Excerpt:
11
Kirra was dangling upside down, her body
pressed against the tightly woven net, twigs and leaves mashing into her face.
One arm was pinned to her side, but she was able to work her free hand up to
clear a space so she could peek through a hole.
A man ascended the trunk, moving with the liquid grace
of a jungle cat. His clothing was all dull greens and dirty browns, allowing
him to blend in seamlessly with leaf and limb. He was peering up at her through
a screen of tightly braided hair, and his scarred hands and feet instinctively
found grips for climbing while his eyes never left the net.
When the man reached Kirra’s branch, he nimbly hoisted himself up
and withdrew a long, sharp cutting stone from the waistband of his shorts.
Kirra was helpless to do anything but watch as he got closer and closer.
“Hey, Mome.”
The man bent over and squinted into the net.
“Oh. Hello, Kirra.” He gave her a little wave. “I was hoping to
find the leopard that has been patrolling these parts.”
“So sorry to disappoint you.”
“Oh well. He’ll be back.” Mome shrugged and sat down cross-legged
on the wide branch. “And what are you doing on this fine afternoon?”
Kirra shook her head. Or rather, she tried to. Being trussed up
like this did not lend itself to much mobility. She settled for an eye roll.
“Well, at the moment I seem to be stuck in this tree.”
“My, my. So you do.” Mome’s brow crinkled, matching the deep
wrinkles that lined the rest of his face. He gestured at Kirra’s predicament
like he had just noticed she was incapacitated. “And why are you like this?”
“You know why.”
Mome raised one eyebrow in a question.
“You did this,” Kirra said. “This is
your net. You caught me. In a trap. Like a wild animal.”
“Well . . . perhaps you should not have
wandered so close to my home.” Mome shrugged. “Like a wild animal.”
“That’s hardly fair, Mome. You change the location of your home
every month or so. It’s hard to keep up.”
He waggled a finger at her. “One can never be too careful. I’ve
seen many things in this life, young lady.” Mome bent down and reached through
the holes in the net to clear away some leaves, revealing more of Kirra’s face.
He studied her for several moments. “Do you know what I think?”
Kirra tried to blow a stray lock of hair out of her face. “What?”
“I think you have sad eyes. They’ve always told me that you’ve
seen some things in this life, as well.” After a long silence he added, “Yes?”
Kirra looked away. “You know I don’t talk about things like that.
The past.”
“But we cannot know the future. So what else is there to talk
about except the past?”
“How about we talk about you getting me out of this net in the
very near future?”
“Oh, my. So feisty.” He leaned forward and squinted at her, then
poked tentatively at an elbow that was sticking out of the net. “Are you sure
you’re not a leopard?”
Kirra just rolled her eyes again. Mome chuckled and reached up
with his cutting tool, hacked through a section of rope, and the entire net
came apart. Kirra was unceremoniously deposited onto the broad branch with a
thump.
“Oof.” She clambered to her feet, rubbing her lower back where she
had smacked the limb.
“Hmm. Strange. I thought leopards always landed on their paws.”
“I’m not your leopard, Mome.”
He tilted his head this way and that, chin in his hand, studying
her. Finally he gave her a dismissive wave. “Oh, I suppose not. But you should
come to my humble house anyway and share a drink with me. I’m working on a new
concoction with honey and berries. You will love it!” Mome talked with his
hands and his eyes went all crinkly when he was excited.
Kirra was still dusting herself off. “I would do that, Mome,
really. But I need to get to the salt caverns before dinner. And I’m late
already.”
She turned to step away, but Mome took her gently by the
shoulders. “We have not chatted in a long time, and I have plenty of salt at
the moment. How about this: You take as much as you need, and then spend the
time you saved visiting with old Mome.”
Kirra chewed on her lip, weighing the offer. It would be nice not
to have to haul herself all the way to the caverns. And Mome always treated her
with kindness. But still . . . talking to him was like walking
through a maze where a Memory Trap lurked behind every corner, because he was
also—
“It’s called borrowing from a neighbor, Kirra, and in some parts
of this wide world, it’s actually quite a common practice.”
She looked down. “I know about borrowing,” she mumbled. “And I
know about neighbors.”
Mome gave her a gentle smile. “I had a feeling you did.” The old
man leaned in and tapped her forehead. “I think that a time when you learned to
borrow from neighbors is part of your story.”
Kirra turned her head away.
“Come now.” He nudged her in the ribs. “If you and I start acting
neighborly and borrowing from each other, who knows? The practice might catch
on with these folks.” Mome gestured at the surrounding forest.
Kirra turned to face him again; that was another reason she had
always liked this man, ever since she first arrived. He spoke to her as a
fellow outsider. Like her, Mome hadn’t been born into the Tree Folk, so the two
of them shared an unlikely bond.
