Yaret thought that she might be awake. It was hard to be certain. It was hard to be certain of anything except the throbbing of her leg, a dark burning pulse that beat its way through day and night. It had been louder today. Or heavier, or something. Pain. That was the word. It was pain.
But now that she seemed to be lying still it was not so bad as earlier. Was she lying still? The ground was gently rising and dipping underneath her as if she were on the horse. Maybe she was still on his horse and dreaming. His arm around her. But she could hear the steady breathing of sleepers on all sides, like a protection. So maybe she too was asleep.
To test this theory, she tried to open her eyes. Were they open, or had she merely dreamed of opening them? If they were open, all was dark, so she might as well close them again. Much easier. So tiring to be awake and trying to remember things.
She had forgotten where she was. A forest: that seemed to fit. She heard the rustling of faint leaves. The sound was something to hold on to.
But there were so many forests. Was this the Bander, near her home? A journey chasing after strayed sheep that preferred the forest to the pasture. Huge oaks. Shafts of light hurled deep between them. The trees shed comfort along with acorns. No wonder the sheep liked it. She had to persuade them home but she didn’t want to leave the place herself.
And Gramma Thuli. Stepping between trees she had disappeared in her brown cloak. Then reappeared a little further on. Gathering something. Acorns. No. Squirrels. No. Sunlight. No. Mushrooms. That was it. Mushrooms.
Then she became aware that Thuli was quite close to her, and speaking. Saying to her not her name, but some other words that she ought to know. She could not recognise them although they were very familiar.
“Gramma?” she said. “Were you looking for me? I found the sheep.” Then she realised that the sheep were in a different time, and that this was not the Bander forest. It was too dark. It felt older. She was here for a reason but she could not remember it. It was somewhere far away. Far, far.
“Have you come all this way to find me?” she said. “Did they tell you that I hurt my leg? It’s not that bad, you know. It’ll stop singing soon.”
Tell me the song, said Gramma Thuli.
It was winding through her head, along with the beat of the pulse and the pain, and when she followed it she discovered that it was a song by Madeo. Of course it was. So she sang it, as best she could. Probably not aloud because she could not hear a voice. And she did not have her gourd. It was about a path. Where did it lead, that path? The song must tell it somewhere but she could not remember the end.
“I forget,” she said. “But you know it, Gramma. You taught it me. And your gramma taught it you. Grammas all the way to Madeo.” The idea pleased her and she was laughing.
The gramma liked the song and remembered it well. But this was not her gramma after all, it was someone else’s. Still now that she was here, she enjoyed the song.
“I am honoured,” Yaret told her. And then she fell asleep.