Thanks for your reviews! (tear) Sorry for the formatting issues—it didn't look like that when I put it up. Okay, I stole a song in this chapter from a popular film and twisted it my own way, because I was stupidly inspired. Also...one more note. Everything they say is in Haradic unless otherwise noted. The stuff they say in italics is also Haradic...but its the actual words, not just the assumation, kay:)

Memory Four, Part II

She brought him water the next dusk, and the dusk after that. She burned incense and prayed for her husband's health, pushed medicine down his throat and managed to keep him cool in the burning desert. In return, Dhenuka tossed and turned and murmured names of women who were not Akshamala. The holes in her heart were pulled and yanked farther open.

The pale-face man kept trying to speak to her. A phrase or two, no more in his Haradic and Akshamala would be out of the cave, back to her husband, her husband who cried out "Linaiai! Linaiai! Eshu numde! Linaiai! Numde! Henea du tu…"

Linaiai, Linaiai, my only love, Linaiai, my love…where are you?

She curled up next to his sleeping, fevered form, hands buried in her thin braids, clenching, crying, rocking, and clenching, clenching as though she could pull her hair out long enough to hide her shame behind a curtain of quiet girl hair…

(The mother-flower forgets to tell her seeds how to live before she pushes them out into the world. They scatter, thrown by wind, scarred by sand. They are whipped by water, torn by trees. They flitter, they fly.

They die.

There are no more blooms.

No more mudflowers.)


The dance.

Pumeet flies in her yuide like a little scarlet bird. There are bangles on her wrists and on her ankles and she clinks as she walks.

"'Shamalaaaaa…look at me!" she says, twirling in a circle for her sister.

"You are very pretty," beams Akshamala, stopping her to adjust her sister's saree. Pumeet scowls, and then giggles.

"Will you come dance?" inquires the little bird. Akshamala pauses and shakes her head.

"No…you know wives may not dance," she replies.

Pumeet looks very sad. "But Akshamala…you never got to dance at all! We are not even allowed to dance until we are fourteen…and then you were…married," she says, making a sour face.

Akshamala only smiles and says, "It matters not. Go! Go dance for the harvest with the people. Dance for me, if you wish."

The little bird grins. "I will, I promise."


She walks away from the encampment. She hears voices, smells the fire and hears the drums and the people dancing for their harvest, the only celebration to any spirit but Saurontei. The chorus of the Harads, seeming hundreds of voices rising up to the sky in a giant, choral prayer.

Steady as the beating drum…

Singing to the cedar flute…

She stops at the oasis with her clay bowl and a few pieces of the dry desert bread of the Harads. Her ears will not stop beating in time to the music. It is hard to not tap her feet, to move, but she stands strong against it.

Seasons go and seasons come…

Bear the thorn and bring the fruit…

She returns inside the cave with the pale-face, with his strange eyes that never leave her. He looks up at her, a hint of surprise in his dark eyes, as though he was puzzled by the fact that she kept coming back. She pities him, for he looks as if he is in pain from his chains, but she will do nothing. She cannot.

In the hottest desert sun

Wind that blows across the dunes

Along where the mumaks run

By the bright and shining moon!

She approached the man once more, lifting the bowl up to him. He did not bow his head to drink. Instead, he lifted his head to look her in the eye.

"I would have thought you would be dancing," he said clearly, and quite earnestly.

And in the greatest surprise of all, she answered.

"I am not allowed to dance," the Harad girl nearly snapped. She hated this pity she had for herself, this pity that had shown up when Pumeet had told her to dance. How much she had not been able to experience. How she had been thrust into growing up. Stop thinking about it, she told herself. You are much better than this.

The man looked just as surprised as she'd felt when she spoke.

"Why not?" he asked, testing the waters. He hoped she would speak again. His isolation here in the desert had been nearly intolerable.

She laid the bowl down on her lap with a sigh. Obviously, the obstinate pale-face would not drink until she'd maintained a civilized conversation with her. Perhaps he thought she was a savage to be examined.

"In Harad law," she said dully, "once a woman is married, she does not dance. Dancing makes a man look at a woman. This is forbidden."

And her own husband's bitter hypocrisy flared in her heart.

"I see," said the pale-face thoughtfully. She lifted the bowl up again, and this time he drank. She carefully held up a few ripped pieces of the desert bread to his lips, making sure she did not touch him.

As soon as he was done, he spoke to her once more.

"Why wouldn't you dance anyway?" he said, catching her eyes again.

O Great Spirit, hear our song!

Help us keep the ancient ways,

Keep the sacred fire strong!

Walk in balance all our days…

Akshamala averted her eyes away from him quickly. She picked up her bowl, moving awkwardly now with her pregnant form.

"No," she said, shaking her head as she left hastily, nearly scared by the man's words, "You do not understand. No."

She left him. He knelt there, chained to the post, and watched her go, following her with his eyes as long as he could.

Her name, he thought, I need to know her name.

Akshamala got back to her tent, making sure to avoid all of the festivities. She laid the bowl away, and checked on Dhenuka. He slept soundly, and she thanked any god she knew of for this. She stood by the tent flap for a moment, listening to the chorus. Listening to the sound of feet against the sand. Bangles clinking together. Laughter. The sound of limbs. Softness. Fire.

Wings.

Why don't you dance anyway?

Seasons go and seasons come,

Steady as the beating drum,

See the mudflower blossom!

Steady as the beating drum…

Akshamala doused all of the light in the tent. There was nothing but blackness surrounding her. She tied her braids up on the top of her head.

And she danced. She danced for the darkness. She danced for the wind. She danced in silence, in shadow. She danced for a man that would never see her. She danced for a love inside herself that could never be.