"Oh, Christ, John," Emilio moaned, falling back against the chair. "Jesus! Don’t fuck with me—"
"She’s alive," John said. Emilio stared at him. "Sofia. Frans finally raised her on the radio about ten minutes ago—"
Sandoz was up and moving, pushing past John and headed for the bridge. "Wait, wait, wait!" John cried, grabbing his arm as Emilio went by. "Relax! She’s broken the connection. It’s okay!" he said, his face shining, their brief estrangement forgotten. "We told her you were asleep. She laughed and said, ’Typical!’ She said that she’s been waiting for almost forty years to hear from you and she can wait a few more hours, so we shouldn’t wake you up. But I knew you’d kill me if I didn’t, so I did."
"She’s all right, then?" Emilio asked.
"Evidently. She sounds fine."
Emilio sagged back against a bulkhead for a moment, eyes closed. Then he headed for the radio, leaving John Candotti smiling beatifically in his wake.
BY THE TIME SANDOZ GOT TO THE BRIDGE, EVERYONE WAS CROWDED around the entry as Frans put through the connection a second time.
"What language is she speaking?" Emilio asked.
"English, mostly," Frans reported and got ponderously out of the way, ceding the console to Sandoz. "Some Ruanja."
"Sandoz?" he heard as he sat. The sound of her voice jolted through him: lower and grainier than he remembered, but beautiful.
"Mendes!" he cried.
"Sandoz!" she said again, her voice breaking on his name. "I thought— I never—"
Dammed emotion crashed through barriers they had both believed insuperable until that moment, but the sobbing was soon leavened with laughter and chagrined apologies and finally with what was clearly joy, and they began to argue, as though no time had gone by, over who had started crying first. "Anyway," Emilio said, deciding to let her win, "what the hell are you doing alive! I said Kaddish for you!"
"Well, I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid you wasted a prayer for the dead—"
"It didn’t count anyway," he said dismissively. "No minyan."
"Minyan—don’t tell me you speak Aramaic now, too! What’s the count?"
"I’m up to seventeen, I think. I’ve picked up some Euskara, and I’ve learned how to be rude to Afrikaners." There was some static, but not much. Not too much for him to feel as though they were somehow, madly, just two old friends, talking on the phone. "But no Aramaic, I’m afraid. I just memorized the prayer."
"Cheater!" she said, with the familiar husky laugh now free of tears. He closed his eyes and tried not to thank God that her laugh had not changed. "So, Quixote," she was saying, "have you come to rescue me?"
"Of course not," he replied indignantly, astounded at how well she sounded. How elated…. "I just stopped by for a coffee. Why? Do you need rescuing?"
"No, I most certainly do not. But I could really use some coffee," she admitted. "It’s been a long time between buzzes."
"Well, we brought plenty, but I’m afraid it’s decaf." There was an appalled silence. "Sorry," he said unhappily. "Nobody cleared the cargo manifest with me." The silence was now broken by little horrified noises. "It was a clerical error," he told her with earnest distress. "I’m really sorry. I’ll have everyone involved executed. We’ll put their heads on pointy sticks—"
She started to laugh. "Oh, Sandoz, I think I’ve always loved you."
"No, you didn’t," he said huffily. "You hated me on sight."
"Did I? Well, I must have been a fool. That was a joke about the decaf, wasn’t it?" she asked warily.
"Would I joke about a thing like that?"
"Only if you thought I’d fall for it." There was a small space, and when she spoke again, it was with the kind of calm dignity that he had always admired in her. "I am glad I’ve lived to speak to you again. Everything is different. The Runa are free now. You were right, Sandoz. You were right all along. God meant for us to come here."
Behind him, there were the sounds of the others reacting to what she had said, and he felt John grip his shoulders and whisper fiercely, "Did you hear that, you shithead? Did you hear it?" But his own vision seemed to lose focus, and he found that he couldn’t breathe well, and lost the thread of what she was saying until he heard his name again. "And Isaac?" he asked.
The silence was so abrupt and went so long, he twisted in the seat to look at Frans. "Connection’s still open," Vanderhelst told him quietly.
