Followed by Fros(45)

I wove a tapestry of birds flying over the Finger Mountains, then unraveled the bottom half to include my cave and snow clouds. It was a picture I took pride in, and I eagerly wanted to show it to Aamina or Lo, but still they did not come.

The empty days drew by. One week, two weeks, three. I had spent years with no company other than Sadriel’s, but for some reason this loneliness stung harder and faster than all that time in the mountains. Perhaps because I had finally been accepted, curse and all—I had actually made friends and enjoyed company, and to lose all that now created a contrast for which I was not prepared. But I knew Aamina would return soon enough, and I kept the coffee beans in my cubby for Lo, as if doing so might summon him.

I struggled to keep myself busy. I wove bookmarks until I ran out of yarn. I tried once more to talk to Rhono, but I terrified her to the point that I worried she would stop coming entirely as Havid had done, and then I would be without food, for I could not walk into Mac’Hliah. I did not want to risk it, and I did not want Imad angry with me. The thought of the dogs alone was enough to keep me in my quarters.

I began to wait for the snow harvesters to arrive, for surely one of them would be willing to talk with me. I did not know their schedule, if they even had one, but I listened for their camels and wagons, and stepped outside my door countless times to search for them on the horizon. They did come, but by the time I realized it and rushed outside, they had already retreated. I ran after them and called, but the angry winds of winter carried my voice back to the mountains, and I lost my chance.

More days passed, and I spent them alone. I could feel darkness begin to brew in the recesses of my mind, the same darkness that had nearly driven me to accept Sadriel’s offer, and it terrified me. Though my fingers had little deftness to them, I began to write in my shaky and unruly penmanship, as small as I could manage the letters. I wrote to my father, my mother, and my sister, then transcribed the letters into Hraric, which read even worse than my Northlander. I even wrote a letter to Mordan telling him that he had made me, deep down, a better person. I truly believed it, and I clung to those words every time my hands cramped with the chill, or a shudder drew my pen down and ruined my script, or my pen became so cold the ink refused to flow.

When I ran out of paper, I began to read. I read The Fool’s Last Song so many times I memorized it, and I even took the liberty of acting it out on my own, playing each part myself, as I had loved to do back in Euwan, for I had craved the attention of others. I acted it out in Hraric and in Northlander, but between the bits of dialogue I always heard the silence of my cavern and the whistling of the never-ending storm outside.

When I could not bear the stillness of my cave a moment longer, I went outside and began sculpting snow as I had often done in the mountains, this time making depictions of hens and scorpions and spiders and ibexes. I gazed out at the distant city of Mac’Hliah and watched the sun’s shadows slowly trace their way across the mud-brick buildings, longing to be there with my friends. It was Rhono’s day to bring me supplies, and when she saw me standing outside the cave, she pulled her camel short and dropped my parcel of food right there in the snow. I called out to her, begging her to stay, but she only tapped her shoulder with her free hand and sped away. From there on out, she no longer left her parcels on my doorstep but on the edge of the snow. Large parcels, so she would not have to come as often. I did not bother to collect them. Part of me feared moving my storm, but in honesty, I lacked the motivation to eat much, so I did not need the things she brought me.

I read and reread Lo’s books and forced myself to push them away when I cried, for I had promised to take care of them, and I could not tolerate a single tear marring their pages. My darkness taunted me, creeping into my thoughts during my few hours of sleep. My cavern, so beautifully decorated, became a cage. I let my fire die. When my lamp dimmed, I did not fetch Rhono’s supplies to get more oil.

Though I urged myself—shouted at myself—to be happy and to be content, for Aamina would soon return, and perhaps Lo would, too, if only for his books, I shriveled inside my shell of ice and skin. I was so grateful for all Imad and Lo and the others had given me, but my cold heart splintered more with each passing day, until I could feel its shattered pieces rattling down my rib cage and settling somewhere in the hungry pit of my stomach.

Late one night, fear and seclusion feeding my insomnia, I realized I was not stationary. I was not made of stone. Seven weeks alone in my cavern had left me wearier than I can describe, and I needed to escape, if only for a while. I needed to use my legs, to discover something new. I realize now, looking back on it, that I must not have been of sound mind, for I barely drank and had stopped eating with the last of my rations gone and the rest a mile away.

I left in the dim light of predawn, my storm especially violent and blowing heavy snows in all directions, nearly concealing my mountain in purest white. I wore my gray dress and my patterned head scarf and gloves, and I walked away from Mac’Hliah, away from anyone I could hurt.

I walked, and the snow and wind calmed. I walked until I found sand under my feet instead of snow. I thought of climbing the mountains to see what lay on the other side, but their slopes proved too steep. I had to wait for a pass, for surely someone had built a pass somewhere in this range.

I walked and walked and walked, until the sand turned gold around me and not so much as a gust from my storm tousled my hair. I stayed close to the mountains at first, but the rocks tore at my slippers, so I moved away, into the open plains of sand. I walked until plains became hills. I passed a few twisted plants, none higher than my knee. The air tasted strange here, thicker in my throat. Perhaps from the heat—heat I could not feel. How I yearned to feel it. At that moment, I could not remember what warmth felt like.