Coming to Power

by T J Marquis

  Bahabe put a hand to her own cheek, trying to recall her reflection.

  “So they lived with us for a time, Kera grumbling all the while, then growing increasingly worried and angry. The final straw was Derek’s proposal. Of course Qeren accepted, though sarathi do not marry traditionally, for marriage was considered a gift to humans. In Kera’s eyes, to marry was even worse than to merely share a bed, or even to bear a human child. It was to move us even further away from our origins. Immediately he insisted that Derek be banished. He even threatened to kill the man himself. Many of us agreed with him. Most of our family pleaded with him for reason, for patience and understanding, but he would not hear of it.

  “So Qeren took Derek and they left. Rumors from our wild cousins said they traveled west to the new land of Anek, and from there, we knew not where.”

  There was a silence as M’bel’a finished. Then Bahabe spoke.

  “They must have gotten on a boat there. Either right before my birth or soon after,” she said. “The boat must have been wrecked. Somehow, before they died, they managed to get me into a basket to float, hoping someone would rescue me. That’s how my sister found me.”

  Even Fila had calmed during the story, sitting quietly in M’bel’a’s lap to listen. Bahabe imagined her mother, clinging to a piece of driftwood in the hot sun after a deadly storm, praying over her daughter in the tiny makeshift raft. Qeren’s strength gave out at last, and she slipped under the waves, the wailing baby floating off toward Sem-ba-do.

  The weight of knowledge and certainty pressed down on Bahabe. On the others too, she knew, for she could feel each person’s reciprocated empathy.

  Yet from that tale of loss and discord, a message of hope and determination. Her parents had taken vows to each other and seen them through.

  Bahabe looked up at M’bel’a, searching for any resemblance. Now this remnant of her family was here before her. The call she’d felt for so long had been heeded.

  It was a somber group that left the sitting room to be shown upstairs to their lodgings for the night. All had been invited to stay with M’bel’a, and only Dasha had declined. He’d grown more and more visibly uncomfortable behind walls, under a roof. Politely thanking the Mistress for her hospitality, he embraced his brother, Clora, and Bahabe, and escaped back into the outdoors.

  Bahabe’s room was dark and cozy, with a high, plush bed. She hardly noticed anything else as she let fatigue obscure thoughts of her lost parents, and climbed into it. M’bel’a had said she should rest until dinner, and indeed Bahabe was asleep within moments of lying down.

  She knew nothing more until a gentle hand roused her from sleep. Raucous laughter from downstairs pierced her cloudy mind, confusing her.

  “Dinner’s already being served,” M’bel’a said quietly. “I thought to let you keep sleeping, but I know you must be famished. We have lots of guests, so I can have your food brought up if you don’t wish for company.”

  “No,” Bahabe said groggily. “I’ll come,” she tried a smile, knowing she must look awful in her half-wakened state.

  The conversation and laughter of dinner burst into the air as Bahabe followed her hostess out into the hallway. Lamps had been lit all along the walls, glass cylinders with tiny orange sparks dancing inside. The thick, embroidered rug felt pleasant on her bare feet.

  Downstairs, the manor was filled with more people than would fit in a single room. Bahabe looked at M’bel’a questioningly as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “Once word got out, everyone had to see you. I couldn’t keep them out,” the Mistress said apologetically.

  “Everyone?” Bahabe repeated. Then she was spotted.

  “Niece!” came the bellow of a large sarathi approaching her. He was a deep brown, perhaps a bit reddish like clay, and bald, wearing only a pair of loose, baggy pants.

  “When I heard I had to come!” he beamed.

  “Gaon, one of my brothers,” M’bel’a said. “Uncle enough, I suppose, though Qeren and I did not share a mother.” She saw Bahabe parsing this out and chuckled. “Few of our relationships are straightforward.”

  Bahabe smiled at her uncle sleepily, and he swept her up into a mighty bear hug. He held her out at arm’s length for inspection, much like M’bel’a had, but his corded arms lifted her feet off the floor.

  “Like a painting of the woman!” he exclaimed. “I see the father in the eyes and nose,” he declared. “Come! Do you drink, little one?” he asked, setting her on her feet and dragging her down the hallway.

