Anne Bishop - Bridge of Dreams

“I’ll always be able to get back home,” Lee said, his voice turning sharp as a way to defy the odd shiver produced by Yoshani’s words.

“Will you?” Yoshani asked gently. “If you refuse to see the Landscaper, will you be able to find her landscapes?”

Lee took a couple of steps away from Yoshani. “I have to go.”

“Do your friends and family a kindness. Every two days, return to Sanctuary and let us know you are well. There are still wizards and some Dark Guides hiding in the landscapes beyond your mother’s and sister’s control. And the Bridges who survived the Eater’s attack haven’t stopped creating bridges for people who need to leave where they are.”

Which was why he needed to patrol and stay vigilant. But he couldn’t deny that Yoshani’s suggestion was prudent.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll use my island to reach Glorianna’s and Mother’s landscapes so I’m not spending a lot of time on the roads alone. And every second day I’ll return here and give you or Brighid my itinerary for the next bit of journeying.”

“Fair enough.” Yoshani smiled. “Travel lightly, Lee.”

Giving the man a terse nod, Lee walked to the stream and the small island that sat in the middle of it. His own personal landscape, it existed on the bridge of his will when he imposed it over other landscapes. Because of that, Sanctuary—and safety—was never more than a step away.

Nimbly walking across the stepping stones, he jumped to the island and staggered, off balance.

Had there been a moment when the island hadn’t been under his feet? But he was in Sanctuary, where the island actually existed. How was it possible for it not to be there?

Lee went to the center of the island and left his pack near the fountain—a bowl of black stone with a hollowed-out piece of cane that drew fresh water from the stream. He carefully inspected every section of the island to be certain nothing about it had changed. Then he shifted it to a landscape held by his mother.

Let your heart travel lightly. Because what you bring with you becomes part of the landscape.

Heart’s Blessing was one of the first things he had learned, but this was the first time in his twenty-nine years that the words made him uneasy.

Danyal felt his heart lift as he looked at the two females who were now the center of his nephew Kanzi’s life. Four years ago, he had nudged Nalah toward this community of artists and artisans, hoping she was the one who could fill the empty place in Kanzi’s life.

She had done more than fill it. That empty place in his nephew now overflowed with energy and joy.

Holding his hands heart-high, Danyal pressed his palms together and spoke the blessing for newborns. “May she give you a hundred tears and a thousand moments of joy.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Kanzi said.

“Have you decided on a name?” he asked.

“Nali,” Kanzi said at the same moment Nalah said, “Ephyra.”

Danyal laughed. “Ah, well. You have a little time yet before the Naming Day to decide.”

“We’ve already decided,” Kanzi said.

Nalah followed those words with, “We just don’t agree.” Then she smiled at Danyal. “What about you, Uncle? Wouldn’t you like one of your own? Or perhaps just a wife, someone to be companion and partner? I have some friends who…”

Startled, he rocked back, which made her laugh, and that laughter helped him hide the ache produced by the truth in her words. He would like to have a partner, to be a partner. But Shamans weren’t ordinary people. While he’d enjoyed being a lover whenever time and circumstance allowed, he hadn’t yet met a woman who was comfortable for long with the way he saw the world—or saw the core of people’s hearts. And lately he’d begun to wonder when he’d stopped associating the words “companion” and “partner” with sex.

He’d been wondering about too many things lately.

“No response, Uncle?” Nalah asked, her voice still full of teasing laughter that also held love.

“Nalah,” Kanzi said, looking flustered.

“Be easy, Nephew,” Danyal said. “I won’t admit to playing matchmaker where the two of you are concerned, but I’ll allow that I deserved that tease.” He playfully shook a finger at Nalah. “But only once.”

“Only once,” she agreed.

“Why don’t I slice some fruit for all of us?” He retreated into the airy kitchen, wanting solitude. He barely had the sense of being alone before his nephew joined him.

“Nalah meant no harm,” Kanzi said.

“And no harm was given,” Danyal replied quietly as he selected the ripest fruit from the bowl on the table. “Would you loan me your daypack, Nephew?”

“Of course, but…You’re not staying?”

“My mind needs to think, and my feet need to walk. Your house will be crowded tomorrow.” And having a Shaman here will make your other guests uneasy about being themselves , he finished silently.

But Kanzi heard what wasn’t spoken. “You’re always welcome in my house, Uncle. You know that, don’t you?”

Danyal smiled as he sliced the fruit and arranged it on a plate. “I know. Being here with the three of you is cool water on parched land, but I would like a day of solitude in the village where I grew up, a day to listen to the land.” He put a small bowl in the center of the dish holding the sliced fruit and began cracking nuts.

“Then you’ll have your solitary day.” Kanzi hesitated. “I’m glad you’re here. Nalah is too.”

The words were said too heartily to hide the worry. A forty-one-year-old Shaman might take a season’s rest after a demanding assignment, but he didn’t take a year’s leave without a serious reason.

“I am glad to be here.” Danyal picked up the dish of fruit and nuts, a clear signal that the conversation had ended. “Let’s return to the other room and admire your daughter.”

The next morning, Danyal slipped out of Kanzi’s house at first light. The daypack held a slender, stoppered jug of water and a rolled flatbread filled with a mixture of dates, chopped nuts, and sweet cheese. It also held his box of pencils and the sheets of paper he used for quick sketches.

Today that was all he needed.

He walked the familiar streets, relieved so few people were up yet. He’d grown up here, and he still loved the feel of the land in this part of Vision. But he’d known early on that he wasn’t like the rest of the people in this community, wasn’t like his parents or older sister, wasn’t even like the young men and women who were called to the village temples and a spiritual life. He was a Shaman, a voice of the world. Someone who wasn’t quite human—or was a bit more than human. Someone different because of something that emerged in particular bloodlines every generation or so.

It was considered a blessing to have a Shaman in the family, but blessings were often mixed, and many people felt such a relation was best enjoyed at a distance.

Don’t fill your pockets with sorrows , he scolded himself.

After taking a long drink of water, he changed direction to refill the jug at the market well. People were up and about now, opening their booths and setting up their merchandise. Soon the market would be packed with people.

As he walked to the well, he was aware of the bold, assessing looks some of the women gave him—until they looked at his face, at his eyes. Then they turned away, their faces filled with shame and fear, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

What a body wants isn’t always what the heart needs , his mentor Farzeen had said once. Even among Shamans, your eyes are unusual. When a woman can tell you the color of your eyes, you’ll know she sees the man and not just your bond to the world.