Down Under Fantasy Realms: An Anthology By New Zealand and Australian Authors

By Wendy Scott, Belinda Mellor, Sue Perkins and 4 more

Gathered here together are twenty fantastic stories by seven fabulous Antipodean authors – authors you may not be familiar with … yet; authors you will want to read again and again.

High fantasy and low, magical realism, retold fairy stories, and even a hint of science-fiction – it's all here.

Some stories in this collection are excerpts, others are background or spin-off stories about characters in pre-existing novels, yet others are tasters of works-in-progress; the remainder are stand-alone tales.

You will meet star-beings, enchanted amphibians, dimension-traversing private investigators, faerie changelings, mysterious teachers, mercenaries, and cowgirls.

Within these pages, children are born who have a special destiny, and old men relinquish their powers as their journeys come to a close; truths are found and lies are exposed; fears are faced and dreams become reality.

There are links to the authors' websites and social media pages, too, so that when you discover your next favourite writer, you'll know where to find them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667837789

Wendy Scott

As a child I had a ferocious imagination and immersed myself in creating stories and poems. One birthday I begged for a chemistry set, sensing the promise of adventure from the glittering vials of copper sulphate and salt. At that time, I didn’t know I was following in the footsteps of my grandfather who had studied science in Edinburgh in 1899. A further trace back into my Scottish ancestry uncovered an ancestor known as ‘the wizard’. So I could dabble with potions too, I gained a NZ Certificate in Science (Chemistry) and worked in a variety of laboratories (salt, meat, dairy and wine) in NZ and Australia. The wine tasted the best! During my 5 years in Adelaide, Australia, I completed several writing courses at the WEA. When my partner, son (5 months), dog and I moved back to NZ we lived in a house truck for 3 years while our off-the-grid house was planned and built. During this period I wrote on a solar powered laptop and completed many correspondence courses from the AWA. I write adult fantasy, children’s novels and I’m currently branching into romance. In 2012 my children’s MS, Hieroglyph was selected for the NZSA MS Assessment Programme and was further selected for one of five mini-mentorships. When I’m not glued to my laptop writing or engrossed in a book, I love walking my dog on the wild West Coast beaches and trolling for sea glass, riding my bike or going for bush walks. I always wished I could fly so maybe that’s why I love roller coasters. I’m a connoisseur of coffee and chocolate and I counter my addictions with Zumba and Spin classes. I believe life is an adventure and we should all live a life less ordinary.

Book preview

Text, letter Description automatically generated

Fantasy Anthology Title: Down Under Fantasy Realms Anthology

©2021

Authors from New Zealand:

Belinda Mellor

Sue Perkins

Wendy Scott

Kate Shaw

Authors from Australia:

Brett Adams

Ashley Capes

Kirsty Anderson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact Wendy Scott, https://authorwendyscott.mysites.io/contact/

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Coordinator: Wendy Scott, Award-Winning Author

Editor: Belinda Mellor, Award-Winning Author

Special thanks:

Proof-reader: Jean Gorman, Author of The Lionheart Chronicles

Proof-reader: Teresa Bassett, Author of The Time Crystals and The Mystery of Acorn Academy

Beta-readers:

Jan Sikes, Award-Winning Author of The White Rune Series

Gaelynne Pound, Poet and Award-Winning Playwright

Katrina Brown, Poet & Prose Writer

Tim Eden-Calcott, Magician and Fantasy Reader

ISBN: 978-1-66783778-9

Dear Reader,

Spelling: NZ/Australian English is closely aligned with British English so you might encounter some differences to American English.

Table of Contents

Song for Marid by Belinda Mellor

Vision-maker by Wendy Scott

Spires College of Magic by Sue Perkins

A Path of Silk by Ashley Capes

The High Road by Kate Shaw

The Toad Lord by Kirsty Anderson

The Last Ambassador by Brett Adams

Navigator by Wendy Scott

The Hands of a Healer by Belinda Mellor

Running On Empty by Kate Shaw

The Sixth Key by Sue Perkins

The Fairy Wren by Ashley Capes

The Cowgirls of Serratogha by Wendy Scott

Izotoap by Brett Adams

The Belomancers by Belinda Mellor

Changeling’s Mother by Belinda Mellor

Changeling Dreams by Belinda Mellor

Fosterling by Kirsty Anderson

Raising the Bar by Kate Shaw

Micah by Wendy Scott

About the Authors

Belinda Mellor

Wendy Scott

Sue Perkins

Ashley Capes

Kate Shaw

Brett Adams

Kirsty Anderson

Song for Marid

by Belinda Mellor

A Silvana Short Story

This gentle little tale is a glimpse into the background of some favourite ‘Silvana’ characters. It takes place in a hitherto unchronicled part of Fabiom’s story, when he is nine years old, at the time of the birth of his cousin Yan. Music, archery and the lure of the wildwood already imbue Fabiom’s life.

