Her argument was so deft and yet so inadequate that he had to laugh; and in laughing he realized that her argument had not been inadequate after all, for he was comforted, or at least he could control himself now, not weep anymore.
Now, of course, the anguish momentarily spent, he was flooded with embarrassment at having let her see him like this. “Oh, Luet, you must think—I don’t do this. I’ve really been pretty strong about it, all these other people doing the weeping, and me being the wise one, but now you know the truth about me, don’t you, only we should be used to that, your family has always known the truth about me and—”
She put her fingers over his lips. “Shut up, Didul,” she said. “You have a way of babbling when you should just be quiet.”
“How do I know when times like that have come?” he said.
In reply, she leaned toward him and kissed him lightly, girlishly on the lips. “When you see my love for you, Didul, you can stop babbling because you know that I am not ashamed of you, I’m proud of you. It’s worse here than anywhere, Didul, and you’ve borne it with so little help, really. That’s why I came, because I thought, maybe if I were beside you, it might be bearable.”
“Instead I cover you with my tears,” he said, thinking all the while, She kissed me, she loves me, she’s proud of me, she belongs beside me.
“Why don’t you say what you’re thinking?” she said.
“What makes you think you want to hear it?” he said, laughing in embarrassment.
“Because the way you looked at me, Didul, I knew that what you were thinking was, I love her, I want her beside me forever, I want her to be my wife, and Didul, I tell you honestly, I’m sick and tired of waiting for you to say it out loud.”
“Why should I tell you what you already know?”
“Because I need to hear it.”
So he told her. And when Shedemei called them back into the school, Luet had promised to be his wife, as soon as they could both get back to Darakemba, “Because,” as Luet said, “Mother would kill us and steal all our children to raise herself if you had one of the priests marry us here.” In vain did Didul point out that if Chebeya killed them they wouldn’t have produced any grandchildren for her to steal. The wedding would wait. Still, knowing that she wanted him, that she knew him so well and yet wanted to be with him—that was all the comfort that he wanted. Miserable as this day was, he felt himself filled with light.
Shedemei led them to the comatose child. “He’s sleeping now,” she said. “The bones have been adequately set, except the compound break in the left humerus, which I reset and resplinted. There is no brain damage, though I think he might not remember anything about what happened—which would be nice, not to have those nightmares.”
“No brain damage?” asked Didul, incredulous. “Did you see what they did to him? The skull was open, did you see that?”
“Nevertheless,” said Shedemei.
“What did you do?” asked Luet. “Teach me.”
Grim-faced, Shedemei shook her head. “I did nothing that you could do. I couldn’t teach it to you because I can’t give you the tools you’d need. That has to be enough. Don’t ask me any more.”
“Who are you?” asked Didul. And then an answer occurred to him. “Shedemei, are you the true child of the Keeper that Binaro talked about?”
She blushed. Didul had not thought her capable of such a human reaction. “No,” she said, and then she laughed. “Definitely not! I’m strange, I know, but I’m not that”
“But you know the Keeper, right?” asked Luet. “You know—you know things that we don’t know.”
“I told you,” said Shedemei. “I came here in search of the Keeper. I came here precisely because you are the ones with the true dreams, and I’m not. Is that clear? Will you believe me? There are things I know, yes, that I can’t teach you because you aren’t ready to understand them. But the things that matter most, you know better than me.”
“Healing that boy’s damaged brain,” said Didul. “You can’t tell me that doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to him. To you, to me. To his family. But in ten million years, Didul, will it matter then?”
“Nothing will matter then,” said Didul, laughing.