"Sofia?" he said. "The last we heard, Isaac was very young. I didn’t mean to—"
"He left me a long time ago. Isaac was—. He went off on his own years ago. Ha’anala followed him and we had hoped—. But neither of them ever came back. We tried and tried to find them, but the war went on so long—"
"War?" Danny asked, but Sandoz was saying, "It’s all right. It’s all right, Sofia. Whatever happened—"
"No one expected it to go on so long! Ha’anala was—. Oh, Sandoz, it’s too complicated. When can you come down? I’ll explain everything when you get to Galatna—"
It felt like a blow to the stomach. "Galatna?" he asked almost inaudibly.
"Sandoz, are you there? Oh, my God," she said, realizing. "I–I know what happened to you here. But everything is different! Hlavin Kitheri is dead. They’ve both—. Kitheri’s been dead for… years," she said, voice trailing away. But then she spoke firmly. "The palace is a museum now. I live here, too—just another piece of history!"
She stopped, and he tried to think, but nothing would come. "Sandoz?" he heard her say. "Don’t be afraid. There are no djanada south of the Garnu mountains. We-and-you-also are safe here. Truly. Sandoz, are you there?"
"Yes," he said, getting a grip. "I’m here."
"How soon can you come down? How many of you are there?"
Brows up, he turned to Carlo and asked, "A week perhaps?" Carlo nodded. "A week, Sofia." He cleared his throat, tried to put more strength behind his voice. "We are eight here, but the ship’s pilot will stay on board. There’ll be four Jesuits and two… businessmen. And me."
She missed the implication. "You’ll have to land southeast of Inbrokar City to get beyond the gardens. Have you seen them? We call them robichauxs! There are competitions for the most beautiful and productive designs, but there are no prizes, so no one gets porai. I’ll send an escort for you. It’s safe, but I don’t get around too well anymore and finding your way through the garden mazes is impossible unless you’re a Runao—. Listen to me! I’ve lived with the Runa too long! Sipaj, Meelo! Did someone always chatter like this?" she asked, laughing. She paused, took a breath, slowed down. "Emilio, don’t expect who I was. I’m an old woman now. I’m a ruin—"
"Aren’t we all?" he said, getting his bearings. "And if you are a ruin," he said softly, "you will be a splendid one—Mendes, you will be the Parthenon! All that matters is that you are alive and safe and well."
He found that he meant it. At that moment, it was truly all that mattered.
36
Rakhat
October 2078, Earth-Relative
THERE WAS MORE: TALK OF TRADE GOODS WITH THE SMOOTH ITALIAN voice, discussion of coordinates and flight paths with the pilot. Tentative plans were made for landfall near the Pon river, as were agreements to check in daily, to question and confirm, to reconsider and adjust. An awkward good-bye to Sandoz, and then… she was back on Rakhat, by herself again, in a quiet room, hidden away with her memories, apart from the bustle and talk.
There were no mirrors now in Galatna Palace. Without any reminder of the reality Sandoz would see, Sofia Mendes could, for a time, believe herself thirty-five: straight-backed and strong-minded, clear-eyed and full of hope. The hope at least had remained—. No, had been fulfilled. There are wars worth fighting, she thought. Deaths redeemed. It was all for a reason…. Oh, Sandoz, she thought. You came back. I knew all along that you’d come back—
(Come back.)
Isaac, she thought, going still. Ha’anala.
She sat for a long time, summoning everything she had in her soul. Was i
t courage, she wondered, or stupidity, to expose her heart to chill air, and wait once more through silent days for hope to wither?
How can I not try? she asked herself. And so, she did.
* * *
"READ THIS," ISAAC SAID.
It was waiting for him, as other pleas had waited over the years. He always checked his mother’s file first thing in the morning because checking was what he did, but he never responded. He had nothing to say.
Another man, in somewhat similar circumstances, might have spared his sister the heartache of these messages begging beloved children to come home, or simply to reassure their mother that they were both alive. Isaac didn’t understand heartache. Or regret or longing or divided loyalties. Or anger or shattered trust or betrayal. Such things had no clarity. They involved expectations of another’s behavior, and Isaac had no such expectations.
Sofia’s messages were always addressed to both of them, in spite of everything that had happened during the long years since they’d left the forest. After she’d read the latest, Ha’anala closed the tablet carefully. "Isaac? Do you want to go back?"
