They left for Dravishi late morning two days later. This was not just due to Marlli’s need to have a last farewell with Rafeli. “It’s a good bit later here than there, and no point showing up at dawn” was Marlli’s explanation. As before, Raelene had her bag and Marlli her floating luggage. A stab of the pin and the sun was lower, the air dry and clear and the smell not of salt and stone but dry grass and black earth. Raelene was immediately hit by a wave of homesickness. They stood on a slight rise, looking out over fields of long grass where cattle grazed. A line of trees marked a watercourse and a dark blotch in the distance was probably a village.

“How does the land feel to you here?” asked Marlli. Raelene kicked off her sandals to dig her toes into the ground. There it was – a quivering eagerness, but also a ‘not-quite-right-ness’. She slowly turned, eyes closed.

“The right country, but not the right Place. Somewhere further north, I think.”

“Oh, good. I started with the southernmost. We have three other spots to try, all north,” Marlli replied, and stabbed herself again. This time they were near a rock outcrop atop a long ridge. The country below was sparsely wooded, and divided between pasture and small fields of grain. The nearest village was at the foot of the ridge, and another was visible tucked under a hill opposite. Raelene shook her head. “Still more north, and a bit west, with a biggish river.”

Marlli took out a map, studied it, marked a spot, then had Raelene add a sketch of open ground next to a tree, moved a pin there and stabbed again. When Raelene’s toes touched the dirt at this third place she squealed in delight. “Yes. This is my Place. That’s my river over there.”

The river was a lazy loop of green water fringed by large trees. The flats around were a lush green, the hillsides more yellow. Cattle lounged in the shade of the trees, ears flicking, mouths moving as they worked their way through the morning’s feed. A large village – more nearly a small town – spilled down the slopes of a round hill a little back from the river, crowned with a tall house. Its glazed tiles sparkled in the sun.

“What do I do now?” asked Raelene. This Place was hers; she knew it, right through to the bone. But hers to do what with?

Marlli was brisk. “First, we introduce ourselves and find out where exactly we are. Then you take a walk around and get acquainted with the land. It will tell you what it wants, I suppose. After all, it did go to a lot of trouble to get you here. Hold on.” She spoke those strange words and Raelene was weightless, then casually took off to fly low across to the town. Another word and Raelene staggered as she regained weight. The town was surrounded by a low earthen rampart, fronted by a shallow ditch. This was more a boundary than a defence, for children were scrambling around on the slope and there was no wall or palisade. The paved streets ended at the ditch, turning into roads of beaten earth that ran away to the east and down to the river. A small crowd of loiterers had watched them approach, tall men in black kilts and women in bright-coloured wraps. Raelene studied them as they came nearer; they were a mix of ages and all decently-clad. There were no obviously infirm or impoverished among them; the general picture was one of cheerful good health.

Raelene thought of the sepia photographs in Pallama’s dusty two-room museum, of her people as they were when the whites came. Sturdy men with bushy hair, possum-skin cloaks over the shoulder, women with shy smiles, all with good teeth, athletic and well-fed in contrast to the weedy, over-dressed whites. This crowd reminded her of what her people had been, and should be. Well, except for the fur cloaks and bare breasts (although some of the wraps were pretty daring).

“Good fortune to you all! What town is this, that we may beg the Powers to be kind to it?’

A stout woman in a blue wrap gave Marlli and Raelene the once over, then a dip of the head. “You are at Askand, travellers. This is the Land of the Three Rivers, and that is the Kalari River. From where do you come, and how, that you do not know this?”

“The Powers be kind to Askand in the Land of the Three Rivers, then. I am Marlli, a magician from oversea, and this is Raelene, brought here by your land from another world.”

That caused a stir. One youth departed up the hill, while the hubbub drew others to the scene. The knot that formed blocked the exit of a group carrying baskets, who demanded to be let through. After some shouting the crowd moved out of the way and enough quiet was imposed for Marlli and Raelene to reply to questions. Raelene found the rural burr of the local dialect pleasant and easily understood once her ear adjusted.