“The Keeper will,” said Shedemei. “The Keeper and all her works, she will matter. Ten million years from now, Didul, will the Keeper be alone on Earth again, as she was for so many, many years? Or will the Keeper tend an Earth that is covered with joyful people living in peace, doing the Keeper’s works? Imagine what such a good people could do—diggers, humans, angels all together—and maybe others, too, brought home from other planets of exile—all together, building starships and taking the Keeper’s word of peace back out to worlds unaccountable. That’s what the people who founded Harmony meant to do. But they tried to force it, tried to make people stop destroying each other. By making people stupid whenever they . . .” Suddenly she seemed to realize she had said too much. “Never mind,” she said. “What does the ancient planet matter to you?”
Luet and Didul both looked at her wordlessly as, to cover her embarrassment, she busied herself in gathering up the unused medicines and returning them to her sack. Then she rushed out of the school, murmuring about needing air.
“Do you know what I was thinking just then, Luet?” said Didul.
“You were wondering if she might not be Shedemei. The real one. The one Voozhum prays to. Maybe her prayers brought the One-Who-Was-Never-Buried to us.”
Didul looked at her in shock. “Are you serious?”
“Wasn’t that what you were thinking?”
“Do you think I’m crazy? I was thinking—she’s you in twenty years. Strong and wise and capable, teaching everyone, helping everyone, loving everyone, but just a little embarrassed when the depth of her passion shows. I was thinking she was what you might turn out to be, with one difference, just one. You won’t be lonely, Luet. I swear to you that twenty years from now, you will not be lonely the way Shedemei is. That’s what I was thinking.”
And now that they were alone in the school, except for one sleeping boy and two young angels who watched in fascination, Didul kissed her as she should have been kissed long before. There was nothing girlish about her as she kissed him back.
It was too big a jump, from helping out secretly at Rasaro’s House to running it. The month she had spent learning medicine from Shedemei hadn’t helped prepare her for running a school. Edhadeya knew from the start that “running” the school simply meant tending to the details that no one else felt responsible for. Checking that the doors were locked. Buying needed supplies that no one else noticed were running out. She certainly didn’t need to tell any of the other teachers how to do their work.
She taught no students herself. Instead she went from class to class, learning what she could from each teacher, not only about the subjects they taught, but also about their methods. She soon learned that while her tutors had been knowledgeable enough, they had had no understanding about how to teach children. If she had started teaching right away, she would have taught as she had been taught; now, she would begin very differently, and whatever students she might someday have would be far happier because of it.
One duty she kept for herself and no others—she answered the door. Whatever the Unkept might try at this school, it would happen first to the daughter of the king. See then whether the civil guard looks the other way! Several times she answered the door to find unaccountable strangers with the lamest sort of excuse for being there; once there were several others gathered nearby. To her it was obvious that they had been hoping for an opportunity—one of the other teachers, perhaps, or, best of all, a little digger girl they could beat up or humiliate or terrify. They had been warned, though, about Edhadeya, and after a while they seemed to have given up.
Then one day she answered the door to find an older man standing there, one whose face she had once known, but couldn’t place at once. Nor did he know her.
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��I’ve come to see the master of the school,” he said.
“I’m the acting master these days. If it’s Shedemei you want, she should be back soon from the provinces.”
He looked disappointed, but still he lingered, not looking at her. “I’ve come a long way.”
“In better times, sir, I would invite you in and offer you water at least, a meal if you would have it. But these are hard times and I don’t allow strangers in this school.”
He nodded, looked down at the ground. As if he was ashamed. Yes. He was ashamed.
“You seem to feel some personal responsibility for the troubles,” she said. “Forgive me if I’m presumptuous.”
When he looked at her there were tears swimming in his old eyes under the fierce, bushy eyebrows. It did not make him look soft; if anything, it made him seem more dangerous. But not to her. No, she knew that now—he was not dangerous to her or anyone here. “Come in,” she said.
“No, you were right to keep me out,” he said. “I came here to see . . . the master . . . because I am responsible, partly so, anyway, and I can’t think how to make amends.”
“Let me give you water, and we can talk. I’m not Shedemei—I don’t have her wisdom. But it seems to me that sometimes any interested stranger will do when you need to unburden yourself, as long as you know she’ll not use your words to harm you.”
