Page 89 of The Seeker
Rhys blinked. “Why?”
“Yes, why? If the people are dead, the language isn’t needed anymore, is it? What does it matter?”
Meera said, “To preserve a language is to preserve not only the memory of a people but a way of life. A way of thinking. A vision of the world. To lose all those things means your people would die twice.”
Ata set the meat skewers down in a long basket and unhooked the cooking pot from over the fire. “I’ll think about it.” Then she left the food in front of them and walked away.
“But—”
“Don’t.” Rhys put a hand on her arm. “I think that’s all you’re getting tonight. Give her time, Meera. You have to be patient.”
She huffed out a breath, and he could tell she was still considering chasing after the recalcitrant Irina.
“Does badgering work on your mother?” he asked.
“Badgering?”
“Pestering. Bothering. Asking for the same thing over and over again.”
Meera laughed a little. “No. That doesn’t work on Patiala.”
“And it won’t work on her. She’s not part of your retinue. You have to build trust.”
She propped her chin in her hand. “Like you slowly wore me down?”
“You love my persistence,” he said, reaching for a spear of meat. “Don’t lie.”
“You do realize that’s probably alligator, don’t you?”
“I’m not thinking about that right now. I’m too hungry.” He bit into the meat, which was juicy and smelled of peppers. “For now, princess, just eat.”
Chapter Sixteen
Meera watched Rhys as he climbed up the ladder and Ata handed him the palmetto leaves. Apparently if they were going to sleep in her village, she was happy to use their labor. Meera was grinding dried leaves in a round cypress mortar while Rhys was using his long reach to repair the roof of the bathhouse.
Like Ata, he was bare to the waist, and the dark lines of histalesmmoved and flexed with his muscles. They labored in the filtered shade of the pines and cypress trees; she could hear short drifts of conversation pass between them as they worked.
A breeze floated over the mound, cooling Meera’s skin like the sweet, fresh herb she was grinding cooled her senses. She found herself humming an old song her grandmother had sung, rocking back and forth with the grinding pestle.
She couldn’t describe the sensation in her spirit. She felt settled. Rooted. Surrounded by old magic and verdant life.
Despite never having visited before, Meera felt connected to this place, to this foreign village so far from the centuries of tradition in her home country. There was magic here, familiar and old. The very ground beneath her was made with it. It was a place of immense power.
A shadow fell over her and she looked up.
“You’ve ground enough,” Ata said. “Thank you. You can pour the powder into that jar.”
Meera reached for the jar Ata had pointed to. “What is it?”
“The Creole call it filé—they use it for soups—but it was ours first. Sassafras leaf. I dry and cure it. It’s good for eating and medicine. It’s the fastest way to break a fever.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“You’ll remember everything when you agree to take my memories so I can die.”
“Ata, I can’t agree to that. Your magic is too necessary for our people. Though I can hold your memories, I cannot be your voice. And your voice is needed. Please come back with us. Just a visit would be a blessing.”
“So you say.” Ata sat beside her and took a carved wooden spoon hanging from a hook on the wall of the outdoor kitchen. She scooped the bright green powder from the mortar, using her hand as a funnel to pour the filé into the jar. “The soup last night had filé in it.”
