by Paula Guran
“Yes,” he said. He drew a small piece of sweetwood from his pouch and seemed to consider it thoughtfully. “Ah! I hadn’t thought how very strongly you must need tradition! You’re very far from home indeed. Some thirty light-years, is it not?” He bit into the wood, shaving a delicate curl from it with one corner or his razor-sharp front tooth. The curl he swallowed, then he said, “Please, go on.”
The control he had always fascinated Marianne—she would have preferred to watch him carve, but she spoke instead. “My family tradition is to celebrate a holiday called Christmas.”
He swallowed another shaving and repeated, “Christmas.”
“For some humans Christmas is a religious holiday. For my family, it was more of . . . a turning of the seasons. Now, Esperanza and I couldn’t agree on a date—her homeworld’s calendar runs differently than mine—but we both agreed on a need to celebrate Christmas once a year. So, since it’s a solstice festival, I asked Muhammad what was the shortest day of the year on Rejoicing. He says that’s Tamemb Nap Ohd.”
Tatep bristled his ruff forward, confirming Muhammad’s date.
“So I have decided to celebrate Christmas Eve on Tarnemb Nap Ohd and to celebrate Christmas Day on Tememb Nap Chorr.”
“Christmas is a revival, then? An awakening?”
“Yes, something like that. A renewal. A promise of spring to come.”
“Yes, we have an Awakening on Tememb Nap Chorr as well.”
Marianne nodded. “Many peoples do. Anyhow, I mentioned that I wanted to celebrate and a number of other people at the embassy decided it was a good idea. So, we’re trying to put together something that resembles a Christmas celebration—mostly from local materials?”
She gestured toward the player. “That piece of music is generally associated with Christmas. I’ve been playing it because it gives me an anticipation of the Awakening to come.”
Tatep was doing fine finishing work now, and Marianne had to stop to watch. The bit of sweetwood was turning into a pair of tommets—the Embassy staff had dubbed them “notrabbits” for their sexual proclivities—engaged in their mating dance. Tatep rattled his spines, amused, and passed the carving into her hands. He waited quietly while she turned it this way and that, admiring the exquisite workmanship.
“You don’t get the joke,” he said, at last.
“No, Tatep. I’m afraid I don’t. Can you share it?”
“Look closely at their teeth.”
Marianne, did, and got the joke. The creatures were tommets, yes, but the teeth they had were not tommet teeth. They were the same sort of teeth that Tatep had used to carve them. Apparently, “fucking like tommets” was a Rejoicer joke.
“It’s a gift for Hapet and Achinto. They had six children! We’re all pleased and amazed for them.”
Four to a brood was the usual, but birthings were few and far between. A couple that had more than two birthings in a lifetime was considered unusually lucky
“Congratulate them for me, if you think it appropriate,” Marianne said. “Would it be proper for the embassy to send a gift?”
“Proper and most welcome. Hapet and Achinto will need help feeding that many.”
“Would you help me choose? Something to make children grow healthy and strong, and something as well to delight their senses.”
“I’d be glad to. Shall we go to the market or the wood?”
“Let’s go chop our own, Tatep. I’ve been sitting behind this desk too damn long. I could use the exercise.”
As Marianne rose, Tatep put his finished carving into his pouch and climbed down. “You will share more about Christmas with me while we work? You can talk and chop at the same time.”
Marianne grinned. “I’ll do better than that. You can help me choose something that we can use for a Christmas tree, as well. If it’s something that is also edible when it has seasoned for a few weeks’ time, that would be all the more to the spirit of the festival.”
The two of them took a leisurely stroll down the narrow cobbled streets. Marianne shared more of her Christmas customs with Tatep and found her anticipation growing apace as she did.
At Tatep’s suggestion they paused at Killim the glassblower’s, where Tatep helped Marianne describe and order a dozen ornamental balls for the tree. Unaccustomed to the idea of purely ornamental glass objects, Killim was fascinated. “She says,” reported Tatep when Marianne missed a few crucial words of her reply, “she’ll make a number of samples and you’ll return on Debern Op Chorr to choose the most proper.”
Marianne nodded. Before she could thank Killim, however, she heard the door behind her open, heard a muffled squeak of surprise, and turned. Halemtat had ordered yet another of his subjects clipped—Marianne saw that much before the local beat a hasty retreat from the door and vanished.
“Oh, god,” she said aloud. “Another one.” That, she admitted to herself for the first time, was why she was making such an effort to recognize the individual Rejoicers by facial shape alone. She’d seen no less than fifty clipped in the year she’d been on Rejoicing. There was no doubt in her mind that this was a new one—the blunted tips of its quills had been bright and crisp. “Who is it this time, Tatep?”
Tatep ducked his head in shame. “Chornian,” he said.
For once, Marianne couldn’t restrain herself. “Why?” she asked, and she heard the unprofessional belligerence in her own voice.
“For saying something I dare not repeat, not even in your language,” Tatep said, “unless I wish to have my quills clipped.”
Marianne took a deep breath. “I apologize for asking, Tatep. It was stupid of me.” Best thing to do would be to get the hell out and let Chornian complete his errand without being shamed in front of the two of them. “Though,” she said aloud, not caring if it was professional or not, “it’s Halemtat who should be shamed, not Chornian.”
