IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume
III: Responsibility
Chapter 53 Guests of the Abojans
Thursday, July 30, 2708 How does life go on, when we keep on losing people? My training never covered bereavement on this
scale, soul after soul; agents usually leave war to the soldiers. They taught me how to mesh with local
customs, fine points in books and lectures so that I can behave with impeccable
manners no matter where I land. I know the
rules for funerals in fifty different religions, but they never taught me how
to mourn. (“Always,” I read
aloud from the etiquette book, as we picnic out on deck, “eat from right to
left from the plate.” It’s too nice a
day for dining in the galley, while we still ride the warm currents of the Gulf
of Istislan. “Your host will lay out the
food to be eaten in that order.” And Don
and I both look at Jake, eating his rice and fish with the fork firmly in his
left hand. “What?” he says,
annoyed, with his mouth full. “You don’t
think I can adapt?” Several waves rock
us gently before Don ventures, “Maybe you should practice now, so your body
will get used to it by the time we reach the mission.” Jake sighs and shifts his fork to his right
hand. A gull lands on the deck nearby
and waddles around us speculatively, hoping for a crumb.) I should have practiced.
I should have done hospice volunteer-work when I performed the charities
required for coming of age. I should
have learned to love the dying, and lose, and lose, and lose each friend, till
my heart became as cold as these mountains, as hard as the frozen path beneath
us, as serenely affixed on heaven as the snow-pure peaks. I need to learn a callous kind of love that
doesn’t listen, achingly, for the voices of ghosts upon the wind. Zanne could do it, I think.
She has that panache about her, caring yet unflappable. Maybe she learned it by losing her entire
community with her disobedience. She
should have taken this mission. But what
did Jonathan know? (I look up from the
book. “Isn’t Zanne headed for
Vanikke?” I shiver at the thought of
such a cold region—to which we head, of course.
“That’s just south of Toulin.
Maybe we should have caught the same shuttle.” Don smirks. “Yeah, she’s headed for Vanikke—by way of a
Darvinian vacation. Which makes no sense
logistically.” I’d say not, being in the
opposite continent. I can’t help but
smile back. “But it makes perfect Zanne
sense.” As if in agreement, the gull
caws like a snarky laugh. Jake takes a gulp
of lemonade. “Anyway, she left before us.” “Oh well.” I don’t dare ask if Merrill’s with her or not,
the way things have been going. I know
they’ve got two different missions planned. I turn back to the
text. “Left-handed people may proceed
from left to right, but they must first rotate their plate accordingly.” Jake sighs and puts his fork back in his left
hand, rotating his plate with a triumphant spin, and we all laugh, startling
the gull into flight.) Aichi jumps, startled by the scamper of a lizard, and then
points after it, laughing. Already she
has forgotten her distress from the night before. Maybe we went in the wrong direction, my
friendclan and I, when we accelerated our intelligence. Maybe we could best serve Lovequest by
damping down the mind. Saturday, August 1, 2708 (“Blue violet becomes you,” Merrill says, touching the flower in
my hair, then tracing the line of my cheek and chin. I smile coolly before I snap playfully at his
finger. He dodges back, laughing. “But perhaps you should have worn black!” I tuck it back in place.
Fragrant—I love the fragrance of these blossoms. “I look dreadful in black, darling,” I say,
before taking his hand. “And even worse
in orange.”) "Come in, my dears,
come in!" The old woman on the
porch wears an ornate, antique djellaba, fashionable a couple generations
before the petal-dress, with arm-sections broad enough to flutter winglike in
the evening wind, reaching to the ground.
She looks something like a beautiful antique, herself, finely graven of
translucent material, as the light spills out from behind her, welcoming and
golden from her open door, and with that light comes the scent of cooking
cinnamon-yam bread. When I set foot in
her home it feels so loving-warm it hurts. "You're the first, you
are. First of the groups, or troops, or
whatever you call yourselves. Here, sit
down, put up your feet—we have supper enough for all, never fear." Bright-colored birds chase each other through
the embroidery of flowering vines around her yards of cuffs, in edging as broad
as my hand is long, and more birds frolic around her throat. Mostly bright colors, but I notice some violet
ones in there—something about that feels so reassuring. The cushions of the couch
could engulf me as I sink down in with a puff of scented powder. Needlework peacocks strut over the soft
surfaces, through silken gardens of many hues, past fountains and pillars that
don't feel at all like stone. "Hara, bring in a
basin for our guests—they've traveled quite a ways. Isn't that right, my dears, haven't you all
traveled far to do the work of God?" I don't feel too godly
about my work, but I nod to please her.
An old man, with a great white moustache curving upward like it'd smile
no matter what his face did, comes in bearing a huge, steaming basin of hot
water that splashes against his wide, embroidered belt. The amount of fabric that muffles his arms
could clothe my entire body modestly enough.
“We don’t hire servants anymore,” he explains with a grin. “We do the work ourselves, and offer it up to
God.” “Old age makes the penance
more sincere,” the crone says proudly, hoping, no doubt, that we notice her
brave, strained smile. But bless her,
she means it, too. “We gave all of our
servants generous severance pay,” the man says, then grunts to set the basin
before us. “Enough to tide them over
till they find other work. And good
references.” Piously the woman adds, “We
must do penance, you see, for all of our years of obliviousness to the needs of
the poor. Oblivion can be a choice, you
know. We hide from nothing, now.” We plunge hands and faces
eagerly into the steaming bath, then kick off boots to immerse our chilly feet,
as Hara stands by beaming, ready with towels like some servant and not the
retired rich man that he is. Oh my, but
this water sure feels good! "Ah, but
introductions!” cries the woman. “How
could I forget?" She takes my
new-scrubbed hand into her softly wrinkled one and says, "My name is Deni—Deni
Abojan. And this is my husband,
Hara." "Pleased to meet you,
Mr. and Mrs. Abojan." I make
introductions all around, suddenly aware that I don't know anybody's last name
save Malcolm's. Maybe some of them don't
have any. "Damien," our
hostess says softly when she takes his hand.