As Marid came through the open door, Fabiom – who was sitting against the low stone wall in the corner of the conservatory, his knees up under his chin – turned his face away and tucked his hands under his folded arms.

What’s wrong, dear heart? She dropped to her knees beside him.

He shook his head.

Let me see.

He did not move, but neither did he resist as she caught his wrist and pulled his right hand out. Dark red welts ran across the middle joints of his fingers. Without prompting, he gave her his other hand, similarly marked. She raised them to her face and rested her cheek against them, then pulled him against her.

After a moment, she heard him chuckle.

Your baby just kicked me!

He does that, she agreed, wondering who had punished Fabiom, and why. Would the day come when Tarison took a rod to the child growing within her, left his hands smarting and bruised?

What happened? she asked quietly, guessing that Fabiom was reluctant to go into the house proper.

I couldn’t play the music properly. I’m no good at it. He sighed.

Who did this to you? Surely neither Tawr nor Vida would hit him for failing to learn a tune.

My music teacher.

Marid felt a wave of relief. He must be very fierce!

She, Fabiom corrected. He looked up, grinning. She’s rather scary. Then his smile faded. She says I have to get it right by tomorrow, and I know I won’t.

Marid shifted to a slightly more comfortable position. I can’t see that making your hands ache is going to help you play better.

She says I can’t get any worse, he said mournfully.

I’ll tell you what we’ll do: if your hands are not too sore, we’ll go and shoot a few arrows first. You beat me yesterday, which makes us even, so I have to try to beat you today! Then we’ll have a go at this music, see if we can’t at least save you more punishment.

They carried their bows to the storeroom to put them away. As he was victor, though by the narrowest of margins, Marid told Fabiom he could choose the next competition between them.

Listen. She held the bow up and plucked the string. A single note reverberated.

Mine’s different, Fabiom said, after doing the same.

That because it’s a different length. Do you know any tunes with just two notes?

They twanged the strings a few times, laughing at the results.

What are you two doing? Tarison stood in the doorway of the storeroom.

I’m learning my music, Fabiom told his uncle.

You’ve arrived just in time. Marid handed her husband a full-length longbow. We were struggling a bit. We can manage four between us, but we need five at least.

And, I’m to do what?

Play when I tell you, Fabiom said confidently.

Play?

Well, twang.

Twang. I can do that. Tarison gave a tentative pull on the string.

You have to do it faster, Fabiom explained, demonstrating on his own longbow and a short bow.

The lyre string, the bowstring, they play the same music … Marid sang, her voice soft and tuneful.

Tarison and Fabiom joined in, picking the closest notes from the respective bows as they went, getting as many wrong as right and finally laughing too much to continue.

Back in the house, Marid asked Ramus, the house-steward, for a lyre, then together she and Fabiom worked out which strings corresponded most closely with the bows they had been playing. Tentatively, he picked out the old, familiar tune with a plectrum.

I did it!

And now the one you have to play for your music teacher.

For a moment, panic came over his face.

You can do it. Which bow would give you the first note?

The tallest, Father’s.

Off you go then.

The following day – having accepted his challenge to attempt to shoot one of the topmost lemons growing on the tallest of the lemon trees in the garden – Marid was relieved to see the marks on Fabiom’s hands were less angry and no new ones were evident.

Fabiom. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but, your father – does he ever punish you?

Oh yes, Fabiom said. He pulled a face. I often forget to do things I’m meant to do. Or I get distracted. Or I go to the woods and lose track of time and forget to come home when I should. Cleaning up in the silk mills is his favourite form of torture!

Marid fired her second arrow and a fat lemon fell from the tree. Yes, I know. But I meant, more harshly. Like your music teacher did?

