The Keeper's Shadow by Dennis Foon Page A

healer needs to writhe and scream and run—exhaustion might soothe and dampen her senses. Watching her claw the walls, Mabatan yearns for the quiet wetlands she called home. She can feel the paddle in her hand, the boat slipping through the current, smell the new growth all around her. Perhaps she will never see them again. The thought flits around her like a hungry fly, ready to land and bite the instant she weakens her guard.
    The Dirt Eater’s hair is limp with sweat; her eyes gleam with the rage that the craving brings. Mabatan dips a towel into a pail of cold water and offers it to the healer. “Keep chewing the leaf, it will help with the pangs.”
    The healer twists the towel in her hands, panting. “You say the children are in the Dreamfield. You say I am to help them. How? You lie to me, Wazya. You lie. How can I help them if you deprive me of Dirt?”
    How the Dirt Eater is to aid the children is a mystery to Mabatan. Even in the best of conditions, years of training are required to travel to the Dreamfield on the needle’s song. So she ignores the question and holds a bowl to the healer’s lips. “Drink as much as you are able. The water is infused with purgatives.”
    Mabatan waits as the Dirt Eater struggles between thirst and anger. For the moment thirst wins.
    As the healer drinks, Mabatan’s white cricket crawls out from her pocket and onto her arm. She smiles, listening to it. She has always lived in the company of crickets and enjoyed the aura of protection and friendship they bestow. After her mother had disappeared and her grandmother died, the crickets had soothed her to sleep, opening her eyes to the things her ancestors had loved and cared for. They had guided her wichumin , the journey each Wazya must take at the age of thirteen. Since that time, if her father needed her, the crickets had been the ones to let her know. Of all her teachers, friends, and family, they’d always been the most constant.
    â€œI must go,” she says, putting down the bowl. “I am needed.”
    But as she rises, the Dirt Eater kicks over the bowl and clutches at her arm. “You understand the crickets?”
    Suppressing her urge to thrust the healer aside, Mabatan answers patiently, “They speak to me. I hear them.”
    â€œWhat do they say?”
    â€œThat I must go.” Mabatan recognizes the desperation that colors the healer’s voice, the fear of being alone in her pain and the feelings of self-destruction that are hidden in its wake. “I won’t be far. Keep chewing the leaves, drinking the water. You are strong. Use your strength to fight your enemy.” But the Dirt Eater will not let go of her arm.
    â€œWho are you?”
    â€œI am Mabatan.”
    â€œThat is not an answer!”
    The healer’s grip on Mabatan’s arm is tightening. “Release my arm.”
    â€œThe Wazya are a myth. Who are you really? Are you from the City? Your friend, he looked like a Master. What do they want from me? Why don’t you kill me and have it over with?”
    Mabatan twists, bringing her free elbow down hard just above the Dirt Eater’s heart. As the healer collapses forward, her grip slackens. Pulling herself free, Mabatan swings round to sit on her fallen charge.
    â€œI do not blame you for distrusting me, but you must understand I will not allow myself to be harmed by you, Dirt Eater.”
    â€œMy name is Alandra,” the healer spits out defiantly.
    â€œI know your name, Dirt Eater. I know the name of your old teacher as well. And, despite your protests, I have no reason to believe you are not also capable of his actions. You were thrust in my path and I help you because it seems that I must. But until you prove yourself otherwise, you are my enemy, and I will name you as such.”
    â€œWhy do you hate the Dirt Eaters so much?”
    Ah. Mabatan must not forget that this one is a healer. “Is it not enough