The Return will relearn the language of the Land, shows the Sky, finishing with the Pathways and coming over to me. In time.
They understand my words, I show back, looking out at the Land who watch me as I speak to the Sky. They use them themselves when they speak of me.
The words of the Clearing are in the memory of the Land, the Sky shows, taking me by the arm and walking me away. The Land never forgets.
You forgot about us, I show him, heat behind my words that I cannot suppress. We waited for you. We waited for you until our deaths.
The Land is here now, he shows.
The Land has retreated, I show, with greater heat. The Land sits on a hilltop when it could be destroying the Clearing now, right now, this very night. We outnumber them. Even with their new weapons, we–
You are young, he shows to me. You have seen much, too much, but you are not even fully grown. You have never lived among the Land. The heart of the Land weeps that it was too late to save the Burden–
I interrupt him, a rudeness unheard of in the Land, You did not even know–
But the Land rejoices that the Return was saved, he continues as if I had shown nothing. The Land rejoices that it can avenge the memory of the Burden.
No one is avenging anything!
And my memories spill into my voice, and it is only here, now, when the pain of them grows too great, when I am unable to speak the language of the Burden, it is only now I speak the true language of the Land, wordless and felt and pouring out of me all at once. I am unable to stop from showing them my loss, from showing how the Clearing treated us like animals, how they regarded their voices and ours as curses, as something to be cured, and I cannot stop from showing the Land my memories of the Burden dying at the hands of the Clearing, of the bullets and the blades and the silent screaming, of the field of bodies piled high–
Of the one I lost in particular.
The Sky shows me comfort in his voice, as do all of the Land around us, until I find I am swimming in a river of voices reaching out and touching mine to soothe it and calm it, and I have never felt so much a part of the Land, I have never felt so at home, so comforted, so at one with the single joined voice of the Land–
And I blink as I realize that this only happens when I feel so much pain I forget myself.
But that will pass, shows the Sky. You will grow and heal. You will find it easier to be among the Land–
I will find it easier, I show, when the Clearing are gone from here for ever.
You speak the language of the Burden, he shows. Which is also the language of the Clearing, of the men we fight, and though we welcome you as a brother returned to the Land, the first thing you must learn – even as I tell it to you in language you will understand – is that there is no I and there is no you. There is only the Land.
I show nothing to him in response.
You sought the Sky? he finally asks.
I look up again into his eyes, small for the Land – though nothing like the hideous smallness of the eyes of the Clearing, small, mean eyes that hide and hide and hide – but the eyes of the Sky are still big enough to reflect the moons, the firelight, me looking into them.
And I know that he waits for me.
For I have lived my life among the Clearing and I have learned much from them.
Including how to hide my thoughts behind other thoughts, how to conceal what I feel and think. How to layer my voice so it is harder to read.
Alone among the Land, I am not fully joined to the Land’s single voice.
Not yet.
I make him wait for a moment more, then I open my voice to show him the light I saw hovering, what I suspect it to be. He understands in an instant.
A smaller version of what flew over the Land as it marched here, he shows.
Yes, I show and I remember. Lights in the sky, one of their machines flying down the road, so high above it was almost nothing but a sound.
Then the Land shall make an answer, he shows, and he takes my arm again to lead me back to the hill’s edge.
As the Sky watches the light hovering out from the hilltop, I look down upon the Clearing as they settle in for the night. I look among their too-small faces on bodies stocky and short in unhealthy shades of pink and sand.
The Sky knows what I am looking for.
You seek him, he shows. You seek the Knife.
I saw him in battle. But I was too far back.
For the Return’s own safety, the Sky shows.
He is mine–
But I stop.
Because I see him.
In the middle of the camp, he is leaning into his pack animal, his horse, in their language, talking to it, no doubt with great feeling, with great anguish at what he has seen.
No doubt with great care and emotion and kindness.
And this, perversely, is why the Return hates the Knife, shows the Sky.
He is worse than the others, I show. He is worst of all of them.
Because–
Because he knew he was doing wrong. He felt the pain of his actions–
But he did not amend them, shows the Sky.
The rest are worth as much as their pack animals, I show, but worst is the one who knows better and does nothing.
The Knife set the Return free, the Sky offers.
He should have killed me. He killed one of the Land before with the knife in his voice that he cannot put down. But he was too cowardly to even do the Return that favour.
If he had killed you as you wished, shows the Sky in a way that pulls my eyes towards his, then the Land would not be here.
Yes, I show. Here where we do nothing. Here where we wait and watch instead of fight.
Waiting and watching is part of fighting. The Clearing has grown stronger in the time of truce. Their men are fiercer, as are their weapons.
But the Land is fierce, too, I show. Is it not?
The Sky holds my gaze for a long moment, and then he turns and speaks in the voice of the Land, starting a message that is passed from one to another until it reaches one of the Land who I now see has prepared a bow with a burning arrow. She takes aim and lets the arrow fly into the night, sailing out from the hilltop.
The entire Land watches it fly, either with their own eyes or through the voices of others, until it hits the hovering light, which spirals and spins and crashes into the river below.
Today was a battle, the Sky shows to me, as a small outcry rises from the Clearing’s camp. But a war is made of many battles.
Then he reaches across and takes my arm, the one on which I keep the sleeve of lichen growing heavily, the one that hurts, the one that will not heal. I pull away from him but he reaches again and this time I let his long white fingers lift it gently from the wrist, let him brush away the sleeve.
And we will not forget why we are here, the Sky shows.