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    My Sister’s
Song
    by
    Gail Carriger
     
     
    Arite has told me I must
write this down, since nearly ten summers have passed and secrecy
is no longer strictly necessary. I said to her, “My fingers are
more used to knives than quills, and you are the singer in the
family, not I.” Arite only smiled and hummed a little tune. I told
her that she was the one who gave me the idea, so she has just as
much right to tell of it as I. And she would tell it better. Arite
shook her head and said that the story was mine to tell. She is old
enough now for me to listen to her. Mind you, I won’t do it often.
I wasn’t born the elder for nothing. In this case my sister may be
correct (a grudging admission), the story should be told. But in
truth, it was her song that started it all.
     
    I was picking mushrooms
from the mossy bank of the forest creek when I heard her singing. I
was plucking them carefully, from the bottom of the stem so that
they wouldn’t bruise. Those little gray wiggly capped mushrooms
that hug the bases of the trees like children hiding their faces in
their mother’s legs. The singing came, my sister’s voice, wound
into the low vibrating burr of a bee Charmer. I did not know until
then that she had mastered the bee’s song. At first I was delighted
by the noise, it meant that the small flat cakes of bread father
cooked for evening meal would be sticky sweet. Then I remembered
the year time and the weather we’d been having.
    Judging by the sound she
was about twenty paces away, and yet the song was near its finish.
I took off fast, dropping my mushroom basket so that its precious
cargo scattered on the moss. The second I realized the danger I
began to yell. Fear lent me the Deer-god’s swiftness and I covered
those twenty paces in a heartbeat. I reached her in time to see her
gently lift, at the end of a forked stick, the first of the honey
combs out of the hive. The combs were still green, capped with a
thin covering of wax. Even so I could see that the honey inside was
faintly red in color.
    Arite was bent over the
hollowed stump, intent on her work and her song. Charmed by its
vibrations the bees did not protest her presence, but they became
slightly annoyed at my footsteps. She was touching a finger to the
golden mass when I crashed into her. As I tackled her she stopped
her song, dropped the honeycomb and began to yell. Without the
song, the bees became instantly alert to her invasion.
    I took her with me in a
roll, me yelling at her to stop, her yelling at me. She used
several vulgar words I felt that a girl of thirteen summers ought
not to know and resolved to have a talk with father on the subject
of her play-fellows. The bees began to gather together, exchange
tactical maneuvers and plans of attack, and then turned in a huddle
toward us. I lifted her up and pushing her before me, charging us
both toward the creek. Halfway there we began to flail our arms
about our faces, batting away the stinging creatures. Arite hit the
water first, still yelling at me, and submerged herself hurriedly.
I followed suit. Both of us lifted up only to breathe, briefly
exposing our mouths before sinking back down. The water was as full
and as cold as only wet spring waters can be.
    Eventually, the bees became
bored hovering above the cold stream and returned to assess the
damage. My sister and I hauled ourselves out of the stream,
decidedly bedraggled. Instantly, she began yelling again, calling
me all kinds of a fool, telling me that she had been perfectly
safe, many times she had sung the bees into submission. Finally,
she settled into that type of deep seriousness and gravity that
only the very young can achieve.
    “Mithra, I know you have
been fighting for a year, but I have grown while you were away. The
singers have been training me. I have the voice to be a Charmer. I
am not meant to be a warrior like you. And from what I have seen of
your brilliant actions this day,” she gestured to the welts