The Scourge (A.G. Henley) - By A.G. Henley Page 0,52

and there was no honey. The people were sad, so they traveled to the Sacred Mountain to plead with the Creator. Everywhere they looked, there was an abundance of flowers, more and more, strewn like rainbows around the camp. They cried that they had lost this, the beauty of the flowers, and the Creator took pity on them. She told them to gather as many armfuls of flowers as they could hold, and to return to earth to sprinkle them on the land. She promised them that the earth would never again be barren.

“The people did as they were instructed. Suddenly the land, the trees, and the rocky crevices were covered with beautiful blooms. And from then on, when the flowers died, the people did not fret, for they remembered the promise that was made to them by the Creator. Always, always, no matter how harsh the summer sun, or how biting the winter wind—the flowers will return.” Nerang pauses. “There’s always hope, young one. Renewal is all around us, every minute of every day. It’s the gift of the Creator.”

I try to look appreciative, but his story hits too close to home, reminding me of Peree’s tales. I want to cry, but now isn’t the time. I need information and a plan, so I’m prepared when Peree wakes. “I met a woman, Kadee, on my way here,” I say. “She asked me to come to the–” I stumble over the word, “allawah? . . . after I saw Peree.”

“I’m not surprised. The anuna have been chittering about you for days. I imagine they want to find out who you are and where you came from. Kora, will you take her? I must stay with my patient.”

I take his hand. “Thank you, Nerang. I know you’ve done all you can for him.”

“There’s always more to do, young one. Remember what I said. Your friend will need you, when the time comes.”

Kora and I walk back to the village. Apparently word got out that I was coming. People are milling around the gathering place, talking, but they grow silent as we approach. My fingers flutter nervously over my hair and dress.

“Mama!” Kora cries. “This is Fennel.” She presents me proudly.

Someone comes closer. Her voice is barely louder than a whisper when she speaks. “I am Arika.”

“Thank you for allowing Kora to show me around. I have a younger brother, and I know how hard it would be to trust him with a stranger.” I try to smile.

“What’s hard is stopping Kora from doing what she wants.” Arika sounds like she’s smiling, too. “I think she's decided that since she found you, you’re hers now.”

“I'm happy to have a friend,” I say.

“Welcome, Fennel,” Kadee says from somewhere nearby. “Come in.”

Following her voice, I step inside the shelter. The space feels open and airy, as if the roof is high above our heads. There’s a fire lit in the center, where something tantalizing is cooking. Kadee helps me find a spot to sit as others come in, taking seats around the fire. My stomach rumbles as a plate of food is placed in front of me.

“Rabbit stew, with fresh bread,” Kadee says.

I want to attack it, but at home we wait until all are seated with their meals before we eat. From the sounds around me, people are still getting settled. I clench my hands together in my lap.

“In Koolkuna, it’s customary to wait for the guest to begin eating, before we start,” Kadee says in a low voice.

Thankful for that particular convention, I take a bite of the stew. It’s hot and delicious. The rabbit meat is succulent, cooked in a rich, spicy gravy stuffed with potatoes, carrots, and onion. After days of cured meat, the simple, nourishing meal is more than satisfying. I don’t refuse seconds.

I listen to the conversations around me while I eat. I can’t understand them, but from the tone of their voices I figure they’re speculating about me. I hear lorinya often.

Their questions will start soon. I’m afraid to tell them what they’ll want to know—that is, everything about me and Peree, and how we came here. But we need the help of these people, and so far they’ve given it freely. So I eat, building the courage to be honest in the face of uncertainty.

I sop up the last of the gravy with my final bite of bread and put my bowl down. As I do, the conversations around me die. The logs settling into the