With a mixture of relief and dread, Leila saw that her mother had not slipped back into childhood. There were warazu, many of them. And their giant fish was actually a great black canoe of some kind, the likes of which she had never seen. A portion of the canoe even extended upward like the fin of a great fish. It was this particular fin that bore a pole, and from this pole there hung a cloth painted with the strange crooked cross her mother had described.
For the first few days, Leila watched the strangers from the fringes, and the more she watched, the more puzzling their behavior became. She also noted that the warazu were divided into several castes—like ants. Some were of normal height with straight black hair. Like her people, these men were quiet as they went about their work. Some of the warazu, though, were giants and indeed her mother had been right: Several of them did have golden hair. They spoke loudly, and in a harsh-sounding language that reminded her of spitting. Leila also noticed that both groups wore clothes that seemed well made but far too heavy to be practical.
From the start, and even when viewing them only from the edges of their encampment, Leila could see that most of the warazu acted more like conquering gods than visitors. And surprisingly, her people treated them like gods, accepting them and even working with them side by side. And work they did, from dawn until dusk and beyond, putting groups of newly arrived captives to the task of cutting and clearing the forest. Others used a giant arm to transfer strange objects from their enormous canoe to the shore. Their constant movement was another way that the warazu reminded Leila more of ants than men. They even used flying machines to carry their goods and, though the contraptions resembled gigantic dragonflies, the horrible noise and wind they produced were nothing like the delicate air dance of real dragonflies.
Although she had been banned from setting foot in her own village, the cacique had not actually forbidden her from visiting the warazu camp, and so each night Leila crept in among them, easily slipping past the guards (who she thought must be half-blind). Their strange metallic huts were hidden in the forest, amid tall stacks of mysterious objects. She followed the scent of rotting meat and vegetables and came across a mound of strange containers, hollow metal gourds that had once held food. Soon Leila began stealing the unopened gourds from their stacks, and after returning to her hut she cut them open with one of their own metal knives (also stolen). As distasteful as the contents often were, it was sustenance, and Leila quickly came to realize that the Warazu Who Worshipped a Crooked Cross had become her salvation—and her family’s. “Thank you for the Crooked Cross,” she told the river and the stars.
“This food will make you stronger,” Leila whispered each evening, ladling unrecognizable meat and fruit into her son’s gaping mouth. He often reminded her more of a hungry baby bird than her own child. The boy almost never responded, but from his general appearance, Leila knew that his health was improving with each passing week.
And then the screaming began.
At first the cries had come from slaves, most of them locals captured by the warazu. Some of the tattoos these slaves bore were familiar to her; others were not. Leila estimated that there had been more than two hundred of these wretched men clearing trees and hauling away stumps and rubble. For reasons unknown to her, the warazu had set out to uncover one of the ancient causeways that crisscrossed the tribal land. Then, instead of using the road for travel, they built a long, low wall out of wood and stone down its middle. The screams of the imprisoned, and especially those who tried to escape, often lasted for hours. Recently, though, a new cry had risen from the forest beyond the valley. It came one night as she was returning from gathering fruit and lasted only a few moments. A shout had come in the language of the warazu followed by a sound that was unmistakable to anyone who heard it—the gurgle of life torn from the throat of a dying man.
On this starry night, Leila tried to put the screams from her mind, as she looked out across the fog lake and contemplated another foraging raid. She hesitated just inside the doorway of the hut. A downward glance confirmed that her son and mother were still asleep.
The warazu are posting more guards now, she thought, knowing that her nocturnal descents below the surface of the fog lake and into the warazu camp had become increasingly dangerous. But she also knew that her family needed food and that she would risk anything to obtain it.
Leila stepped outside and shivered, not knowing if it was the night breeze or Serebur?’s breath, absent these five years, that chilled her body. If only something so wonderful were possible.
A strange and beautiful music came from one of the metal huts, lasting forty-five minutes and accompanying Leila’s descent into and return from the encampment. She was clutching an armful of canned food as she reentered her thatched home. Damp, musky air filled the tiny room.
The scent of black earth and mushrooms . . . and flowers.