Where had they come from? The answer provoked a short debate on geography and, while this was going on, Raelene took in more detail. The people here had dark skin, darker than her own, inscribed with painted designs in white, red and green on chests and arms. Raelene had no objection to paint bringing out the best features of manly torsos. Her people painted their bodies for ceremonies; here it seemed more an everyday thing. The patterned sarong Kashlei had given her attracted some attention from the women. She gave a warm smile to a young woman who reached out to touch the fabric. The men were more interested in Marlli’s low-cut blouse and tight-fitting trousers. They were discreet but Raelene caught the glances.

The questions continued. Was Marlli going to stay? How had the land brought Raelene? Was she sure this was the right place, as those people upriver needed some firm guidance. How should Raelene be addressed – as one high in rank, or one with word-craft, or hand-craft, or (awesome thought) as a Power? What craft did she have? Raelene gave cautious answers, all the while feeling her connection to the land strengthen. It wanted her to know it, to walk about, touch the trees, dive into the water. Raelene sent thoughts of patience, understanding. It would not do to cast off her clothes and run into the Kalari at this point.

She was thus a little distracted when three newcomers pushed their way through the crowd. One was an older man, cropped hair sown with grey. The other two were young, and all wore red kilts and carried weapons. Broad strips of yellow paint marked their ribs and the long bones of arm and leg, as if they were keen on showing off their skeletons as well as their six-packs. The two younger ones were thickly-muscled, marked with scars, held broad-bladed spears and wore heavy blades at the hip. One drew his eyes very deliberately over her body in a way that would have been offensive even in Pallama. Mick would have told him to back off (and been flattened in the ensuing fight). Here, Marlli caught and held his eyes until they dropped. It was a trick Raelene would like to learn.

The older man looked straight at Marlli. “What do you here, foreign witch-woman?”

Marlli laughed, which did not please the man, and gestured to Raelene. “I am only a guide. Rather, ask her I accompany what she does here.”

That fierce gaze was turned on Raelene. “Well, what do you here?”

The feel of the land beneath her feet gave her enough confidence – just – to return his look. “The land called me out of my own world to this place, that I might be of it, learn it, speak with it. I am here at its call.”

One of the young men laughed derisively. The older man turned, addressed a middle-aged woman in a green wrap. “What does your craft tell you, Reader?” The tone was abrupt, the pronoun the casual rather than the polite form. The woman kept her face blank, stood there a long moment before acting. She knotted her hands in a complex pattern, bent to lay a palm flat on the dirt, studied the back of her hand, then straightened.

“As before, the land is active, yet now the flows circle this woman like hounds excited to see their keeper. The Kalari too shifts in its dreaming, and reaches out to her.”

The man scowled. It was clearly not an answer he expected or welcomed. He turned again to Raelene. “Do you claim rule or right here in Askand?”

Raelene was taken aback. She did not want to tell other people what to do, and she was sure she was not here to run a town. She was here for the land, not the people. She gave a simple negative and waited. The man scowled again. Grumpy bastard, thought Raelene. The crowd parted to let another person through, this time an older woman in a black wrap, her hair concealed by a head-dress made up of several pelts stitched together. The tails hung down beside her tattooed cheeks, swinging as she walked. Several bone wands were tucked into the fur belt about her waist. In the corner of her eye Raelene saw Marlli stiffen slightly, then relax.

“Tell me if these intend harm to any of Askand,” demanded The Grump of this newcomer, his words as rude to her as to the Reader. The old woman plucked a circle of bone from her bosom and peered through it at Marlli and Raelene.

“No harm by intent,” she pronounced. She added “At the present time. Who knows what anyone will do tomorrow?” This seemed aimed at The Grump, for the scowl returned. Raelene was puzzled. The Grump clearly had authority, but demanded advice from people he did not respect, and who did not respect him. The crowd had fallen silent at his entry and were watching with interest but no commitment. Raelene saw older women wince at The Grump’s forms of address, and people had moved away from the two spear-carriers. Marlli and Bone-woman seemed to have an understanding. Bone-woman let her fingers flick towards The Grump and rolled her eyes; Marlli answered with the slightest of smiles.

