Grief, when felt to the depth of its power, can tap itself out if fully explored. Strong souls require hearts to be clean, clear and free. One's grief may not help, if held and clutched hard. The sooner emotion has taken its rest, the less we must suffer—the more we are free to go on as need be.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Yellowhair

Unable to feel her hurt any more, Qello began to get anxious, instead. She needed to ready herself with more moving about. She attempted to hop, but then, abruptly, a deep sting came to remind her. Do not to get hurt! She went back to the ground and crawled unseen, after Krendal Offshaw out to the edge of the field to watch what he did. The only place she could reach on her knees was the softness of grass between the camp and the field. 

Each time Krendal came back, she'd see him return from far off and scuttle, fast, back to the mat, where he'd find her just sitting or lying and waiting. And when he went out, she'd follow again. Each time he went, he would go further, and so would she. Qello watched what he picked and how he worked, how he stood and how he put all that he found into his basket.

Sometimes, from the corner of her eye, Qello would glimpse a small flash of a red shirt from further up on the hill and remember again to check more for shadows. He's going to get hurt, Qello thought, anxious for the boy, but she saw no further signs that he was being hunted or followed. She only made out a far away dog and sometimes closer, she herself, scared an unaware rabbit, as she crawled on the ground in between plants.

She rested and stared at the sky, a vaster pale blue, as if the mountain wanted to feel itself open—the space in the world, up here at this height, was wider than home. She had to look further to find a new hawk, but nowhere in the great expanse of the world of high plains could she see one, in the beginning.

She searched for a while. It took her keen eyes. The hawk was far off. She didn't see buzzards. Are they still by the river or have they gone now? She swallowed. And what will that mean for Muma? The grass she was pulling sliced into her hand. "Mewoo!" She put the small cut to her mouth until the bleeding had stopped.

Perhaps the hawk had indeed drawn the buzzards away from her Mum! Maybe she's resting and waiting for me somewhere.

She picked some more plants.

"Oh, no. Be careful. That patch is not good—the ones where you are, there, right beside you!" Krendal Offshaw called from a small distance, over the field.

He's seen me! Qello panicked, unaware, until that moment, she had been spotted quite a bit earlier.

Krendal hurried to her. "They're not good ones, dear child. Don't touch those ones, ever. Be, be— ever— be careful."

I was learning more for survival, like you would too, Muma! She cried out inside, I only tried to do something of use.

Krendal drew closer. "You're getting most of them right. Look here, I'll show you how that one is different." He ambled towards her, wiping his brow.

Qello was tense, but nodded quickly, not sure what to expect. Is he angry?

Krendal was not looking at her. "You just gotta separate the plants some when they are not the clear healthy 'best of' choices. That way it's easy to be sure you are right."

He knows I was following him!—Or is he going to be mad I was picking his herbs?

Krendal, not pausing, plucked a plant with a tiny flower at the top. "See how the leaf joins down at the stem? Now, look at this one— It's not connected, right here. Can you see that?"

Qello's knees were a mess of green grass stains, muddy scratches and blood.

But Krendal ignored that. "Where did you put the stuff that you picked?"

Qello cowered, pointing back down the path on which she'd been crawling. Some parts of her feet were stinging worse too, where the scabs from before had lifted too soon, but that felt how her life felt for her, all of the time. She tried not to notice. She forced it away.

"We ought to go back and tie this all up or it will not dry right! Bending sideways, Krendal tried to see how her knees looked. "You stay here or do as you want—if you want to—crawl more?  He touched the basket he wore strapped over his shoulder and balanced it on the back of his hip. "We can put your pickings in this pack here, too!"

Qello imagined Krendal should have been angry she'd hurt herself more. She should have been careful and she would from now on. He didn't need extra work with her here, but the man only said, "Been keeping my eye out all morning—just a little bit, every so often, so as you wouldn't notice I kept an eye out and skitter off, as I saw you."

Krendal was instead amused and nodding, enthusiastically. "When I saw you were picking what I picked, I figured I'd better keep a much closer watch, so you won't go poisoning yourself." He winked, looking away. "This one, here, too. It's a poison. And so is this. But this here's for ringing ears, if you have them. And this works to rinse your mouth out, real good, sometimes for sores. Here, here, taste this—"

Qello looked up at him, scared of any attention from something she herself might have caused. He was insistent and she nibbled just the tiniest edge of a leaf.

Then, Krendal took the lead, bending to pick up small clumps of foliage she had left and put them all into his basket. She nibbled the rest of the plant and crawled along the whole way and back to the camp.

He could have been sneaking looks, all of the times she had searched for the hawk, Qello supposed. How did he catch me? She thought she hid well. But she relaxed. He didn't seem bothered.

Krendal had made it to camp long before her. He had stoked up the embers into a fire and put a pot on to boil. He dragged out his own mat with a fur he pulled up to his small garden where the sun shone on just a small patch. It would continue shining until just one sun's quarter, and then stay behind trees until it went down for the night. It was enough for them all.

"Said you was special." Krendal talked to himself. The basket had been emptied out on the bench. He was most excited, chuckling—having a chat with himself in his head.

"Did your family grow this?" The question about her own family, took Qello aback. It was the first time she'd been asked directly about them.

Without waiting for Qello to settle, Krendal busily went through each of the plants in his little soil bed, while he boiled some more food. He pointed and asked her if she knew what each part of the greenery was. Easing back as much as she could, she timidly nodded at some—that surprised him—but she did not know some of the others.

"Ye got a name, there, Little Miss?" Krendal sensed her moving away, and gentled his tone.

Krendal seemed inquisitive now. "Something I can guess, maybe?"

Qello grew quiet and became too withdrawn to continue. 

Krendal laughed trying to suggest it was a game they might play if only she would go along with it, too.

