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Chapter 29: Setting Suns

It was early afternoon when our siesta had drawn to a close; the trills and shrieks of the cicadas were surely nature's alarm clocks. And as comfortable I was when I had initially drifted off to sleep, it was no longer the case; the stones beneath me felt distressingly uncomfortable and had nearly embedded themselves into my flesh, leaving my skin oddly grooved and littered with discoloration. I groaned as I struggled to prop myself up, the smooth river stones slipping from beneath my palm like slick marbles and ball bearings. I forcefully blinked my eyes as they readjusted to the brilliant afternoon suns.
As I stretched I looked over my shoulder: Weeping Stone was gone. She must have woken before me and wandered off into the woods—somewhat typical for her I might add. In any case, I clumsily stumbled to my feet, shaking off the drowsiness from my nap as I went. The faint smell of smoke seemed to pulse through the air as the summer zephyrs lingered past the low-smoldering embers of the fire; the faint orange glow of the wood dwindled to nothingness, as if a star had faded away in the black of ash. Crouching down, I reorganized my fishing tackle, putting away my lures and bait—they proved of no use to me during this excursion—and took a satchel in hand: time to collect samples. I surveyed the immediate area: water lilies, green river lichen, tear-drop creepers, I had specimens of all these sundry plants. I shrugged, "I'd rather not return empty handed," I thought to myself, and so I began rummaging through the vegetation like a browsing deer.
My search took me a short ways away from the makeshift camp and over a nearby cluster of boulders. I must admit, I never tire of witnessing the splendor of the natural world—from the blue sky to the deep green of the forest, everything seemed vivacious and yet ancient: a painting no canvas could contain. The boulders were green and soft with layers of moss: each mountain of stone its own unique world and ecosystem: planets amongst planets. The great trees over grew the small cove, reaching out high above the river as if to bathe in the sunlight as much as their branches would allow; the thick canopy's leafy green filter made every sparkle of light into a twinkling star.
I gingerly made my way from stone to stone, descending to the small strand of river pebbles. My attention was purely set upon the earth and flora; stooping upon my haunches, I poked around in the small pools, searching through the fibrous algae and under rocks as if I was still a curious little boy. Alas, nothing new.
"Searching?"
Taken aback, my heart leapt at the voice; clumsily I darted to my feet. And like an astronomically klutzy child, I slipped backwards on the slick, algae-covered rocks and plummeted into the cold water. The pool was deeper than it looked: I kicked my legs, struggling to touch the bottom but to no avail—without maintaining a calm head I floundered about like a frenzied fish out of water, only reverse. Finally coordinating my legs and arms properly I began treading water, gasping for air.
And there she was; standing before me like a great monolith. While I floated almost helplessly in the deep, the water line own reached just above the Arkotah's breasts. As if crashing into the chilly water was not enough to rob my lungs of air, Weeping Stone's nude form before me struck me dead. Crystalline droplets shimmered and sparkled over her skin like beads of glass upon the earth; the sunlight seemed to augment the deep cherry crimson of her hair—almost as if ruby strands draped over her crown. Her slick, wet tresses clung her skin sensuously; without her ponytail or her feather accessory Weeping Stone's visage was that of a completely different woman. Honestly, I'll never become accustomed to the sight.
She snickered at what must've been my dubious expression—needless to say I was dumbstruck, embarrassed, and sopping wet, a combination that undoubtedly spelled "idiot." But it mattered not; the girlish glee and amusement in the Arkotah's amber eyes were more than enough to spur on my own self-deprecating laughter—I definitely looked like a moron!
"I guess I wasn't watching my step," I added.
With a glint of mischief in her eye, the woman smirked, "What were you looking at, then?"
From the tone of her voice and her subtle advance through the water I knew her intentions—I suppose it went without saying I wasn't the only person who was cold in the water. It was not long until Weeping Stone was upon me, looming over me like the trees over the river; once more I found myself flushed and speechless—her skin was but inches away from my own, radiating bodily warmth that permeated into my body like a blanket of comfort and desire. The way Weeping Stone's gaze seemed to however and lingered over me rendered my masculine defenses completely subverted: I was at her mercy, just as I had been during our first engagement.
As boyish giddy assumed control of my body I fought to maintain a cool composure; glancing about, I searched for a distraction: that's it! Mustering up few scarce ounces of strength, I momentarily broke our engagement and made my way to a small patch of water lilies. Weeping Stone watched me curiously as I carried out my covert operations. Collecting myself once more—rather putting on as suave a character as possible—I returned the woman. With care and delicacy, I reached my hands forward and bestowed upon her a small gift.
