Roseheart

By Susan Mokelke

Jilene is different. Her unique ability to communicate with
animals sets her apart from the pragmatic people of her
homeworld Daecor. All her life she has been forced to hide her
gift, to disguise her true self. But everything is about to change.

She meets Rayell, who appears to be an animal, but is in reality a
kidnapped sentient from another world. Jilene rescues Rayell.
Joined by Hirel, a member of an elite troubleshooting
organization, they escape their pursuers only to find themselves
trapped on the Emerald Plain

The Plain, a highly restricted zone forbidden to outsiders, has
dangers of its own, including werecats and Wanderfolk, the
fierce itinerant inhabitants. All is not well on the Emerald Plain.
There has been a disturbance in the pattern of things. The
Wanderfolk need help --- help only Jilene and Rayell can
provide.

In trying to help Rayell and the Wanderfolk, Jilene will need to
call upon every scrap of courage she possesses. She will have to
learn to trust in herself and in others. Ultimately, she will have to
die to her past to save her future and the future of those she
loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 2, 2003
• ISBN: 9781410724663

Susan Mokelke

At various times in her life Susan Mokelke has been a lawyer, educator, video producer, technical writer, and essayist. For 15 years she worked with a non-profit foundation concerned with issues of unity --- our fundamental oneness with each other, with other living beings and with the natural world --- and the practical implications for our daily lives. Currently she is studying shamanism, an ancient healing practice, writing songs, and writing fiction to entertain and inspire. She lives in California with her husband and various furry companions. Visit her website: http://www.heartandsoulsongs.com

Book preview

© 2003 by Susan Mokelke. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

ISBN: 1-4107-2466-2 (e-book)

ISBN: 1-4107-2467-0 (Paperback)

ISBN-13: 978-1-4107-2466-3 (e-book)

IstBooks-rev. 03/22/03

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

About the Author

Prologue

Donnar topped the slight rise and paused for a moment. In the grassy valley below, the graceful Lahteh tree spread its branches like an open hand, gnarled fingers reaching towards the sun. There were several silver shapes gathered under the tree, unusual for this early in the day; but then this was not a normal day. Donnar sighed, and the lean silver Rincon at his side quietly chirped once and reached up to circle a small paw around one knee; (Concern, loss, sadness) washed through his mind.

He leaned over to rest his hand briefly on the furred head, then dropped to one knee and cradled the beautiful triangular face in his hands. I know, Reatan, he said softly, automatically matching feelings to words. This will be hard…for all of us. But thanks for the comfort.

He took a deep breath and held it for a moment, centering thoughts and body. Then he gave the small pointed ears a last gentle tug and stood up. Let’s go, he said grimly, and Human and Rincon walked steadily down to join the gathering under the Lahteh.

The twelve Rincons sat in a circle facing the tree, on their haunches like living sphinxes, just as silent and still. Unnatural stillness. Rincons were spirited beings, always moving or fiddling with someone or something, and chattering and clucking at each other the whole while. As Donnar and Reatan walked up, twelve pairs of dark eyes swung slowly in their direction, stopping to rest on Donnar’s face.

Once again Donnar was struck by the beauty of the Family, as they referred to themselves. The first thing a person tended to notice was their fur—thick and fine, but soft like the rabbits of old Earth. It was the color that was unique, for it was silver, a definite metallic silver, which gleamed and sparkled like moonlight on water at midnight. They had lean wiry bodies about the size of a raccoon, with slender legs ending in hand-like paws, used for climbing, grasping, and general mischief-making when the mood was upon them. Paws, long bushy tail, and ears were tipped with black. But it was their faces that tended to linger in the mind, for they were unquestionably beautiful. Their heads were round and elegant, topped by small pointed ears, with a slender muzzle ending in a dainty black nose and fine-boned jaw, supplied with numerous sharp white teeth. Long black whiskers decorated their muzzles and thick lashes framed their large oval eyes.

When Donnar looked into their eyes, he thought of his first journey into space, standing on the bridge gazing at the three-dimensional viewscreen into a blackness deeper than he had ever known, yet in that blackness points of light glimmered and beckoned—a fear and a calling. A Rincon’s eyes were like that—black, fathomless, mysterious, yet somehow warm, promising good things to those who dared to let their gazes linger.