"No." He didn’t ask, Back where? It didn’t matter.
"Our mother wishes it." There was a pause. "She is old, Isaac. She will die someday soon."
This was of no interest. He held his hands close to his eyes and began to make patterns with his fingers. But he could see Ha’anala looking at him, even through his fingers. "I won’t go back," he said, dropping his hands. "They don’t sing."
"Isaac, hear me. Our mother sings. Your people sing." She paused, and then continued, "There are others of your kind, Isaac. They have come here again—"
This interested him. "The music I found is right," he said, not with triumph or wonder but flatly: clouds rain, night follows day, the music was right.
"They may not stay, Isaac. Our mother may go back with them." A pause. "Back to where your species comes from." A longer pause, to let him hear this. "Isaac, if our mother decides to return to H’earth, we will never see her again."
He tapped his fingers against his cheeks, on the smooth place where the hair didn’t happen, and began to hum.
"You should say good-bye to her at least," Ha’anala pressed.
"Should" had no clarity. He’d looked «should» up, but he found only noise about responsibility to others, obligations. He did not understand emotion that required two or more persons. His emotions took cognizance of his own state. He could be frustrated, but not frustrated by. He felt anger, but not anger at. He experienced delight, but not delight in. He lacked prepositions. Singing broke this pattern. He understood harmony: to sing with. That was how Ha’anala had explained her marriage to Shetri: "We are in harmony."
Isaac cranked his head back on his neck to look up at the tent fabric, studying the sunlight that made each tiny pixel between warp and weft glow. He had refused a new stone house because the tent was familiar and he liked the color. It moved, but not like leaves. He glanced down and saw that Ha’anala had not left, so he held out his hand and waited for the weight of the tablet to settle into his palm. The tent was a veil that no one pulled away. The tent kept dust and leaves out, unless there was a big storm. Even so, he got his sticks to check the rectangle, to be certain it still had the correct proportions.
Then: the feel of the latch against his thumb, the soft snick of the mechanism, the unchanging geometry of the cover. The whirr of power-on, the brightening of the screen, the keyboard with its serried ranks. A few keystrokes and a few words, there it was again, precisely as he’d left it, each note perfect and precise. He thought, I was born to find this.
He was, in his own way, pleased.
THE WIDOW SUUKMEL CHIROT U VAADAI NO LONGER HAD A FIRM OPINION about which god ruled her life.
In her youth, she had been inclined toward the more traditional deities: old, fussy goddesses who took pains to keep the suns in their proper paths, the rivers in their banks, the rhythms of daily life reliable. After her marriage, she had become rather fond of Ingwy, who ruled fate, for Suukmel knew the evils of lucklessness and was grateful to have been vouchsafed a husband who valued her. Many godlings took up residence in her untroubled household: Security, Luxury, Purpose, Balance. It was a rewarding life. Suukmel had seen daughters well married to husbands who met her private requirements, as well as those dictated by their lineal position and contemporary politics. She herself had scope for quiet accomplishment, and genuine contentment.
Then, in her middle years, Chaos ruled her. Chaos, dancing. Chaos, singing. Not a goddess but a man who had sent her treasure: life lived with an intensity that often frightened her, but from which she would not, could not turn away. Power came to her. Influence. She tasted the exhilaration of the forbidden, the unpredictable. Chaos demanded not the death of Virtue in her life but the birth of Passion. Joy. Creation. Transformation.
And now? Who rules me now? Suukmel wondered idly, watching as Ha’anala abruptly left her strange brother’s tent. A light breeze carried information confirming observation: Ha’anala was furious. Sweeping sightlessly past Suukmel, she strode beyond the confines of the settlement without a word to anyone, pausing only to snatch up the straps of a huge basket with one short hooked claw and sling it over her shoulder.
For a time, Suukmel simply gazed at the younger woman as she climbed jumbled glacial scree, and held her breath, hoping Ha’anala would not fall, balance thrown off and strength sapped by her fourth pregnancy. Sighing, Suukmel rose to follow, picking up her own basket and a tough old tarpaulin, heavy with wax and dirt and recent rain. Ha’anala seemed to welcome the attacks of the kha’ani when she was in this mood; Suukmel preferred to do her maurauding under the protection of a tarp.