He might, Fabiom said thoughtfully, if I lied. He’s very strict about honesty. But otherwise, not really. Except –

Except?

He chuckled. There have been – he paused and cocked his head, thinking – three times when he’s punished me quite severely.

And you find that amusing? she wondered. There was a thump of another lemon falling. Oh, well done!

"He only does it when I scare him badly. Last year there was a big storm, and a tree fell across the river near Valehead, you know – just below the waterfall, where the gorge is narrow and really deep. I was in Valehead with Father, and he was busy so I went off with some boys from the vineyard. We were the first to cross it.

Oh yes. Marid smiled. I know where you mean. Tarison made me cross there when I first arrived. I was very nervous.

It’s quite safe if it’s dry, Fabiom assured her. But we – we were crossing in the rain. It was slippery, and we were daring each other to do it blindfolded. He had the grace to look ashamed. I slipped. I was lucky not to fall. I do understand why he was so angry. Usually, I try not to displease him, and not risk my life. Mother can’t have any more children, you see.

She hugged him. Even if she could, darling boy, it would break their hearts – and your uncle’s – and mine – if anything happened to you. Children are not replaceable, however many there are in a family.

I suppose. He regarded her quizzically, Why did you ask me that?

Oh, no reason, really. I was just thinking about my baby. I don’t like the idea of Tarison ever being so angry …

Fabiom was laughing. Uncle Tarison rescues me any time Father is cross with me, if he can. Or else he helps me with whatever chores Father sets me. I don’t think you need be scared.

* * *

Dusk had fallen. The tension that had held Deepvale’s hold house in thrall all day had lifted. Muted laughter and chatter and the cheerful busyness that accompanied food preparation, flower gathering and celebration spilled into the evening.

Meeting in the portico, Tarison crushed Fabiom in a hug that lifted him right off the ground and nearly knocked the lyre he carried from his hand.

May I see them? Fabiom asked breathlessly when he had regained his feet and his ability to speak.

Of course! His uncle tousled his hair. Not for too long though, she’s very weary.

As Fabiom closed the guest-bedroom door, the sounds were banished once more.

From the bed, Marid smiled at him, a tiny, swaddled bundle at her breast.

Is he awake?

Marid glanced down. Barely. He’s stopped feeding.

I’ve brought you a present, Fabiom whispered. But I don’t want to disturb Yan. I can give it to you later.

You won’t disturb him, sweet one. What have you brought me?

A song. I wrote it myself. Well, I wrote the words. You’ll recognise the tune, I think.

I didn’t know you wrote songs.

I write poetry. It’s quite easy to turn a poem into a song.

She leant over to lay her baby in the woven, rush-and-fern-frond cradle beside the bed.

Perhaps you can sing him to sleep?

I can try, Fabiom said, as he sat cross-legged on the floor at the foot of the cradle.

"Where is the nearest wood?

Where is the nearest stream?

That is where you will find me

For that is where I dream –

Of Tree-ladies and woodmaids

Of songs I barely hear

– whispered sounds – wind in the leaves,

Or Silvanii lingering near?

Along the winding wildwood tracks

My restless feet have strayed –

I dreamt I heard a woodmaid call

And found her Dancing Glade.

Where is the nearest wood?

Where is the nearest stream?

That is where you will find me

For that is where I dream."

Fabiom placed his lyre on the ground and stood to lean over the cradle. He’s asleep.

I imagine he’s dreaming of woodmaids singing, Marid said, with a smile. It is a beautiful song, Fabiom. Thank you.

He stroked the baby’s cheek. I borrowed some of the words from my favourite poets.

All poems and stories are composed of borrowed words, Marid reminded him. It’s the way they are used that matters. She closed her eyes for a moment. Ah, yes, is there not a mention of ‘restless feet’ in some work of Mahov’s? I can’t recall …

Songs of the Fairwater. Fabiom nodded his head. I heard a travelling storyteller recite from it last year. I wish we had a copy in our library; I can remember some, but not as much as I would like.

You have an excellent memory, I’ve noticed. With that, she sat up with a slight wince and rearranged Yan’s coverlet. Now, tell me – was that entirely imaginary or have you really been trying to find your way to a Dancing Glade?

Fabiom hesitated.

