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IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume I: Welcome to The Charadoc!
Chapter 6 CHINESE NEW YEAR, CHARADOCIAN STYLE
Friday,
February 14, 2708, continued Soskia
declares, "It is a tribute to our celebration of diversity that we observe
the holidays of every minority within our borders, with all the gusto that only
The Charadoc knows how to enjoy!" A
maid at my elbow presses a beverage into my hand that looks like fruit
juice. I take a big gulp, then choke;
it's not just juice. Jonathan fusses
over me with a handkerchief, whispering, "It's just a wine cooler,
Deirdre." To Soskia he says,
"She's not what you'd call an experienced drinker.” (Good!
I've positioned myself perfectly.
If I keep her glass filled she probably won't realize how much she's
drinking.) I
watch a troupe of acrobats whirl and twist their way down the street, in and
out of shadows, the lamplight sharp upon the glittering threads and
sequins. My mouth falls open like a
child's as they break all the rules that I thought pertained to human anatomy,
each in perfect time with the others and the nearest company of drummers. Then comes a marching band of teenagers, led
by one who spins a torch lit at both ends in dizzying patterns while her peers
blast out a martial music. Then come
Asiatic men and women in ancient garb of long-lost Earth, performing wild stunts
on horseback, in perfect synch. Then,
just to throw in an egalitarian touch, a group in kilts of red and gold plaid
dance a lively, kicking jig to marchers playing bagpipes, "Chinese for the
day," Soskia drawls. I sip at a
drink that never seems to empty as I watch another dragon, then jugglers, then
dancers, then yet another dragon, then a, then a, then so much I feel like a
child watching my first fireworks show, so overwhelmed with beauty and marvel
that I almost want to cry with an exhaustion of happiness. Finally
a float rolls past for Miss Chinese Charadoc.
A heartbreakingly beautiful Asiatic woman rides at the very peak,
waving, her arm disguised in a swirl of streamers, her gown so elaborate that
it merges with the entire float, ladies-in-waiting sitting all around her in
the folds. After them comes only the
paper tatters of old firecrackers skittering in their wake, till the crowd
closes in. "Wait,"
Soskia tells me just as I stir to leave.
"Now comes the Bailebelde--the national dance." Musicians
shove through spectators onto the balconies above the shops, where they push
big instruments into position, or smaller ones with great, big speakers. People on the streets organize into circles
within circles and take each other's hands.
As the music sweeps them up they raise their arms, hands still clasped,
and begin a series of steps forward and back, in and out, complex at first, but
soon repeating the pattern. "I
get it!" I cry, excited that I could catch on so soon. I put down my glass and start to mime the
first move, the swing of the foot before, a feint, to not actually touch the
ground till it comes behind instead. The
circle swells nearby just now, and a laughing man reaches out to me and takes
my hand. Now
I find myself in the circle, making the stately rounds, (Look at her out there!) but soon we pick up vigor as the music
speeds up. (Oh, Deirdre, they're gawking at you!) I feel coils of sweating braids slide down
off my head till they slip into my face and I peer between the loops, but the
warm hands hold me firm and the dance goes faster still, all the silken petals
fluttering around me, wind cool on my bared arms as the fabric slides down to
my shoulders. (What, after all, can you expect of Mountainfolk?) And faster still it goes, till we leap to
make each step, my breath as swift as thrills, more loosened braids now
whipping around me with ornaments tinkling at the ends. (Ladies
don't do this, Deirdre. You reinforce
their prejudices. And I have fought so
long, so hard against those prejudices.) And
the firecrackers punctuate the crashing music, and we laugh and dance around
the sparks like we could live forever like burning couldn't hurt, the smell of
gunpowder and incense and perspiration and night-blooming jasmine as heavy as
the heat upon us but our feet so light, our hearts so light, the music lifting
us to heaven like each and every one of us could fly! (Yet
isn't she lovely out there, the wild little thing?) Flushed
and panting I stumble back to Jonathan and Soskia, trying not to grin, but I
just can't help it, the whole night sweeps me up. (Yet
you looked so lovely out there, my apprentice, my daughterling.) Servants towel my arms and neck and then
quickly tuck me back inside the clothes, fanning me and putting a cooler to my
lips. (I have so much I need to teach
you.) They wear shocked expressions
as they coil my hair back in place, yet their eyes sparkle on me. (I have
so much I wish I never had to teach you!) Before
I have time to catch my breath, still dizzy from the dance’s gyre, the lava-flow
of highborn folk carries me back into the palace, into a ballroom wreathed in
red and amber flowers, food heaped high on golden plates, between gold
candlesticks set with scarlet candles.
