“A yellow bird

A yellow bird

With a yellow bill

With a yellow bill

Was perched upon

Was perched upon

My window sill

My window sill”

She joined in, under her breath. She had learned most of the Anglic she knew this way, listening to the jodies, every day, day after day, morning and evening, for thousands of days. Until, somehow, a word at a time, they’d seeped in along with Pisin and Dutch and were just part of her vocabulary. Part of the multilingual patois of the Moorstown community.

At “window sill,” she glanced up involuntarily, looking over her left shoulder to the third storey window, now far behind her. But if little Wayan was tracing little pictures in the glass to mark her way, she could not see him.

It was just a glance. A quick peek. But in that moment, as she still jogged in time with the singing and crossed from the field into the dark of the trees, her right foot splashed, then slid on a patch of wet, slick on the pavement of clay beneath. Marul flew headlong forward, the cadence calls echoing through the tunnel of trees:

“I lured him in

I lured him in

With bits of bread

With bits of bread

And then I SMASHed his LIT-tle head!

The turn of her own head meant that she slammed down onto her right shoulder and tumbled before she had a chance to think. She landed hard on the right elbow pinned beneath her, rolled to her back, and in one desperate move scrambled to her feet, facing away from the bridge, looking face-on to the oncoming troops plowing among the trees four abreast like a train derailing, as the first ranks splattered into the same patch that had sent her sprawling.

They skidded to a halt, song stopped mid-word, to keep from running her down, and stood gaping and gasping, the NCO in charge already trotting forward to reach for her arm, saying “Are you OK, honey?” They gaped at her, skirt matted with chocolate mud and debris, bonnet askew; at the red smeared down her right cheek and soaking the shoulder and arm at the back of her white sweater. They gaped at much too much red.

The battalion medic was already jogging forward, already saying “It’s OK honey, it’ll be OK. It’s probably just a little cut on the scalp. They bleed a lot. They always look worse than they are. It’ll be OK. Let’s have a little look-see, OK?”

But Marul was not looking at the steaming soldiers, in their baggy yellow jogging suits, milling around her in a smelly yellow gaggle, those rearward still lurching to a stop as the accordion affect made its way to the most distant and slow-moving among them. Nor was she looking at the thin line of those too short, or tired, or hung over, or sick, or lame, or unfit, or slow, or just plain lazy to keep up with the gazelle’s pace set by the lead battery’s best runners. Nor was she listening.

Instead, Marul was staring straight up into the trees. Not at her feet. Not at their faces. Rather, far above their heads. She clutched her hurt right elbow hard against her stomach with her opposite hand. Her breath came in short, deep pants. Her bonnet slipped back from her head. She did not notice. She began trembling. And just as the medic reached out to her, saying, “Just let me see your arm, honey,” Marul let go of it, so that the medic alone looked down at her and saw her bruised cheeks.

The others, following the line of her shaking, outstretched left hand to the end of her pointing finger, stared with her, on beyond it, up into the century-old tamarisk. They now saw what she had seen during that frantic instant on her back, twenty feet above the ground. Upside down, his throat a crimson gash; something pink and sloppy covering his chest; a crimson spike pinning him to the trunk by his ankles, hung Marul’s cousin Hugo.

The medic heard the XO’s bark: “Secure the scene. I’ll secure the gate. You. You. You. You. Detail, follow me.” Heard, but did not see, the tramp of retreating feet, as Marul’s breathing became ragged, her knees shook, and she slumped to the ground, her arm still pointing. Sergeant Thompson gently lowered the arm, wrapped the girl in her jacket, knelt beside her, and only then turned to survey the scene. She watched the XO’s retreating back. Heard a slow drip-drip-dripping from the tree. Watched the XO stuff a ‘tooth into his ear. Pulled the girl closer and said “It’ll be OK Honey.”

Far above, high in the Oquirr mountains, seated before a glass wall that overlooked the smoky, fogged-in plains below, Lillith Van Zandt felt a warm buzzing pass through her desktop. Still soaking up the sublime scene of a dewy, early morning, she pressed her thumb to the table’s edge and said: “speak.”

A characterless electronic voice responded. “Confirmed and secured.”

Lillith smiled, pressed her thumb again, and returned to her steaming coffee. The sun broke over the clouds below, burning through in spots to patches of brilliant green. It was a beautiful morning, indeed.

Aboard Sinbad, Mote System, 3047

We went on and on, for a very long time. Once Uncle Kevin asked how Grampa was feeling. I was always afraid now, when Uncle Kevin asked that. It meant he was going to do something to the ship that would be bad for Grampa. Grampa said he’d been better, which meant he did not feel well. He said “I’ve been altering my will.” I could not imagine how Grampa could alter his will. His will was iron. His will was obeyed even though he was old and dying. Even strange Masters bent to his will. Auntie Omar said that’s why it was the greatest possible honor to be given him.

Then he and Uncle Kevin made a cube. Glenda Ruth helped. I do not like Glenda Ruth. She lies. And I will not call her Auntie Glenda. She moves like a Mediator, but she is no Mediator, and no mistake. I will bet Uncle Kevin’s pipe that she has two MaPas and no MaMa.

It went on for five days. And then came Grampa Horace’s greatest hour. It was like this. Glenda Ruth was sitting on Grampa’s bed. I did not like that. It made the bed move, and that disturbed Grampa Horace. He did not say so, but I could hear it in his heart. It went lub-dubby-dub, just for a moment, whenever she moved. She did not even notice! Calls herself a Mediator! Can’t even see the obvious! She was scratching my ear. I can lie too. I pretended to like it. I held very still, because the scratching made it hard to hear. Imagine! A Mediator! Interfering with my Duty!

And that’s when I began to know for sure what she was. She began talking to Uncle Kevin about Warriors. She began instructing him on how Warriors would behave. And then she said; “Remember the mission and look again.” So there it was. She knew what Warriors might do, and then she ordered Uncle Kevin to provide a new analysis. Only a Master could do that.

But Uncle Kevin wasn’t up to it. He is not a Master. He is an Uncle. But Grandpa Horace was. Up to it. He said it was about the fuel. At first, Uncle Kevin did not care. He said that enemy ships would be too late. He said we would move too fast through the jump point. But Grampa Horace knew. He said the enemy would send a mass of junk through the jump point just when we needed to cross.

Grampa Horace was a Great Master. I could hear his heart. I could hear everyone’s heart. Whenever he spoke, Uncle Kevin’s heart slowed. So did Glenda Ruth’s. So did his own. Great Masters can do that. They speak, and hearts are calmed. He was brave and strong. For the next twenty minutes, he laughed and kept their hearts all steady. He knew what enemy Warriors would do. He knew what our Warriors would do. He knew what the ship would do. For twenty minutes, his heart never wavered, and lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub was the last thing I heard before we jumped.

Doctor Cynthia was everywhere. She was doing everything. But there was nothing a Doctor could do. When a Great Master dies, there is nothing a Doctor can do. I did my Duty. I screamed. I roared. I howled in every pitch and language I knew, so that everyone, everywhere, would hear and know: A Great Master has died. Beware, his Warriors are loosed! And then Doctor Cynthia gave me to Glenda Ruth! It was not her place! She was only his Doctor! Not to Auntie Omar! To Glenda Ruth! Glenda Ruth made stupid noises. She said I was to stop! And Auntie Omar made no move to take me back. So then I knew it was true. Glena Ruth pretended to be a Mediator. But Glenda Ruth was a Master. Glenda Ruth was who the Tatars had captured. Glenda Ruth was a wolf.