The blade-like petals of the white lily were seemed to glow in the sunlight whilst the delicate pink blotches along the veins softened the flower into a motif of beauty and femininity. Fastened lightly under the folds of her hair and behind her left ear, the flower was a fragile star that served as a lovely contrast to Weeping Stone's muscular body. Glints of light from the trees bathed her earthen visage with such ethereal grace that I was forced to back away and stare, awestruck. The pink of the petals, the rouge of her hair, the amber of her eyes: they all mingled together with a summer warmth that seemed to unceremoniously subvert the chilliness of the water. Weeping Stone's cheeks grew their own shade of pink as I continued to admire her visage; success!
"You look beautiful," I added suavely.
She averted her eyes, suppressing a smile in the process; it was as though she was engulfed in a youthful aura of glee and embarrassment, one of great endearment and shyness. I suppose a woman of her stature had her own sense of pride to guard just as I had—though I must admit, her bashfulness was all the more precious. Withdrawing, Weeping Stone made her way to the very same patch of lilies; I watched her curiously when she returned after a moment. She glanced into my eyes for a brief moment with a childish whimsicality.
"For you," she poked.
Suddenly, I felt something cold and wet—perchance, slimy as well—plop over my head; the sunlight filtered through the object, cast a verdant shade over my face like a translucent visor. Drooping over slightly, the mystery object revealed itself to be a massive lily pad. I remained there, floating like a log, thinking to myself, "Wait, what?" She looked at my dubiousness for a second and began to heartily laugh; needless to say, it was contagious. The two of us, with our floral dressings, added to the forest's sounds: our chuckles and guffaws filling the canopy like a floating plume of lighthearted smoke.
With our laughter ascending far above into the heavens the two of us began to calm down from our comedic outburst. As we reclaimed our breaths, our eyes met once more. She truly was a beauty of the natural world: her silken tresses clung to her wet skin like vines hugging a wall, the water droplets over her body sensuously shimmering in the summer suns, and the ravishing bloom tucked behind her ear—it all fused into a synthesis of exotic allure I had only read about in adventurers' tales.
With an endearing smile upon her face, Weeping Stone pulled me towards her and enveloped me in her embrace. Resting my cheek upon her bosom, I closed my eyes; her heartbeat was deep and pure, pulsing with life.
"Flowers and leaves," she began, her voice resonating deep within her chest, "Go well together."

The summer afternoon was shortly upon us; gathering up our—rather Weeping Stone's—catch for the day, we began our return voyage to the house. Slung over the woman's shoulder were five hefty sized carp and trout, cleaned and lightly smoked to preserve their freshness; the Arkotah said that, upon our return, she would build a rack on which she would dry the fish—a traditional form of food preparation she noted. Needless to say, I was looking forward to having a taste of more Arkotah cuisine.
As we traveled through the weald, the afternoon cry of the cicadas began; their shrill shrieks and blaring trills pulsed and droned onwards like a green and brown symphony. Despite the noisy harshness, Weeping Stone's presence at my side made the cacophony tolerable, if not enjoyable—an overture, as it were, as tribute to the seasonal cycles of life in the wild. I suppose she had a calming aura about her that was infectious in all the most wonderful of ways. Even the hovering gnats that swarmed about in the beams of sunlight took on a new sense of beauty—once they were hovering masses of repulsive insects: now they appeared to be dancing spheres of ethereal energy endemic to the world, a strange yet enchanting aura.
She kept her hair down as it dried; the white flower still tucked behind her ear. I can't say the same about my lily pad: I held it in my hand in place of having it on my head. I think even Weeping Stone found it humorous that I would keep it—from the way she looked at me only strengthened my hunch—but I suppose it was one additional specimen I felt was important enough to bring back.
In the midst of our walk, I noticed Weeping Stone's ears prick up; pausing momentarily, she turned her head and peered into the canopy. I watched as her eyes searched through the foliage.
"What is it?" I asked, breaking the calm of our time together.
However, the forest was anything but silent; the cicadas' calls continued their piercing drone—as if their enchanting aura had ceased and they returned to being nature's greatest noise polluters. Despite the shrill cries, it was clear that the Arkotah had heard something. Her eyes continued to search the sky but after a few moments, she simply regained her composure; she gently smiled and shook her head. I wouldn't let paranoia take me: glancing up for a moment out of curiosity, I eventually let my worries go and continued alongside Weeping Stone through the weald.