There were a multitude of rocky outcrops in the mountains that surrounded the N’Jarr valley, and these crags were the favored nesting sites of the settlement’s most abundant source of permissible food. At the end of Partan, when the rain’s power diminished, the kha’ani bred early and often, in staggering numbers. Adults, darting and dodging, could rarely be caught, but during the dry season, their eggsaks were easy prey—leathery oval bags of protein with generous lashings of fat; that which nourished kha’ani embryos could also sustain Jana’ata if eaten in sufficient quantity. It was a monotonous diet and rather tasteless, but adequate and reliable, and it was varied now and then by other prey more worthy of the term, but also far more dangerous.
"Be warned," Ha’anala called, sensing Suukmel’s approach. "I am not fit company."
"When have I required you to be convivial?" Suukmel asked, coming close. "Besides, I’m here to harass kha’ani, not you." Suukmel hooked her claws into the tarp and gave it a vigorous flap, driving some startled adult kha’ani off, and then slipped under it herself, quickly rolling sak after sak into her basket in the yellowish filtered light of the fabric, humming as she worked.
"What am I to do?" Ha’anala demanded, her voice mixing with the kha’ani shrieks, and coming muffled to Suukmel under her protective covering. "What does she expect? Am I to walk into Gayjur with Isaac? Do you know what she said? All will be forgiven. She forgives me! They forgive! How dare she—"
"You’re right. You aren’t fit company," Suukmel observed, sweeping another nestful of saks into her basket. "Whom are you vilifying, if I may know?"
"My mother!"
"Ah."
"Three times we’ve opened negotiations, and three times our emissaries were killed on sight over six hundred cha’ari outside of Gayjur," Ha’anala fumed, flinging another sak into her basket, ignoring the shrieks and nips of the kha’ani who swarmed around her. "She speaks of trust! She speaks of forgiveness!"
"You’re going to burst the saks at the bottom if you fill that basket much more," Suukmel pointed out, emerging from her tarp. An outraged kha’an launched a flying counterattack and Suukmel took a swipe at it before shouldering her basket and hurrying a few paces away to a patch of grass. The little brutes were vigilantly territorial, but couldn’t see very
well. We all have our weaknesses, Suukmel thought, commiserating with her prey’s parents.
She sat in the rare sunshine, warming herself, and took out a few eggsaks. "Come and eat with me, child," she called to Ha’anala.
Ha’anala stood for a time, making an easy target for the kha’ani, but finally lugged her basket over and dropped it next to Suukmel, who serenely kneaded an eggsak until its contents were well mixed. It had taken her some time, but she had worked out a way to manage these things neatly. You had to be deft. Compress the tough, fibrous outer covering in one hand to make the sak taut, and force a claw from the other hand into one end. Then suck out the contents quickly while being careful not to put too much pressure on the sak. Squeeze too hard and you’d have albumin all over your face.
"Sit and eat!" she ordered more firmly this time, and handed a sak to Ha’anala before starting her own breakfast.
"Suukmel, I have tried to understand her," Ha’anala insisted, as though her older friend had argued. "I have tried to believe that she did not know what was happening to us—"
"Sofia was at Inbrokar," Suukmel pointed out.
"So she herself saw that slaughter." Ha’anala downed the eggsak’s contents, oblivious to its taste. "She knows now—even if she didn’t plan it herself from the beginning. She knows how few we are!"
"Unquestionably," Suukmel agreed.
Ha’anala lowered herself to the ground, making a tripod of her legs and tail, belly swelling out before her. "And yet she expects me to forget all this, to leave my people, and come to her!" Ha’anala cried. "We have paid in lives for every attempt to find some kind of understanding or to make some kind of agreement!" Suukmel put out a hand and gently pulled Ha’anala over until she lay down, head in Suukmel’s lap, wrapping her tail around herself like an infant. "Maybe Shetri’s nephew Athaansi is right. We’re fools to keep on hoping…"
"Perhaps," Suukmel allowed.
"But it’s Athaansi’s raids that feed their fear! Every time his men bring down a Runao for his settlement, they eat their fill for a few hours and Athaansi is a hero—"
Children of God s-2 Page 42