Donnar and Reatan approached the center of the circle of Rincons and turning toward them, they made the traditional greeting, hands crossed over chest, then open at waist level. Donnar added (Comfort, sorrow, purpose) with his mind. The Rincons returned the greeting and projected (Acceptance of comfort; acknowledgment of purpose). Donnar and Reatan then approached one of the Rincons, whose black-tipped ears and silver fur were streaked with white. Reatan sat on his haunches and Donnar folded himself cross-legged at the old one’s feet.

No one knew how old Sheatar was. She had been present when the first of the Guardians had been chosen, over forty years ago and she had been old even then. The Guardians were a group of humans on Rinconada, who were protectors of the Rincons, and sometimes bonded companions, as was Donnar to Reatan. Years ago, when the first humans had arrived on Rinconada, they had hunted Rincons for their fur and had tried to make pets of them. But that was long ago, before the first bonding had been made and a treaty of mutual respect negotiated between humans and Rincons. Since then, although there had been some isolated instances of abuse, the Rincons had been safe, and the respect and love of humans and Rincons for each other had grown. There had never been anything like this morning’s raid, Donnar thought grimly. The suddenness and horror of it was like a raw wound.

Facing Sheatar, Donnar once again took a deep, steadying breath and ruthlessly pushed his emotions back, confining them as one would corral a wild horse until it could be tamed. Sheatar gazed calmly at him, although he noted with a corner of his mind that he had never seen her eyes so bright or her body so rigid. He looked directly into her great, liquid eyes and projected: Morning, what, who, where? His thoughts were formed in pictures or symbols rather than words, for Rincons were not verbal creatures. Donnar was aware of Reatan’s thoughts amplifying and echoing his, a supporting and familiar presence in his mind.

Sheatar silently gazed around at her clan. As one body, the other eleven Rincons moved closer together, closing the Circle. Sheatar bobbed her head, as though nodding, Focused, and began the story of this morning’s raid, weaving her memories and the memories of the others into a tapestry of images which flowed through and around Donnar. They told the story as a dream or a holovid might, surrounding him with sights and sounds so vivid that it felt as if he was actually there, experiencing the attack as a Rincon—for the moment he was there…

He slept, cradled in the branches of a young Lahteh. He woke up, abruptly and completely, straining into the night with eyes, ears, nose, and mind, for the thing that had disturbed his rest. It was dark and quiet, with that particular stillness that comes just before dawn. On nearby branches he could vaguely distinguish the round lumps that were his kin, sleeping undisturbed. Farther away were other trees, containing more of the Family. On the edge of the trees, he touched the thoughts of a heercat, but she thought only of her warm, snug cave, and sleep after a successful night of hunting. He could locate nothing that suggested trouble, and yet he was uneasy.

Around him, he felt the presence of others of the Family as they, too, stirred and began to probe the night with senses dulled with sleep. Suddenly, the stillness was broken by the drone of an engine, and a shuttle swooped out of the air and swept low over Donnar’s tree, ruffling leaves and fur in passing. Donnar felt the confused thoughts of other Rincons as they startled awake. The shuttle made a sharp, swift circle and headed for one of the larger trees. As it passed over the tree, a bright light flashed, and for an instant the tree, branches, and dark forms of Rincons stood out clearly against the night sky. Several painful mental shrieks of his fellows tore through his head like a howling storm and were abruptly cut off, like a door slammed against the wind. Then it was dark once more, and he and the rest of the Family were dropping from the trees and running for the safety of the deep woods.

(Confusion, fear, lingering echoes of pain, anguish, need to help) rang in Donnar’s mind and he wanted to run in circles. Then a powerful, steadying thought cut through the babble. From the edge of the forest, elders ordered the young ones to go and remain in the deep forest and the adults to meet at the Teaching Tree. Donnar swerved toward the appointed place, slipping through the long grass, catching glimpses of other silver forms headed at a gallop in the same direction. Isolated thoughts of others still prickled in his head, but most of the adults now had their controls firmly in place. He reached the forest, wove his way through the dense underbrush until he reached the knoll leading to the Tree, scrambled nimbly up the rocky hillside, and skidded to a halt in a shower of small stones and leaves at the base of the Teaching Tree.