Rows of roasted chickens with the heads still attached stare out between
the piled fruit and plates of fine, black seaweed noodles. Musicians strike up harp and flute for a more
sedate music than what thundered outdoors. (Fatigued already? This is too easy!) I feel a cold, moist glass pressed into my
hand, and drink thirstily--then sputter and say, "This is stronger than
the last. It must be." "Nonsense,"
Jonathan tells me. "It's only wine,
and diluted with juices at that." (Except for the shot or two of Chaummin that
I added just for her.) "If you
hadn't danced so hard it wouldn't burn your throat at all." I
see the raised eyebrow of reproach and hang my head. "I made another mistake, didn't I?" Jonathan
tips my chin back up to face him.
"You mustn't treat The Charadoc like other countries. Here you must not merely imitate the people,
you must imitate the right
people." I
sip quickly at my drink, embarrassed.
"I hope I haven't ruined your mission." I still have some cooler left--good, for the
dancing left me parched. Jonathan
strokes my neck. "Don't worry,
dearheart. Polite society makes
allowances for foreigners. And Soskia
circulates even as we speak, performing damage control--she's quite skilled at
that." He smiles with
memories. "As I have good cause to
remember--I was once as naive as you, you know." Embarrassed,
I sip at my drink--and didn't I have this much before? I must not have gulped it like I thought I
did--just nervous, I guess. (Everything about this goes so easily--the
saints and all good ghosts must indeed be with us. I didn't expect to get a position directly
waiting on the fine folk so soon, but the girl who had this slot before me got
such a beating, for losing a towel, that she lies in bed below with ice packs
on her bruises--not ornamental enough for a night like this. I know well, very well, how to make myself as
ornamental as you please. But not the
eyeliner, not this time.) Men
and women banter with Jonathan and me, made imposing by the enormous volumes of
fabric draped upon them. The
conversation turns to poetry. My friendclan-sister,
Zanne, can recite pre-migration poetry by the hour, Byron and Shelley and
Keats, Dickenson and Sundstrom, Neruda and Lorca, and the more daring of the
sensual/mystical Mistresses of Haiku. It
surprises even me how much I'd memorized without realizing it, how much more I
could intelligently comment on just by remembering Zanne's impassioned face and
the passages she emphasized. They
chuckle and glance at each other like they share in the unexpected wit of a clever
child, and praise me till my face heats up and I giggle half in embarrassment,
sipping just to hide behind my glass. Then
I decide that I like the attention and the heady verse from men and women
reckless enough to dare fling poetry at a dangerous world. I throw myself into recitation as wildly as
Zanne, as if my own friendclan stood before me and I could take any risk, my
heart as bare as Soskia's bosom. Heads
turn at my raised voice. More people
gather. Indulgent smiles give way to
intent expressions, people listening for something bigger than this party, more
startled than by firecrackers, more captivated than by any jugglers or acrobats
that went before. (What?
Aunt Soskia invited someone interesting, for a change? And hot—that
woman is definitely hot.) This
time they applaud me long and solemnly, till the roar of it could lift me in
the air, I feel like my feet don't even touch the ground anymore, and
exaltation flushes all through me till the perspiration breaks out anew. (Too
bad she’s also Mountainfolk. Ah well.) I curtsey, Charadocian style, trip on my hem,
and recover just in time on Jonathan's arm.
He beams as proudly as if he really did father me. (Still,
we need only worry about bloodlines in formal arrangements. And if her dance says anything, she’s ripe
for an informal arrangement. Here’s to
you, Wild One!) They raise a toast
to me and I raise one back, and if ever before I felt this happy, I surely
couldn't have been happier. (Aha!