It was not long until our trek began to come to its close; in the distance, bathed in sunlight, I could see the house—its faded white paint was almost glaring as it reflected the summer suns. While the calls of the cicada were fading behind us, the songs of the birds continued the chorus. Within moments we had reached the front door and I began unloading my equipment as Weeping Stone began rummaging through the sundry sticks and branches we stored behind Sophestes' stable. I watched from the kitchen window as the Arkotah began constructing the rack; she never ceased to amaze me.
I absentmindedly washed my hands and a few fillets of fish, my eyes still trained on the woman as she continued. In retrospect, I was surely gawking shamelessly! But despite having my eyes drawn to the radiance of her sweat-covered skin, my stupor was broken when she, again, suddenly turned to the skies, her amber eyes searching the heavens almost warily. She halted her work and stood erect as if she were a totem towering over the plains; the muscles her in back flexed powerfully as she scoured the blue sky with her senses. What was it that she heard? What made her so alert? The first time I merely shrugged it off as a simple whim, but now I began to worry—after all, most danger comes from the land: the way she turned to the sky was most disconcerting.
Perhaps braving the unknown against my better judgment, I stepped out of the comfort of my home and made my way to the woman. She hardly moved as I stood beside her: her eyes still peering upwards. Still perplexed and unaware, I waited for any word from the woman as I half-heartedly imitated her.
After several tense moments, I turned to her; in the void, only the songbirds could be heard.
"Is something out there?" I asked timidly.
Weeping Stone shushed me softly, "Shhh… Listen."
Listen? Listen to what? I squinted as I continued to survey the sky, straining my sight and hearing, vainly hoping to perceive what the sharp sense of the Arkotah told her. Alas, my mind was cluttered with the distracting chirps and warbles of the birds; with nothing to gain or lose, I attempted once more. This time, however, it was not my ears that but my eyes that caught something. Glancing at Weeping Stone, I knew she saw it, too: a faint speck just below the glare of the blazing suns, perfectly enshrouded in light.
"What is it?" I asked, now with a slight unease to my tone.
Bring her hand towards her face, she said almost cheerfully, "I'll show you."
Pressing her fingers to her lips, the great Arkotah inhaled a deep breath and blew. Nearly destroying my eardrums in the process, her shrill whistle obliterated the songbirds' hymns and the cicada screams in a glorious explosion of sound. I winced as she continued; between the pangs of spine-chilling distress I beheld a song of extreme decibels—it was complete with its own pattern of warbles and shrieks, almost a mix between the solo of a robin, cry of an eagle, and honking of a goose. And just as quickly as it began, Weeping Stone's whistle stopped, allowing it to run over the plains like a wild and reckless animal wrestling down anyone and anything in earshot.
Unplugging my ears, I looked at her, almost bewildered. But serenely, she glanced down at me then back up to the sky; with her great arm, she pointed.
"She comes."
Peering off into the heavens, I witnessed the speck change course, as if suddenly plummeting down like a falling stone. The glare of the suns was murderous, drowning out my sight; little did I know that the small speck had grown and was swiftly approaching. A shrill cry alerted me to its expedient arrival; while my knowledge of avian acoustics was relatively undeveloped, I recognized the piercing scream: it was a hawk.
Keeping her arm held into the air, Weeping Stone uttered several words in her native tongue, to which the bird slowed itself immensely, going from a dive to a simple, floating glide. In moments, the large bird—which was relatively small compared to the Arkotah—stretched its talons out and clutched onto the woman's forearm. I cringed at the thought of those deadly sharp claws piercing skin and muscle, but, to my pleasant surprise, Arkotah flesh was far more durable than I expected; comfortably, the woman held to bird and lowered it to her chest.
The hawk was easily the height of my torso—such size was probably more characteristic of eagles—and sported a full, sleek plumage of terra cotta feathers with various, darted spots. As it rustled its feathers it seemed to shift between a ball of downy fluff and a streamlined bullet. It breast was a creamy white with a row of red spots running down its center, as if it had eyes always watching the ground below it. Its tail was short and angled like a trapezoid, the feathers were black with white tips that seemed to blaze with a fiery light in the beaming sunlight. Its feet were a earthen yellow and covered over with the hawk's tuft-like down, as if it was wearing a pair of pants.