The Grump made a decision. “You will come before the Teacher of Askand, who will say what you may do. Follow.” He turned and led the way up the hill. The two spear-carriers gestured for Marlli and Raelene to go ahead of them. Marlli shrugged, brought her luggage to heel and did as asked, Raelene by her side. Most of the crowd stayed behind, but Raelene noticed Bone-woman and the Reader fall in behind. The street climbed the slope in gentle curves, giving them views of the country away from the river through the gaps between houses. These were mostly single-story, of a handsome red clay roofed with light grey shingles. Niches beside the doors held small statues, jars holding feathers, sticks tied together with elaborate knots, copper ornaments and other objects. Doors and windows were surrounded with swirling script in bold black. They passed through one square where fruit, vegetables and grains were laid out under coloured awnings and another where jets of water sparkled in the light, thrown from copper pipes into a small pool.

The hall at the top of the hill was fronted by a strip of paving set about with benches. Raelene frowned to see the two trees that ought to give it shade in poor condition, with wilting leaves and scabbed bark. The stone underfoot, a gritty sandstone, felt out of place. Marlli halted to survey the building, so Raelene did too. The two spear-carriers grunted in annoyance; Marlli ignored them. The Grump reached the door, looked around and emitted another of his scowls. Raelene thought to hear a small laugh from one of the women who had followed.

The hall itself was a fine building. The walls were of a light stone, carved everywhere with the same script as the houses. Many large windows and a modest door lent it an open, unassuming air. A projecting balcony ran the full length of the side they faced, sheltered by wide eaves. Two stone cows flanked the entrance, lying down as contented cattle do.

Marlli pointed to the cloths hanging from the balcony. “Those are the colours of the Lague Society. That is strong here in the north, while the Igwè are powerful in the south. It is likely the Teacher holds rank in the Lague.”

This meant little to Raelene. Instead she asked why they were asked to see the Teacher. The Principal she could understand, but the Teacher?

“It’s the local title. Comes from the time when the chief’s main job was to teach the rules to new initiates into the Lague. Anyway, we had better move before that man’s grimace sets so hard he can’t eat.”

They mounted the shallow stone steps and passed into the cool interior. The windows’ diffused light spread across a bare floor of polished wood, dark and lustrous. They changed their footwear for soft slippers and padded across to a door in the panelled wall. Raelene noted that although their escorts frowned at the Reader and Bone-woman, they made no move to prevent them from coming along. The door gave on to an anteroom, where they crowded together while The Grump spoke to a pretty young woman with hair teased into small spikes dyed red and black. She put her head around a door, then asked them to go in. As they filed past the young woman and the Reader exchanged sneers.

Raelene’s first thought was that they had been invited into a bedroom. The slatted wooden shutters were half-closed, making the light dim. The walls were covered with hangings in bold colours, the floor with a bright rug. The man who lounged against piled-up cushions on a wide couch was dressed in a long robe of fine white linen and reading a book. He laid this aside, carefully marking his place with a strip of cloth, as they came in, to raise an eyebrow.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“What is it you have brought me this time, Jammshu?”

“A woman who claims to be from another world, brought here by the land, Teacher. An outland word-mage came with her. Xandul attests that neither intends harm to Askand. The Reader says that the river reaches to the woman.”

This terse summary brought the Teacher upright. If The Grump – Jammshu – and the spear-carriers were wrestlers, the Teacher was a runner. He was built for speed, not power. His narrow face was fringed with a short beard, his hair was tied back into two neat pigtails and his hands were long and narrow. He ran an eye over Marlli and Raelene, rose and sketched a bow to Marlli.

“If you have been called to my land, then we are graced indeed. What may we do that will persuade you to lengthen your stay?”

“Nothing, as I am not the one called. Your plea is better addressed to my friend.”

The Teacher pivoted without pause to Raelene. “Forgive my mistake, honoured lady. By your appearance you might be one of this land, and so I took you to be. Is your world so alike to ours, then, that its people have the same fair hue?”

A flustered Raelene retreated into bald fact. “Not at all. It is very different.”

“Yet not without its jewels,” went on the Teacher, bowing over her hand. Marlli gave her a sideways look which Raelene had no trouble interpreting as ‘what a sleazy jerk’. True, but a handsome, flattering jerk. It was nice to have her ego stroked, for once. Also, he was a chief.

Jammshu broke in. “The woman seeks to learn our land, Teacher. To speak with it.”

The Teacher raised an elegant eyebrow. “Should this be a concern, my shield?”

