The Voice by Anne Bishop

things I had done that shamed me. All through the telling, he kept his hands loosely wrapped around the teacup and his eyes on his hands.
    I finished my story at the moment when I rang the bell that morning, looking for help.
    Those beautiful eyes remained lowered for a moment longer. Then he looked at me.
    He wasn’t human. Not like me. He was the fury of storms and the laughter of a cool stream on a hot summer’s day. He was flood and drought and slow, soft rains that woke up the crops and gave us an abundant harvest.
    He was the voice of the world—and the world would do his bidding.
    In that moment, I understood why the Shamans walked the streets of the city and why they were respected—and, sometimes, feared. In that moment, I feared for the people in the village I had left behind, especially my family.
    “A strong will and loving heart,” he said quietly. He pushed back his chair and stood. “Come. It is time for you to rest.”
    The luxury of a tub full of hot, scented water, where I soaked and washed until I felt clean. The pleasure of a clean bed in a simply furnished room that made no demands on body or heart or mind. And if, in the moments before sleep, I found myself yearning for someone who wasn’t quite a Shaman, there was no harm in that.
    For the rest of that day, I floated among gentle dreams.
    For two more days, I remained in the Temple of Sorrow. Sometimes I sat in the sorrows room to purge myself. Other times I, and the others who happened to be in the room, would raise our voices on behalf of The Voice. Her pain was huge, and because I felt some responsibility for causing it, her pain was killing me.
    I suppose that was why the Shaman was waiting for me when I came out of the sorrows room that last evening.
    “You did a good thing bringing her here,” he said. “Now you must take the next step in the journey.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “She needs to stay. You need to go. Tomorrow.”
    I hadn’t thought beyond reaching here, hadn’t considered what it would mean if I couldn’t stay at the temple.
    The Shaman smiled. “There is a community in the northern part of the city. It is a full day’s journey from here, nestled in the foothills. Beautiful land. Good people. Artistic in many different ways. I have family up there. You will be welcomed.”
    “I could find work there?”
    “I think that someone with your heart could find a great many things.”
    For a moment, I thought a blush stained his cheeks, but the sun was setting, so it must have been a trick of the light.
    Which is how I ended up driving the cart, which had been scrubbed and freshly painted, to the northern part of Vision and the community of people who were not Shamans but understood more about the world than I had ever imagined.

7.
     
    For the first six months, news about the village trickled in to me. After that, I never heard about the village or its people again.
    The night we ran away, the Elders’ Hall was set on fire, and while the caretaker managed to get out unharmed, the building itself burned to the ground. The other building that burned that night was Chayne’s house.
    As for Chayne, he screamed himself awake for a week. Then he stood in front of the ruins of the Elders’ Hall and confessed his offenses against all living things. He disappeared shortly after that, but Dariden claimed to have seen him behind the orphan’s house, looking bloated and hobbling around as if crippled while the caretakers watched him. Dariden also claimed Chayne must have been in a horrific accident that no one wanted to talk about, because in that moment before the caretakers noticed him and hurried to block his view, Dariden saw terrible scars on Chayne’s neck.
    Tahnee and her lover reached Vision. While his parents were not pleased to have a son make a hasty marriage to a girl who feared being found by her own family, they stood witness at the marriage and helped the young couple set up housekeeping.
    I haven’t seen