The Silences of Home

by The Silences of Home (v5. 0) (epub)

  FORTY-FOUR

  Aldira remembered that children had scattered from her, when they came upon her picking berries on the lakeshore. She had only to straighten and glare and they would be gone, back to wagons or hillsides or other, more distant lakes. They did not notice her at all now. They splashed and screeched and pulled each other under and never once glanced at her—and why should they? She no longer cried out that they were fools for trying to dive so deep. She did not even scold them for taking too many eggs from the nests along the shore. She moved slowly among the creepingvine strands, plucking berries sometimes, but mostly sitting, a kerchief pulled up over her head because even the weak spring sun made her dizzy. Occasionally she fell asleep sitting and woke to fishfolk shadows in the water, gathering as the Alilan fires climbed into darkness. She was always surprised to find herself there, in her body that was bent but would not bend.

  “Aldira.”

  She opened her eyes, her hand already reaching for a berry, as if she had paused only for a moment. “Aliser,” she said briskly. “What is it?”

  She heard the creepingvine rustle as he sat down beside her. He’d have crushed ten berries, perhaps, and a couple of new blossoms—and she had no strength with which to chide him. “Nothing,” he said. “I saw you here earlier in the day. I wanted to check—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Aldira snapped, “I’m perfectly well. There are many berries this season; it’s simply taken me longer than I expected to pick them.” She finally looked at him. He was staring at her gathering basket, which was nearly empty, and she could think of no excuse for this, or none that would make sense.

  “In fact,” he said, before the silence could become unbearable, “there is something I’ve been intending to ask you. My niece is beginning to show signs of Telling ability—she’s five now—and my sister and I were wondering whether you’d speak to her, see if she’s ready for lessons.”

  Aldira snorted. “I thank you for your attempt to make me feel useful, but you’re the Teller of the Twin Daggers caravan now. Surely you can perform this small task yourself. Or is it that it’s too small for you to perform at all?”

  “Aldira,” he said, too quietly. She had preferred the boy Aliser, who had been incapable of speaking much below a shout, even when he hadn’t been Telling. “You’re considerably wiser than I am. And infinitely more patient.”

  “Ah, yes, of course—you say ‘wise’ but mean ‘old.’ And patient too! Patient!” Not that, she thought, no—but it’s true that he’s worse. He may make a fine Teller, but he’ll never be a teacher.

  “So you’ll speak to her,” he said, and she snorted again and came very close to returning his smile.

  She was glad of silence this time. It was a relief to slip away from words into other sounds: birdsong, water, bees. When she looked at the trees on the hillsides, she imagined she could hear the leaves unfurling, so bright and yellow-green, though such a thought was foolishness, of course.

  “Why do we not celebrate Alneth’s Night here?” a child had asked her once. She had replied, “This kind of spring is easy for Alneth—a time of comfort and fast, effortless growing. While we rejoice in this, it is when we reach the desert that we see her true power—there at the oasis, surrounded by desolation. This is what all the caravans come together to celebrate.” A pretty speech, and she remembered it very clearly—but she could not recall whether the child had been Aliser or Alea. They had sat together near here and gazed upon spring in the lake country, and yet she could not remember the child.

  “What . . . ?” Aliser said, and Aldira forced her eyes open. Even before she turned, she heard a difference in the camp: no singing or laughter, no daggers scraping against flint. All the people who were usually clustered around their own fires were rising, moving together to the southern edge of the camp. “What . . . ?” Aliser said again, as Aldira realized which family’s wagon always stood at that southern edge. Her breath seemed to disappear. Her chest swelled even as it tightened. She thought, Oh, Twins, desperately—and then she was breathing again, and even rising.

  “Come, Aliser,” she said, and walked ahead of him, over the rustling vines.