Sheatar and Ranzell were already there, as were several of the elders and a few adults, who had been close to the Tree when the attack—for attack it seemed to be—began. Still breathing heavily from their run, the required twelve adult Rincons, hastily formed a Circle on the edge of the cliff overlooking the Sleeping Trees. From Donnar’s position in the Circle, the tree that had been mysteriously lit was clearly visible, and he stiffened in shock at what he saw there.

The shuttle had landed and disgorged five humanoidfigures carrying beamers, which illuminated the tree and several inert lumps on the ground. Leaning forward and gazing intently, Donnar realized that those lumps were his kin, who had apparently fallen from the tree when the bright flash struck them. Were they alive or dead? The invaders walked among the inanimate Rincons, bending over each one, sometimes touching them, and speaking to each other, although he could not hear more than an occasional sound. They wore ordinary clothes, with no distinguishing badges, colors, or styles. Each had on what appeared to be a metallic hat, fitted snugly, and covering the entire back of his head andforehead. One stood slightly apart from the others, looking out toward the darkened trees, holding what part of Donnar’s mind recognized with a start was a cruncher, a weapon as deadly as it was illegal. Heart beating rapidly in apprehension, he swung his gaze back to the others and saw that they were now carrying the smaller of the still forms toward the shuttle, each one disappearing inside for a moment, then returning for another burden. In dismay, he realized that they were taking the young ones and leaving the mature adults behind.

Then there was no time left for looking. Elders Ranzell and Sheatar called for the Focus. Donnar narrowed the scope of his thoughts and joined his mind with the others. Ranzell and Sheatar bound their twelve separate streams of thought into one clear beam, the Focus, and as one, their combined spirits Probed for the invader’s minds. They were seeking for their primitive images of fear, images that all species carry deep within that the Rincons could project back to them, producing terror and panic and driving them away. Together they Probed at the minds below and met…nothing! A void space where there should have been the energy of living thought. Again they struck. and again. and still nothing. Finally, unsettled, the Rincons pulled back into the Circle, chittering in amazement, frustration, and growing fear for their kin. Their attackers were apparently blocked in some way, and it appeared that the Family had no way to stop what they were doing.

Donnar noted most of the rest of the adults had arrived while they had Probed, and were gathered around the twelve in the Circle. As they realized that it seemed they could do nothing to affect the situation, controls began to fray and emotions once again whirled dizzily in Donnar’s head. Sheatar cut through the rising hysteria with a loud hiss and a mental command so sharp it was almost painful. It was abruptly silent, both inner and outer. Once again a Focus was called for and achieved, and twelve minds sent another Probe, this time looking for any mental images at all.

The strangers were dark voids; but the Rincons lying motionless on the ground were alive, their minds emitting the dim light akin to sleep. As one with the Circle, Donnar continued to seek thoughts, Sheatar and Ranzell holding them together in patient waiting. The invaders had stopped carrying Rincons to the ship. Two of them stood next to one large silver body; one kicked the body sharply with a booted foot. No light, however dim, came from this one’s mind—dead, Donnar noted, feelings kept in check for later. The two knelt by the dead one and began to clumsily, messily, but deliberately, skin the fur from the body. And Donnar was struggling to control his emotions, to stem the tide of revulsion that threatened to overwhelm him and break his harmony with the Probe. Gasping and struggling for calm, he felt other minds fighting too, some slipping from the Circle. Sheatar and Ranzell held, their thoughts planted like ancient trees, deep and unshakable.

Suddenly, briefly they caught it—a thought—a mind unshielded, and Donnar’s horror receded in the wake of this new target. One of the strangers, helmetless, ducked his head out of the shuttle door, shouted at the two engaged in their grisly task, and withdrew back into the shuttle. It was only for an instant and the image they gleaned from his mind was faint, but it was enough. The man was thinking of his destination, a spaceport, one of the older, shabbier ones that catered to small freighters and the poorer independents. He imaged a dingy-looking building on the outskirts of the landing pad, a bar, with a faded sign above the door bearing the image of a fish. With the part of his mind that was himself, Donnar exulted, for he recognized that fish—a marlin. He recognized it because he had seen one just like it before, on an identical building in an identical spaceport—a spaceport located on Trident.