Hmm, I thought so. Before he could say anything, she added. Just be careful – and promise me that you won’t be getting my son too lost in the woods in years to come.

Not too lost, no, Fabiom promised. But I hope he’ll love the Wildwood as much as I do.

So do I, Marid said around a yawn.

Even as she settled back down her eyes closed.

Leaving his lyre, Fabiom slipped out of the room and headed towards the kitchen. There would be a feast tonight to celebrate Yan’s safe arrival, and it was very likely that already some delicious morsels were waiting to be tasted.

Despite the hour, through the marble columns, he could still make out the dim green of the wildwood beyond the garden.

The wildwood, where ash and elm trees grew in profusion, where the songs of the Silvanii could almost be heard by one who had the patience to listen.

Fabiom had played there all his childhood days, daring to go into the deepest groves, daring even to climb high into the branches of the trees.

And, since the age of four, when – afraid and alone – he had taken refuge from bullies in a hollow formed by the roots of one of the ash trees, he even had a tree he thought of as his own.

Not too lost, he repeated his promise, but it’s nice to get a little bit lost there sometimes.

Vision-maker

by Wendy Scott

Vision-maker is a prelude companion scene set 10 years before the events in Ferrasium, Book One, The Windflowers Trilogy, and delves into Necia’s story.

Stars shimmered above the ocean. Salt spray whipped off the incoming waves and stung Necia’s face, but she curled her toes into the loose stones and kept her vigil. Pain throbbed through her forehead. Sometimes the sea breezes cleared the fog from her mind and allowed the visions to flow. Her fingers clenched into fists. All she experienced was the same sense of foreboding that had clouded her soul for three sleepless nights. The breeze pressed her tunic against the bulge in her belly, and she shivered.

The tribe lived a transient lifestyle under the sun and stars, following the patterns of the wind. As the pygmy tribe’s spiritual caretaker Necia must never let the others see her falter. Their faith in her ability to direct them had to be unwavering because the tribe’s survival rested solely on her interpretation of the signs. Her decisions became law.

The unexpected passing of her mentor last winter had thrust her from fledgling apprentice to tribal shaman within a failed heartbeat. Shedryc’s wisdom had steered the tribe for decades, and his legacy weighed like a mule’s yoke around Necia’s young neck.

The pygmy tribes distanced themselves from the big folk who hid behind their walls, condescending of the tribe’s nomadic existence. The tall people hurled scathing insults about their lack of stature as if height made the measure of a soul’s worth.

Footsteps scrunched behind her and a familiar voice scolded, Necia, come back to camp before you catch a chill. Standing out here won’t make our hunters return any sooner.

Hands crippled with knobs draped a leopard skin around her back. Only Mahila dared to treat her as if she was a wet-nosed child needing guidance. For four decades, Mahila had tended the caretaker’s fire, their union childless until they fostered Necia after her mother slipped into the spirit world during childbirth. The shared grief of Shedryc’s absence bound the women together like a spliced rope.

Necia squared her shoulders and followed the older woman. Better if the tribe thought she yearned for her mate’s kiss like a love-struck girl, rather than know she feared for the hunters’ lives. Vulture wings shrouded her visions, foreshadowing death. One or more of their tribesmen would not return to their hearth. Sometimes the spirits demanded a blood sacrifice. A life given in exchange for the life taken.

Several sets of eyes tracked her progress as she weaved around the campfires, the fish drying racks, and the shallow pans filled with salt. None voiced their questions, as tribal protocols implanted since birth stilled their tongues. She raised her head and masked her fear with a bland expression, but she wondered whose hearth would never be complete again.

Mahila stirred the embers, sending sparks skyward, but the warmth did not penetrate Necia’s heart. She snuggled into her camel-hair blanket and inhaled, breathing in the lingering scent of her lover. The stars reminded her of the twinkling lights in Anadah’s eyes. Her fingertips traced her enlarged belly. The moon would rotate through two full cycles before their baby would emerge.

She awoke with eyes that stung as if she’d rubbed them with grit, and a head aching with an internal drumbeat. Mahila pressed a cup of water into her hand. Drink. Your unborn’s needs must not be ignored.

