Falling Skyward

Chapter Eight: Veins of Life

Lana jolted upright. The darkness around her seemed to smolder and churn. Burnt faces wavered in the blackness.

Before her nightmares had hurled Lana to the burnt field and her first memories, she was sure she had seen something—its vividness clung to the crevices in her mind—but what was it? Dancing heat on her cheeks and voices, muted voices . . .

Lana tried to trace the thread of thought back to its phantasmal origins, but the more she concentrated, the more the threads turned to vapor. Unsettled by her dreams and overwhelmed by the day's events, Lana's thoughts became nocturnal animals that prowled across her mind.

Careful not to wake Katalia, Lana slid out of bed and slipped on her pants, parka, and boots before making her way outside. Sweet air caressed Lana's face. She breathed in the restless stillness of the trees and the hushed light of the stars. Then, she let her feet pace with her thoughts, allowing them to wander.

What would she say when she faced Direc again? Was he right? Was it better to share the risks and drudgery of life with another, even if you didn't love them? Could she grow to love him?

Was he the only option the future held?

Her mind circled and threaded through these questions without settling. Then, the vacant yet full eyes of the gypsy blinked into her memory. The old woman said Lana had an unusual but extraordinary destiny. Could the woman be a seer, or was she preying upon Lana's vanity in the hopes of earning a few coins? And had the woman known Lana's parents?

An insatiable pull in her stomach told Lana she needed to speak with the woman again. At that moment, Lana saw hunched shadows in the field before her, looking like curled, sleeping giants. Her feet had taken her back to the gypsy camp.

The remnants of the bonfire sputtered softly, illuminating a small group of men who still huddled and whispered around its light. Lana clung to the tree line, circling the wagons and bundles that littered the meadow delicately. But it was impossible to recognize a face or form in the darkness.

Lana turned to leave, chiding herself for her impulsiveness. Even if she had found the old woman, what would she have done? Shake her awake in the dead of night and demand answers?

Answers didn't rain from the stars or appear in crystal balls, like magic. Only questions had that power.

As Lana tiptoed back toward the woods, she saw a hunched shape shift in the shadows. Beneath the tangled veil of a weeping willow, a spring trickled over moss and rock, the water seeping from the tree's knotted roots as if it were bleeding.

Crouching by the spring, the old gypsy sang while catching the starlit water in an earthen jug.

"'I saw the veins of life written on a seashell,

Salt clung to its crescent

Like stars

Sheltered by the moon's deep light.

I heard the voice of life in the falling rain,

Sunsets dropped in its mouth

Like stars

Trickling into the moon's shadow.'

"Hello child, I'm glad you've come back to visit so soon." The words undulated in harmony with the falling water, rushing on like a continuation of the lullaby. Lana shivered, unnerved that the gypsy could sense her approach without seeing.

"Come closer, child," she said, beckoning with vein-laced hands. "Don't remain shivering in the shadows. Come sit with me a while."

Lana moved forward, grasping the faded hands instinctively, helping steady and guide the woman to a rock near the water's edge. The gypsy's bones creaked, and her skin rustled like paper as she sat upon the lichen-spattered stone.