“Hmm . . . how far away is your new house?”
Mome pointed directly overhead. “We’re practically there. This”—he
kicked at the fallen net—“is my last line of defense against all things
leopardy.”
He reached up and disappeared into the leaves above. Kirra sighed
and followed. She saw his “house” immediately, though it was a pretty
bare-bones operation: thatched roof woven among the branches to keep the
rainfall away, a single hammock, and a few shelves harboring Mome’s meager
accumulation of possessions.
Soon Kirra was sitting in the guest chair: a bunch of thick, soft
moss that had been stuffed into the V created by two branches emerging from the
trunk at the same spot. She was able to lie back and relax a bit, holding a
wooden cup of the honey juice that Mome had whipped up. It was delicious.
“Okay, this is pretty cozy,” she admitted. “But why do you change
houses so often, Mome?”
Sipping from his own cup, the older man tilted his head and gave
her question some thought for a few moments. He always did that. Most adults
answered right away, even if they weren’t completely sure about what they were
saying. It was like they just wanted to get the conversation over with as
quickly as possible. Mome taking time to weigh her words was proof that he took
them seriously.
“Well . . . I suppose it’s because if you work
really hard to build a perfect house, and you spend all your time filling it
with this and that . . . it becomes easy to confuse what truly
belongs there with what doesn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
He turned back, fixing her with his soft gaze. “It’s the people in
a house that matter, not the house or the possessions. Never the things.”
Kirra nodded. Sometimes when he said something, it hit her in the
core of her being and sounded right without her having to think about it.
Mome glanced away, looking absently at the surrounding trees. His
face fell a bit as he stared at nothing in particular, as if dismayed by a
distant memory. When he spoke again, his voice was much quieter. “And also
because you can never be sure when you might have to leave your home quickly.
Not being too attached makes that easier to do.”
Kirra flinched as if he had reared back to strike her.
The older man noticed the reaction. He gently placed a hand on her
arm. “Sometimes when I say things to you, I can see storm clouds roll across
your eyes.” He patted her for a while, letting Kirra gather herself. Finally,
Mome said, “Will you at last tell me what happened to you? Share part of your
story with me—where you came from, perhaps? I may be able to help you, Kirra.”
She just shook her head. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Everyone has a story.”
“I don’t like stories,” she said quickly.
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear
that.” Mome sighed deeply. “They are what make us different from the
animals, you know?”
“What are you talking about?” Kirra knew she had to step
carefully. Mome could surround her with Memory Traps before she even knew what
was happening. This could end very, very badly.
But still . . . it had been so long since she’d
heard a new story. Or even heard anyone say something good about stories. Salt
was not the only thing that the Tree Folk failed to share with one another.
Mome leaned forward from his perch in the hammock and gestured to
the forest floor far below. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that the animals are much
better suited for life in this hard world than we are. Warm fur coats, sharp
teeth, claws that work like a handful of tools, the power to run much faster,
or jump higher, or even fly. They should be in charge of everything!”
Kirra might be nervous about where this conversation was headed,
but it was always a treat to watch Mome get worked up about something. His eyes
shone like they were sparkling in the light of a campfire, and his fingers danced
in the air as he gestured to emphasize his points.
“But the beasts do not have stories, and that is our one
advantage.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows at her. “Stories pass on
hard-earned knowledge to the next generation, they gather communities together
for the telling, and they show us what life is like in other tribes in distant
lands, even make us feel what those people might be
feeling. It’s like magic for your mind!” Mome clapped as if his body needed an
outlet for all of this joy.
Kirra couldn’t help but smile a little at his enthusiasm, but she
kept it hidden by training her face downward, pretending to study the ground
below.
Mome leaned even closer, trying to establish eye contact with her.
“And perhaps most importantly, they can teach us about ourselves.”
Kirra allowed her mind to flash backward, only for a moment. She
saw a man, a woman, and a small boy sitting beside her around a campfire. The
man—faceless, like the others—was telling a silly story and the rest of them
were cracking up, throwing their heads back with laughter and clutching one
another. The woman turned in her direction and—
No. Kirra shut that memory down hard.
Finally, she shrugged and looked back at Mome. Her voice was very
quiet. “And sometimes stories are just for fun.”
“Exactly!” Mome broke into a giggle that made him sound like a
much younger man. “That is indeed the truth, and isn’t it wonderful? The
leopard may have the speed and the strength and the teeth and the claws, but
when does he ever have a little fun?” Mome shook his head, still letting loose
unself-consciously with his childlike snickering. “Do you know any just-for-fun
stories, meerkat?”
