The scar moon was low and the sun about to rise over Mother’s garden. Silver-leafed herbs brooded around the well and spicebushes scented the air. Awa focused on cinnamony aromas. The everyday was as compelling as Smokeland. Mother must have carried Awa’s breath body back from the forest.

“Forget the elephants.” Mother pleaded with Father. Her willful hair was braided down in thick plaits. Her brown cheeks sagged. “This unruly child has brought in a treasure.” Counting the money, Father didn’t notice the wild pup licking Awa’s face. Mother chased him off before Father put a bolt in his furry hide. Dogs harassed the goats who had no fat to worry away. “Selling Awa has saved your farm,” Mother said.

Father looked up from his money bag at the tumble-down corn crumbling in the fields. Fruit trees were covered in a fuzzy scale. Goats bleated at kids sucking their dry teats. Father had stolen all the milk. “We’ll see if the farm can be saved,” he said. His eyes were flicks of flame, his trim beard patchy. “We’ll see.”

Awa’s face was flame-hot, her hands cold. They were selling her on her birthday, like a savage girl nobody wanted to feed anymore.

3

Surprise

Djola climbed along the ragged cliffs, agile and practiced. He dangled a moment over a dark tidal pool, appreciating his strength, the salt air, and white-water birds diving for fish. He grabbed three shells, not yet sun-bleached, for the children, and a rare spiky urchin for Samina. He jumped over the pool and ran through a maze of caves and canyons toward their cozy cottage. He chuckled. Home looked like driftwood caught in a rockslide. Tree limbs obscured a broken chimney.

A secret hideaway meant dusty rides to the capital city, ten days on the Empire road or more, if he had to wait out storms. He hated leaving for Council before repairing the chimney or helping Samina fix the windcatcher. Rotating bundles of reeds cooled hot days and warmed chill nights, but were making such a racket, nobody could sleep at night or think during the day.

Samina stood on the roof by the windcatcher. A sweaty tunic hugged her muscled buttocks and thighs. Her face was the golden brown of nearby cliffs. Silver tattoos snaked under one blue-violet eye and over the other. Silver and blue lip-tint matched her eyes. Strange to him once, beautiful now. Djola married Samina for peace and found love.

Mumbling about broken tools, Samina replaced a bent crossbeam. Reed-wheels rotated softly again, like wind whispering in the bushes.

“You’ve fixed the windcatcher despite broken tools,” Djola called up to her, “and I must be going. I’m long overdue.”