“If she speaks true, no,” admitted Jammshu. “Yet does she speak true? The Igwè are subtle, and more so the Imo Miri.”

“Are you of the Igwè? Or the Imo Miri?” the Teacher asked Raelene. She gave a plain no.

“Several magicians of high learning and considerable skill have been at pains to bring Raelene here,” interjected Marlli. “Myself among them. The Three Rivers desires her presence, and it is never wise to deny the land.”

“That is so,” put in the Reader. “The land stirs at her feet.”

“The land this, the land that. Until the land comes to this hall and speaks from the high seat I decide for Askand,” stated the Teacher.

“What then do you decide, oh Teacher?” said Xandul the Bone-woman.

The Teacher looked from her to Marlli, and then snorted. “If those of high learning and skill have gone to so much trouble, then it is only courtesy to accommodate them. What is your name, jewel of another world? Railin? I give you into Xandul’s care until you grace my hall again. Xandul, the honour and the risk are yours.”

“It is a charge I gladly accept,” returned Xandul. “With your leave I will enter upon it at once.” She turned to Raelene. “Will you come with me to my home? My ancestors will be pleased to know you. If you would be my guest, that would please me,” she added to Marlli. Marlli gave the Teacher a small wave as they left. Raelene gave him a “Thank you.” It seemed only polite.

* * * *

“If I had to leave quickly I would come back for these,” Marlli said as she laced her sandals. Raelene thought she might too. Kashlei’s sandals were practical, but Marlli’s confections of gold straps, bronze flowers and small gems were gorgeous. They crossed the paving to a side street, followed this for a few turns to where Xandul led into a lane and so to a red door.

“Until you know the town, anyone in Askand can guide you here,” Xandul told Raelene as they entered. That was good to know. The house was a set of rooms around an interior court. A pool reflected the blue sky and colonnades provided shelter from sun and rain. They sat on low cushions and a shy maidservant brought cups of hazeberry juice and a tray of snacks. Raelene sampled chunks of wrinkled sausage, oddly sweet, cubes of roast yam and a nutty paste she later learned was made from moths.

Marlli opened the talk. “Why you, and not the Reader?” she asked. “Her craft is closer to Raelene’s calling than ours.”

Xandul gave a twisted smile. “The Teacher thinks to set me and the Reader at odds. She tells him what he does not like to hear and I support her. If I did not, she would be easier to ignore.”

Raelene asked what what it was that the Teacher did not like. Xandul said that the Reader had felt the land to be uneasy, even irritated, for some time, and more so these last few seasons. The cause was unclear, but she and Xandul had urged the Teacher to caution, restraint and to seek the advice of those higher in the Lague. The Teacher accused them of trying to lessen his authority, and discounted their warnings.

“The land must be disturbed in truth to call across worlds,” commented Marlli. After a pause she added “Once there was a land called Harz Hai, somewhat west and south of my home. The rulers oppressed the land, and now it is Wild. Few even remember that it existed.”

“My great-great grandfather has a similar story, of a land on the coast east of here. It is that and the fretting of my ancestors that tells me the Reader is not wrong. Your arrival confirms my fears.” Xandul told Raelene.

Fears? Raelene knew that the land was happy at her arrival. She knew it wanted her to go walkabout, to know it better. Did it also want her to confront some peril? To tell the Teacher what to do? She had a brief vision of herself in a gilded bra, silk skirt and snake crown, issuing commands from a throne. Nope. Did not fit. The land wanted the girl who jumped into rivers. When she again paid attention Xandul and Marlli were discussing an exchange of spells. She excused herself to wander the colonnade, looking at the objects hung on the walls or set in niches. There were stone jars made so thin that the light shone through, constructions of wire, beads, sticks and bone, a mosaic of animal skulls, a round glass that showed a thunderstorm complete with flashes of lightning and roiling clouds. Xandul looked up and called out “Why not introduce yourself to my ancestors? The green door on the left hand at the back. Just tell them your name.”

Raelene pushed the green door open and stepped into a dim room. When her eyes adjusted she stifled a scream. Racked along the back wall were rows of skulls, grinning merrily. She took a two steps forward. They did not move or speak.

“Erh, hello? My name is Raelene. Xandul said I should introduce myself.”

