Letter to the Dead
Yichimet - May 5, 2006
Yichimet pulled aside the flaps to Jawn Highmesa's tent and
ducked inside. Rain poured from the sky, and great An'she, the
eye of day, was hiding behind a colorless wall of clouds.
The trader Jawn looked up and snorted. Yichimet's tribe
connections may not have been known when he first wandered onto
the rises of the Bluff, but few of the shu'halo who were rooted
on the thriving new city did not know that he was a Grimtotem by
now. They hardly tolerated Magatha's presence. They did not even
speak to Yichimet unless he had something to trade with them.
Yichimet's face remained passive. "I need a bundle of skins for
inking," he said to Jawn without looking at him. The trader stood
still until Yichimet threw down a bundle of thick hides and
several bunches of fadeleaf. "I need a bundle of skins for
inking," he said again.
Jawn turned and opened a crate, producing a small bundle of very
thin skins tied with hemp twine. Wordlessly, Yichimet tucked them
under his oil-slicked leather cloak and exited the tent. He
blinked his way through the rain back into one of the many small
gathering lodges, lifted off his cloak, packed his pipe with
peacebloom, and began writing his first letter to the dead
between the puffs of smoke.
*
You have been dead for months. I have not thought of another
since. The necklace still hangs about my neck, and the first burn
mark it gave me is fully healed.
When I was a young bull I did like my teacher did: I wandered the
Needles, the plains and wild lands. I killed centaur and cut off
their ears. I shared fires with many of my Grimtotem tribe, and I
shared the beds of many of the women. When it came time for me to
learn to replace Hidua, I forgot what moved me to do all that I
did while young, so lost in reading the Spirits' signs I was. But
even through the cloud of time I can say that none of them were
like you.
Today I found your grave. I found what I think is your grave, at
least. I have only the necklace to guide me. Daala is gone. The
Nether may have claimed her. Licidion may be dead, I don't know.
Rumors about a troll having his head may just be rumors, and
again they may not.
I have lost my path. Hidua is dying and I cannot bring myself to
go back to take his place. Conshomek may become the next
Sorcerer. He is like my blood brother, but it is not his title.
I don't know why I am writing this. I thought the hole in my
chest was closed.
-----
A week ago I watched the wedding of two shu'halo, one of them a
Grimtotem, though he has given up on his true Tribe. They married
in the wildlands atop the Two Giants. It was a short ceremony of
binding, and they did not even exchange mane-circles or smoke the
pipe to show their bonding.
And still I am jealous.
I have not been back to Moonglade since that first trip. I fly
over its trees often, but my throat closes when I get near.
Hidua's owl will not return to him without word from me, and I
cannot give it, because I cannot write it. My heart has closed on
itself like a desert blossom at night.
Not even your spirit, love? Even that will not come to comfort
me?
*
Yichimet bundled the second skin with the first, tied it tightly
with twine, and put it into his backpack. He arranged his bedroll
on the ground and laid on his back, watching the moon move
slowly. The two owls sat next to each other on a log nearby,
sleeping beside each other.