“Do I know that?” asked the old man.
“Shedemei trusts me with her school,” said Edhadeya. “I have no prouder testimony to my character than that.”
He followed her into the school, then into the small room by the door that served Shedemei as an office. “Don’t you want to know my name?” he asked.
“I want to know how you think you caused these troubles.”
He sighed. “Until three days ago I was a high official in one of the provinces. It won’t be hard to guess which province when I tell you that there have been no troubles at all there, since no angels live within its borders, and diggers have never been tolerated.”
“Khideo,” she said, naming the province.
He shuddered.
And then she realized that she had also named the man. “Khideo,” she said again, and this time he knew from the tone of her voice that she was naming him, and not just the land that had been named after him.
“What do you know of me? A would-be regicide. A bigot who wanted a society of pure humans. Well, there are no pure humans, that’s what I’m thinking. We talked of a campaign to drive all diggers from Darakemba. But it came to nothing for many years, a way to pass the time, a way to reassure ourselves that we were the noble ones, we pure humans, if only the others, the ones who lived among the animals, if only they could understand. I see the disgust in your face, but it’s the way I was raised, and if you’d seen diggers the way I saw them, murderous, cruel, whips in their hands—”
“The way diggers in Darakemba have been taught to see humans?”
He nodded. “I never saw it that way until these recent troubles. It got out of hand, you see, when word spread—when I helped spread the word—that inside the king’s own house, all four of his possible heirs had rejected the vile species-mixing religion of Akmaro. Not to mention Akmaro’s own son, though we had known he was one of us for a long time. But all the king’s sons—that was like giving these pure humans license to do whatever they wanted. Because they knew they would win in the end. They knew that when Motiak passes into being Motiab and Aronha becomes Aronak. . . .”
“And they started beating children.”
“They started with vandalism. Shouting. But soon other stories started coming in, and the pure humans that I knew said, What can we do? The young ones are so ardent in their desire for purity. We tell them not to be mean, but who can contain the anger of the young? At first I thought they meant this; I advised them on ways to rein in the ones doing the beatings. But then I realized that . . . I overheard them when they didn’t know that I could hear, laughing about angels with holes in their wings. How does an angel fly with holes in his wings? Much faster, but only in one direction. They laughed at this. And I realized that they weren’t trying to stop the violence, they loved it. And I had harbored them. I had provided a haven for the Un-kept from other provinces to meet together in the days before Akmaro removed all serious penalties for heresy. Now I have no influence over them at all. I couldn’t stop them. All I could do was refuse to pretend I was their leader. I resigned my office as governor and came here to learn. . . .”
“To learn what, Khideo?”
“To learn how to be human. Not pure human. But a man like my old friend Akmaro.”
“Why didn’t you go to him?”
Again tears came to Khideo’s eyes. “Because I’m ashamed. I don’t know Shedemei. I only hear that she is stern and ruthlessly honest. Well, no, I also heard that she favors the mixing of species and all sort of other abominations. That’s how word of her came to my city. My former city. But you see, in these last weeks, it occurred to me that if my friends were loathsome, perhaps I needed to learn from my enemies.”
“Shedemei is not your enemy,” said Edhadeya.
“I have been her enemy, then, until now. I realized that all my loathing for angels had been taught to me from childhood, and I only continued to feel that way because it was the tradition of my people. I actually knew and liked several angels, including one rude old scholar in the king’s house.”
“Bego,” said Edhadeya.
He looked at her in surprise. “But of course he would be better known here in the capital.” Then he studied her face and knitted his brow. “Have we met before?”
“Once, long ago. You didn’t want to listen to me.”
He thought for a moment longer, then looked aghast. “I have been pouring out my heart to the king’s daughter,” he said.