Silence. She stood there a moment then turned to go. A voice behind said “Welcome, outworld child.” This time she did scream. It was brief, but it brought Xandul and Marlli. They came to the door to find Raelene with her hands crammed into her mouth. Xandul glared at the skulls.

“Is it hospitable to scare a guest? Is it right to play jokes on one here at the land’s call? Well?” After a moment she relaxed. “Know her well. The surround moves with her, and she with the surround, and this house is always open to her.” Then to Raelene “My ancestors are playful, but they never mean harm. Would you like to bathe and dress before dinner? I will show you your room.”

Raelene’s chamber was simple: a clothes-rack, a chest, a shelf for small items, a bundle of bedding which Xandul said would be laid out later. Raelene expected the bathroom to be similarly spartan; instead it was a riot of coloured tiles, with a stall to rinse in and a deep tub of hot water. Raelene had a long soak, wrapped herself in a huge towel and put on a skirt and top. The skirt was a bold block print in blue, black and brown, the top a deep red. She would ask Xandul what they wore here apart from wraps.

* * * *

Marlli left two days later, saying that she had work to get back to and was sure Raelene was in good hands. She gave Raelene a bag of small pebbles: “You can talk to one of these as long as you like. Then tell it who you want it to find and throw it straight up. It will get to them in a day or two.” With that she stabbed herself and vanished. Her luggage wavered this way and that for a little, like a hound sniffing out a distant morsel, then likewise vanished. Raelene was sorry to see her go, but also relieved. It left her free to wander as the land pleased. When Marlli wanted something, whether knowledge or men, she was very focused. She and Xandul had been taking Raelene for short walks, testing what they called the surround in different places. It was some sort of feel magicians had, as far as Raelene could tell. They had tried places around the town, a small grove near the east gate, a stone standing alone in a field, a tiny spring at the foot of the next hill. Raelene could not understand much when they talked in Dravish; when they talked in that strange sing-song, odd-sounds language magicians used, she could not understand at all.

The next morning Raelene rose early, threw on her sarong and sandals and walked out and down to the Kalari. The road crossed at a shallow ford, where the water ran over banked pebbles. She turned upstream, swishing through the long grass. The bank was lined with she-oak and spreading water-figs, and cattle were kept to the meadow by the carved poles Xandul said were herd-sticks. At first Raelene turned her mind to her previous life, wondering what her friends in Pallama would make of her disappearance. Would they think she had just gone to see a cousin? Would they report it to the police (as if they would do anything!)? What would Mick do? Move another woman in, was her guess. Did she care? Not at all. Here, she had the land.

She let those thoughts flow away, and the stories the land wanted to tell flow in. This meadow had seen a fight: her mind was alive to a clash of arms, shouts and screams, gasps of the dying and enriching blood seeping into the soil. That was in the long-ago, and now the grass grew rich and the cattle fat. That stone over there: lovers had scratched their names, and somehow she knew their love had not prospered. She walked on. This tree, tall and trunk as wide as her stretched arms, this was a grave-tree. Seven generations lay here, and the tree knew all their names. If she asked, it would tell their tales.

Raelene walked up the hill, where the grass was drier, up the long slope until it crested and fell away into the valley beyond. Here the lower slopes were terraced and green with young grain. She strolled down, jumped an irrigation ditch, found a path that led down the valley. It wandered along between the fields, following the the curve. The close-ranked shoots on either hand hummed, full of life. The path angled towards the stream that fed the fields, and Raelene skipped down the steps until it met the bordering sedge. Here she stopped, a crease between her brows. The stems were coated with brown and the stream felt bloated, like a glutton staggering away from an over-rich meal or, better, like a cow that got into the alfalfa. The water was not full of life but as clear and dead as glass. She walked on, and the stream did not get happier. A simple wooden bridge crossed further down, with a lone figure standing on it. As she came closer the figure resolved into the Reader, studying the lifeless flow.

The Reader looked up at her approach. “Land-sense shows me a strange pattern here, but cannot show me the cause.”

Raelene came up to lean on the rail beside her. “Reader,” she acknowledged.

“My name is Cahanshe. You’re going to be round here for a while, so you may as well use it.”

