Silent Skies

Chapter 4

No, there were no bees in that village. Or anywhere else. They need to find some, and soon. Solma’s gut tightens at the thought that another selfish Steward might find a nest before the Whisperers do, that they might not be there to prevent a Hive War next time.

Five months they’ve searched and Solma’s never experienced a winter like it. The memories flood her as she and Warren follow the footfalls of their Whisperer friends, navigating the strange forest that weaves between the foothills. Often, they find the ground hardens into rubble, with strange shapes looming through the tangled trees. It takes Solma a day or two to realize they’re walking through the remains of one of the old towns. Most of the buildings have crumbled into nothing. The forest has had a century to reclaim it. Still, there are the tell-tale signs of the old-world here. They stop in the ruins of an old forecourt one night. The roof is thick with growth and vines climb over what Mamba explains used to be old pumps, once filled with petrol. The old-worlders, he said, used to drive vehicles that ran on oil pumped deep from underground. The roads were so full of these vehicles that the air was thick with their fumes. Not for the first time, Solma looks around her at the shadows of her ancestors’ world and feels sick.

Roots criss-cross the forecourt, the boughs of great trees rest so heavily on the roof that it buckled years ago, if Solma didn’t known what this place was, she would be unable to distinguish it from the natural forests of Alphor. It isn’t the first such place they’ve travelled through. Solma remembers the old cities—now no more than debris, reclaimed by the wild—that they’d travelled through in Landlock Province. The skeletons of towering buildings reaching so high it made Solma dizzy to look at them. But now, they were just climbing frames for eager plants. Solma had heard of such places before she left Sand’s End. Gerta, one of the Aldren-caste elders from her village, found Solma’s prosthesis in such a ruin. But seeing them with her own eyes still sparks a deep sadness that she can’t explain. It seems strange to her that trees and grasses thrive but the flowers are all gone. Solma remembers how hard it had been to grow anything back in Sand’s End and wonders at the contradiction.

Mamba explained, once, that it was to do with pollination. Trees and grasses can still use the wind but, with the insects gone, other plants struggle. Solma stares at the vast trees, the thick grasses, the gripping vines, and still can’t get her head around it.

Days and nights blur into one and the forest stretches on. The evidence of the ruined town falls away and now the forest is thick and natural, coating the foothills as they rise. The group settles into single file and hike in silence. The ground becomes too steep for conversation and the little ones struggle.

By the fourth or fifth day since the disastrous visit to the village, Solma has taken up position near the back, one of the pistols clutched tightly in her hand. She scans the ragged forest for signs of predators. Spring warms the air. New growth unfolds from the earth and the animals will be searching wider than their usual territories, both for mates and food to fatten them after hibernation. Redbears and wildwolves aren’t day hunters but hungry animals aren’t always predictable, either.

The forest canopy is too thick to allow in much light, but Solma reckons the sun will reach its peak, soon. Warren stumbles along beside her, his eyes dull with tiredness and his red-gold hair sticking to his forehead. Sweat drips off the tip of his nose. He wipes it off but doesn’t complain. Solma’s heart clenches. He looks so tired.

Behind her, Burdock, one of the tan ponies that pulls the supply cart, nickers softly and nudges her arm. She reaches back to stroke his velvety nose. At least the canopy of leaves keeps the sun off their backs and shelters them from passing showers. Solma finds the changeability of the weather here, in Northtip province, unsettling.

Her old village, Sand’s End, was mostly cold and dry in the winter. Little grew and, if they were lucky, there was enough rain to sustain the earth for the following spring. But it turns out there are much harsher places in Alphor. Solma remembers sweltering in a burning heat she’d never experienced before in the High Savannah Province sun, as the Alphorian summer faded to Autumn. She waited out her first blizzard in Black Earth province, huddled in a tent with Warren and Olive as the snow crept higher outside. In East Delta Province, in the northwest tip of Alphor, the winter storms sent winds that flattened plant, tree and dwelling alike, soaking the little group of wanderers to the skin. And it only grew worse as they got deeper into the winter months. Days where the sun barely lit the world; thick, rumbling clouds that dumped months of rain in a single hour; frosts so harsh that Solma woke with it on her eyelashes, her teeth chattering, and her brother huddled tightly against her.

And wherever they searched, no bees.

Blume, the incredible queen bee Warren found last summer, had laid daughter-queens to repopulate Alphor. Not many, but enough. They’d flown free of the nest before Blaiz and Maxen could claim it and dispersed to find mates and wait out the winter. Solma missed the soft song of their wing muscles, the harmonious vibrato of a hundred bees humming together as they searched flowers for the precious treasure within.

And everywhere they went, they’d hoped. Perhaps there was a bee queen under the earth here? Perhaps one of Blume’s daughters found a nest there?

