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Neytiri spends their first few days at Awa’atlu feeling like a child—nauseous and wanting her mother. The homes are suspended above the sea, swaying and keeping her awake at night, and the coastal breeze fills her nose with nothing but the unfamiliar—salt-crusted rock and smoked squid.
“It’s not too bad,” Jake says, pointing out the mangroves to her. The roots look like long rope, curved and choking.
“Kind of like a forest, right?”
“No,” she says. A bird she does not recognize lands on the wooden frame of the marui and screeches. Jake flinches.
“It is not,” she says.
“Hey, none of that. We'll find something you like here,” he says, shaking her shoulder gently. “We’ll make it work.”
He looks sincere. Neytiri looks out at the ocean.
They expect her to bond with their sea animals soon, to begin to hunt and gather their own food.
She does not want to explain that the sea unsettles her, that she looks to its depths and her stomach twists. Neytiri sits at the end of the home given to them in pity and lets her feet hang over the edge, closing her eyes and picturing herself high up along the forest canopy, surrounded by vines and safer for it. The trees do not fight her the way the waves do.
She goes, despite everything in her, to Ronal.
The tsahìk is braiding together fine cords in a quick, practiced motion that Neytiri is not familiar with but surely will have to be soon. She is humming a song.
Neytiri greets her, slowly bringing her hand from her forehead to her middle. “Tsahìk.”
“Neytiri,” Ronal says, looking up. She frowns and sets the cords down. She does not return the gesture.
Neytiri wants to, as her mate might say, knock her upside the head. She decides to ignore that. For Jake.
Neytiri looks pale. It’d been one of the first things Ronal had noticed of her and her children—their skin is a vivid, striking blue that draws the eye, making them visible even submerged.
The sudden pallor makes her look ill. The environment is disagreeing with her, Ronal thinks. Or the food. There is a sharp satisfaction to the thought—it is as she expected.
“I need tawtsngal,” Neytiri says. “Where can I gather it here?”
Ronal is somewhat familiar with the plant. She has used it, twice, when it was brought in by the traders. The relief to the patient was quick but she’d learned she preferred txatx-plant for a remedy. The effect was longer lasting.
Tawtsngal is a nausea suppressant, easily prepared and useful for sick children, who enjoyed the taste. It could also be used for—
Ronal eyes her up and down, disbelieving. Perhaps Neytiri and her mate are not so poorly held together as she believed.
“You are with child,” Ronal says. She resists the urge to bring her hands to her own growing stomach—it is strange that they should conceive so close together.
“No—” Neytiri shuts her eyes and lets out a long breath, her tail twitching. That is another thing with these people—the constant movement, the roaming yellow eyes, always searching as if to reach out and take.
“I am not,” Neytiri says. Her nostrils flare. “Where can I gather it?”
“It does not grow here,” Ronal says. “Why do you need it?”
Neytiri is silent.
“Answer,” Ronal snaps.
The words come slowly, as if it pains Neytiri to speak them.
“I go into the water and the waves push against me. I leave the water and the waves push against the marui. I have—need of something that will settle the stomach.”
They have been here four days, and for four days it seems Neytiri has felt this way and chosen to suffer rather than seek help. It is their way— hiding what can be clearly seen against the horizon.
Ronal stands, picking up her weaving and setting it aside, next to a small bag of supplies. She takes that instead and sits back in front of Neytiri, pulling out a large bowl made out of a hard, durable shell.
Neytiri sits across from her, as Tsireya does when she is observing. Distantly, she remembers that Neytiri is, despite her poor showing, a tsakarem.
“Light the fire,” Ronal says, putting the wax and cloth in Neytiri’s hands. That, at least, she does successfully.
“Teach me,” Neytiri says suddenly. “I will not ask again.”
“Good,” Ronal says, setting the shell above the flame. “I will only make it for you once.”
Ronal takes freshwater from a small vial and pours it into the bowl.
“Tonowari says that you will learn,” Ronal says, crushing the txatx into the grooves. “The sight of you gives me no hope.”
Neytiri folds her hands. “We will. The children have.”
“Your children spend a moment underwater and have to spend twice as long above it. You vomit because you do not feel dirt and twigs under your feet,” she says, clicking her tongue. Slowly, she tilts the bowl in small circles to distribute the heat, turning the water a shade lighter than the herb.
“We will adapt. Give me the tea.”
“Do not rush me,” Ronal says. The txatx begins to bubble softly, foam rising to the surface. Once the water has softened the hard leaves, she smothers the flame beneath it with a clump of damp sand.
Neytiri takes and drinks before the remedy is cooled. She swears, and then lets out a loud cough. Foolish.
“Drink the rest and chew the leaf,” Ronal says. “Take the shell with you. The herb can be gathered near the palms along the shoreline. Make it early and take no other food with it.”
Neytiri reaches for the shell with a tentative hand and cradles it in her lap. “I understand.”
“Tomorrow,” Ronal says. “You will ride the ilu. Drink it before.”
Neytiri stands and says a quiet word of thanks, taking her leave. The sudden silence brings peace with it.
Ronal watches her go, then stands to resume her weaving.