“Thank you. Cahanshe it is then. The land tells me the stream is sick, over-fed so that the little life cannot breathe. Where there is no little life, there is no greater.”

Cahanshe nodded. “I start to see why the land called you. We of craft can see the symptoms; you are told the cause.”

Raelene tilted her head in the Dravish gesture of negation. “The land sings to me, but why the stream is ill I do not know.” Unless… she recalled a classroom in Pallama, Mrs Henry the science teacher and something about agricultural run-off. “It could be they feed the crops too much, and some goes into the creek. I will look.”

Cahanshe went on to tell of other streams like this, of blooms of red water in the rivers in the dry season, harmful to people and animals, of patches of dry white soil where only rank grass grew, of ancient trees dying. It sounded familiar to Raelene. They walked as they talked, up the rise beyond the stream, across a pasture to three big trees. Their top branches showed bare against the sky. Raelene laid a hand on the trunk, heard the tree’s complaint about the slow salt poison lapping around its roots. The hillside above was dotted with sheep. As they climbed Raelene listened to the soil moan of too many hard hooves, of no deep roots to draw water up, of thin grasses too soon nibbled away.

There was happy land here, along the river flats, and unhappy land. The unhappy land must be like a sore that refused to heal, a constant source of irritation. Raelene had known a few people with like ailments, who grew grumpy and then desperate enough to turn to any remedy. An auntie of hers had ended up in hospital after taking horse medicine. It seemed the land was not so different, only it could yank her from another world. What sort of remedy was she supposed to supply?

At least the excursions with Marlli and Xandul had given her time to think. “How is it that your and Xandul’s warnings have been ignored so long?” She was careful to use the politest forms.

Cahanshe chose her words with care. “This Teacher and the previous seek to cut a greater figure in the Lague. This has costs, and the money must come from somewhere. Askand used to have three of my craft, maintained by the town. Now it has me and my apprentice. Once Xandul had a colleague. He left for another town. Askand’s compost was once distributed by lot; now most goes to the fields of the Teacher and his friends. More sheep graze his fields, that more wool may be sold. Trees are cut, and none planted to replace them.”

Raelene puzzled over this. “Does no-one notice? Can only I hear the land’s distress?”

“Xandul noticed unusual fluctuations in the surround. My land-sense told me of strange patterns, ones with a dark tinge. One of my craft was very outspoken in the town moot on the matter, and her support was withdrawn. Those who work most closely with the land, such as shepherds and field-hands, are uneasy, but fear to speak up. They feel something is wrong, as a person may feel the air before a storm, yet see no clouds.”

“What am I to do? I cannot tell the Speaker what to do!”

Cahanshe gave her a sideways look. “Can you not? If the land does not have a voice, it will make its displeasure known in other ways. Floods. Drought. In the last resort, it may throw off people entirely, and become Wild. Then the folk of Askand must leave or perish.”

Raelene did not want this job. “How do other places deal with this? I cannot be alone in Dravishi!”

By now they had circled the town. On this side the town had spread beyond the ditch. Large houses, each in its walled garden, sprawled along a rise. Cahanshe flipped a hand. “Behold the mansions of those who speak first and most at the moot.”

“You want me to march in and tell these rich sods to cut back?” asked Raelene. In her experience, those who told off the powerful found out what power meant the hard way. Like her cousin who had sworn at a police officer and been fitted up and put away for six months.

“It’s you do it now or the land does it later,” replied Cahanshe. Relenting, she went on “Look, you won’t be alone. There’s me and Xandul and some others. Also, why don’t you speak to Xandul’s ancestors?”

Raelene had not entered that room again. She found it creepy. Anyway, what could a row of skulls do, apart from grin? They walked on, Cahanshe continuing to to argue her case. Away from the river the land was in worse case. A dip that should be running with water and green with ferns was dry and barren. A large tree lay toppled, roots clawing at the air. An erosion gully cut an ugly scar across a hillside. Raelene could feel the land’s anger at this treatment, a sullen resentment of humans and their works. Under that resentment lay a vast power, as yet only twitching. Should it rouse, Askand would be an ant-hill in front of a bulldozer. Content, it would yield all good things, and it had fallen to her to soothe its hurts away. Reluctantly, she conceded to Cahanshe’s pleas and started to lay plans.