R

  In the middle of the night, long, vague things without a discernible color began waving in front of her, behind her, on both sides of her, and even above her. She stood in the middle of the wavy things, while fear threw itself at her mind.

  Then she heard a voice. “Help me. Please, help me,” it sobbed. “Help me—,” but with the repeated cry, Lacht sat up in bed, breathing heavily, and clutched the covers.

  It was a bad dream, she told herself. Only a bad dream!

  Two

  The Desert

  The next morning, Lacht couldn’t have cared less about Crispin or any other Stalli for that matter. Her heart felt soggy now—and heavy.

  “Do you remember playing hide ’n’ seek there?” she asked Mosslimb as she pointed toward some particularly jumbled roots.

  “Yes,” Mosslimb answered and added, “Why do you have to go, Lacht?”

  “Mom and Dad want to,” she answered, voice catching.

  Why do we have to go?

  Irsht marched purposefully past with her arms over the shoulders of her two closest Root Forest friends, the three of them headed in the direction of the nearest blueberry patch for one last mouth-staining visit.

  Lacht sighed. Her friends had come individually to tell her good-bye. As each of them had left, disappearing into the shadowed depths of the Root Forest, a part of her had left too. Very little remained by this time—only a soggy heart that dragged four feet behind her everywhere she went.

  They did not plan to return to the Root Forest. Letters would have to do.

  “We need to make a new home,” Frenne had explained. “We need to look forward; not backward.”

  Her older daughter didn’t understand.

  Twelve years ago, after helping win the war against the evil sorcerer, Gefcla, Winnel and Frenne had moved to the forest so they could tell the Root people about Keshua. When the Great One had brought his Son back to life, he’d promised to give anybody who loved him life too, life that would never end; they had doggedly insisted throughout those early years of resistance and hostility.

  Lacht could remember a time when Root mothers called their children away from playing with her and Irsht. Over the years the situation had changed; now they had many friends, and a large number of the Forest people met regularly to stomp their feet and sing their joy.

  Did Frenne and Winnel think no one needed them anymore?

  “That’s ridiculous. Mom and Dad are leaders. People always need leaders,” she muttered.

  “We’re almost ready,” called her mother.

  Dragging a heavy heart after her, Lacht walked to where Frenne and Winnel stood visiting with a small group of Root people.

  “You said you had come to stay!” snarled one of the men.

  Lacht recognized that voice. Mudde. The Root man always made trouble. He had fought in Gefcla’s army many years ago and been badly disappointed when his dreams of domination had failed.

  For twelve years, Winnel had tried to make friends with him, but the old warrior had consistently ignored him whenever he talked about Keshua. Mudde had finally accepted Winnel himself, after a fashion. He’d just had no use for Keshua.

  “Twelve years,” one of the other men said. “They have lived with us for twelve years.”

  Mudde’s lips puckered as if he’d taken a bite of sourplum, and Winnel tried to explain.

  “Our daughters have never known their own land or people. Soon they will want to marry and have families of their own. We are going back to Stalli for them.”

  The Root people, all except for Mudde, nodded.

  Without making any noise, Lacht slipped away, her heart pounding and her thoughts clamoring—so that was why her parents had decided to leave.

  “And all this time, I thought they wanted to go,” she said out loud.

  “We do,” responded Frenne from behind her.

  Obviously, her mother had seen her slip away and followed.

  “But your work—” Lacht argued.

  “We’ve done what the Plete told us to do here,” Frenne told her evenly. “Now he is directing us to Stalli. Both of us feel the new guidance—and we must obey.”

  Lacht nodded automatically.

  “In many ways, we’re happy to live in Stalli again,” the older woman continued with a smile, though her eyes were red.

  Had her mother cried last night?

  “We’ll find people to love there too, you know.”

  Lacht jerked out another nod, and Frenne patted her on the back.

  “It’s time to go. Where’s Irsht?” she asked quietly.

  “Blueberries,” Lacht answered briefly.