Fish odours tainted the air, but her stomach roiled at the thought of another breakfast consisting of smoked fillets. This temporary camp rested on the fringe of the desert, and this semi-barren landscape was unable to satisfy her fanciful cravings of grapes dipped in honey. For several days the womenfolk had harvested fish and salt as they waited for the hunters. When reunited, the tribe would move onto lusher pastures.

The sun had baked its way to midday when a long, piercing whistle heralded the news. Our hunters return.

A ripple of activity swept through the camp residents. Several stares bored into Necia, silently questioning why she hadn’t sensed the men’s approach. She shunted her head high and strode through the crowd gathered on the edge of the campsite.

Trussed antelopes dangled from poles slung across the hunters’ shoulders, but the men’s feet dragged in the sand as they plodded into camp with lowered heads. From a distance, Necia calculated their headcount. No matter how many times she counted, the number remained the same. One less than had ventured out. A metallic tang coated her taste buds as blood trickled from the gash her teeth had chewed through her tongue. The skin around her eyes pinched into folds as she scanned the men’s faces, searching for Anadah’s familiar features.

Deep inside her belly, the unborn somersaulted like a street acrobat. Each shallow breath she inhaled struggled to fill her lungs. Blackness crushed her inner vision. Necia wanted to run from the hunters before they uttered the words that would change her existence forever, but she stayed upright mirroring a deep-rooted tree.

The tribe’s gaze scorched over her like the midsummer’s sun as a hunter paced towards her. First, she focused on the bones piercing his nostrils and ears, and the parallel scars ridging his cheeks, anything to distract her from the item he clutched in his hands. The pink of his neatly trimmed fingernails a stark contrast from his dark skin and the wood grain of the longbow. With reverence, he placed Anadah’s hunting bow into her unresisting hands.

The spirits called Anadah home. He rests among the stars. Dekka Straightarrow bowed his head before backing away.

Necia’s fingers clamped around the weapon like eagle claws. Her vocal cords constricted into a knot in the back of her throat. Frozen lungs forgot to breathe. Warmth flooded her thighs and her knees buckled. Many hands broke her fall as she collapsed towards the red-stained sand. Blackness swallowed her thoughts.

Spasms rippled through her belly and jolted her awake. Stars pricked the sky. Tears welled as she remembered her last conscious thought. Anadah. His essence now resided in the other world. Never again would his lips brush against hers, his fingers entwine hers, or his voice whisper words of passion. Spikes of pain stabbed through her abdomen. Anadah would never embrace his child and gaze upon their newborn’s face, he wouldn’t watch their offspring grow or help guide them through the tribal protocols. A groan escaped past her clenched jaws.

Ah, you’re back with us. Drink this. Mahila guided a bowl of water to Necia’s lips. She swallowed half the contents and herbal aftertastes lingered on her tongue. All of it, you’ve lost a lot of blood.

The firelight highlighted the crevices on the older woman’s cheeks and the downward tilt of her mouth. Necia’s grabbed Mahila’s arm. My baby?

Its birthing journey has begun. I will stay by your side.

Fear sucked the air from Necia’s chest. Two moons early. She’d witnessed the mews of undeveloped lungs that faded away into silence within a few hours, and limp fingers unable to grasp the reality of this world. Reclaimed by the spirits before the next sunrise.

Necia struggled to sit, but Mahila laid a hand on her shoulder. Rest. This night will be long.

Fire raged in her lower belly as another contraction hit. Her sweat-slickened limbs thrashed among the nest of cloths. Midday heat burned through the overhanging sheet. She’d lost track of the time, but her constant memory was of Anadah’s face. She imagined his hand brushing the hair off her forehead while chanting warrior songs. She’d not lose his child, too.

Time passed and her existence alternated between spasms of pain, exhaustion, and delirium. Sometimes she sensed the presence of others, but Mahila soon shooed them away like they were bothersome flies. Leave her be. The babe will come when the spirits decide it is time.

The older woman stayed at her side, a moist cloth in hand, bathing her face. Necia’s keen hearing picked up snippets of conversations from the surrounding camp.

It’s too early. She’s been in labour too long.

An ill omen. First Anadah, followed by his offspring. The spirits are displeased.

