The Gatherer (Brilliant Darkness 2.5) by A. G. Henley Page B

her stomach to clutch the branch. I steady her, holding the back of her clothes until her breathing slows and the panic subsides from her face. When she sits up, I squeeze her damp palm.
    "Good girl."
    We stay in the trees throughout the morning and afternoon. Tomorrow we will descend to the ground beside the River Restless, where we will travel faster, if not more safely. The wailers often congregate around the water, as do other travelers. These wanderers are almost all men, but most have heard of the Sisters and wisely give us a wide berth when they see us.
    Evening falls. Before it’s too dark, I find a massive tree trunk that can hold us as we sleep. The spot is excellent: the curved palm of an upturned hand, wide and mostly flat, with leafy-fingered branches sprouting from the edges to provide cover from the ground.
    "Sit." I point at the space in the center. She does.
    A small portion of meat and a hunk of brown bread is her dinner. She eats, watching as I untangle a coil of rope. Her onyx eyes are less glazed and more wary—the sting is wearing off.
    In nature, the female jewel wasp uses her venom to paralyze and control a cockroach. She leads it to a burrow so she can lay an egg in its flesh, which allows her larva a live host in which to grow. The Sisters observed and then harnessed this astonishing power. Like the wasp, we use the venom to defend ourselves and to control others when necessary.
    The girl speaks, her voice soft but not timid. "What are those ropes for?"
    "To tie us up with."
    "I don't want to be tied."
    I smile at her pluck, but her quivering lip tells me she is not so unafraid. She is likely working up the courage to ask the even more difficult questions, like where and why I am taking her.
    "We must tie ourselves so we won't fall out of the tree while asleep." And I cannot have her sneaking off in the middle of the night.
    Shadows drape over my back and shoulders as I tether her gently but securely to a thick branch. I bind myself to another, making sure I can reach my knife to loose myself if necessary.
    The girl shifts, trying to make herself comfortable, but I lie still. I'm accustomed to sleeping in this way. The swollen moon slides up in the sky, taking the place of the weary sun. I am weary myself, but I wait for the girl to succumb first.
    "Why are your face and hair so white?" Her voice drifts out of the watery darkness.
    "I paint them with a mixture of mud and limestone dust. It helps me blend into the forest."
    Along the coast of the Shivering Sea, where the Cloister lies, powder trees are more common than greenhearts. Vast swathes of them sweep down from our mountaintop home to the edge of the water. The white-dusted trunks appear snow covered after the leaves fall, giving the sea its name.
    "You look like a ghost."
    I laugh. "You are not the first to think so."
    The pale paint makes us seem bloodless, like corpses, and thus fearsome, which doesn't hurt our purposes.
    "Wirrim sometimes tells us stories about ghosts around the fire in the allawah at night." Her voice swoops, swallow-like, as if she might cry.
    "Tell me your favorite," I say to distract her. "The Sisters are fond of stories."
    "I don't want to."
    That she is able to defy me, even in a small way, is a testament to her mettle. After a minute, her voice steadies.
    "Where did that feather come from?” she asks. “I've never seen one so bright."
    "You will see more soon. We keep a cage of colorful birds in the Cloister. The Sisters all wear one of their feathers to remind us of our shared history."
    I tell her the story of the bird whose bright feather became a spear, giving my Sisters of long ago the weapon they needed to fight the tyranny and cruelty of men. Our mothers established the Cloister, vowing never to be controlled by others again, and my Sisters and I maintain that vow. The Teachers will be pleased that I began the education of this one early.
    The story ends, and I listen to the child breathe in the silence,