Weeping Stone whispered to the bird and cooed at it softly, stroking its plumage and scratching its nape. The bird affectionately complied and attempted to return the favor with the woman's hair; but as charming and amicable as it appear, I dared not stray too close. Its head was sharp and smooth, its brown feathers laid flat like a skin of iron. Like a vicious meat hook, the bird's beak struck me with an almost primal dread of having my eyes plucked from my skull. The hawk's deep azure eyes seemed to endlessly delve into the blackness of its pupil; it stared at me curiously, contemplating me, studying me.
As fierce as it was to me, the avian was clearly more appealing to Weeping Stone; I had never seen her fawn over anything so dotingly—her almost childish enthusiasm for the bird was endearing and at the same time lonely and solemn.
Stroking the bird's wing, she turned to me.
"This is Naopaela. Sky Messenger."
She motioned for me to pet the creature like a child holding out a mangy cat; needless to say, I wasn't looking forward to having my finger bitten off. Hesitantly, I ran my finger across a single feather and retracted my hand: my heart still flighty and meek.
"I-is that so…?"
The woman nodded and continued, "She flies to Arkotah Clans, bringing words from afar."
For a moment, she seemed to admire the hawk it all its majesty; her smile, though bright and youthful, seemed to age and wither, eventually fading. Why? I wondered to myself. As she held the bird to her bosom, I watched as she caressed itself feathers; in her great amber eyes was pain and emptiness. It was a void so vast and dark that festered more the longer I witnessed it: I was helpless. Silence encroached upon us as though that negative space overflowed into reality; only the hollowness of the wind seemed to whisper at us.
"This is," she began, her voice soft and sober, "This is no dream."
Her inflection was unlike any I had ever heard from her lips: a timbre that was forlorn and weak, as frail as a dying mouse in the middle of a great, empty grassland. Alas, no words of poetry, prose, or heart came to me: I was silenced. I searched her face and met only emptiness.
"I am not dead," she continued solemnly, "These are not the Evergreen Plains."
She stroked Naopaela's cheek, "My Sisters are far away. And I am lost."
"Weeping Stone…"
Only her name escaped from my strangled lips. And that was enough. With her great amber discs, the Arkotah, towering above me, turned and stared at me: pallor had overcome her. I stood firm and unflinchingly beamed into her eyes; as small as I was in her presence, I felt compelled to stand tall.
"You are not lost; you are standing here, with me."
Silence pervaded, but it was not long until I could hear the songbirds once more and I was sure she could as well. Her cheeks gradually regained their color as the warm zephyrs ran over us; lightly, she nodded and the emptiness of her eyes filled with soulful life: reborn. Turning her attention back to the bird on her arm, she continued to caress its plumage.
What was this strange, distressing moment? She had seen so energetic and vicarious before and, with such abruptness, fell into a tacit despair. Though I was glad she had regained her composure, my wondering continued like a haze after the rains have passed; it finally dawned on me that this bird was the first real sign of Weeping Stone's people she's encountered since I found her in the river. What pain it must have been to face the truth of her loneliness—being the only Arkotah for perhaps tens of miles. As strong and independent a woman as I knew her to be, I suppose Weeping Stone is still just an individual like me. Was she dead in essence? Had her people unknowingly abandoned her? To me, solitary life on the border of the weald was natural, but for her it may as well have been some sort of ethereal dream sequence. Perhaps the pangs of homesickness had finally begun to set in.
As I lost myself in thought, Weeping Stone curiously searched the hawk's legs; there was a small satchel attached to the bird's limb, no more than an inch or so long, almost completely hidden by the feathers. With some awkwardness, the Arkotah managed to pluck the small pack off and removed its contents; in the minute leather casing was a miniscule shred of what looked like a plant husk—it was yellow and dried but still pliable enough to be folded or rolled without cracking. It must have been a note, for Weeping Stone's eyes seemed to scan over it as if she was reading.
A familiar and unpleasant look overcame the woman; that emotional dip she had moments ago had vanished—completely cast aside from her mind like a useless vestige of refuse. This, now, was the Weeping Stone I knew from seasons passed: her brow furrowed and she clenched her teeth; her lips sealed with an almost menacing severity. I watched as the gentle and sweet woman—my gentle and sweet Weeping Stone—reverted to her hardened ways. As she held the small sliver-like note in her hands, she scowled as harshly as she had in bygone days: a visceral she-beast of draconian resolve. A fierce aura effusively flowed from her body like the flickering flames of a blazing fire.
The woman lifted her gaze and stared out over the plains, her hard glare piercing the distance. Her voice was dark, smoky, and brooding.

"The Qoh: they march."

