Laughter erupted from Bes, her tone loud and hard.

Ule shivered as she scrambled to her sitting place. Grateful to discover the goblet remained upright  and she hadn’t spilled wine everywhere, she endured the swell of laughter throughout the yard as the Bisi joined in the laughter.

A flush of embarrassment warmed Ule’s cheeks. She began smoothing her dress, waiting until their mirth settled down.

Bes threw her head back and laughed again. “Good jest, na?”

Realizing Bes had played a prank on her, Ule snorted. “Funny,” she said. Half-smiling, she shook her head and laughed.

A thrum filled the clearing as women returned to their dinners and gossip. Although an easiness overcame Ule, her curiosity was still not quite satisfied . She glanced sideways at the glass-encased box, wondering about the strange corpse with its curled hands, leathery skin, and wiry white hair. The stitches in her eyes and lips made death seem so solitary, internal, and indisputable.

An urge to say something finally loosened her tongue. “Does your friend prefer figs or dates?”

Bes threw her head back and laughed again. Though her hair seemed likely to tumble down, it held firm. Regaining herself, she leaned forward.

“She be the first Bes, the way the stories tell it. Every evening she be honoured, a reminder of the sanctuary she created.”

Ule realized the Bisi Nomads were no different than the people who travelled through the desert to honour Elishevera ; they both sought a sacred place. The woman in the box had acted on an idea, brought it into existence through action. She had created. Ule felt an immediate connection with the dead woman.

“I created this world, you know,” Ule said.

Bes arched a thin eyebrow.

Ule interpreted the facial expression as one of disbelief and quickly returned her attention to the first Bes. “So why did she create this caravan?”

“Love,” Bes replied.

The fig Ule bit into tasted bitter. She rolled the gritty seeds around in her mouth, not wanting to swallow. Before she could protest, Bes began the story.

“Once she loved a man. The more she loved him, the more he struck her,” Bes said. “It be the only way he know how to express his love. Their ways be too different from one another to find any happiness, and she knew if she na walk away from him, she would die.”

Ule frowned. So far the love story was depressing, just like the one about Ertoi and the ale maker’s daughter.

“He knew it be wrong to hurt her but he could na stop himself. He feared losing her and he could na let her go. See, when she ran, he hunted her down, dragged her back home, until one day she ran far enough away.”

Ule waited for the rest of the story, hoping for some kind of happy ending, the kind of  happy ending she heard happened with some people, people other than herself.

“She needed a place to heal herself, a place where na person could find her, a place that always be changing. She became a nomad, gathering together other women and girls like her, and they now be called the Bisi Nomads.”

Ule’s stomach churned but not in the usual nauseous way she had become accustomed to at the first mention of love. Now her stomach felt as though it were getting ready to bring up a spider.

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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.