  Her mother laughed. “I should have known.” She moved off to find her younger daughter, blue-stained mouth and all.

  R

  The family left, walking through the deeply shaded Root Forest for the last time. Lacht’s heart dragged along the path behind them, and her feet wanted to run back to join it, but she wouldn’t let them.

  Crispin would have finished loading the horses by now. The Stalli Mountain horses had willingly crossed the desert to help with the move, but they wouldn’t want to wait, not with heavy bags on their backs.

  As her family walked through the speckled shade of the last few trees, she noted suddenly the small number of Root people who walked with them.

  Didn’t they have more friends than that?

  By the time she stepped out of the forest onto the red sands of the desert, Lacht was stomping almost as hard as a Root man could stomp. The brilliance of the desert sun didn’t make her squint this time. She was too angry to squint.

  Her mother and father had spent twelve years of their lives working with these people. You’d think—

  Singing startled her, and she spun around in the sand.

  On the border of the forest, stretching in either direction as far as she could see, a line of people stood in the last of the shade. Big feet stomped, keeping time to the song; and oversized hands lifted partly in worship of Keshua and partly to block out the bright sunlight that reflected from the sand only a few feet away.

  Their large eyes wincing in pain, the people sang to Keshua in honor of the couple who had chosen to live with them for twelve years. Lacht had never heard of Root men and women voluntarily coming this close to the desert glare.

  Gefcla had forced his army to march across the sand one summer’s day twelve years ago. She’d heard about that, of course; but she knew that the army had gone only because they feared Gefcla more than exposure to the sun.

  Fear was not what had brought Root people to the desert today.

  Her parents held hands and sang along with their friends. When the song ended, Winnel lifted his hands and asked the Great One to bless them all, those staying and those leaving.

  Lacht looked down the long line of Root Forest people until she spotted Softbark waving. With a rush, she ran to her friend and hugged her one last time. “I can’t stand to go,” she moaned.

  “You must find your berry,” Softbark told her kindly.

  “Or your plum,” Graybark added from behind his sister. “I like plums better,” he commented helpfully.

  Lacht smiled. Though slow to grasp a new idea, the Root people never forgot something once they understood it.

  “Lacht,” called her mother.

  “Let’s go,” shouted Crispin at the same time.

  It was when they had mounted and begun to move away, that the unbelievable happened. Someone yelled gruffly from the forest edge, too gruffly for Lacht to understand the words.

  Then she saw Mudde moving out from under the protection of the trees into the bright sunlight. Sour-faced Mudde, looking singularly sour even for him, ran across the desert sands toward Winnel, who bent to grasp the Root Forest man’s big hands.

  Lacht couldn’t hear what Mudde said, but his words made Winnel’s face glow.

  Mudde didn’t stay long. He finished what he had to say and bolted back to the shelter of the trees, as if his bushy gray curls might catch on fire if they stayed another second in the sun. Winnel turned, lifted his hands again, and called out one more blessing.

  Then they left. Her father’s cheeks were wet for over an hour with more tears than the brightness of the desert could have caused.

  By the end of the first week, Lacht was no longer sad. It was embarrassing, really embarrassing, but she couldn’t make herself feel sad even when she tried.

  They’d met a small group of Muntas heading toward Stalli the third day out, and the two groups had joined to form one large group. Timidogs posed the only threat on the desert these days, and the sly, desert dogs never attacked large groups of travelers.

  Nevertheless, when long, drawn-out wails quavered through the desert air, she shivered. She shivered and enjoyed doing so, though she would never have admitted it out loud.

  Irsht had no such qualms. The younger girl dropped her empty plate on top of her mother’s one evening and boldly announced that she liked the eerie sound, especially when everyone sat around the fire, sipping hot mallowberry juice and telling the story of Lynn and the brueggen stones.

  Irsht tilted her face and smiled suggestively as she raised the cup Frenne had just handed her. Her parents laughed, and one of the Munta men obligingly started the familiar story.