The trophy-hunters finally picked up their bloody burden, sprinted for the shuttle and climbed inside. The doors closed and it roared into the air, disappearing into the dark…

… and Donnar was back in the shade of the Lahteh, Reatan pressed against his thigh, still looking into Sheatar’s eyes. He blinked several times, shaking his head to clear it. He was very tired and his head ached. He pushed it aside, knowing there was more yet to be done. He was anxious to get this information to the necessary authorities and began the search for the kidnapped young ones. The kidnappers had only a short lead and at least one of their destinations was known.His mind leaped ahead and he dragged it sternly back to the needs of the present. Once more he fixed his gaze on Sheatar; he straightened his shoulders and pressed his lips together firmly, and sent: Other humans to help. Young ones returned. (Hope.) Sheatar, her ears laid back in strain from her efforts, inclined her head gravely in acknowledgment, and waited for him to complete the ritual.

Donnar closed his eyes. Then, knowing it was right and necessary, however much it might hurt at first, he let all of the stored emotions of the day—(Sadness, loss, anguish, horror)—spill from his controls like a dam breaking, allowing them to flow through him without resistance, and then out. They surged to meet those of the Rincons, like streams flowing together.

And as one, they mourned those who were lost and began the healing process.

Chapter One

Jilene stepped out of her tiny apartment and pulled the door shut with a snap, waving a slim hand briskly across the seal to set the lock, then checking to make sure it was secure. She moved quickly down the long dingy corridor lined with the closed doors of other apartments, the peeling paint and cracked walls giving mute evidence of age and poverty. After a more than a year in residence, Jilene no longer noticed these things. Compared to other places in Greenport, the building was relatively clean and inexpensive; but more importantly, it was hers and it had freed her from the oppression of her aunt and uncle’s house.

Her knapsack swinging freely in one hand, she skipped lightly down the stairs. I’ve got to allow myself more time in the mornings, she thought, glancing anxiously at her wrist for the time. It won’t do to be late for work, especially with only a few months on the job. She dropped the strap on her bag over her head, slid it across her chest to settle at her side, and burst into the bright Daecoran sunlight, blinking her eyes at the sudden glare. And almost tripped over Sheila.

Sheila looked up, startled, as Jilene leaped lightly to one side, narrowly avoiding her outstretched legs.

Sheila, Jilene said, in exasperation, pulling her feet back into order. Can’t you find a better place to sit than the doorway? Her protest died when she got a good look at Sheila’s face.

Sheila was eight years old, a plump, untidy girl who had, for all Jilene could tell, only two modes of expression, giggling or crying. Just now she was crying, her dark eyes liquid, nose running, and small hiccuping noises issuing from her throat. The tears had left uneven white tracks on her dirty face, and were dripping slowly onto the front of an absurdly frilly dress. It was probably yellow, Jilene decided, noting a clean patch on the high collar encircling a neck too short and wide for such frivolity. Sheila huddled against the building, clutching something to her chest in both grubby hands.

She raised a damp, tragic face to Jilene and said, in a quivering high-pitched voice, I was waiting for you. Here, Max is sick. Make him well. And she held out her little dimpled arms, opening her hands to reveal a small scrap of brown fur.

Jilene sighed, thinking regretfully of the time, and knelt down beside the little girl. I’m sorry, Sheila, Jilene said, pushing her bag out of the way and reaching for the kirrat. Let’s see what we can do. She carefully lifted the small animal, thinking how much it looked like a miniature version of the rats that haunted the poorer areas of the city. The kirrat sat passively in her hand, rousing only slightly when she stroked it gently with her forefinger. She examined the small body carefully, finding no evidence of any external hurts. But not exactly lively, Jilene noted, chewing thoughtfully at the inside of her lip—nothing to see from the outside.

She looked cautiously around, noting the empty street, then smiled reassuringly at Sheila, who responded by tilting her head and eyeing her like a pudgy brown sparrow waiting for crumbs.

