Ever
Authors: Gail Carson Levine
To Bev and Allan, friends forever
Many thanks to Betsy Levine for guiding me through the mysteries of knotted rug weaving.
Then Jephthah came to his home at Mizpah; and there was his daughter coming out to meet him with timbrels and with dancing
.
J
UDGES, 11:34
. . . dust is their food, clay their bread
.
They see no light, they dwell in darkness
,
They are clothed like birds, with feathers
.
T
HE
D
ESCENT OF
I
SHTAR
TO THE
U
NDERWORLD,
M
ESOPOTAMIAN MYTH
   Â
Behind the Book with Gail Carson Levine
   Â
Deleted Chapters from
Ever
   Â
An Interview with Gail Carson Levine
   Â
A Sneak Peek at Gail Carson Levine's Next Novel,
A Tale of Two Castles
1
I
AM HUGE IN MY MATI'S
womb, straining her wide tunic. She is Hannu, Akkan goddess of the earth and of pottery. My pado, Arduk, god of agriculture, sits at Hannu's bedside, awaiting my birth.
It is too tight in Hannu's belly! I thread my strong wind into her womb, and my strong wind thrusts me flying out. Fortunately, Arduk catches me in his big, gentle hands.
Although Hannu lies in bed and Arduk stands holding
me, we are also floating above the earth. In the air over volcanic Mount Enshi hovers Enshi Rock. From its center the temple rises: our home, a tower of porous white stone mounted on four stout stone legs. Never has there been such a temple!
When my diaper cloth is tied in place, I kick. When I'm lowered into my sleeping basket, I cry. If a blanket is tucked around me, I bellow. I am the god of the winds, and I hate confinement. Shame on me! I fear it.
Hannu and Arduk name me Olus. I call them by their own names, as is the custom.
Soon I can see and hear and smell across great distances and through objects, just as the other Akkan gods can. I hear the prayers of our worshipers, which are like the rattle of pebbles in a pan, too numerous to sort out.
When I am a month old, I smile from my parents' bed at the faces of the other Akkan gods and goddesses as they pass by above me. Meanwhile my merry wind tickles their ankles.
But when Puru, the god of destiny, tilts his head down at me, my merry wind fades away, and I wail. His face is swathed entirely in orange linen, as is the rest of him. I can see through ordinary linen, but not Puru's.
Perhaps he can peer through his linen, or perhaps he
smells me or only knows I'm there. When he speaks, no constant breath pushes his words, so he stops after each one. “Olus . . . willâ”
“Hush, Puru,” Hannu says, frowning.
“He's too young to hear about his fate,” Arduk adds.
Puru says, “Olus . . . will . . . have . . . no happiness until he gains what he cannot keep.”
2
I
DAMPEN MY SQUARE OF CLAY
from my bowl of water. Mmm. The water is cool on my hot fingers. Thank you, Admat, for the cool water and the soft clay.
Evening is coming. I'm on the mud-brick floor of our reception room in my pado's house in the city of Hyte. The clay is on a plate in my lap. Using one of my pado's
styluses, I'm drawing dancing ostriches in the clay. The ostriches will bob and skip across the next rug I weave. I love to make rugs and to dance.
My aunt Fedo sits in the copper-inlay chair, her leather sack on her lap, her cane leaning against a chair arm. She is telling our servant Nia about buying pomegranates in the market. Nia rests her elbows on the high table. Her face is blank. She smiles only when she is praying.
Looking down at my clay, I scratch in an ostrich leg.
Bang!
Before I can see what happened, I am in Aunt Fedo's arms, and she is limping across the room with me. She is shouting,
“Snake!”
Nia yells, “Admat!”
I try to turn my head to see, but Aunt Fedo is holding me too tight. She rushes through the door frame to our courtyard. I hear more running feet and Pado and Mati shouting too.
Aunt Fedo yells that an adder was about to strike me. She caned it, but she isn't sure if it's dead.
“I'll get an axe.” Pado's feet thud the other way.
Mati takes me and holds me in the air away from her. She eyes me up and down, side to side. When she lets me go, I start back toward the reception room, hoping to
glimpse the snake.
Mati pulls me back. “Fedo! Thanks to Admat you were here.”
“Thanks to Admat, who gave me owl eyes.”
Nia echoes, “Thanks to Admat.”
Adders are supposed to have lips like people, and their mouths are supposed to close into a grin. Instead of ostriches, my next carpet will be of smiling adders, doing a zigzag dance.
When Pado returns, he gives me my clay and bowl of water and hands Aunt Fedo her sack. He says the snake is dead. I feel close to tears.
“Your house's omens were mixed today, Senat,” Aunt Fedo says to Pado. “The snake was bad, but my cane was good. Perhaps Admat took away the strength in my legs so I could save Kezi.”
I separate myself from Mati and take Aunt Fedo's hand. “Come see my new rug.” I tug her to the courtyard recess, where my child's loom for rugs sits next to Mati's loom for cloth. “I didn't finish.” Above the three dancing mongooses, the top border and my name in wedge letters are yet to be knotted in. I knot from side to side, as I was taught. So the letters of my name will grow gradually, all together, not one at a time.
Aunt Fedo leans back on her heels. “Those mongooses can dance! How old are you, Kezi?”
“Seven and a half.”
“My niece is a marvel.” She gives me a date candy from her sack. “Have you seen the carpet, Senat? One mongoose is leaping.”
Pado nods, but I can tell he's not thinking about my rug. We return to him and Mati.
“Thank you for saving Kezi,” Pado says. He pulls me against his legs.