  Lacht hugged her knees up to her chest and listened as if she’d never heard the tale before; though, at the end, she made the same observation she always made. “I don’t understand how such an ordinary woman could’ve saved Tarth, even if she did come from another world. I mean, Lynn has three sons,” she pointed out as if that fact alone erased all possibility of heroism. “She handles the business part of Chell’s rock quarry. When we visited years ago, I saw her checking their fish trap—and cooking what she caught!”

  “I agree,” Irsht stated, backing her sister up with an opinionated nod. “She’s too normal!”

  “Don’t forget Keshua,” Winnel responded as he always did. “Without him, Lynn would have never seen Tarth, much less reached Shagger’s Rock with two brueggen stones.”

  “We know, we know,” the two girls droned, and Winnel raised an eyebrow at them.

  “Well, we do know,” Irsht said again, smiling pertly at her father.

  R

  Late in the afternoon of the next day, a call came from the riders in front of Lacht. She waved, then lightened her legs. Obligingly, her mare moved into a faster pace, and they soon caught up with Irsht and one of the Munta girls.

  “We’re over halfway there,” Irsht told her.

  “How do you know?” Lacht questioned, glancing around at the bright red sand. It held no discernible landmarks she could see.

  “Crispin told us,” her sister informed her. “He said we’re making better time traveling with the Muntas, because they’re in a hurry.”

  Lacht glanced around again.

  “He’s not here anymore,” Irsht said with a knowing smirk. “You can stop acting silly.”

  “I am not acting silly,” Lacht whispered furiously.

  “You would be if Crispin was here,” Irsht replied, still smirking; then the two younger girls galloped back to tell the rest of the group.

  Lacht brushed red desert dust off her sleeves and tried to brush the irritation out of her feelings at the same time. She did not act silly around Crispin. What a ridiculously childish notion!

  R

  “Hello,” said a deep voice, making her start.

  “Oh, Crispin, I didn’t see you coming,” she said, blushing in a way she was glad Irsht couldn’t see.

  They rode together in a companionable silence. Low on the horizon, the sun shone with a mellow spirit. The air cooled several degrees, and the wind died down. Then, suddenly, everything went pink.

  Lacht gasped with pleasure. No matter how many times she saw them, desert sunsets always thrilled her. The sky turned pink, the sands turned pink, and Crispin turned pink too, she noticed, when she glanced his way.

  “You’re pink,” she told him, laughing out loud.

  “Hard to avoid,” he responded with a wink.

  Smiling briefly, Lacht faced the front of her horse. She never knew what to do when the young man winked at her. That’s why he does it so often, she thought wryly.

  “Irsht said that we’re making good time,” she remarked, hoping to hide her unsettled feelings.

  “Yes, we are,” he agreed. “If we keep going at this pace, we should pull into the Stalli foothills in three days. Burkin Village is only a half days ride from there.”

  “Only three and a half more days?” she asked, swiveling on her horse’s back to stare at Crispin.

  “Isn’t that good?” he asked. “Don’t you want to get out of the desert and into your new home?”

  “I can’t wait to see Wasso Lake, but I like the desert too,” she answered honestly. “I was thinking of my parents. They still hurt over leaving the Root Forest people.”

  “Oh, they’ll get over that once they make friends with other Stallis,” Crispin said easily. “They’ve just forgotten what normal people are like.”

  Abruptly Lacht faced the front of her horse again and gazed at the desert reaches. The excitement of the trip may have distracted her, but she remembered her last sight of the Root people standing at the edge of their forest. She remembered it quite vividly.

  Some of them had waved, but most had stood very still, only their eyes showing the depth of their sadness. Those big gray eyes had resembled the shadowy root caves in their forest home; eye caves filled with shadows deep and mysterious and very sad at that time over the departure of the family they loved.

  “We will never forget the Root Forest people,” she said in a tone that matched Crispin’s for evenness.