Jilene retreated back into the recessed doorway of her apartment building, and Sheila slid over and plopped down beside her. Pushing her dark straight hair back from her face with her free hand, Jilene put aside her concerns about the time and pulled her scattered thoughts together. She stared down at the kirrat and carefully sent out a tendril of thought, using her awareness to brush lightly at its mind the same way she used her finger to stroke its fur. Its consciousness was dim, more like awareness of sensations than thoughts. She received impressions of thirst, predominantly, and hunger, and a fleeting sense of a dark still place. No hint of the pain of an injury or the drain of an illness. She withdrew her probe gently, leaving an impression of warmth and affection for the small creature in her wake. She sighed and blinked, looking up from the kirrat to the expectant Sheila.

Well, I don’t think Max is sick, she said, slowly coming back to herself. She leaned out of the doorway and threw another quick glance around the streets, relieved to see that they were still deserted. But, have you been giving him water and food every day like we talked about?

Sheila nodded her head vigorously. Jilene studied her thoughtfully and shifted her position slightly to ease the strain on her legs.

She tried another tack. You want Max to be well, don’t you?

Another emphatic nod.

He won’t be well without your help.

The round head bobbed like an apple dropped in a barrel of water.

So, are you sure you haven’t been forgetting to feed him?

Sheila looked at Max, then gazed down at her dress and began to pull at a lacy pocket. I might have forgot one or two times, she said, her eyes once more filling with tears. She wiped at them with the back of her hand, smearing more dirt across her face. Nice try, Jilene thought, forcing back a smile.

She schooled her expression to seriousness and said firmly, All right. Here’s what you have to do. Take Max back to his cage right now and give him food and water. Don’t forget the water. And for today at least, you have to let him rest. He’s hungry and tired. So, don’t play with him at all today. Can you do that? She passed Max gently back to Sheila.

Sheila nodded, holding the kirrat carefully with both hands. Will he be all right?

This time Jilene allowed the smile, pulled a tissue out of her pocket and wiped at the tears and dirt on Sheila’s face. Sheila squirmed, trying to wiggle out of her grip. Hold still, I’m only trying to spread out the dirt a little, Jilene said, tightening her hold. Yes, I think he’ll be fine. But remember, Max depends on you. You’re like his mother. You have to give him food and water every day. Okay? Jilene released Sheila’s chin, grimaced at the sodden brown tissue, and leaned over to stuff it into one of Sheila’s pockets.

She stood up, gingerly wiping her hands on her trousers.

Sheila nodded solemnly, Every day. She scrambled to her feet. Like his mother, she giggled.

Now go, Jilene directed, ruffling her hair and giving her a little push toward home. Sheila giggled again, her world restored, and bounced off down the street, with Max held carefully against her stomach.

Jilene turned and dashed up the street toward the light rail. She glanced again at her watch. Only five minutes for that minor tragedy. With luck, she could still be on time. She wondered if Sheila would manage to do right by Max. Because of her rapport, it hurt her, literally, to see animals suffer. At least, she thought thankfully, she was much more objective about it than she used to be.

She had been seven when she first realized that not everyone could feel the thoughts of animals. She had tried to talk to her aunt about it, but her aunt had responded in her usual indifferent manner with a shrug and a comment about over-active imaginations. But even then, Jilene had known it wasn’t her imagination; her rapport with animals was real. Even so, she had learned through harsh experience to keep her strange ability secret.

She remembered once going to her aunt and asking for some cloths and a box for their cat, Mika, who was going to have kittens. Aunt Deena had shaken her head and told her not to bother her with her games, that Mika had not been outside and could not be pregnant. But later, when Mika had given birth to her small litter, her aunt had looked at her oddly and accused her of letting Mika outside. Jilene had hotly denied it and blurted out that Mika had told her, in feelings and pictures, about the coming litter. For some reason, this had made her normally placid aunt furious, and she had taken Jilene by the arm and shaken her, accusing her of lying and consorting with the devil.

For days afterward, Aunt Deena had treated her with a cold silence, looking through her as though she wasn’t there, while Jilene crept about the house confused about what she had done wrong. Eventually, Aunt Deena slipped back into her usual careless attitude toward Jilene, seeming to forget the entire incident. But the damage had been done and Jilene had never forgotten.

