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missed an opportunity to criticize her efforts, or to wonder pointedly why her daughter was on her way to an early spinsterhood.
How could it be otherwise, Mother? With you dismissing all our neighbours’ religious festivals as superstitious cowshit, their household shrines as false idols, and their faiths as ignorant childishness? No wonder Father disappeared. And no wonder we stand as the village pariahs
.
    She dished the meal on to two banana leaves then squatted cross-legged, frowning. Not that her own habits helped. Everyone named her a witch. A servant of the Night-Mother, Ardata. In the past some had even secretly approached her asking that she curse a rival, or strike down a neighbour’s buffalo. And their indignation when she refused! It would be laughable if weren’t so sad.
    As it was, the village had their scapegoat for every stillborn calf, every sick child, and every poor harvest. And she herself was heartily tired of it. But Mother – who would take care of Mother? Yet again she wished Hanu was still with them. How she missed his quiet strength.
He
should’ve married and
she
should’ve moved in with him to rule it over his wife, leaving her free to escape all this. Instead, the unthinkable had happened and he’d been taken by the Thaumaturgs.
    And she supposed she should be thankful. For that fact alone – the prestige accruing from their sacrifice and the relief of all her neighbours that such a price fell to another – allowed them their tenuous grip here on the very edge of the village.
    She took up a pinch of rice with the salad and chewed without enthusiasm. And soon Mother would arrive fresh with gossip from her morning round. So-and-so is expecting another grandchild! And so-and-so’s nephew has a cough! Saeng hung her head.
Gods deliver her!
    And here she comes up the path
. Saeng took a steadying breath. ‘So,’ she welcomed her, ‘what news, Mother?’ After some moments she peered up, a pinch of rice in one hand. Her mother watched her, quite uncharacteristically silent. ‘Yes? What is it?’
    Her mother stood just before the open front veranda. She twisted her hands in the cloth of her mulitcoloured wrap. ‘News? Yes – real news this time, Saeng. Refugees passing the village. Fleeing the west. And Mae’s relations have arrived with nothing more than the clothes on their backs.’
    Saeng sat back, frowning even more than usual. ‘What is it?’
    ‘An army comes, littlest. Our lords the Thaumaturgs march to war and they come impressing into service everyone they find.’
    Saeng popped the ball of rice into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. ‘Well, what is that to us?
We’ve
already paid.’
    Her mother shook her head. ‘I don’t think that will count any longer. And—’ but she stopped herself.
    ‘And what?’
    ‘Saeng,’ her mother began again, reaching out a hand, ‘the old faith is explicit! In times of war the priestess must be in the temple …’
    ‘
Please
, Mother … don’t go on about that.’
    Her mother clasped her hands, shocked. ‘Do not blaspheme! Your great-grandmother was unswerving in this – you must seek out the Great Temple.’
    Saeng could hardly find the words. ‘Mother … the old faith is long dead. No one even knows where the temples are!’ She laughed a touch nervously. ‘Really – you’re being … silly.’
    But her mother’s face eased into her usual disappointment and she shook her head. Clenching her lips, Saeng looked away and finished her meal.
    That night she couldn’t sleep. The Nak-ta called to her louder than they had in many years. No matter which way she tossed or turned she couldn’t shut them out. And even more distantly, when she concentrated, she thought she could hear the crash of great shapes lumbering ever closer through the jungle.
    Then a voice called even louder than the wind rustling the palm leaves and shaking the rattan. Wordless it was; no more than a moan that sounded like someone gagged or wounded. Never