  “Go easy on her,” M’bel’a said, laughing. “She’s only just awakened.”

  Gaon waved this off and said, “All the more drink to catch up on then. You must meet everyone, Bahabe!” He bellowed at the room ahead of them, “Here she comes! Let us give her the honors of a Mistress!”

  A cheer erupted from around the corner, and Gaon brought Bahabe into the dining room. It was filled with sarathi, the long, elegant table covered with food and drink. Few people were sitting, and everyone looked full of cheer. She assumed her new friends were around somewhere, but she didn’t see them in this room. How had she slept through all this?

  Immediately Bahabe was awash in a sea of family, and a rain of hasty introductions and warm embraces. She was ushered to a seat at the head of the table, and someone filled her plate to the brim with delicious-looking meats and vegetables and sauces. Uncle Gaon put a drink in her hand that smelled stronger than tea, but tasted deceptively sweet - it made her head pleasantly light.

  Bahabe, not normally one for big crowds, was nevertheless steeped in her peoples’ jovial mood. She felt more comfortable among them than she could have imagined, and found herself opening up to their curiosity.

  Of course there was so much going on that no sooner would one person ask about Sem-ba-do or her journey than another would come and join - and derail - the conversation. So the evening passed, and eventually she did catch sight of her latest travel companions - Fila flitting about over everyone’s heads with a few other winged sarathi, Hiytah and Clora chatting with a small group of people that shared their skin colors.

  Suddenly Bahabe had a long moment to herself, a break in the current of people, and looking around, she knew that this was right. The pull was no longer that - no longer an unfulfilled urge toward a distant goal. Now it was truly the bond that M’bel’a had spoken of, and it swelled inside her, happy and warm with proximity to her people.

  My people, she thought. As much as she had loved Marnha, and the rest of Sem-ba-do, this was better. It was more complete.

  M’bel’a’s room had a balcony that looked down on the town from the third story, and it was here that Bahabe sat with the Mistress as the stars shone brightly down and the last of the party guests went home for the night. They each sat in wooden rocking chairs, sipping bitter tea by lamplight.

  “Finish your cup,” M’bel’a said, “and you won’t feel any ill effects from the night’s drink.”

  Bahabe hadn’t drunk much, but something about the strength of the tea was comforting, so she meant to finish it anyway.

  “There’s something I’ve been wondering,” she said. M’bel’a looked back at her, awaiting the question.

  “Where did grandpa go? Or did he die? And grandma? You haven’t mentioned her.”

  There was a beat before M’bel’a answered, “He didn’t die.”

  Bahabe looked surprised.

  “But he’s not around anymore. I think he just couldn’t take it, the way this place continues to change. We’re more and more like the humans all the time. So he returned to the wild, must have gone somewhere far. No rumor’s ever come back about him.”

  “And grandma?” Bahabe asked hopefully.

  “She’s… she’s here,” M’bel’a said. “But Bahabe, she’s not well. Hasn’t been since your mother left. There’s a sickness in her mind no one’s been able to cast out.”

  Bahabe nodded. “Still, it’d be nice to meet her. Does she look like me? Like mom?�
��

  M’bel’a smiled and nodded. “Sometimes it’s uncanny. My mother and I look less alike than the three of you do. By the way, I’m not sure if you caught this, but Qeren and I only shared Kera as a father. Sira’heva treated me like a daughter, but I’m not hers by blood.”

  “Is that common, with few of you getting married?” Bahabe asked.

  “Surprisingly no,” M’bel’a said. “It’s just another one of those old-fashioned things Kera couldn’t let go.

  “Can we go see her tomorrow?” Bahabe asked after a moment.

  “Of course, of course. Just… don’t hope for much, okay?”

  Bahabe slept deeply, dreamless. The thick curtains, pulled to, kept her room dark and silent. She couldn’t tell what time it was. She rose into a long, satisfying stretch.

  The room was small, plush and cozy. The wardrobe, bed, side table and reading chair were all of a dark, polished wood, and all the upholstery and linens were red, purple and a complex gold paisley, with matching rugs.