She slurped the last of her drink and handed the empty cup to
Mome. “I think I should be getting back home now.”
Mome grabbed the cup, and before Kirra could haul herself out of
the comfy seat, he refilled it. “Okay, the past is out. Stories are out. I
understand.” He wafted the drink under her nose. It smelled so good, she found
herself accepting it. “Let us talk about the present, then,” Mome went on. “How
are you getting along with your Tree Family these days?”
Kirra leaned back and sighed. This was also difficult to speak
about, but it was definitely preferable to trying to describe anything that
might have taken place Before.
“Things are . . . Oh, they’re the same, I suppose.”
She shook her head. “Luwan is as crazy as ever.”
Mome grinned. “I’m glad you two have each other. I have not seen
him buzzing around here recently, so please tell him I said hello.”
“Catch him in one of your leopard traps and tell him yourself.
He’s the one who deserves that kind of treatment, not me.”
“I might just do that.” Mome took a deep breath, and his grin
faltered a bit. “And Luwan’s parents? Any developments there?”
Kirra shrugged. “Not really. Loba concentrates on the hunt while
Maham does the fishing and foraging. They are a good team. I see them at
mealtimes and in the evenings, especially if it’s cold and the family is
sitting around the fire.”
Mome nodded. “And they are kind to you?”
“Always,” Kirra said quickly. “They have provided everything I
need, ever since the first day I got here. Never a harsh word. Not once. I owe
them everything.”
“I know, I know.” Mome held up his palms in a placating gesture.
“They take very good care of your physical needs. I’m just wondering, young
Kirra”—Mome tapped his chest—“are they able to take care of your heart, as
well?”
She gave him a look. “I don’t need that, Mome. Just because I
don’t talk about where I came—”
“Everyone needs heart care, meerkat. It’s a simple fact, and
nothing to be ashamed of.”
She stared at him. She had not cried since she’d arrived in this
forest, and she did not intend to start now.
“I know that. And they try. Really. It’s just
that . . . we’ve never made a real connection . . .
because, well . . .”
“You come from somewhere else,” Mome said softly.
It took her several moments to answer. “Yes.”
“And that makes them uneasy.”
Kirra swallowed heavily. “Yes.” She chewed on her lip in thought.
“But doesn’t . . . I mean, doesn’t everyone around here come
from somewhere else? Originally?”
“Why do you ask?”
“The families . . . they look different from each
other. And they sound different, too.”
“Indeed. The first Tree Folk did come from many places. It’s a
patchwork community of sorts.” Mome sighed and poured them each a bit more of
the berry drink. “You have more in common with these people than you think.”
Kirra was silent but made a keep going
gesture by twirling her fingers in a circle.
“As you know, communities can come to an end for many reasons.
Resources dry up, or a flood displaces a tribe, or sometimes, war breaks out—”
Mome saw Kirra wince at that, and so he hurried along. “Whatever the reason,
sometimes survivors need to find a new place. That’s what brought all these
different people to the forest.”
Mome gestured to his little hideaway. “Since they were running
from something unpleasant, they decided to hide up here in the branches. Create
a safe haven for themselves. Or at least make it so they feel safe.”
Mome let that soak in for a while. Eventually Kirra looked back up
at him. “So that’s why this community . . . isn’t like one big
family? Why people are polite but not, you know, friendly?”
“That’s exactly right. They might share when they need to—in an
emergency—but they don’t share what’s truly important. They don’t share
themselves. They’re too afraid.”
His words, though spoken gently, crashed against Kirra’s ears. He
might have been explaining how this community works, but he could have just as
easily been describing how she had felt for the last four years.
Mome paused and tapped her on the forehead again. “Like you,
they’re not only afraid of others . . . They’re also afraid of
themselves. They are trying to forget their own stories. And since they’ve been
here longer than you—a few generations, perhaps, long enough to see you as an
outsider—many of them have succeeded.” He sat back again. “But a community
without stories is a sad place,” he went on. “It has no past, and so it has no
future.”
Kirra didn’t answer. Sometimes not crying took all her
concentration.
Mome looked at her silently with sad but kind eyes. He didn’t say Everything will be okay like most adults did when kids felt
terrible. He allowed her to feel what she was feeling, and Kirra was reminded
again of why she liked being around him so much.
Finally, the older man spoke. “If you’re not careful, meerkat,
you, too, may forget where you came from. You may forget your story entirely,
as these people have.”
She sighed heavily. “That’s the plan.”
Mome shook his head. But then he stood and stretched, and lifted
Kirra’s pouch from the branch where she had hung it. He found his salt bowl on
a rough plank that served as a shelf, dumped the contents inside the pouch, and
handed it to Kirra.
“Come with me. Before you return home, I would like to show you
something.”