  Every time she had dreamed of returning to her caravan, Alea had envisioned darkness. It would be night, and she would see the fires in the distance, ranged in a pattern that would grow familiar as she drew closer. She would watch them dancing: her sisters, her parents, her brother at his fire next to theirs. In the silence after the drumming, Alnissa would clap and squeal with laughter—and they would all turn and gape, and then cry out their joy and amazement. Alea’s mother would touch Alnissa’s black hair, which was fine and wispy against her neck, and Alnissa would hold out her arms. They would all be weeping. Alea had wept herself, imagining the scene. With Aldron she had cried soundlessly, into a cloak, aching with impossibility. Now, entering the lake country, she ached with certainty. The wagon tracks and hoof prints in the mud were fresh. She placed her feet in their furrows and said, “Nearly there, little foal,” and Alnissa wriggled against her back but did not wake.

  The sky was sunlit and blue when Alea saw smoke above the hills. She looked at it, and at the long thin lake she was standing beside. She knew the place; it was close to the camp, perhaps another two hours away on the path. It was mid-afternoon. If she went at a leisurely pace, she would reach her caravan around dusk. At first she did walk slowly, trying not to glance up at the blur of smoke ahead. She stared at the ground—the mud, the grass on the lower hillsides, the blossoming creepingvine around the lakes. She thought, I should gather some berries to mash up for Nissa—except that she did not need to do this any more. Soon Nissa would taste her first pinkroot soup, and maybe some fish if Aldana had already caught some—and it was this knowledge that drove Alea to walk faster and faster yet. When the track bent sharply to the left around a hill, Alea did not follow it. She strode up the hill instead, a more strenuous way, but it would bring her home much more quickly. Her leggings snagged on brambles and twigs, but she wrenched herself free without pausing. Down one hill and up another. Alnissa slept soundly, even though her head jolted against Alea’s left shoulder blade with every step. It would not be dark after all, but this did not matter. All Alea’s imaginings streamed away from her as she came to the crest of the second hill and stood, panting, looking down at the wagons and fires of the Twin Daggers caravan.

  Alnissa raised her head and made a querulous noise. “I know,” Alea said, trying to laugh, fumbling with the knots in the red blanket, “you want to keep moving. We will, Nissa, I promise—but just look with me for a moment. Look there.” She held Alnissa up, pressed her mouth and nose against the back of her daughter’s head. She smelled like sun. “Look,” Alea murmured again, and she thought that Alnissa was unusually still, that she must be seeing the scampering children, the glossy horses, the colours—Ah, Twins, the bright scarlets and coppers and greens. Then Alnissa kicked out her legs and made the sound that meant, “I want to try to walk holding your finger, or at least crawl,” and Alea did laugh. “Not now, dearest,” she said, and set Alnissa on her hip.

  Her parents’ wagon always rested at the foot of this hill, and she had seen it from the top, though her tears had made it tremble. She did not look at it as she descended; she watched only her feet. Left foot, right foot, switch Alnissa to the other hip; down past bushes and trees laced with blooms; down until the slope began to flatten. When she was steps away from the bottom, she finally lifted her eyes.

  The wood of her wagon shone. Aldill would have washed it as soon as they stopped here, while Aldana was off catching fish. Alea lifted her hand and touched the wood, which was warm. She kept her fingers on it as she walked its length, from front to back. She walked slowly now that she was here. Four paces would carry her to the back steps and the fire. Just four paces, three, two—and there was no darkness to hide her.

  She peered around the wagon’s edge when she reached it at last. Alnissa squirme
d and said “Gaa!” very loudly, and Alea shushed her, though she did not need to: there was no one by the fire or on the steps. Two children were lying beside the fire next to this one, but they were sleeping. Alea could see their closed eyes and the deep rise and fall of their chests. Alnissa burrowed against her, tugging at Alea’s tunic ties. Alea undid them and nursed her, leaning back against the wagon’s side, out of sight. Her head throbbed. She heard faraway voices and splashing, and a bird singing on the hillside above. Alnissa bit down hard on Alea’s breast, with her four tiny teeth, and Alea was about to cry out when she heard other, closer voices.

  “Nanna! Your mother caught these fish for you. It would be a gesture of thanks and recognition if you’d help her prepare—Alnanna! Where do you—”

  “Let her go.” Alea pressed herself against the wagon. Her mother’s words were very clear; she must be standing by the fire, or at the foot of the steps. “You know she only runs farther, the closer you try to keep her.”