She's completely lost track and all judgment on how much drink she's had
already--much, even if they'd been mere wine coolers.) (And Mountainfolk, they say, do informal
sooooo well!) Now
Jonathan takes his turn, to recite from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, his voice
softer and deeper and more droll than mine as he extols the pleasures of wine
and company--even though he rarely drinks, himself. Poetry can make anything seem real. Encouraged, he launches into his own efforts
at translating into Charadocian the less well-known but even more decadently
delicious verses of the Khamriyyat of Abu Nuwas. I've always loved the breadth of Jonathan's
education. I
smell smoke--not the scented smoke of candles or incense, but something
sharper. "What're they doing over
there?" I ask as I point to sparks of light out in the courtyard. "Burning
money," Jonathan says with a smile.
"It's good luck on this day.
The common folk burn paper and pretend it's money, but for real luck you
need the real thing. Shall we join
them?" "Sure." The thought of the evening's coolness out
there entices me; I'm broiling in here, cocooned in too much silk. When he pulls me through the crowd I realize
that I still feel dizzy from the
dance. How much of a fool did I make of myself out there? A servant follows us with a fresh cooler for
me. A second wouldn't hurt, I
decide--maybe I'll feel better once I rehydrate. (Out
here in the dark I can increase the Chaummin—they won't notice the
discoloration--three shots per glass.)
Something else must make the drink taste so strong, some flavoring that
I'm not used to yet. Sternly I make
myself sip at it--I must accept this
culture, if I'm going to accomplish anything here at all. (Going outside? I might as well, myself. And I wonder—do Mountainfolk girls thrill the
heart and challenge the body the same way mountains do, made of the same stuff,
so to speak? Would you be the only one
unimpressed by my exploits on the peaks?
And wouldn’t that make you still more exciting--another peak to
conquer?) Smoke
blurs the stars above as people crowd around the braziers, their faces as
gilded as their clothing in the firelight.
Jonathan puts crumply paper into my hand. “Make a wish,” he says. I wish for a chance to help The Charadoc
transcend caste, and then I shove the bill into the coals, but I slip and burn
my fingertips. With a cry I recoil and
dip them into the drink that the maid hands me, against the ice, then just
before I lick them Jonathan gives me another raised eyebrow, and so I let the
maid wipe them off instead. Sparks fly
up, particles of ruined money, as people laugh and send up their own hopes for
the coming year. As I gaze up after them
whirling overhead I lose my balance and fall against Jonathan, then hold on for
dear life as the courtyard spins. "Are
you all right?" he whispers. "I...I
don't know. Maybe a little queasy." He
helps me back from the others to a bench.
I press my glass of ice against my forehead, trying to cool it, then
finish the last of the juice within. He
takes the glass from me and waves off a refill.
"Maybe even wine coolers are a bit too much for someone as slender
as yourself," he speculates, "when you danced as hard as you
did." "Are
you calling me drunk?" "Shhh--not
so loud. It can happen to anyone, under
the circumstances." He helps me to
my feet. I realize that I need him to
help me to my feet. "I think you'd
better call it a night. Nobody's noticed
yet." He signals over a nearby
maid. "I'll tell the others that
you tired early, after a long day acclimatizing to a new land." "Tha's
not far from true." (Keep the face neutral--betray no
emotion! He won't remember a neutral
face, with downcast eyes, the color obscured by lashes.) Minute by minute I realize Jonathan's wisdom
in this, as everything seems to hit me at once. "Help
Ms. Keller to her quarters," he tells the maid. "And manage it discreetly." (Oho! He slips me a tip! And a hefty one, at that, so smoothly that
none but he and I know that our fingers
even brushed. He really does want discretion! Have no fear--I'll hide her better than your
fondest hopes.) (Alas!
Leaving so soon? And I never had
the chance to show you these mountaineer muscles, hidden under all of this
detestable silk that custom requires in the public view. We could have climbed a mount or two together,
you and I, once we’d shed these stifling layers of formality.) The
maid moves me swiftly and surely through the partiers and I feel giddier and
giddier, as the coolers in my stomach hit the bloodstream. Entering the house smothers me with heat. "...when
I said 'national dance of The Charadoc’," I hear Soskia say somewhere,
"the poor silly thought I meant everybody
danced it." Chuckles break out,
then the maid whisks me out of hearing.