  There was a small washroom through a curtained archway in one corner of the bedroom. This was a luxury Bahabe had never experienced before coming with Jon to Enakann, and she was eager to make use of it. The washroom, too, was luxurious, with a shower and hot water. It was lit by a flameless lamp that activated as she entered. The lamp hung from the ceiling and cast a soft orange light on the stone walls, giving them a bronze cast. Wood molding at the floor, ceiling, and around the archway was carved with a continuous wave pattern representing water.

  Bahabe took her time in the hot shower, savoring the heat and sense of cleanliness after all these days of sweaty, oily travel. She relished the feeling of steamy water on her scalp as she considered how easy it would be to get used to having such amenities. M’bel’a seemed humble enough, but with her lavish manor, cooks, footman, running water, and magical lighting, she certainly possessed a regal lifestyle that Bahabe was sure the woman did not disdain.

  It turned out to be mid-morning when Bahabe made her way down to the dining hall. Only Melser the footman was there, reclining at the table with an old, leather-bound book. He looked up when she entered and smiled professionally, but warmly. He set down his book and stood, gesturing for Bahabe to sit.

  “Hello, miss Bahabe,” he said. “If you like, I will have the hot food brought in, and inform the Mistress of your rising?”

  “Yes please,” she said, thanking him.

  The long dining table was already set with cold meats, fruits, cheeses, and bread. A servant promptly delivered hot biscuits, gravies, sausages, bacon, and eggs. It was way too much food for her, however famished she’d gotten during her travels, but soon M’bel’a joined Bahabe, Melser resumed his seat to read, and some of the other people of the house came in to join the sumptuous brunch.

  “Enjoying your stay?” M’bel’a asked her niece. “I trust you rested well. You smell delightful.”

  “The shower was amazing,” Bahabe said. “I probably just used enough water to bathe my entire village for a week!”

  “No shortage of clean water here,” M’bel’a said. “Enjoy it all you like.” She leaned in a whispered conspiratorially, “Sometimes I take a shower and a bath.” She chuckled.

  “So grandma...” Bahabe said.

  “She’ll be home. Mostly she just works all day,” M’bel’a said.

  “Works? On what?” Bahabe asked.

  “It’s more impressive if you just see it.”

  When they had both eaten, they stepped together into the bright summer day. It was already hot, making Bahabe wonder what M’bel’a did to keep the manor so temperate. Sira’heva’s house was not far, just around a bend in the road and down a narrow side street. The town was bustling with sarathi going about their daily tasks, though no one seemed in a particular hurry.

  Her grandmother’s house was two stories high, and almost as wide as the lot it sat on. A line of tall, noble oak trees marched around the property’s perimeter, some of their branches brushing up against the house. Each floor was a simple rectangular shape, the upper floor smaller, and offset, allowing space for a rooftop patio. The house was framed in polished wood, but the walls were all made of glass, with no curtains or blinds to mask the view. Rows of paintings on easels lined the walls, facing outward.

  A hunched, thin old woman was diligently painting something on a new canvas, her attendant sat in a wooden chair nearby, handing her implements and refreshing the paint on her palette. The woman’s hair was long and white, her skin a dusty silver. Her face and body were all angles.

  Is that what I’ll look like when I’m old? Bahabe thought.

  A stone path led up to the house’s open glass doors.

  “That’s her,” Bahabe breathed. She felt nervous.

  “Don’t worry, love,” M’bel’a said. “It might be a good day.”

  The walked up to the doorway, and M’bel’a announced their presence to the attendant. They stepped inside. There wasn’t much furniture, just more easels bearing paintings of various sizes, and sketchbooks strewn across the surface of scattered high-tables. In one corner sat a beat-up old rocking chair draped with a heavy blanket.

  “Sira’heva?” M’bel’a called. They approached the space she’d been working in. “I’ve come to see you, mama.”

  The old woman’s attendant looked up from his seat and smiled to see M’bel’a.

  “Is it a good day?” she whispered to him.

  “So-so,” he said. “She fed herself breakfast.”

  Sira’heva suddenly grunted. “Painting dreams…” her tone seemed terse as she trailed off.

  “Sira’heva?” M’bel’a said again.