  “Of course I know,” Aldill said. “And I know it better every time I make this mistake. A little help is all I ask of her. A few minutes and we’d have the fish gutted and in the stew—but no, she’d rather run off to the fire of that shifty lad with the hair like a woman’s. . . .”

  Alea was holding Alnissa on her shoulder. She did not remember having moved her there. She waited for them to talk again, so that she would be able to listen and stay hidden, but they did not. She heard the wet, heavy slap of fish against wood—probably the smooth plank her mother used for chopping. She heard a knife being drawn across a whetstone and the first muffled tearing of flesh. Her parents were silent. Now, Alea thought, and could not move, her legs mired and wobbling at the same time. But then Alnissa squealed—and Alea turned and walked around the side of the wagon.

  “I’ll help you,” she said.

  They were both kneeling. Aldill’s knife froze a finger’s breadth away from the fish and a potato fell from Aldana’s hand. Even after a moment had passed, there was no joy or amazement, just a taut stillness, and a silence that grew longer.

  “Ald—he is not here,” Alea said very quickly, so that she would not be able to cry. “I left him, and he’ll never come back. But this,” she went on, even though it was all wrong—there should not need to be so many words, “is my daughter. Your granddaughter,” she added, as if this would help them understand. She bent her head against Alnissa’s and closed her eyes.

  The touch on her hair was very light. Alea knew this touch, these fingers. She did not angle her head into the hollow they made, in case they went away. “Alea,” Aldana said. Her fingers slipped beneath Alea’s chin and pressed, and Alea opened her eyes as she lifted her head. Aldana was very close to her; Alea remembered only now how tall her mother was. Aldana put her palm to the baby’s cheek. “What is her name?”

  “Alnissa,” Alea said, and then her father was with them too, reaching and laughing, and all of them stood wrapped tight until Alnissa started to wail.

  “Hush, little foal!” Aldill cried, holding his granddaughter above his head. She kicked and cried louder, and Aldana said, “That’s enough, now—the poor little thing doesn’t know you.” Alea did not look at them as Alnissa settled again into her arms. Too many words, she thought, and the wrong ones—though of course they were true.

  She glanced past her father and sucked in her breath. They were no longer alone by their wagon. Other Alilan were gathered nearby, watching, and many more were approaching. She saw confusion, curiosity, anger; only when her sisters thrust their way forward did she see joy. After she had embraced them, they stepped behind her. They stood, her family and herself, and faced the growing crowd. “Alea,” her father muttered, and she looked up at him—but before he could say more, the crowd stirred and parted.

  “Aliser,” Alea said when he stopped a few paces away from her. “May the Twins protect and succour you.”

  He was broader across the shoulders and chest, and his hair was a darker red than it had been—though she remembered suddenly that it always darkened a bit during the winter, away from the desert sun. His freckles were the same, as was the stiffness of his spine and head.

  “You greet me in the names of the Alilan Goddesses. Why do you presume to do this?”

  “I will give an answer, but I will give it to Aldira. Where is she?”

  Aliser shook his head. “You will give it to me, for I asked the question—and I am the Teller of this caravan.”

  Alea’s eyes slid away from his. She glanced over the crowd until she saw Old Aldira. She was leaning on a staff, her back and shoulders rounded and twisted both. One of her legs looked shrivelled. She met Alea’s gaze and nodded, very slightly.

  “Very well, then,” Alea said, looking back at Aliser. “I invoke Alnila and Alneth because I have never left them. Because it is the dearest wish of my heart to be Alilan again, now that I can return unburdened and alone.”

  “Hardly unburdened, or alone.” Aliser did not look at Alnissa as he said this, or after. His green eyes were steady on Alea’s face, though there was a flush spreading up into his cheeks.

  “Yes, I bring my daughter, it’s true—but she’s no burden to me. It’s mostly for her sake that I’ve come back. I can’t bear the thought that she’ll never know her own people.”

  “You returned to us once before. There are many here who remember this. Do you not remember what happened then?”

  The plain at night. Aldron had come with her, though just to the outer fires. She had walked among them alone. “I didn’t want to return forever—not then. I only wanted to see my family—to see you.”