  He doesn’t understand, she thought quietly. Crispin had not had enough time with the strange people her family had lived with for twelve years. He didn’t know them. How could he understand!

  The young man next to her shifted on his horse, and she knew it was a new experience for him to have her stare straight ahead and correct him. He didn’t seem to like it.

  “I wonder if anyone’s found that missing child yet,” he mentioned, changing the subject.

  She smiled, as eager for the change of subject as he was. “I certainly hope so! Do you think the Wassandra would let us know if they found her?”

  “I like that word us” he told her, winking again.

  “Well, do you?” she asked again, her face staying pink even though the sunset was now fading.

  “I think so. Of course, we’d get news quicker if we had a Wet One who could go under the lake. The message box has its limitations.”

  “What’s a Wet One?” she asked.

  Crispin smiled broadly, as if relieved to see her wide-eyed and questioning again. “I can’t really answer that question,” he answered, his voice sinking deeper and his hand gesturing dramatically. “According to the stories, a few of our ancestors could breathe under the waters of Wasso Lake just like the Wassandra—and the water didn’t get them wet!”

  “How could a Stalli possibly breathe under water?” she asked. Then, before he could answer, she added, “You have got to tell Irsht and the others about this tonight!”

  “I will,” he agreed, pleased at the prospect, “though your mother must already know. Speaking of night, we should stop and make camp.”

  He jumped off his horse, picked up a warm handful of sand, and briskly rubbed it over the sweaty places on the horse’s back and side. The horse grunted appreciation, then moved off into the rapidly darkening evening.

  The other travelers caught up, and the general bustle of pitching tents and preparing supper prevented any further questions, but Lacht didn’t forget. When they’d cleaned up and gathered around the campfire to relax, she waved her hands to get everyone’s attention.

  “Crispin told me something new today,” she said, and her face shone in the flickering firelight.

  Irsht would love this.

  “People called the Wet Ones lived long ago and could breathe under Wasso Lake just like the Wassandra! Go on, Crispin, tell us more.”

  “I don’t know anything more than that,” he admitted cheerfully. “Wet Ones walked under the lake without getting wet. Nobody knows much about them.”

  “That doesn’t make sense! How could they go into water and not get wet? Besides, even if they could, Stallis wouldn’t have called them ‘Wet Ones.’ They would’ve called them ‘Dry Ones,”’ commented practical Irsht, immediately as interested as her sister had predicted.

  “They stepped in, stepped out, and their feet stayed as dry as the desert sand,” Crispin insisted, his hand making a perfect semi­circle in the air. “I don’t know why they were called Wet Ones, though. Dry Ones does seem a better name.”

  “Wet Ones,” mused Frenne. “I’d forgotten about them. My grandmother used to say that they could walk into Wasso Lake as if strolling down an incline on dry land. The water didn’t buoy them up as it did the other Stallis.”

  “Stallis!” exclaimed Irsht, lowering her cup so suddenly that hot mallowberry juice sloshed out of it. The person sitting next to her inched away, but she didn’t notice. “You don’t mean they were Stallis! Did they look different; strange, you know?”

  “I’ve never seen one of them,” answered her mother, dimples showing as she smiled at her youngest daughter’s question.

  “Probably pale and skinny,” Crispin suggested, “with long fingers and webs between their toes.”

  The two girls shuddered while their father frowned. Lacht winced expectantly, but Winnel didn’t say anything. He never did say much to Crispin, she’d noticed; nor did Crispin have much to say to him. She shrugged.

  Different personality types, she told herself and refused to think about it.

  R

  That night, in the family tent, Irsht brought up the subject again.

  “I can’t wait to see this golden lake for myself,” she said, unrolling her blanket. “I wish Wet Ones lived in our day and time, so they could tell us about the Wassandra.”

  “You never know when a Wet One will come along,” Frenne informed her. “My grandmother said that Stalli children all hoped to be Wet Ones; until, of course, that first time they splashed in the lake and got their feet wet.”