  The old sarathi turned her head. Her eyes were milky white, startling Bahabe.

  “Missy,” said Sira’heva. “Your color’s off a few shades.” She gave a low cackle as if this had been a jibe, and turned back to the painting. She suddenly dropped her palette and brush, splattering paint all over her bare feet and the floor. She turned toward her visitors with a scary intensity in the set of her face, staring at Bahabe with those big, blank eyes.

  “Qeren, Qeren, Qeren, you’ve… No… Oh my heart,” she said, bring a hand up to clutch at her chest. She was still and quiet for so long Bahabe began to think there might be something wrong. She startled everyone with a loud cry and rushed forward with surprising quickness, sweeping Bahabe up into her arms with even more surprising strength.

  “It’s you!” she cried. “Qeren! No… you’re hers! Oh my Qeren sent you back!” She pressed Bahabe close, as if trying to squeeze the love out of her, hysterical with glee and perhaps years of grief. “Oh, my life!” she exclaimed.

  M’bel’a and the attendant looked astonished at Sira’s reaction and immediate recognition of Bahabe. They were speechless.

  “Oh!” Sira continued to cry, pressing her face into Bahabe’s hair. “Oh my dreams. So true. What year is it? I knew you would come!”

  At first shocked and surprised, Bahabe was now in tears, and trapped helplessly in her grandmother’s arms. Hardly able to breathe through the embrace, she finally managed to get a word out.

  “Grandmother.”

  Sira eased her hold, stepping back to study the girl.

  “Grandmother,” Sira echoed. “But you’re Qer… Oh, no, yes. Yes dear, I’m here.” her face took on a calmer set as years of lost wit returned to her, at least for the moment. “Oh my love, what is your name?”

  “Bahabe.”

  “It’s lovely, lovely,” Sira said. “How she lives in your face. The hair though. That’s Derek’s. Where is he? Where’s Qeren?”

  “Mama,” M’bel’a said softly. “You remember.”

  Sira looked over at her, reading her face. “I… oh my dear. You’re right.” The old woman’s eyes grew misty. “But my granddaughter. She is here.”

  “Yes,” Bahabe said, reaching up to turn her grandmother’s face gently back toward her own. “What happened, grandma? What happened with my mother?”

  “S
he…” Sira stammered. “She left us. I hated him. If I didn’t love him, I could have killed him.”

  “Grandpa,” Bahabe said. “But he ran too.”

  Sira gave her a quizzical look. “He did?” She turned sharply toward M’bel’a, who looked sheepish. “Honestly, darling. How long ago?”

  “Mama,” M’bel’a said. “I did tell you.”

  Sira studied her for a moment, and her face softened. “You probably did. I should have painted it.” She looked to her attendant. “Goodness, Jerei, bring us tea!” The man scrambled to obey, rushing across the room to a modest kitchenette.

  “Of course such a momentous reunion calls for much more, but we are nothing if not bohemian, aren’t we girls? Besides, the tea helps my memory. Bahabe dear, how on earth did you find us?”

  “I just felt the bond, grandma. It hadn’t let me be since I first felt it, when I was little.” Bahabe told her about being found in a basket, in the sea. She spoke of Marnha and his loving care. Of her people in Sem-ba-do, and how she never felt quite right there. Jerei brought them tea, sweet and tangy. He poured a measure of something extra into Sira’heva’s cup.

  “A tragedy, but we have to assume Qeren is gone, don’t we?” Sira said heavily. “I knew when she bore you out of the womb, do you know that, dear? I felt it, but after that, nothing. I thought to go out looking, but I knew this sickness was coming upon my mind, and I feared to become lost in the wild.” Sira’heva glanced around the room as if looking for something. “I painted it around here somewhere - that’s why I remember. So I prayed you would find us, though I couldn’t know if your human blood would allow you to sense us.”

  “Sometimes, it was excruciating, like an itch that just wouldn’t stop,” Bahabe said.

  “And you wished it would just go away?” Sira asked, smiling.

  Bahabe looked embarrassed, but admitted it. “Yes, well, sometimes. But I couldn’t know it would lead to you,” she added hastily.