“Shadow kept the flame. Flame guarded the shadow.”

  Extract from SolDiri scripture

  The next day was like any other. Nothing special, no acknowledgement of the night before.

  They had trained and trained well. As the session ended there was a lot of back slapping, and the mob was in good spirits. It pleased Davy to see how far they’d come but knew it wasn’t enough, not yet. Yesterday proved that. As he was about to say his goodbyes an old grey with white hair pulled him to one side.

  “While we were training a red marker appeared in the map box, only briefly, but then it was gone.”

  “In the what?” asked Davy distracted.

  “The map box.” The old grey opened a metal case he was holding. Inside was projected a contoured map of the valley and surrounds.

  Davy squinted at the glowing projection, shaking his head. “How in the…? It’s makin’ a picture of the valley?”

  “Yes, don’t know how, it just does,” came the reply.

  “And it showed us that some reds were near?” asked Davy.

  “Hhmm,” grunted the grey. “Kind of. It showed us that either a red or a red Bird was near.”

  “Ringtail magic?” he shook his head. “And how long ago?”

  “Not really magic, deep-rooted science.” The old grey laughed sagely, not the soft gentle sound Rebecca made but all guttural coughs and clicks. Then as if remembering the initial question, “About a couple of hours ago.”

  “You’re tellin’ me now?” Davy barely managing to hide his annoyance.

  “Just found out myself,” was the response.

  Becson, hearing the raise voices, came over and was filled in. He then asked, “Is the red still there, and what’s it up to?”

  “Exactly. What the hell’s it doin’?” Davy muttered. It felt like someone scouting them out; That’s what I’d do.

  He needed to know, “Did they show you where the red appeared?”

  He nodded and pointed to an elevated area with line of sight into the valley. Davy studied the map box, memorising what he saw.

  “Looks more and more like a scouting mission. They’re watching, not just hunting. That’s new. And new means dangerous.”

  “Really? They usually just kill and burn.”

  “Our tactics have changed so it’s foolish to assume theirs won’t change too.”

  The other two nodded, agreeing. “Do we catch and kill them.”

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  Davy thought for a minute then said, “No. Not for now. We find out what they’re up to and if they’re here to watch, we let ‘em only see what we want them to see. Tomorrow, we split the mob in half. One group will train out here the same as today. The rest will come to the cave before it’s light and I’ll train them in the cave.”

  “Why? How will that help.”

  “Two things. One; they’ll see us trainin’, just like today. And two; they will only see half our strength.” Before they could ask anything else, he called out, “Where’s Rebecca. I need to speak with her.”

  Someone called back that she was in the central drey. Davy walked over and found her with a group of greys weaving baskets. Young kits were watching on, learning and making smaller versions of the same. “Well, sorta the same,” Davy thought with a smile.

  “Davy, over here,” Rebecca called out.

  He crossed and picked up one of the finished baskets, looking carefully at it and the handywork, nodding as it turned in his hands. It had a solid double layered bottom and beautifully finished sides. A woven handle across the top finished it off.

  “Can you make these with just the base, but bigger. Maybe an arm’s length across and with two small handles in the middle?” He held out his hands and made as if slipping one hand through a narrow gap, “enough for my hands to just go through. I also need one that my arm will go through.”

  Rebecca looked at the weavers, they were nodding. “When?” one of them, the eldest asked.

  “Tomorrow, and I’ll need lots of them. One for each of the fighters. Is that do-able?”

  “Yes, eventually, but not one each by tomorrow. Maybe four or five.”

  “Six, please, plus one with bigger handles.” Then he added, “it’s important.”

  The weavers formed a huddle and talked too fast for the decoder to handle, then the elder turned back looking at Rebecca and nodded, “Six but we’ll have to cut up some of the large baskets and add handles to them.”

  She looked at Davy who nodded, “Much obliged.”

  As they walked out the drey Rebecca turned to Davy, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Yeh, me too.”

  Rebecca turned sharply about to quiz him further but saw the smile on his face.

  “I do. They’ll save lives.”

  She hugged him, a warmth in the gesture that lingered even as she stepped back.

  “I noticed that you’re not wearing the coin on your wrist anymore.”

  “Yeh, braid’s gone, but I still keep it with me.” He tapped his chest pocket.

  Rebecca reached up and undid some of the braid holding her hair in a topknot.

  “Here, it is not as pretty as what your Rebecca made but it should hold the coin at your wrist.”

  Davy made Diri and reached into his pocket, retrieving the coin. He then handed both back to Rebecca and held out his wrist.

  “I accept this gladly, as something that binds both of my Rebeccas to each other, and brings both places closer together. Thank you.” And then, without thinking, he kissed her gently on the cheek.

  Rebecca made a clipped clicking sound deep in her throat and skited away, leaving Davy unsure if he had somehow offended her.

  Unseen by neither, the motes stirred. Not with alarm, but recognition. The coin, a nexus of meaning between worlds. The gesture; a binding, small yet significant. Human sentiment met ringtail rite, and the motes responded. Threads realigned. Patterns shifted faintly, like morning dust catching a new rhythm.

  They walked away from the camp, out past a clump of stink bushes, their aroma pleasant to Davy but repulsive to the greys, and up to the ridgeline. Neither talked, the only sound the wind whispering between leaves and the tall grasses on the edges of stoney outcrops. The day was drawing to a close, and the light turned the valley into a misty pool between the tree lined hills.

  Rebecca had stayed a few paces ahead of Davy, tail swaying behind her, but eventually she slowed so they walked side by side. She broke the quiet with a gentle voice, one reserved for whispered truths, the sort not often shared.

  “The dance you saw last night,” she began. “You remember the lone dancer in the middle?”

  Davy nodded. “Yeah. Duu’ra, you called it.”

  She gave a small nod. “That’s what we call the memory. Not the one who lived it. Their name is lost. But Duu’ra is what we carry.”

  He thought on that for a moment, “And why are they golden?”

  “It’s colour carries the burden of wisdom, purpose, and brings continuity.”

  Motes were attracted to them as they talked, responding to the memory named.

  To Duu’ra; not a person, but a pattern. A resonance of their making that echoed across timelines, binding threads with purpose.