyond the rastis groves, downwind.
Flitters launched into the air, as if disturbed. Instead of wheeling and crying in protest, they plunged without sound into the canopy, disappearing from sight.
They fled the coming M’hir. She knew it. Could almost taste it.
The Om’ray had found their places and stopped, waiting. Aryl saw flashes as hooks were freed from their belts and held ready.
Watchers moaned again. This time Aryl could tell their sound came from the mountains. As would the M’hir.
Costa’s fingers locked around hers as the world seemed to take and hold an endless breath. He pulled, urgently, and Aryl obeyed, dropping to lie beside him on the small platform. His arm went over her. Hold on! she heard, not words but mindspeech.
As she grabbed for her own hold on the platform, she twisted her neck to see.
The crimson stems nearest her face trembled in the silence. Trembled . . . then bent ever-so-slightly. No, they weren’t bending. Aryl’s eyes widened as the stems began to twist open.
Costa stiffened beside her, lifted up as if compelled to look closer. No! she sent, reinforcing the warning with a grab at his hand, determined to hold him safe.
Then there was no need for warnings.
The M’hir struck.
It was like the opening of an oven. The next breath she took was searing hot, dry, and full of a chokingly fine, acrid dust. Aryl coughed and quickly closed her mouth, but the air stole the moisture from her eyes and nostrils, took the sweat from her skin until perversely she shivered.
The first fingers of wind tore her hair free of its braided net, whipping the strands against her cheeks. The stems clattered against one another as if excited.
The wind’s force continued to build, steady and irresistible. Below, far below, Aryl had experienced the annual M’hir as little more than a rustling overhead that warned of bundles of dresel to be opened and stored. The rastis supporting their homes might lean slightly, disrupting dishes left on tables. Torn leaves and shredded bark would whisper and float its way into branch and crevice, making piles and obstructions to be pulled from ladders. Fine powders would rain down as well, reds and yellows and orange streaking the walkways and clogging screens. Another glamorous chore for the youngest and those not in the Harvest, sweeping and sweeping and sweeping until the black water below grew a skin of rare color.
Up here? The M’hir moved everything.
Including the crown of the rastis beneath them. As it began to shudder and shift, Costa tightened his grip until Aryl could barely breathe. The great plant groaned, a deep, tormented creaking. She waited for it to snap, her heart in her throat. Instead, it bent, crown bowing to the M’hir.
The platform went over with it, tipping to one side. Costa shuddered with strain but held on. Aryl’s own hands were clenched on the thick edge. Her toes found a gap in the planks and she forced them in . . . if they tipped much farther they’d be shaken off . . . they’d fall . . .
The rastis stopped bending, though the M’hir now howled and gibbered on all sides. The platform rocked back and settled, no longer level, but safe enough.
They might be safe . . . what of the others? Aryl raised her head, fighting to see through the wind-whipped stems.
The webbing strung between the stiffer nekis trees held, though along its strands the Om’ray danced in the wind like leaves trapped against a billowing curtain. Each leaned forward, body and face wrapped and obscure, hand gripping a guide rope, hook ready.
Aryl sorted through their tastes to find Bern. There. She could just make out his wildly swaying figure.
“Bern!” she shouted. The M’hir ripped away her voice. She concentrated, trying to reach him with her thoughts. Child’s play when touching, a minor skill at arm’s length, demanding more and more Power with distance until impossible. She’d never reached as far as this—he was barely discernible, a toy in the wind—but she fought to connect, to send his name—
Hush. Don’t distract him. Costa’s mindspeech filled her thoughts, calm and sure, though she could feel his excitement. He has to prove himself.
I should be there! she sent back, frustrated beyond reason. That’s where I’d be, Costa. I’m unChosen, too! It’s my right.
It’s too dangerous.
I’m unChosen.
Everyone knew the unChosen were the expendable members of any clan, not yet Joined to a life partner, not yet mature. Free of expectations or even a sure future.
There are Chosen up there. A flash of fear. Only the best of them dare. That should tell you the risk.
Aryl hid her pity from Costa, burdened with the responsibilities of another life. He’d worry and play it safe for the rest of his days, for Leri’s sake. She’d take freedom while she had it. Freedom like those Om’ray tethered in the face of that raging wind. To be part of the sky, part of something larger than life itself. To fly . . .
Aryl dug her elbow into her brother’s conveniently broad ribs. Don’t tell me you’re sorry you came.
Ask me if we get down again.
The bent stems had continued to twist. Suddenly, they snapped open along their length, releasing clouds of red to the M’hir.
The odor of ripe dresel intensified until Aryl found the only way to breathe was to keep her bent arm in front of her nose, her lips close to the skin. She’d taste it forever. She’d probably smell of it just as long.
Light-touched red surrounded them. It filled the sky, each separate piece growing wider and wider until the whole overlapped like the glistening scales of a flitter.
And like a flitter, the red took flight.
She’d learned this. She’d never imagined the reality of it. The red—Yena called it the dresel’s wing. Now each piece continued to expand as the wind tugged it free of its tight wrapping. She could see through it, as if it were the finest window gauze, immense and growing, billowing and snapping in the wind. On the ground, flattened, it would smother other growth in favor of the rastis’ own. In the hands of skilled Om’ray, the material could be soaked and teased apart, its component threads rewoven into any thickness. The clothing she wore, the ropes they’d climbed, the gauze of their windows, all came from this source.
She dared let go with one hand to touch the nearest wing, but its softness eluded her. It came free of its stem, pulling with it real treasure—moist chains of dresel, the length of her arm.
Having cleaned her share, Aryl knew most of the light fragrant pods contained already sprouting seeds, as well as dresel itself, the soft purple flesh that would nourish the seed’s first explosive growth. All three—pod, flesh, and seed—had value. The waterproof pods covered Yena roofs and graced their tables as elegantly carved dishes. The dresel was a staple on those dishes, delicious fresh and easily dried for later use. A small portion of a harvest would fill Yena pantries until the next M’hir, and well it did. Though they gathered other foods, an Om’ray could exist on dresel alone.
Yena Om’ray could not exist without it. Unlike other clans, with the luxury of growing all their bodies required in the ground—something Aryl couldn’t imagine—the Yena lived where no other food could fill their needs.
The rest of the dresel, and the sprouts from each pod, were bundled for the Tikitik. Whether their neighbors couldn’t climb the rastis, or collect enough intact pods from the grove edge for their needs, whatever those were, Om’ray didn’t ask. They simply took the power cells, glows, and other items the Tikitik provided in return.