Bodies come at me and pass on by, smiling glances, crush of sweaty
silk. Now they block us, now they open
up in unexpected directions, so that straight travel becomes impossible and the
maid has to tug me this way in that, swirling and swirling through the
fire-colored bodies. The volume of my
clothing helps conceal how I lean against the maid, as the vertigo gets worse
and worse. When
I see the banquet table I realize that like an idiot I hadn't eaten a thing
yet. Then I see all those chickens with
their heads still attached amid the plates of black noodles disturbingly like
hair; I swallow hard, and decide I'm not going to eat now, either. A
dark door opens before us.
"Shortcut," the maid mutters.
Now we pass through the unpainted corridors of the servant's quarters, a
dizzying warren of blurring angles and unexpected doors. I start to protest that this doesn't go near
directly enough for a shortcut, but then we go faster, harsher, the maid
jerking me through turns till my head spins worse than ever. Now we go so roughly that she bumps me into
walls, her fingers hard upon my arm. "Please
slow down," I plead as she shoves me out into an alleyway and the braids
slide over my face again. We almost run;
I stumble and lose a slipper. She drags
me on without it. I keep banging into
fences and walls but she hurtles faster still.
"Please! I don't feel
well--please slow down!" "Shut
up, bitch!" She slaps me! Alarmed, I work a twist I know on the arm
that grips me, so that her shoulder, elbow, and wrist all dislocate at
once. Then I stagger back against a
wall, trying to figure out my next move.
We are not going anywhere near
my suite. The maid looks up from
clutching at her arm, her own black hair in her startling blue eyes, an evil
grin of sudden respect upon her face, but she is not my friend, I finally realize--and how could I have missed it,
idiot, idiot! She recovers from the pain
enough to approach me with caution, so I start to slide away to the left with
the wall to my back to keep me upright, but then the last of the wine hits my
bloodstream and I fall into a great dark rush of seething, spinning nowhere... "Over here," e whispers. I dart into the alley and there Cyran stands,
hunched over, wearing a maid's uniform, one shoulder against a wall while e
holds the other arm against hirself.
"We'll need full reinforcements--and quickly. Where's the rest of the band?" "Behind me," I gasp as I catch
my breath. The patter of feet soon
proves me right. "You're hurt!" I hear Alysha's
voice behind me. The teenager runs to
Cyran, her blonde hair flying.
"What happened?" I hear
she got that hair from the father who fired her mother for getting pregnant on
the job–‘cause she's really Mountainfolk. Cyran grins. "Dislocations: shoulder, elbow, and
wrist." I'm almost blonde, myself,
from Hierry Valley where everybody looks like that, but a fat lot o' good it
does me. "Lufti, Marduk, Kiril, and
Rashid--carry our prize." "I could carry her by myself,"
Marduk, the tallest kid, grumbles. "I heard that," Cyran
snaps. "You'll work with the team
or not at all." I join the others
to take up the woman--fortunately a slim one, not like some of the rich. She smells of liquor and perfume as I turn
her over. I gasp when I see the face,
with the make-up half-sweated off--she must be at least part Mountainfolk, too!
Also weirdly familiar; didn't I see her
somewhere before? Just a glimpse, maybe? Three times Cyran stifles an “Oh!” of pain
as Alysha resets hir joints. Then, as
she binds hir up, e says, "Can you believe she did this to me while so
drunk that she passed out seconds later?
I hear she’s fought in wars." "Great," Alysha grumbles, Now she and Cyran run behind us, my shoulder
under the captive woman's, her braids against my cheek: blue-black braids as
glossy as snakes. "All we need--an
enemy warrior in our camp. The sooner we
ransom her off the better." "Maybe, maybe not." I hear pleasure in our leader’s voice. "A good general can always change plans
at a moment's notice." "So can a bad general, with no good
coming of it." I hear Alysha yelp
as Cyran smacks her butt with a sharp laugh. "A bad general would've cashiered you
for insubordination years ago, Alysha," e says. "But I value your feedback--within
reason." One braid flops against my nose and it
smells like a shampoo that my ship transported crates of once—the scent got
into everything. "Hey!" I
exclaim. "She washed her hair
today." "So I heard," Cyran says with
relish. "Washed all the luck out on
New Year's Day. Bad for her, good for
me.") |
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