Beloved of the Sun

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I knelt on a woven mat. The room was dark, the walls barely visible. A low fire burned on the packed-earth floor. Human heads circled the fire, eyes shadowed, dark mouths open as though they were about to speak or scream. The fire flared up momentarily, and I saw they were round clay pots, the faces molded and painted on.

Across the fire from me sat a man in leggings and linen shirt, his face strong-boned and sharp, long black hair pulled back. Behind him sat a large, dark bird on a perch.

“She sees,” said a voice like wind through an empty jar. “She hears. She may or may not understand what she hears. But her mind seems to receive speech as words, not merely sounds.”

“But she doesn’t speak,” said the man. “Is there damage?”

My gaze dropped to the mat. The low fire made shadows waver in its surface.

“Possibly,” said the windy voice. “According to witnesses she was underwater for at least ten minutes.”

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