The Song of Andiene - By Elisa Blaisdell Page 0,68

she should not have,” he said. “Many things are not safe. You must be careful, always.”

“Will she come back, Daya?”

“No, love, never.”

His child sighed and cuddled closer to him. She did not understand, but that was best.

There was one thing that he must do, though the world shattered and fell around him. “This is your birthmonth,” he said to his daughter. “You were born when the stars were woven bright across the sky, the full of the month. You are six years old, now. Do you know what it is to be named?”

She repeated the words that he had taught her. He thought that his heart would break, with grief or laughter, as she recited, “I am a person now, not just a child. I have a name, a name of my own. I must work now, to gather food to feed myself.”

“That is correct,” Ilbran said. “You learned it well. But you are a very young person. One day you will name yourself, and then you will be true-grown. But now, love, I will name you Kare, which was my mother’s name. She was a good woman, gentle and brave and wise.”

There should have been more ceremony, since the naming of a first child was a great occasion, but he could not bear it.

What was he to do now? This place, this clearing was hateful to him, but he was still trapped. In seven years of searching he had never found a safehold. I am like a dog thrown down a well. He swims for a while, and if he is strong, he can swim for a long time, but at last he drowns, without ever having had a chance to escape.

He looked around him. It was a rich land. Even a child, if she were wise in the ways of the forest, could survive alone. His mind was made up; he pulled his daughter closer to him. “Now, Kare, love, you must be brave. Tomorrow morning I am going away. I will be gone one day, and come back to you the next day. You know what to do to be safe; you know that you must not go outside at night.”

Those were words that she could understand better than any talk of death. She shrieked and wept. She beat at his arms with her fists, kicked at him with her feet. Ilbran held her close, so she could not hurt him or herself. “I must, Kare, I must,” he said, though his heart was torn with grief for the risk he was taking, the risk of leaving her to live alone.

At last she wept herself into silence. “Remember,” he said, “do not go into the forest. Ever. If I do not come back, do not go looking for me. You know how to gather the grain and cook the food; you can take care of yourself.”

He thought of something else, a more terrible thought of the ones that ate men’s souls and wore their bodies to lure others to destruction.

“Even when I come back, do not go to meet me. Let me come to you. Even if I call you, do not go to meet me. Do you understand?”

Though she did not understand, at least she remembered. He asked her again and again, till she could repeat it glibly. “I won’t go into the forest, Daya. I’ll wait here. I’ll wait till you come.” She was an obedient child. He could do no more.

The next morning, he rose early, stood watching her as she slept, then turned away, stepping softly so he would not wake her. The sun had not yet warmed the forest; the air burned his lungs with cold as he ran along the forest paths. He had made his decision the day before. He would travel the whole day long. It was his only chance. The safe way to travel was useless to him. He had tried it many times; on all these forest paths, there was no safehold in half a day’s journey.

If he found a shelter in a whole day’s traveling, it would guard him through the perilous night. In the morning, he could bind it to him with his blood, return and fetch his child, and so begin the long journey back to the sunlight and open plains.

If he found no shelter, the forest would take him. It was a fearful risk that might leave his child alone. To his mind it was worth it. At least, while the morning was