But Qello was hiding her face.

Krendal continued, "Like—This here would be—'Cracked.—Pot.'" He put a cracked cup into his pot and laughed at his own sense of humour. "And this here could be—" He picked a red flower, kissed it, and thinking a minute, put it onto his head. "—Red.—Head!" He was looking for his next source of amusement when he could already see her look up in surprise. Both fright and amazement lit up her face. He gave her a quizzical look and he watched.

Qello timidly reached for her braid. It was squashed flat, matted and dirty, tangled with debris and bits of stuck twigs, but she watched him. She pulled a bit of loose hair at the side of her neck and lifted the braid up, holding her breath, eyes glued on his face.

"Hair girl?" Krendal said, thinking he was too funny for words and spinning about in his robes. The robes danced, swinging out to his sides. This was his very odd way. Then he stopped and let his shoulders slump ever so slightly. "No, no—Just let me see— Umm—Your hair—" He pinched his own cheek, thinking. "Umm— You have—pale hair—" He tried watching her eyes for clues to reactions, but she kept looking down. "Let me think—"

Krendal pinched more on his cheek and spun. Working things out, he said, "Your hair—It needs combing. Might get you a comb if I had one. We'll see if Thad has a notion to find you a comb—But what about hair then—? Am I going at it right ways?

Qello looked up, scared he would stop—nodding and cautious, still lifting her braid forward and still truly nervous.

Krendal was holding his flower. "Well, you are not a red head— Yer a white head. Well, not so white, are ya, either?"

Qello suddenly spun on her knees in the fur, wincing from her new quicker movements, but then scrambled fast to the edge of the camp. Ignoring the pain, she quickly pulled a dandelion flower and scrambled back to the man, across all stones and dirt, keeping her arm up to hold out the flower, not wanting to loose his attention a moment.

He looked at her for a second, not comprehending. "Yellow— Dandelion."

She nodded again, this time, frantically. She stopped and banged on her head and pulled her hair forward, hard and in quick bursts.

"Yellow. Head? But how's that to do with your hair? Krendal frowned. Yellow. And hair. Yellow hair. Yellowhair?"

Qello was nodding. She was amazed. And, then, something else happened now, too, deep inside. Many pains took her over. Her knees stung and she had tears in her eyes. She rolled onto the fur. She felt all the trauma she'd been going through, well up. She felt so—included.

"Yellowhair. That can't be your name!" But she rolled onto her back, and couldn't stop nodding, tears threatening.

"Is that what they call you? They call you—Yellowhair? Well—I can see that. It certainly is yellow or light, in a way. His eyebrows raised in delight. "Big luck that was. Ha!" He clapped his hands, landing them down on his hips, and faced her, squarely.

"Good to have a name so as to be called, as special as I might think you is, Child. Good to have—" And he trailed off thinking, but moved to his preparations table beside his little patch of growing plants in the ground. Bunches hung upside down from the bottom of the table—mostly dried out. On top he found the salve he was looking for and handed it to her, as a show of respect, letting her apply all she wanted, herself, to her feet, knees and hands.

And, perhaps, it might be that Qello, herself, was feeling a little more brave when she handed the pot with the salve back to him. She grunted and reached—meeting his eyes for this very first time.

He shared in her joy. "Well, Yellowhair! I shall call you this, then, as you like it. I shall? Shall I? Shall I ought to call you this name?

She nodded, still happy but falling back into shyness. This man had a name for her now and she felt sort of proud—such a small thing. Or was it? Maybe, it's not? She was a little bit glad that he knew something about her. Not a lot—just a little and perhaps it could help somehow.

Krendal thought of testing her gifts, the way he'd done for Thad and his brother, when they first came to him, ever so young. He shook his head fondly and laughed to himself. Those best of times had seemed such a hard and strange thing, back then. He humphed a laugh to himself and thought of all their times since.

Her gleaning skills were strong for such a young one. It was almost as if plants were talking to her. She didn't seem to notice how they glowed when she reached out her hand. A child—voiceless—alone! She had a big task. He wondered if he and Thad were to help her find her voice, for surely it was not missing entirely! And the squawking of beasts—what did that make her? The tone was so strong. A voice from places and times he barely knew, when he'd been there, now when it took the girl over. He shuddered thinking how huge that suggestion could be. Two kinds of rifts existed where he had left them—before he came here—those of the natural kind that only magic could wield and those of other strange worlds, long ago buried as far as he knew.

He hadn't told Thad, but he'd known since last night, other portals were here. He had learned through the echoes in laying awake. The cold and the damp, the smell of the caves—it all let him know there was deepness here, contained in that voice. Whatever Yellowhair could also be hearing was determined to stay, old spirit in form, but with a presence so powerful—it talked to and also right through her. Something was speaking through her sounds.

What powers would her voice then contain? In the tradition of Elders, Krendal bowed deeply to the not-knowing in All, and listened for guidance. So as not to assume he knew anything much, he just pondered more about it. A spooked bat flew out of the cave and flashed all around him—Ruzzletrust jumped. "You couldn't have warned me?" Then, he watched the bat zipping and darting, still in thought. "What life-path requires your voice, Child? Klklhuc," Ruzzletrust extended his arm, palm downward and the bat landed atop the bend of his wrist, gracefully folding its shiny skin-wings by its sides as it tilted its furry head, black beaded eyes also gleaming with question.

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A reminder that voting helps in Yellowhair's journey! Your comments will help in my learning to write well for readers, so whatever you feel, think or want more of --it is all so gratefully heard.

My next question for you: Are all the characters clear? Seeming different from one another? Who do you like? Enough information about them, so far? OR... What's the best part of the story for you?

In Chapter Fifteen | DragonSworn - while Krendal and Thadiac wonder who she really is, Qello decides it's time to leave.