With a child’s logic she decided that something was wrong with her. She hadn’t known at the time what consorting with the devil meant, but she knew it was a very bad thing to have made her aunt so angry. For awhile she had taken to avoiding animals, hoping in that way to get rid of this strange ability that seemed to set her apart from other people. But her need was too great and animals were drawn to her, no matter how hard she tried to shut them out; and, in the final analysis, she found that she valued her rapport with them more than she feared her aunt’s disapproval. They gave completely of themselves, without conditions or judgment, and she would have been alone indeed without them. So, she continued to use her talent, but she never spoke of it again.

Jilene had been very young when her mother and father had died and she had gone to live with Aunt Deena, her mother’s sister, and her husband, Uncle Brin. Jilene’s father had been one of the unusual breed of independent scouts, often first-in on a newly discovered world. He had left Greenport one autumn, when Jilene was four, on a new expedition to the outer reaches of the Sol tan system and had never returned. Nothing had ever been heard from the expedition and the crew had been declared legally dead two years later.

Jilene had only vague memories of him as a tall dark-haired man with a laughing face, who would toss her high into the air and catch her, while she squealed with delight, and her mother looked on anxiously.

After his disappearance, Jilene’s mother had looked for him on every incoming vessel, becoming more wan and preoccupied with each passing year, until she had just given up and died. Her actual death had caused just a slightly sharper pain than the three long years of neglect the young Jilene had suffered, watching her mother withdraw from her and life.

Her animal friends had given her purpose, a sense of being needed and loved just for herself. She had contacts with animals, domestic and stray, throughout the neighborhood. Jilene found homes for some of the strays, and doctored their hurts as best she could. Like Sheila, the local children soon learned that Jilene would aid them with a sick animal, without verbal abuse or complaint.

When she treated a sick or injured animal, she worked more or less by feel—what she sensed from the animal—and later by what she had learned through experience and study. The strength of the rapport she felt with each was different, as was the clarity of the images she received, depending on the species and the particular animal. But once in awhile she felt so connected to them, that it was as if the walls of their bodies were not there and their living spirits touched.

With practice she became more proficient at both sensing and projecting images and feelings. In self-defense, for there were times when she needed a clear head, she had learned to block unwanted thoughts, although she could no more explain this facet of her ability than the others, except that it involved a distinct kind of focus. She also learned to guard constantly against revealing her ability, telling those who were curious enough to ask that animals could sense that she really liked them, and therefore trusted her—which was the literal, if not the complete, truth.

As she grew older, she had been increasingly thankful that she had not disclosed her gift, because she knew that her Uncle Brin would have found a way to use it against her somehow. Where her aunt was cold and indifferent, her uncle was openly critical. Nothing was ever quite right in his eyes, not his work, the house, Aunt Deena, and certainly not Jilene. When she had first come to live with them, she had wanted badly to please him, and had tried hard to find out what he wanted her to be and to be it. But he met all of her efforts with a disapproving remark or a word or two about how she could do better the next time, his casual criticism tearing at her confidence, even as it caused her to build a formidable barrier against the hurt. Finally, she learned to keep her thoughts to herself, to remain silent and carefully neutral in his presence. She had even taken to wearing bland colors, trying to fade into the background. But in her thoughts she was free. In her mind, she traveled to distant worlds and had splendid adventures, and was respected and admired by other people.

She might have withdrawn totally from people into her dreams and her animals if it hadn’t been for Marcus. Marcus Harn had come to live with them when she was eleven, a gentle intellectual man, who had finally run out of the energy—and the money—for wandering. He had just enough funds to rent the small spare bedroom next to Jilene’s. Aunt Deena and Uncle Brin had not exactly been enthusiastic, but they needed the extra money a boarder provided.

Marcus was a scholar, an oddity in pragmatic Greenport. He was anything but practical, and he loved learning for its own sake. Most of the city’s inhabitants were happy to have something to do and were not concerned with why, where, or when, except as they might directly relate to the task at hand. Thus, there was little demand for his skills, although he managed to earn enough to satisfy her aunt and uncle by tutoring local children and performing an odd bit of research here and there. But he did not require much, and he had Jilene by him, so he was content.

A few days after he arrived, Jilene came home from