Description
Chapter 29: Setting Suns

It was early afternoon when our siesta had drawn to a close; the trills and shrieks of the cicadas were surely nature's alarm clocks. And as comfortable I was when I had initially drifted off to sleep, it was no longer the case; the stones beneath me felt distressingly uncomfortable and had nearly embedded themselves into my flesh, leaving my skin oddly grooved and littered with discoloration. I groaned as I struggled to prop myself up, the smooth river stones slipping from beneath my palm like slick marbles and ball bearings. I forcefully blinked my eyes as they readjusted to the brilliant afternoon suns.
As I stretched I looked over my shoulder: Weeping Stone was gone. She must have woken before me and wandered off into the woods—somewhat typical for her I might add. In any case, I clumsily stumbled to my feet, shaking off the drowsiness from my nap as I went. The faint smell of smoke seemed to pulse through the air as the summer zephyrs lingered past the low-smoldering embers of the fire; the faint orange glow of the wood dwindled to nothingness, as if a star had faded away in the black of ash. Crouching down, I reorganized my fishing tackle, putting away my lures and bait—they proved of no use to me during this excursion—and took a satchel in hand: time to collect samples. I surveyed the immediate area: water lilies, green river lichen, tear-drop creepers, I had specimens of all these sundry plants. I shrugged, "I'd rather not return empty handed," I thought to myself, and so I began rummaging through the vegetation like a browsing deer.
My search took me a short ways away from the makeshift camp and over a nearby cluster of boulders. I must admit, I never tire of witnessing the splendor of the natural world—from the blue sky to the deep green of the forest, everything seemed vivacious and yet ancient: a painting no canvas could contain. The boulders were green and soft with layers of moss: each mountain of stone its own unique world and ecosystem: planets amongst planets. The great trees over grew the small cove, reaching out high above the river as if to bathe in the sunlight as much as their branches would allow; the thick canopy's leafy green filter made every sparkle of light into a twinkling star.
I gingerly made my way from stone to stone, descending to the small strand of river pebbles. My attention was purely set upon the earth and flora; stooping upon my haunches, I poked around in the small pools, searching through the fibrous algae and under rocks as if I was still a curious little boy. Alas, nothing new.
"Searching?"
Taken aback, my heart leapt at the voice; clumsily I darted to my feet. And like an astronomically klutzy child, I slipped backwards on the slick, algae-covered rocks and plummeted into the cold water. The pool was deeper than it looked: I kicked my legs, struggling to touch the bottom but to no avail—without maintaining a calm head I floundered about like a frenzied fish out of water, only reverse. Finally coordinating my legs and arms properly I began treading water, gasping for air.
And there she was; standing before me like a great monolith. While I floated almost helplessly in the deep, the water line own reached just above the Arkotah's breasts. As if crashing into the chilly water was not enough to rob my lungs of air, Weeping Stone's nude form before me struck me dead. Crystalline droplets shimmered and sparkled over her skin like beads of glass upon the earth; the sunlight seemed to augment the deep cherry crimson of her hair—almost as if ruby strands draped over her crown. Her slick, wet tresses clung her skin sensuously; without her ponytail or her feather accessory Weeping Stone's visage was that of a completely different woman. Honestly, I'll never become accustomed to the sight.
She snickered at what must've been my dubious expression—needless to say I was dumbstruck, embarrassed, and sopping wet, a combination that undoubtedly spelled "idiot." But it mattered not; the girlish glee and amusement in the Arkotah's amber eyes were more than enough to spur on my own self-deprecating laughter—I definitely looked like a moron!
"I guess I wasn't watching my step," I added.
With a glint of mischief in her eye, the woman smirked, "What were you looking at, then?"
From the tone of her voice and her subtle advance through the water I knew her intentions—I suppose it went without saying I wasn't the only person who was cold in the water. It was not long until Weeping Stone was upon me, looming over me like the trees over the river; once more I found myself flushed and speechless—her skin was but inches away from my own, radiating bodily warmth that permeated into my body like a blanket of comfort and desire. The way Weeping Stone's gaze seemed to however and lingered over me rendered my masculine defenses completely subverted: I was at her mercy, just as I had been during our first engagement.
As boyish giddy assumed control of my body I fought to maintain a cool composure; glancing about, I searched for a distraction: that's it! Mustering up few scarce ounces of strength, I momentarily broke our engagement and made my way to a small patch of water lilies. Weeping Stone watched me curiously as I carried out my covert operations. Collecting myself once more—rather putting on as suave a character as possible—I returned the woman. With care and delicacy, I reached my hands forward and bestowed upon her a small gift.