"Damien the Bard?" He nods, his eyes suddenly
wide. "Yes. Is she..." "Yes, young man. She is here and waits for you." But his eyes already stray to the doorway
behind her... Kanarik stands there,
leaning against the lintel, her hair neatly braided back without any
beads. She still looks pale, her eyes
still sunken, but strong enough to live.
Indeed, she appears to have gained some weight under Deni and Hara’s
care, and more power to her. She wears a
long, white gown hemmed with less perfect needlework than what adorns
everything else around us, and a dark shawl, covered with more expert work:
roses and fantastic birds, stars and moon.
If I didn't know better I wouldn't have guessed that the mantle hides a
stump. Damien stares and Kanarik
stares and we all just sit there, waiting for something to break the
spell. Then suddenly Damien dives
towards her and scoops her up in his arms and she cries out sweetly as he
sweeps her back into the private rooms behind her. Deni laughs, a ladylike
sound, embarrassed but forgiving.
"I think that the sooner the priest gets here, the better,"
she confides. "Priest?" I ask. "Oh, don't you
know? A lad called Shermio came by a few
days ago with a message from Cyran—didn’t he find you on the way? No matter.
Anyway, Cyran came across an old friend of hirs, wandering in the
wilderness around here. A priest, e
says." "Father Man?" We all exclaim, voices all over each
other. "It couldn't be Father
Man, could it?" "Here?"
"Alive?" "Yes, Cyran did say
that he calls himself Father Man.” She
shakes her head sadly. “Apparently the
poor soul doesn't remember his original name.
But his credentials are real enough." She leans forward confidentially. "Cyran has warned me that the priest is
quite, quite mad—dreadfully traumatized.
We can't expect him to be able to dispense normal parish duties in the
chapel that we're building up here; we have an obligation to take care of him,
rather." Then she dimples and says,
"But he might be able to conduct a marriage, with a little help, I
think." Father Man! And no one will ever know how he traveled all
this way, how he knew where to find us up here, how he even managed to survive. Thank you God, for all your
mysteries. * * * (She needs to try and dance
for me. Ai, how fragile every move, as
if a frown could snap her in two, the jaggedness of gestures meant to flow
smoothly, the swirling grace of the shawl that tries to conceal what the war
has left of her body. I snatch a corner of the
shawl and tug her towards me, pull her back into my arms again, then gently
fold the cloth away. I cup the little
stump in my hands, raise it to my lips like holy communion, and kiss it
tenderly. Then I gaze into her face with
all the adoration in my heart, as I use the hem of the shawl to wipe away her
tears. Poor little bones in my
arms, much too thin and weak to dance!
Ah, but I cannot contain the gratitude that she would try, even now she
would try. She runs the gentle fingers
of her one remaining hand through my beard.
"I like this," she tells me.
"You're such a man, now."
Then she tries, bravely, to giggle.
"It tickles when you kiss," she says. “And I like this,” I say,
caressing her belly, though the implications terrify me: that firm, distinctive
roundness above such twiglike legs–the first curve of our emerging planet,
around which my heart already orbits.
Barely there; loose clothes could still conceal it when she stood there
in the doorway. I stroke the gown up off of
her. I stretch her down beside me on the
bed. I remember sturdier limbs, healthy
mountain-woman limbs in Hamalla.
Beautiful memory; I admit they had almost everything a man could want,
those other limbs. But they weren't
Kanarik's—they could not give me the one thing that I wanted most. I came close, my dear
little dancer, my life, my Kanarik. I
almost wronged you. I did wrong you a
little, maybe, but not all the way. We kissed,
that other woman and I. Okay, we more
than kissed. We came so close that I thought
I'd die to not go further. Instead I ran
out unclothed into the icy night, looking for a snowdrift to hurl myself into,
to make snow-angels with my naked body, angels to save me. I found nothing but the withering wind, yet
it sufficed. She stood framed in the
door, the candlelight around her, and her unbound hair curled all the way down
around her hips—full hips, grown woman hips, not pared down like a
soldier's. I wanted the wind to blow
colder still, freeze everything in me that wished to nestle back into her
warmth, to explore it as deeply as a man could ever venture. I clenched my fists and stood up straight, I
forced myself to take the wind full into my body and not to crouch. "I have a woman,"
I told her at last. "Don't ever
trust a man who would abandon his woman for you." She nodded, went back in,
brought out my clothes, still damp from dyeing, and placed them neatly on the
bench beside the door, laying a robe next to them.. Then she closed it, locking all the warmth
inside. I wrapped the robe around me as
fast as I could, shivering in the dark, grateful that she didn't just fling my
things out into the dirt. That meant she
understood, I think. Oh, sweet Kanarik. Greenish skin, almost bloodless—but your
struggling heart beats just for me and the young one within. Thin, too thin, yet strong enough to hold up
my courage in my darkest hours of fear.
Not the straightest teeth in the world, but no other smile in my life
can gladden me half as much as yours.
Wrap your weary soldier's legs around me, Kanarik, my Love, and let me
explore your warmth. Oh, sweet, sweet Kanarik!) |
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