  “Aliser.” Old Aldira’s voice was also smaller now, bent out of the shape Alea had known—but still people turned to her and listened. “This is not a matter that should be discussed here.”

  He said, “No, it isn’t. I shall retire alone and think on it.”

  “No,” Old Aldira said, more loudly, for the crowd was murmuring, “you know that’s not what I meant. You and Alea and I should—”

  “Alone,” he said, and walked among them, away. Many others left after him, though some lingered, staring, or trying to appear not to. Alea watched Old Aldira, who brandished her staff as she commanded the idlers to be off. Speak to me, Alea begged her silently—but Aldira did not even look at her as she too moved away.

  “Come.” Aldana was standing on the top step, in the open doorway. “It will be warmer in here when night falls.” Alea nodded and climbed up behind her, into the darkness of the wagon. “Here’s some bread for you, and a basket for Alnissa to lie in. It’s long enough, I’m sure.”

  Alnissa fell asleep almost immediately, on her belly, as always; clutching the filthy red blanket in her left fist, as always. Alea cupped the bread in her palm and laid her head against the wall so that she could see the painted ivy and flame. She remembered Nellyn’s paint in the round tower room, though already the details were blurring. This, though—this was her family’s pattern, every leaf and spark beloved. Her pattern, again and always.

  Aliser left the camp. For two days he walked the hills, hardly stopping to eat or sleep. On the first day he wandered blindly, without a destination; on the second his feet led him to a path he had taken many times before. At dusk on that day he came out of a scattering of trees into a clearing. It was flat, covered with grass and even some creepingvine, for there was a spring here, bubbling up from beneath a slab of rock. This rock was dry on its other side, and there was space enough beneath its overhang for a person to lie. There was a stack of wood there now. Aliser bent and drew some out. It was slippery with rot, and the earth beneath seethed with insects, which soon vanished. He had put this wood here many seasons ago—the last time he had come, when Alea had been with him. His place, as a boy, then their place. You should not be here, he told himself—but he stayed, as the sun set, and kindled his damp, smoky fire with a gracelessness that was almost savage.

  It wa
s full night when Alea walked out of the trees. He watched her come, almost expecting her to go to the spring, as she always had before, to soak her hands and face and hair. But she did not stop there; she came to him directly, swiftly. He rose to meet her and they stood on either side of the pitiful fire, staring and silent.

  “Old Aldira told me you’d left the camp,” she said at last, after her breathing had slowed. The hair at her temples was sweat-curled.

  “And you knew I’d be here,” he said, trying to sound disinterested, and pleased with the result.

  “Of course I did,” she said, not disinterested at all.

  He shifted his weight and frowned. “So she’s spoken to you”—the pitiful old woman, still trying to cling to her authority.

  Alea smiled, a bit. “Hardly. A few words, and only when I went to her. She’s waiting for your decision, Aliser—she and everyone else. No one’s really speaking to me except my family.”

  “This can’t surprise you. You’re a disgraced woman—a disgraced Alilan woman who’s come begging for her people to forget her dishonour. Do you feel no shame for this?”

  She was quiet for a long time, her eyes on the sputtering flames. “To feel shame, I would first have to feel pride. I do not—have not for such a long time. But it’s because of this lack that I can come to you now and ask what I’m about to ask.” She bit her lower lip: no pride, perhaps, but some fear. Aliser nodded at her to continue. “What must I do? Give me terms and I’ll meet them, whatever they are. Only tell them to me, quickly, so that I can come back to you.”

  His mouth was dry, and his lips felt cracked. He wanted to go to the spring and take a swallow of the rock-cold water, but of course he could not leave the fire. “The terms,” he began, wondering at his discomfort, “yes. I’ll tell you what I’ve decided. . . .” Discomfort because she had asked him for his judgment before he could pronounce it? Because she was so close to him, and she was shivering as her sweat dried in the chill wind? “You must never speak that man’s name, not even to yourself. You must never speak of what he was or did, not even if you think to educate or enlighten someone. You must never speak of your time away from this caravan. He never existed, and you were never away: these will be the terms. Also,” he added, his discomfort swept away by the strength of his words, “if you happen to leave the Alilan again, for any reason, it will be forever.”