Silent Skies

Chapter 3

By the time Solma gets back with an armful of tinder, Mamba has seen sense and relinquished control of the camp to Cobra. Four tents have been erected (it’s obvious which one Krait and Habu put up) and Cobra is helping Mamba untack the ponies. Ana’s got a meagre fire going. She now sits, cross-legged, with the boys either side, watching Aunt Bell stirring a sweet-smelling pot while Roseann adds ingredients. Solma frowns as she watches the Whisperers. They’re fidgety and distracted and Krait is complaining of a headache.

Solma trudges over and leaves the tinder next to Bell, who glances at it and nods approvingly.

“Good,” is all she says. Solma sighs.

“Where’s Warren?”

Bell nods towards one of the tents and Solma glances up to see Olive emerging from it, frowning. Solma hurries to her, hands held out in question. Olive loops an arm around her waist.

“He’s in a mood,” she explains. “I tried, Sol, but he won’t come out. He’s in there sulking. No idea why.”

Solma sighs and leans her head against Olive’s shoulder. The other girl’s earthy scent soothes her lungs and she nuzzles closer. Olive kisses her eyebrow.

“There’ll be time for that later,” she whispers. “Go see your brother. I’ll bring you food.”

She gives Solma one more squeeze and heads towards the fire. Solma touches her eyebrow where Olive kissed it and doesn’t know what to feel. Guilt buzzes inside her.

Warren is huddled at the far end of the tent with his back to the entrance when Solma dips inside. He hasn’t lit the lanterns or laid out his bedroll. Instead, he hugs his knees and mutters something that Solma can’t hear.

“Warren?”

He jumps and whips round. Solma sees tears in his eyes.

“Go away,” he mumbles. “I don’t wanna talk to anyone.”

Solma rolls her eyes and closes the tent flap behind her. “Oh that’s grown up,” she says. “Come on, War, it’s so gloomy in here.”

She opens a lantern, pumps the wind-up handle and flicks the switch. The bulb blinks once, then slowly hisses to life. Solma brings it over to

Warren and sits beside him, ignoring the fact he shuffles away from her and scowls at the canvas wall.

“I wanna be on my own,” he grumps.

Solma suppresses another sigh. “Why, so you can feel sorry for yourself?”

“Yes.”

Solma pulls her knees up under her chin, mirroring Warren’s stance. “Is it helping?”

“No,” Warren admits. He lets his legs slide out straight in front of him and leans back on his hands, still frowning. “Nothing’s helping.”

Solma waits. She’s never been much good at this bit of sistering. Defending Warren from feral villagers is easy compared to helping him sort through his feelings. She remembers how she’d dismissed his fears about Blaiz last year and winces. It’s not surprising he doesn’t find her a comfort anymore.

Warren chews his lip. Finally, he says, “What if there ain’t no more bees, Sol?” He pauses for a moment. Then, “Or what if there are bees but I can’t hear them no more?”

Ah. There it is. The thing he really fears. Solma’s seen him watching the skies, his little face full of hope and anguish. She’s sure the tremolo of bee song hums in his dreams, and that he misses that strange, chemical language he’d learned to speak last summer when Blume, the first bumblebee anyone had seen in a century, clambered from the spring soil and into his heart.

Blume died at the turn of Autumn last year. The Fire Makers—Vulkan and his son, hired by Blaiz—set her nest aflame, but she was old anyway. Warren knew she wouldn’t last beyond the autumn. But Solma knows her death still hurts him, nonetheless.

And what if he’s right? What if there are no more bees?

Solma leans towards him and pulls him close. “You’ll hear them again, War,” she says, though she’s got no idea if that’s true.

Warren wriggles free and wipes his eyes with the back of one hand. “You don’t know,” he mutters. “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

Solma sighs. There used to be a time when he trusted her implicitly. But that version of him burned up in the fire that destroyed Blume’s nest. He’s eight now and he’s seen more of Alphor in these last five months than Solma ever did in her whole life before that. Her sisterly tricks don’t work anymore.

“Look, Warren,” she says, trying a different tactic. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen any more than you, but moping and refusing to eat ain’t helping your bees. Whatever happens, happens. So you might as well come get some food.”

Warren scowls, folds his arms, and scoots round until his back is to her. He harrumphs at the canvas wall of the tent. Solma pinches the bridge of her nose. That went well.

“Just leave me alone, Sol,” Warren grumbles. He’s going for anger but his little voice wobbles and Solma knows he’s on the verge of tears again. She touches his back. He flinches away. Great.

Solma emerges from the tent to find Olive holding two wooden bowls of a rich-smelling broth. Solma frowns. It’s always broth when they’re running low on supplies.

Olive holds a bowl out for Solma just as Cobra hurries over to meet them. “How’s he doing?” she asks. Solma shrugs, stirring the broth with her spoon.

“He’s worried there ain’t no more bees.”

Cobra makes a sympathetic face. “Aren’t we all,” she says, touching Solma’s arm. “Want me to try? You’ve had a tough day. And sometimes it helps to … you know … talk to another Whisperer.”

Solma’s gut kicks but she bites down on whatever snappish retort threatens to make itself known. She’d tried so hard to keep Warren close all last summer and it still feels like he’s drifting away.

“Yeah,” she says, her throat dry. “Sure. Go ahead.”

Cobra smiles. “You’re a good sister,” she says. “And he knows that. Don’t worry.”

Solma’s not sure she is. Or that Warren does. But she nods her thanks anyway. Cobra ducks inside the tent. Olive folds her arms and nudges Solma with her elbow.

“You gonna eat that?”

Solma dutifully scoops up a spoonful of broth and gulps it down. It’s warming and flavorful, but her stomach churns.

“Yeah,” she says, dropping the spoon into it. “I’ll eat it while I patrol. Bell still got my rifle?”

Olive loops her arm through Solma’s and begins to pull her towards the campfire. “Not now, Sol,” she says, fluttering her eyelashes in a way Solma hadn’t realized she was capable of until the first night they shared a tent. “You gotta rest. It ain’t even dark yet. There won’t be any redbears or wildwolves out for at least an hour, so you can relax with us for a bit.”

Solma squirms free of Olive’s grip. “No, I can’t, I—”

But why can’t she?

She gazes at the group gathered around the fire. Mamba bounces Krait, the youngest of the three boys, on his knee as the pair of them sing an old Whisperer rhyme. Ana wears a very polite face as Bell talks her through a list of specific ingredients for the broth and Roseann has Taipan, King and Habu enthralled in some over-embellished story. Behind them, Poppy and Burdock graze peacefully, occasionally turning to watch their humans. Solma feels a tug somewhere behind her heart, pulling in two directions. One, towards the warmth of the fire and the safety of the people she’s come to see as her own. The other, away as far as she can. Out into the forest. Into the dark, where she can’t hurt anyone.

She shoves the bowl back at Olive, harder than she intended, feeling suddenly sick. “I can’t, Liv, I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s my job. I gotta protect them. I promised.”

Olive raises an eyebrow. “And you kept that promise. What’s with you, Sol?”

But Solma’s already heading in the opposite direction, over to the heap of supplies where she now sees Bell has propped her rifle, and then out beyond the firelight, ignoring the way Olive calls her name.