The blade-like petals of the white lily were seemed to glow in the sunlight whilst the delicate pink blotches along the veins softened the flower into a motif of beauty and femininity. Fastened lightly under the folds of her hair and behind her left ear, the flower was a fragile star that served as a lovely contrast to Weeping Stone's muscular body. Glints of light from the trees bathed her earthen visage with such ethereal grace that I was forced to back away and stare, awestruck. The pink of the petals, the rouge of her hair, the amber of her eyes: they all mingled together with a summer warmth that seemed to unceremoniously subvert the chilliness of the water. Weeping Stone's cheeks grew their own shade of pink as I continued to admire her visage; success!
"You look beautiful," I added suavely.
She averted her eyes, suppressing a smile in the process; it was as though she was engulfed in a youthful aura of glee and embarrassment, one of great endearment and shyness. I suppose a woman of her stature had her own sense of pride to guard just as I had—though I must admit, her bashfulness was all the more precious. Withdrawing, Weeping Stone made her way to the very same patch of lilies; I watched her curiously when she returned after a moment. She glanced into my eyes for a brief moment with a childish whimsicality.
"For you," she poked.
Suddenly, I felt something cold and wet—perchance, slimy as well—plop over my head; the sunlight filtered through the object, cast a verdant shade over my face like a translucent visor. Drooping over slightly, the mystery object revealed itself to be a massive lily pad. I remained there, floating like a log, thinking to myself, "Wait, what?" She looked at my dubiousness for a second and began to heartily laugh; needless to say, it was contagious. The two of us, with our floral dressings, added to the forest's sounds: our chuckles and guffaws filling the canopy like a floating plume of lighthearted smoke.
With our laughter ascending far above into the heavens the two of us began to calm down from our comedic outburst. As we reclaimed our breaths, our eyes met once more. She truly was a beauty of the natural world: her silken tresses clung to her wet skin like vines hugging a wall, the water droplets over her body sensuously shimmering in the summer suns, and the ravishing bloom tucked behind her ear—it all fused into a synthesis of exotic allure I had only read about in adventurers' tales.
With an endearing smile upon her face, Weeping Stone pulled me towards her and enveloped me in her embrace. Resting my cheek upon her bosom, I closed my eyes; her heartbeat was deep and pure, pulsing with life.
"Flowers and leaves," she began, her voice resonating deep within her chest, "Go well together."

The summer afternoon was shortly upon us; gathering up our—rather Weeping Stone's—catch for the day, we began our return voyage to the house. Slung over the woman's shoulder were five hefty sized carp and trout, cleaned and lightly smoked to preserve their freshness; the Arkotah said that, upon our return, she would build a rack on which she would dry the fish—a traditional form of food preparation she noted. Needless to say, I was looking forward to having a taste of more Arkotah cuisine.
As we traveled through the weald, the afternoon cry of the cicadas began; their shrill shrieks and blaring trills pulsed and droned onwards like a green and brown symphony. Despite the noisy harshness, Weeping Stone's presence at my side made the cacophony tolerable, if not enjoyable—an overture, as it were, as tribute to the seasonal cycles of life in the wild. I suppose she had a calming aura about her that was infectious in all the most wonderful of ways. Even the hovering gnats that swarmed about in the beams of sunlight took on a new sense of beauty—once they were hovering masses of repulsive insects: now they appeared to be dancing spheres of ethereal energy endemic to the world, a strange yet enchanting aura.
She kept her hair down as it dried; the white flower still tucked behind her ear. I can't say the same about my lily pad: I held it in my hand in place of having it on my head. I think even Weeping Stone found it humorous that I would keep it—from the way she looked at me only strengthened my hunch—but I suppose it was one additional specimen I felt was important enough to bring back.
In the midst of our walk, I noticed Weeping Stone's ears prick up; pausing momentarily, she turned her head and peered into the canopy. I watched as her eyes searched through the foliage.
"What is it?" I asked, breaking the calm of our time together.
However, the forest was anything but silent; the cicadas' calls continued their piercing drone—as if their enchanting aura had ceased and they returned to being nature's greatest noise polluters. Despite the shrill cries, it was clear that the Arkotah had heard something. Her eyes continued to search the sky but after a few moments, she simply regained her composure; she gently smiled and shook her head. I wouldn't let paranoia take me: glancing up for a moment out of curiosity, I eventually let my worries go and continued alongside Weeping Stone through the weald.