Necia gritted her teeth as another tremor rattled her body, unwilling to cry out, but her body felt like it was being wrenched apart. Long shadows marked the sinking sun. Mahila examined the unborn’s progress, deep furrows lined her brow, darkness smudged the skin beneath her eyes. It’s time for the birthing. Necia, you must push with all your heart. I fear if this babe isn’t birthed soon, we will lose you both.

Several women materialised and many hands helped Necia into a squatting position. Her hands gripped the birthing frame and the women surrounded her, keeping her upright. They chanted the birthing mantra and Necia huffed and panted to the tribal rhythms. Since her first moon-time, she’d been in the outer circle witnessing each new member’s birth. The men hunched around a distant campfire, far from the women. Her heart panged for Anadah’s presence. How could she do this alone?

Mahila gripped her face as if she’d heard her unspoken thoughts. Concentrate on me. Breathe in time with me and push when I say. Vent your anger at the spirits if you must but channel your raw energy into birthing Anadah’s offspring. Mahila locked gazes. Push with everything you have. Do it now.

Her grip tightened on the frame. Outrage and loss fuelled her weakened body as she pushed. Lava-like pain seared through Necia’s pelvis and wetness splashed her thighs. Dizziness whirled through her head.

Push again. Harder this time. Fear shadowed Mahila’s eyes.

Tears leaked down Necia’s cheeks, but she inhaled a deep breath and when the old woman nodded, she pushed with every essence of her being. A primal roar echoed from her throat as her baby slithered into waiting hands.

A woman declared, A girl.

The woman swaddled the infant into a shawl and carried her away while the remaining helpers swarmed around Necia, seeing to her post-birth needs.

Wide-eyed, Necia slapped their hands away. Does she breathe?

A sickly mew answered her question, not the robust cry she’d prayed for and the other women refused to meet her stare. Queasiness churned in her gut, and she didn’t need to call on her second sight to understand that something was wrong with the babe.

Mahila stroked Necia’s cheek. Be calm, we must finish the afterbirth and clean you up. Then, I promise, we will bring her to you.

Too weak to escape the helpers, Necia allowed them to administer to her body’s needs, but her eagle stare tracked the group of women huddled around her newborn. Their silence as they cleaned up the infant chilled her soul.

Mahila’s fingers gripped her shoulder. The spirits are restless and demand another sacrifice.

Show me. Necia’s hands fisted.

Hesitant fingers peeled back the shawl. Spindly and misshapen limbs hung from the tiny body. A cripple. Despair stabbed Necia’s heart. The baby’s body jerked as if prodded with lightning.

Give her to me.

The women exchanged glances, but Necia glared at them. I know what needs to be done, but it will be by my hand alone. First, I wish to hold Anadah’s daughter before she joins him in the otherworld.

The woman holding the baby pursed her lips, but at Mahila’s nod, she relinquished the small bundle.

Leave us. Necia clutched the babe to her heart, glaring at her kinfolk like she expected a hyena attack.

The women milled around so she raised her voice. Begone. Is my word no longer abided?

Everyone scattered like startled chickens, except Mahila. Creased eyes bored into Necia’s, sadness flicked within their depths, but her face was set in stone. I will hold the tribe off for one day and then you must bid her farewell. The spirits mustn’t be kept waiting past the next sunset.

You don’t have to recite the protocols to me. Necia’s nostrils flared.

The old woman’s form melted into the shadows and an uncomfortable silence settled over the camp. Fury fuelled Necia’s thoughts, and she wanted to lift her head and howl at the stars. Wasn’t Anadah enough? Why did the spirits also demand his child?

The babe squirmed against her chest and her rage dissipated, replaced by a flood of tenderness. Maternal instincts took over, and she guided the infant’s mouth to her breast. Tiny lips latched onto her nipple and suckled. Necia closed her eyes, losing herself in these new sensations. She whispered to her newborn, We will live our one day together as if there’s no sunset.

Sunrise came too soon. Under the pretext of seashell gathering, Mahila herded the entire tribe towards the beach, and Necia was thankful for the respite from their pitying expressions. She only had time for the one she cradled in her arms. Azure eyes, bright with life, captured Necia’s heart as she hummed chants she’d learnt as a child. Although the babe was so tiny she fitted into Necia’s palm, and her limbs hung as if boneless, the babe suckled strongly, drawing her mother’s milk. The odd seizure straightened and then contorted the baby’s arms and legs, but Necia sensed strength