across his sending, a memory of that generous spirit he couldnât keep out.
The colorful sending seemed to startle the men. Makkâs hand dropped from his shoulder and everyone drew away mentally. Jakkin wondered if it was the color or the joy in the sending that had so provoked them. Then he shook his head, continuing:
â
I came to your place with my . . . woman.
â
He bet Akki would be furious if she knew heâd called her that.
Makk nodded, but still kept his distance. â
Yes. We know this. She in Place of Women.
â
It was Jakkinâs turn to be startled. He walked over to Makk and put his hand on the manâs broad shoulder. At the touch he was able to see right into Makkâs mind. So that was it! He made the sending as strong as he could: â
I want my woman. That is how it is done in my place.
â When he took his hand away Makkâs mind snapped shut like some kind of trap.
Makkâs fingers moved swiftly, then his sharp sending pierced Jakkinâs mind. â
Now you eat.
â
â
Not that stuff.
â
Turning, Makk signed toward one of the men at a table. He rose and brought over another bowl. This one was filled with a dark jellied substance. Jakkin took the bowl and tipped it eagerly into his mouth. He recognized congealed boil and chikkberries, but there was also a greenish, bittersweet taste that lingered after he had finished the food and made his mouth feel clean and good.
Only later did he realize what that meant:
chikkberries and boil. The men of the cave didnât just stay inside. Somewhere there had to be an easy access to outside, to a meadow. He wondered when and how he might dare to ask.
13
M AKK MADE IT clear, though it took many sendings, that if Jakkin didnât work like the other men, he wouldnât be fed again. Nor would he be allowed to go to the Place of Women when it was time.
â
Time?
â Jakkin had sent, hoping for an explanation. Heâd already given up on the food. Somehow, somewhere, there was a supply of fresh growing things, but certainly not in the bowels of the cave.
But Makk had only reiterated the same images, of sun and moons, clear notations of time. And since there was no way for Jakkin to find the Place of Women on his own, or to feed himself, for that matter, he worked. He wasnât happy about it, but he worked,
reminding himself to stay alert and learn as much as he could.
Standing on the high shelf of rock and taking his turn at stirring pots of fire, Jakkin felt alternately hot and cold. The flames seared his front, but there was a cold breeze across his shoulders and along the backs of his knees. His arms ached from the unaccustomed labor and his mind was weary from the twin efforts of cloaking and listening. But the more he saw of the metal-making operation, the more he realized its importance. And the more he realized bitterly that he was powerless to let the rest of Austar know.
After hours with the great iron rod, Jakkin was relieved by a silent, hulking worker who signaled him with a hand on the back. When Jakkin turned away from the shelf there was Makk again, ready to lead him to another portion of the cave where men were grubbing around the walls, using metal picks the size of fewmet shovels, mining out the stuff Makk called ore. Following behind these men was a crew of workers with sling bags full of phosphorescent moss, which they placed wherever a vein of the ore had been
picked out. Despite Makkâs attempts at an explanation, and the instruction of his own eyes and ears, Jakkin wasnât sure if the moss was used as tunnel markers for the pickers, for light, for decoration, or a combination of all three.
By the time it was his turn on the moss detail, Jakkin was openly yawning, but no one seemed to notice. The bagâs straps were made for broader shoulders than his and kept slipping. The cool, flaky mosses were not as easy to set in place as heâd thought.
The colorful sending seemed to startle the men. Makkâs hand dropped from his shoulder and everyone drew away mentally. Jakkin wondered if it was the color or the joy in the sending that had so provoked them. Then he shook his head, continuing:
â
I came to your place with my . . . woman.
â
He bet Akki would be furious if she knew heâd called her that.
Makk nodded, but still kept his distance. â
Yes. We know this. She in Place of Women.
â
It was Jakkinâs turn to be startled. He walked over to Makk and put his hand on the manâs broad shoulder. At the touch he was able to see right into Makkâs mind. So that was it! He made the sending as strong as he could: â
I want my woman. That is how it is done in my place.
â When he took his hand away Makkâs mind snapped shut like some kind of trap.
Makkâs fingers moved swiftly, then his sharp sending pierced Jakkinâs mind. â
Now you eat.
â
â
Not that stuff.
â
Turning, Makk signed toward one of the men at a table. He rose and brought over another bowl. This one was filled with a dark jellied substance. Jakkin took the bowl and tipped it eagerly into his mouth. He recognized congealed boil and chikkberries, but there was also a greenish, bittersweet taste that lingered after he had finished the food and made his mouth feel clean and good.
Only later did he realize what that meant:
chikkberries and boil. The men of the cave didnât just stay inside. Somewhere there had to be an easy access to outside, to a meadow. He wondered when and how he might dare to ask.
13
M AKK MADE IT clear, though it took many sendings, that if Jakkin didnât work like the other men, he wouldnât be fed again. Nor would he be allowed to go to the Place of Women when it was time.
â
Time?
â Jakkin had sent, hoping for an explanation. Heâd already given up on the food. Somehow, somewhere, there was a supply of fresh growing things, but certainly not in the bowels of the cave.
But Makk had only reiterated the same images, of sun and moons, clear notations of time. And since there was no way for Jakkin to find the Place of Women on his own, or to feed himself, for that matter, he worked. He wasnât happy about it, but he worked,
reminding himself to stay alert and learn as much as he could.
Standing on the high shelf of rock and taking his turn at stirring pots of fire, Jakkin felt alternately hot and cold. The flames seared his front, but there was a cold breeze across his shoulders and along the backs of his knees. His arms ached from the unaccustomed labor and his mind was weary from the twin efforts of cloaking and listening. But the more he saw of the metal-making operation, the more he realized its importance. And the more he realized bitterly that he was powerless to let the rest of Austar know.
After hours with the great iron rod, Jakkin was relieved by a silent, hulking worker who signaled him with a hand on the back. When Jakkin turned away from the shelf there was Makk again, ready to lead him to another portion of the cave where men were grubbing around the walls, using metal picks the size of fewmet shovels, mining out the stuff Makk called ore. Following behind these men was a crew of workers with sling bags full of phosphorescent moss, which they placed wherever a vein of the ore had been
picked out. Despite Makkâs attempts at an explanation, and the instruction of his own eyes and ears, Jakkin wasnât sure if the moss was used as tunnel markers for the pickers, for light, for decoration, or a combination of all three.
By the time it was his turn on the moss detail, Jakkin was openly yawning, but no one seemed to notice. The bagâs straps were made for broader shoulders than his and kept slipping. The cool, flaky mosses were not as easy to set in place as heâd thought.
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