It was not long until our trek began to come to its close; in the distance, bathed in sunlight, I could see the house—its faded white paint was almost glaring as it reflected the summer suns. While the calls of the cicada were fading behind us, the songs of the birds continued the chorus. Within moments we had reached the front door and I began unloading my equipment as Weeping Stone began rummaging through the sundry sticks and branches we stored behind Sophestes' stable. I watched from the kitchen window as the Arkotah began constructing the rack; she never ceased to amaze me.
I absentmindedly washed my hands and a few fillets of fish, my eyes still trained on the woman as she continued. In retrospect, I was surely gawking shamelessly! But despite having my eyes drawn to the radiance of her sweat-covered skin, my stupor was broken when she, again, suddenly turned to the skies, her amber eyes searching the heavens almost warily. She halted her work and stood erect as if she were a totem towering over the plains; the muscles her in back flexed powerfully as she scoured the blue sky with her senses. What was it that she heard? What made her so alert? The first time I merely shrugged it off as a simple whim, but now I began to worry—after all, most danger comes from the land: the way she turned to the sky was most disconcerting.
Perhaps braving the unknown against my better judgment, I stepped out of the comfort of my home and made my way to the woman. She hardly moved as I stood beside her: her eyes still peering upwards. Still perplexed and unaware, I waited for any word from the woman as I half-heartedly imitated her.
After several tense moments, I turned to her; in the void, only the songbirds could be heard.
"Is something out there?" I asked timidly.
Weeping Stone shushed me softly, "Shhh… Listen."
Listen? Listen to what? I squinted as I continued to survey the sky, straining my sight and hearing, vainly hoping to perceive what the sharp sense of the Arkotah told her. Alas, my mind was cluttered with the distracting chirps and warbles of the birds; with nothing to gain or lose, I attempted once more. This time, however, it was not my ears that but my eyes that caught something. Glancing at Weeping Stone, I knew she saw it, too: a faint speck just below the glare of the blazing suns, perfectly enshrouded in light.
"What is it?" I asked, now with a slight unease to my tone.
Bring her hand towards her face, she said almost cheerfully, "I'll show you."
Pressing her fingers to her lips, the great Arkotah inhaled a deep breath and blew. Nearly destroying my eardrums in the process, her shrill whistle obliterated the songbirds' hymns and the cicada screams in a glorious explosion of sound. I winced as she continued; between the pangs of spine-chilling distress I beheld a song of extreme decibels—it was complete with its own pattern of warbles and shrieks, almost a mix between the solo of a robin, cry of an eagle, and honking of a goose. And just as quickly as it began, Weeping Stone's whistle stopped, allowing it to run over the plains like a wild and reckless animal wrestling down anyone and anything in earshot.
Unplugging my ears, I looked at her, almost bewildered. But serenely, she glanced down at me then back up to the sky; with her great arm, she pointed.
"She comes."
Peering off into the heavens, I witnessed the speck change course, as if suddenly plummeting down like a falling stone. The glare of the suns was murderous, drowning out my sight; little did I know that the small speck had grown and was swiftly approaching. A shrill cry alerted me to its expedient arrival; while my knowledge of avian acoustics was relatively undeveloped, I recognized the piercing scream: it was a hawk.
Keeping her arm held into the air, Weeping Stone uttered several words in her native tongue, to which the bird slowed itself immensely, going from a dive to a simple, floating glide. In moments, the large bird—which was relatively small compared to the Arkotah—stretched its talons out and clutched onto the woman's forearm. I cringed at the thought of those deadly sharp claws piercing skin and muscle, but, to my pleasant surprise, Arkotah flesh was far more durable than I expected; comfortably, the woman held to bird and lowered it to her chest.
The hawk was easily the height of my torso—such size was probably more characteristic of eagles—and sported a full, sleek plumage of terra cotta feathers with various, darted spots. As it rustled its feathers it seemed to shift between a ball of downy fluff and a streamlined bullet. It breast was a creamy white with a row of red spots running down its center, as if it had eyes always watching the ground below it. Its tail was short and angled like a trapezoid, the feathers were black with white tips that seemed to blaze with a fiery light in the beaming sunlight. Its feet were a earthen yellow and covered over with the hawk's tuft-like down, as if it was wearing a pair of pants.
