Khe
“--Larta, to Azlii the corentan Marnka is singing without words, her voice playing up and down the notes like wind through leaves. Her voice alters, doubling, singing harmony with herself. That can’t be. I must be singing with her. Marnka’s voice splits again, letting her throat make three tones, and then four. I look around the bright, day-lit cave, but she is nowhere to be seen.
“Marnka,” I call out. “Why are you hiding?”
The cave goes black. I can’t see the ground I’m sitting on.
“Marnka. Don...’t play tricks on me.”
*** I force my eyes open and blink in the bright light. I’m lying on a cot in a room painted light green. Inra—the one who’s an empath—stands next to the cot.
“Where is Marnka?” she asks in her gentle, prodding voice.
Where is Marnka—not who. Inra leans over me. I can’t look at her. I turn my face to the wall.
“I knew Marnka the weather-prophet,” Inra says. “Is she the Marnka you called for, or another with the same name?”
I keep my head turned and say nothing.MoreLess
“Marnka,” I call out. “Why are you hiding?”
The cave goes black. I can’t see the ground I’m sitting on.
“Marnka. Don...’t play tricks on me.”
*** I force my eyes open and blink in the bright light. I’m lying on a cot in a room painted light green. Inra—the one who’s an empath—stands next to the cot.
“Where is Marnka?” she asks in her gentle, prodding voice.
Where is Marnka—not who. Inra leans over me. I can’t look at her. I turn my face to the wall.
“I knew Marnka the weather-prophet,” Inra says. “Is she the Marnka you called for, or another with the same name?”
I keep my head turned and say nothing.MoreLess
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