“Except for Akmaro himself, you couldn’t have spoken to anyone gladder to hear these words from you. My father honors you, in spite of his disagreement with you. When you see fit to tell him that those disagreements exist no longer, he will embrace you as a long lost brother. So will Ilihi, and so will Akmaro.”
“I didn’t want to listen to women,” said Khideo. “I didn’t want to live with angels. I didn’t want diggers to be citizens. Now I have come to a school run by women to learn how to live with angels and diggers. I want to change my heart and I don’t know how.”
“Wanting to is the whole lesson; all the rest is practice. I will say nothing to my father or anyone else about who you are.”
“Why didn’t you name yourself to me?”
“Would you have spoken to me then?”
He laughed bitterly. “Of course not.”
“And please remember that you also refrained from naming yourself to me.”
“You guessed soon enough.”
“And so did you.”
“But not soon enough.”
“And I say that no harm has been done.” She rose from her chair. “You may attend any class, but you must do it in silence. Listen. You will learn as many lessons from the students as from the teachers. Even if you think they are hopelessly wrong, be patient, watch, learn. What matters right now is not correctness of opinion, but learning what opinions they might have. Do you understand?”
He nodded. “I’m not used to being deferent.”
“Don’t be deferent,” she said testily—a tone of voice that Shedemei had taught her inadvertently. “Just be silent.”
During the days that followed, Edhadeya watched—from a distance, but carefully. Some of the teachers clearly resented the presence of this man, but Khideo was not insensitive, and soon stayed away from their classes. The girls got used to him quickly, ignoring him in class, and gradually, shyly, including him at meals and in the courtyard. He would be asked to reach something on a high shelf. Some of the little girls even started climbing on him whenever he sat leaning against a tree, using him to get to branches that were otherwise out of reach. Lissinits, they called him—“ladder.” H
e seemed to like the name.
Edhadeya came to value him for his own sake. Two things about him, though, weighed heavily on her mind. She kept thinking about how even a man like him, a confirmed bigot, could actually harbor a fundamental decency deep within. The outward pattern of his life didn’t necessarily reflect what was inside him. It took terrible events to waken him, to get him to shuck off the man he seemed to be and reveal that inward self. But the decent self was there to be found.
The other thing that preyed upon her mind was what he had said about her brothers. The Unkept had held their meetings for thirteen years and they led to nothing. Then Akma succeeded in persuading all her brothers, all the king’s sons, to reject belief in the Keeper and, more specifically, obedience to the religion of Akmaro. And from that time forward, the most evil men felt free to do their dark business.
That can’t be what Akma intended. If he understood it the way Khideo does, wouldn’t he stop?
I should talk to Mon, not Akma, she told herself—not noticing that she must already have decided to talk to Akma. If I could get him to break ranks with the others . . . but no, she knew that was impossible. None of the brothers would betray the others; that was how they’d see it. No, it had to be Akma. If he changed his mind, they would change theirs. He would persuade them.
She kept hearing Luet’s despairing voice: “There’s nothing left in him, Edhadeya. Nothing there but hate.” If that was true, then talking to Akma would be a waste of time. But Luet couldn’t see into his heart. If Khideo had a spark of decency in him, couldn’t Akma also? He was young, still; he had been damaged in childhood far more than Khideo had. The world had been misshapen for him ever since; if once he saw the truth, couldn’t he choose to be a different man in a very different world?
These were the thoughts that drove her as one night she locked the school, leaving Khideo—no, Lissinits—as caretaker of it. Then, torch in hand, she walked in the brisk autumn air to her father’s house. On the way she thought: What if there were no safety? If I were an earth woman—or man, or child—I wouldn’t dare to make this walk in darkness, for fear of being set upon by cruel men who hate me, not because of anything I’ve done, but because of the shape of my body. For those people these streets are filled with terror, where all my life I’ve walked without fear, day and night. Can they truly be citizens, when they haven’t the freedom to walk the city?
Earthborn (Homecoming) Page 30
