A murmur of pleasure rippled around Ule, and she wondered how anyone could enjoy such a flawed story.

“So where are the figures of the man and woman?” She pointed past the boy in the direction of Elishevera .

“Centuries of sandstorms wore them away,” he replied.

“Why have the figures of the man and woman eroded and not the flower too? And why a flower?” Ule slapped her lap. “Why not a bush or, or, or a squash?”

She was determined to tear open the story, reveal its untruth, but the crowd complimented the boy on his interpretation and began offering their own. In one, Ertoi’s object of love had been a goddess in human form; in another, Ertoi died of old age before completing the carving.

She ignored their versions because she knew the truth.

Stories like the boy’s at least touched on the sacredness of the place; for that she was grateful. Otherwise, none of the pilgrims honoured Elishevera by climbing her, carving initials into her petals or calling her by a meaningless name such as Lishev .

At last, the boy’s stories came to an end , and Ule wrinkled her nose. “Oh vomit!”

The folk fell silent, hushed by her outburst.

He tilted his head. “What bothers you?”

“Who is this Ertoi ?” She glared at everyone around her. “What’s the name of the woman he loved?”

People from the crowd uttered their theories and speculations. The young boy shrugged. A throbbing had settled into Ule’s head, her mind reeling at the distorted fictions failing to remember the flower beast accurately. Wasn’t it enough she had just learned of Elishevera ’s death?

“ Ertoi be me,” declared the boy.

“Excuse me?” She squinted at him.

“ Ertoi , he be every man.” He pointed at other young boys and a nearby man. “It be him and him.” He pointed at the woman dressed in black. “ Ertoi ’s love, the woman, be her.” Then he pointed at Ule. “And she be you.”

Ule huffed. Hardly, she thought. The boy’s suggestion tugged at the last of her reserve. Remorse, anger, and bitterness tore her open, and she ranted, “It’s not me! It’s never me!” She smacked the back of her hand in the palm of the other . “No one wants to love me back, ever.”

“You best lay off the rum, eh?” The boy laughed.

Her rage quieted. No amount of glaring at the boy prevented anyone from patting him on the head and tossing a few coins on the ground where he stood.

He gathered them, slipped them into his pocket, and sat before the fire where he resumed turning the roasting stick and asked, “Hungry?”

Her stomach growled in response. She touched her abdomen. Now that she was in humanoid form, she needed to take care of her body properly, which meant she required sustenance and sleep. Fond memories of her last visit rushed into her mind, of how she had enjoyed delicious sweet drinks and sauce-drenched meats, the soft caress of fine fabric on her skin, and how she had made a game of being in the world.

“Yes,” she replied, acknowledging her appetite.

“Here,” he said, pulling a piece from the charred twisted lump at the end of the stick.

She took the small bit of roasted animal flesh. It had caramelized into deep browns and black with little prickly bits sticking out. She bit into it, finding the outside chewy with a delicate, flaky, white meat on the inside.

Deciding she like it, she asked, “Ooh, what’s this?”

“Spider,” the boy replied.

Her stomach heaved. She spit out half chewed roasted spider, imagining crispy hairs stuck to her tongue.

“Hey!” The boy pinched her arm. “ There’s na else to eat. Go beg at the pavilions for better beast.”

She bolted to the nearest shadow of the desert and bent over, the boy’s voice trailing after her. “Good luck to ya, they be snoots like you.”

The remainder of the spider came up in a forceful heave. Annoyed, she kicked sand over the mess. If people had tended to the groves as they had been instructed , the veld would have thrived and spiders wouldn’t need to be eaten .

Wrinkling her nose at the acrid odour, which made her want to heave again, she turned back toward the little campfire and stepped on something hard and smooth.

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The Forgotten Gemstone, Book One in A Xiinisi Trilogy

© Kit Daven & Eager Eye Books, 2013.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any matter whatsoever  without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review or critical article.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, situations, and references portrayed in this story either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

Cover art by Sean Chappell, RedFracture .com.