But no matter where they went, Warren reported silence. Despite discovering a remarkable ability to communicate with insects last year, he couldn’t hear them. Still can’t. Alphor’s days began to lengthen. The sun creeping higher. The snow and hurricanes waning. But still no bees. The skies of Alphor are as silent as they’ve always been, and Solma is plagued by dreams of the Hive Wars that, Bell had told them, killed the flying insects in the first place. She wakes, drenched in sweat, from visions of villagers turning on each other, bee colonies burning, the ground carpeted with the bodies of insects and everyone too angry and desperate to realize they’d destroyed their own future. She’d hoped—believed—at the end of last summer, that they might be able to reverse all that. They might have found a way to help nurture the bees back to health.

They hadn’t figured on the greed of selfish men. Her old village Steward, Blaiz, and his son, Maxen, haunt her dreams too. In her worst nightmares, she doesn’t manage to save Blume’s daughters before Blaiz seizes control of them, ready to use them to gain as much power as he can muster, not caring that he’ll destroy the bees all over again.

Solma doesn’t sleep much, and takes more watches than her fair share. Olive objects, but Solma doesn’t care. During the day, she walks in an exhausted daze. But, Earth! It’s better than those terrible dreams.

Finally, the forest thins and gives way to the Earthroot mountains. The sun is high and distorted behind a haze of spring cloud. There’s not a village in sight. Burdock snorts and plants his front hooves firmly in the earth, refusing to move. He nudges Poppy, the mare beside him, and she turns her head to eye Solma. Solma gets the message. They’ll go no further today.

The three young Whisperer boys all huddle together. Krait, the youngest, flops down as soon as they stop and complains of a headache. His blue eyes are full of tears. Habu, the eldest, sways on the spot, still holding hands with King, the third Whisperer boy. King rubs his freckled face, his eyelids drooping. They’re exhausted and, Solma thinks, their eyes have this strange, faraway look in them.

Come to think of it, all seven of the Whisperers look concerned and distracted. Cobra keeps touching the side of her head as if to relieve some discomfort, and Mamba’s fists are clenched at his side.

Beside Olive, Taipan whimpers and rubs her streaming eyes. She’s been hobbling along for the whole week without complaint, but her breathing is labored and her head lolls. She hasn’t quite recovered from their escape from the village. Her brown skin, usually bright with life, is dull and ashen with exhaustion.

“Liv, my tummy feels weird,” she mumbles.

Olive scoops her up and casts Solma a worried glance.

The other Whisperer girl, Ana, rushes over to lift Taipan out of Olive’s arms. She nods at Olive as she does so, and holds Taipan close, soothing her. A frown bridges her brows and her eyes dart from tree to tree, searching for something. She seems unsettled, too, which unsettles Solma in turn. Ana isn’t easily spooked.

Solma decided months ago that she wasn’t ever messing with Ana. She’s a thin, wiry thing with little flesh on her bones, her skin a light brown and mottled from the sun. Her head, like all Whisperers, is shaved, but her hazel eyes are sharp and watchful. She’s a year or two younger than Cobra’s fifteen summers, but with the manner of someone much older. Last autumn, Mamba explained to Solma that Whisperers take the name of the first snake that ever bit them as they rescued it from ignorant villagers. Solma wondered at that and, when she finally plucked up the courage to ask Ana about her name, she swiftly gained serious respect for the girl.

Ana is short for Anaconda, the largest, most brutal snake in Alphor. It isn’t poisonous, Ana had explained, but it can grow to nearly thirty feet long, weigh upwards of five hundred pounds and its sinuous body can be as wide around as Solma’s torso. Its suffocating coils can exert enough force to break ribs, spines and collarbones, and it can dislocate its jaw to swallow prey of any size.

Solma had stared, open-mouthed, at the diminutive thing in front of her, and wondered how on Earth she had once rescued—and survived—a snake like that. She hopes she never has reason to find out.

Ana catches Solma’s eye as she hugs Taipan close. The frown drops from her face and she smiles.

Between Mamba and Cobra, the three Whisperer boys squabble and bicker. Mamba tries and fails to mediate a disagreement born entirely out of tiredness and fails miserably. Solma would find his efforts amusing if she wasn’t so tired herself, so worried for her brother, who now flops down at her side and stares morosely at ground. She crouches beside him.

“Warren?”

He doesn’t answer, but a tear rolls silently down his cheek. Her heart hurts at the sight.

A hand on her shoulder makes her jump and she glances up into Cobra’s gentle face. The Whisperer girl’s green eyes shine with concern as she absently rubs at the sun-blush in her pale, freckled cheeks. “Everything ok?”

Solma nods and tries to smile, then wonders why she’s lying.

“Actually, no,” she says, indicating Warren. “He’s tired and scared.”

“I ain’t scared,” Warren mumbles. Solma ignores him. Cobra’s hand on Solma’s shoulder squeezes.