Weeping Stone whispered to the bird and cooed at it softly, stroking its plumage and scratching its nape. The bird affectionately complied and attempted to return the favor with the woman's hair; but as charming and amicable as it appear, I dared not stray too close. Its head was sharp and smooth, its brown feathers laid flat like a skin of iron. Like a vicious meat hook, the bird's beak struck me with an almost primal dread of having my eyes plucked from my skull. The hawk's deep azure eyes seemed to endlessly delve into the blackness of its pupil; it stared at me curiously, contemplating me, studying me.
As fierce as it was to me, the avian was clearly more appealing to Weeping Stone; I had never seen her fawn over anything so dotingly—her almost childish enthusiasm for the bird was endearing and at the same time lonely and solemn.
Stroking the bird's wing, she turned to me.
"This is Naopaela. Sky Messenger."
She motioned for me to pet the creature like a child holding out a mangy cat; needless to say, I wasn't looking forward to having my finger bitten off. Hesitantly, I ran my finger across a single feather and retracted my hand: my heart still flighty and meek.
"I-is that so…?"
The woman nodded and continued, "She flies to Arkotah Clans, bringing words from afar."
For a moment, she seemed to admire the hawk it all its majesty; her smile, though bright and youthful, seemed to age and wither, eventually fading. Why? I wondered to myself. As she held the bird to her bosom, I watched as she caressed itself feathers; in her great amber eyes was pain and emptiness. It was a void so vast and dark that festered more the longer I witnessed it: I was helpless. Silence encroached upon us as though that negative space overflowed into reality; only the hollowness of the wind seemed to whisper at us.
"This is," she began, her voice soft and sober, "This is no dream."
Her inflection was unlike any I had ever heard from her lips: a timbre that was forlorn and weak, as frail as a dying mouse in the middle of a great, empty grassland. Alas, no words of poetry, prose, or heart came to me: I was silenced. I searched her face and met only emptiness.
"I am not dead," she continued solemnly, "These are not the Evergreen Plains."
She stroked Naopaela's cheek, "My Sisters are far away. And I am lost."
"Weeping Stone…"
Only her name escaped from my strangled lips. And that was enough. With her great amber discs, the Arkotah, towering above me, turned and stared at me: pallor had overcome her. I stood firm and unflinchingly beamed into her eyes; as small as I was in her presence, I felt compelled to stand tall.
"You are not lost; you are standing here, with me."
Silence pervaded, but it was not long until I could hear the songbirds once more and I was sure she could as well. Her cheeks gradually regained their color as the warm zephyrs ran over us; lightly, she nodded and the emptiness of her eyes filled with soulful life: reborn. Turning her attention back to the bird on her arm, she continued to caress its plumage.
What was this strange, distressing moment? She had seen so energetic and vicarious before and, with such abruptness, fell into a tacit despair. Though I was glad she had regained her composure, my wondering continued like a haze after the rains have passed; it finally dawned on me that this bird was the first real sign of Weeping Stone's people she's encountered since I found her in the river. What pain it must have been to face the truth of her loneliness—being the only Arkotah for perhaps tens of miles. As strong and independent a woman as I knew her to be, I suppose Weeping Stone is still just an individual like me. Was she dead in essence? Had her people unknowingly abandoned her? To me, solitary life on the border of the weald was natural, but for her it may as well have been some sort of ethereal dream sequence. Perhaps the pangs of homesickness had finally begun to set in.
As I lost myself in thought, Weeping Stone curiously searched the hawk's legs; there was a small satchel attached to the bird's limb, no more than an inch or so long, almost completely hidden by the feathers. With some awkwardness, the Arkotah managed to pluck the small pack off and removed its contents; in the minute leather casing was a miniscule shred of what looked like a plant husk—it was yellow and dried but still pliable enough to be folded or rolled without cracking. It must have been a note, for Weeping Stone's eyes seemed to scan over it as if she was reading.
A familiar and unpleasant look overcame the woman; that emotional dip she had moments ago had vanished—completely cast aside from her mind like a useless vestige of refuse. This, now, was the Weeping Stone I knew from seasons passed: her brow furrowed and she clenched her teeth; her lips sealed with an almost menacing severity. I watched as the gentle and sweet woman—my gentle and sweet Weeping Stone—reverted to her hardened ways. As she held the small sliver-like note in her hands, she scowled as harshly as she had in bygone days: a visceral she-beast of draconian resolve. A fierce aura effusively flowed from her body like the flickering flames of a blazing fire.
The woman lifted her gaze and stared out over the plains, her hard glare piercing the distance. Her voice was dark, smoky, and brooding.

"The Qoh: they march."