“We all are,” she says. “It’s ok. We’re far enough away now that I don’t think they’ll bother coming after us again. I’ll persuade Mamba to stop here for a bit.”

She winks at Warren, who manages a small smile in return. “Want to come help me cheer Taipan up?” Cobra asks.

“Why’s she sad?” Warren asks, immediately alert. He gets to his feet, a little frown tugging at his brows. “I wanna see her.”

He marches off with such purpose that Solma suppresses a laugh. She meets Cobra’s gaze. “Thanks,” she says. Cobra shrugs.

“Any time,” she says. “Now come get some water. You need rest, too.”

Solma stands, easing the pain in her right knee as she watches Cobra wander back to her charges. She’s all Whisperer now, and has been for years and years. But there was a time, a decade ago, when she and Solma were friends. When Cobra was not Cobra the Whisperer, but Kobi, the little lost girl of Sand’s End who everyone thought was a boy. They’d been so close, and then little Kobi decided to go with the Whisperers and Solma, heartbroken, had betrayed her to a man she now knows was a tyrant. Ashamed, she’d forced out all memories of her dearest friend, until Cobra returned last spring. But Cobra never forgot Solma.

That old guilt festers in her gut and she rubs it away, testing her weight on her right knee. It holds. Just. Running like that is always hard on her and the week’s hike hasn’t helped. She catches Warren looking at her worriedly and gives him what she hopes is a reassuring smile. His eyes narrow, unconvinced, but he returns his attention to Taipan and continues offering her small sips of water from a bamboo cup.

Solma tries a few experimental steps and then wanders over to where Olive, Aunt Bell and Roseann have sat to build a fire.

“Just grab that pack over there, girl,” Bell says as Solma approaches. She doesn’t even look up. Solma catches Olive’s gaze and the pair of them suppress knowing smiles. Solma grabs the pack.

“Here.”

Bell grunts acknowledgement and begins rummaging while Solma sits and helps scoop earth out of the makeshift fire pit. Five months wandering through Alphor has changed her aunt in unexpected ways. She’s leaner than she once was, with frown-lines between her brows and callouses on her hands. Her pale, freckled skin—the same as everyone in their old village except Solma, whose white skin is freckle-free and tans easily—is mottled with sun-damage and much darker than it once was. Her clothes hang off her, now. But she still wears that apron, and she still fusses relentlessly.

“Damn these matches!” she curses, popping open the box to find only two remaining. “You never got any at the village?”

Solma fixes her with a withering glare. “You mean, the one we just got chased out of?” she asks. “No, must’ve slipped my mind.”

Bell’s eyes flash. “Don’t you get cheeky with me, girl!”

Solma sighs. “We need tinder, right?”

Olive leaps to her feet. “I’ll come with you.”

Beside her, Dr. Roseann, Olive’s mother, rolls her eyes. “She ain’t made of porcelain, Liv. Let her go.”

Olive starts to protest, but her mother grabs her wrist and pulls her back down. Solma smiles. “It’s alright,” she says. “I won’t be long. I wanna check on Warren, anyway.”

Olive frowns and Solma feels exposed under that glare. She knows why Olive’s so worried, though they’ve not spoken of the two violet-eyed Fire Makers from last summer. Solma shudders as she remembers their strange, new power, how, under Blaiz’s instruction, they’d summoned fire from their hands and burned the remains of the bumblebee nest Solma and Warren had protected all year. As quickly as they’d appeared, the father and son had vanished, back into Alphor’s wilderness. Solma has no idea where they went, but she remembers the delight on their faces as they’d burned their way through the hope of Alphor. They’ve haunted her nightmares all winter.

Olive watches her with concern and Solma flushes.

For a person to read her as thoroughly as Olive does, know her needs before she knows them herself … Solma doesn’t remember a time when she’s had that before, when she’s been able to be vulnerable with someone, instead of the protector, the soldier, the Gatra.

Suddenly, she wants nothing more than for Olive to come with her, so they can hold hands as they wander beneath the forest canopy, kiss, maybe, in the dappled shadows and share each other’s warmth.

But then an image flashes in Solma’s head and she shudders. It’s Maxen. Maxen as he was at the beginning, the pale-eyed Steward’s son who kissed her so tenderly while they lay in the grass. And Maxen as he was at the end, twisted and scarred, his eyes full of hate. The truth was he’d never really loved her at all. And Solma wonders, after all her mistakes, if anyone truly can. If anyone should.

“Back in a minute,” Solma says. She turns and hurries off before anyone can protest.

She leaves her little family bustling in the clearing and heads for the forest. They need tinder. And Solma needs to be alone, despite the danger of redbears and wildwolves … and Fire Makers. She needs that more often these days, even though she can’t explain why. The yearning for her own company, to be out from under the gaze of those she’s hurt and betrayed, is almost constant. Solma knows what she’s done. And the guilt buzzes like a bee-song-in-negative: angry, aggressive, discordant.