Tatep’s eyes widened, and Marianne knew she’d gone too far. She thanked the glassblower politely in Rejoicer and promised to return on Debem Op Chorr to examine the samples.
As they left Killim’s, Marianne heard the scurry behind them—Chornian entering the shop as quickly and as unobtrusively as possible. She set her mouth—her silence raging—and followed Tatep without a backward glance.
At last they reached the communal wood. Trying for some semblance of normalcy, Marianne asked Tatep for the particulars of an unfamiliar tree.
“Huep,” he said. “Very good for carving, but not very good for eating.” He paused a moment, thoughtfully. “I think I’ve put that wrong. The flavor is very good, but it’s very low in food value. It grows prodigiously, though, so a lot of people eat too much of it when they shouldn’t.”
“Junk food,” said Marianne, nodding. She explained the term to Tatep and he concurred. “Youngsters are particularly fond of it—but it wouldn’t be a good gift for Hapet and Achinto.”
“Then let’s concentrate on good healthy food for Hapet and Achinto,” said Marianne.
Deeper in the wood, they found a stand of the trees the embassy staff had dubbed gnomewood for its gnarly, stunted appearance. Tatep proclaimed this perfect, and Marianne set about to chop the proper branches. Gathering food was more a matter of pruning than chopping down, she’d learned, and she followed Tatep’s careful instructions so she did not damage the tree’s productive capabilities in the process.
“Now this one—just here,” he said. “See, Marianne? Above the bole, for new growth will spring from the bole soon after your Awakening. If you damage the bole, however, there will be no new growth on this branch again.”
Marianne chopped with care. The chopping took some of the edge off her anger. Then she inspected the gnomewood and found a second possibility. “Here,” she said. “Would this be the proper place?”
“Yes,” said Tatep, obviously pleased that she’d caught on so quickly. “That’s right.” He waited until she had lopped off the second branch and properly chosen a third, and then he said, “Chornian said Halemtat had the twini
ng tricks of a talemtat. One of his children liked the rhyme and repeated it.”
“Talemtat is the vine that strangles the tree it climbs, am I right?” She kept her voice very low.
Instead of answering aloud, Tatep nodded.
“Did Halemtat—did Halemtat order the child clipped as well?”
Tatep’s eyelids shaded his pupils darkly. “The entire family. He ordered the entire family clipped.”
So that was why Chornian was running the errands. He would risk his own shame to protect his family from the awful embarrassment—for a Rejoicer—of appearing in public with their quills clipped.
She took out her anger on yet another branch of the gnomewood. When the branch fell—on her foot, as luck would have it—she sat down in a heap, thinking to examine the bruise, then looked Tatep straight in the eye. “How long? How long does it take for the quills to grow out again?” After much of a year, she hadn’t yet seen evidence that an adult’s quills regenerated at all. “They do regrow?”
“After several Awakenings,” he said. “The regrowth can be quickened by eating welspeth, but . . . ”
But welspeth was a hothouse plant in this country. Too expensive for someone like Chornian.
“I see,” she said. “Thank you, Tatep”
“Be careful where you repeat what I’ve told you. Best you not repeat it at all.” He cocked his head at her and added with a rattle of quills, “I’m not sure where Halemtat would clip a human, or even if you’d feel shamed by a clipping, but I wouldn’t like to be responsible for finding out.”
Marianne couldn’t help but grin. She ran a hand through her pale white hair. “I’ve had my head shaved—that was long ago and far away—and it was intended to shame me.”
“Intended to?”
“I painted my naked scalp bright red and went about my business as usual. I set something of a new fashion and, in the end, it was the shaver who was—quite properly—shamed.”
Tatep’s eyelids once again shaded his eyes. “I must think about that,” he said at last. “We have enough branches for a proper gift now, Marianne. Shall we consider the question of your Christmas tree?”
“Yes,” she said. She rose to her feet and gathered up the branches. “And another thing as well . . . I’ll need some more wood for carving. I’d like to carve some gifts for my friends, as well. That’s another tradition of Christmas.”
“Carving gifts? Marianne, you make Christmas sound as if it were a Rejoicing holiday!”
Marianne laughed. “It is, Tatep. I’ll gladly share my Christmas with you.”
Clarence Doggett was the Super Plenipotentiary Representing Terra to Rejoicing and today he was dressed to live up to his extravagant title in striped silver tights and a purple silk weskit. No less than four hoops of office jangled from his belt. Marianne had, since meeting him, conceived the theory that the more stylishly outré his dress the more likely he was to say yes to the request of a subordinate. Scratch that theory . . .
Clarence Doggett straightened his weskit with a tug and said, “We have no reason to write a letter of protest about Emperor Halemtat’s treatment of Chornian. He’s deprived us of a valuable worker, true, but . . . ”
“Whatever happened to human rights?”
“They’re not human, Marianne. They’re aliens.”
At least he hadn’t called them “Pincushions” as he usually did, Marianne thought. Clarence Doggett was the unfortunate result of what the media had dubbed “the Grand Opening.” One day humans had been alone in the galaxy, and the next they’d found themselves only a tiny fraction of the intelligent species. Setting up five hundred embassies in the space of a few years had strained the diplomatic service to the bursting point. Rejoicing, considered a backwater world, got the scrapings from the bottom of the barrel. Marianne was trying very hard not to be one of those scrapings, despite the example set by Clarence. She clamped her jaw shut very hard.
Clarence brushed at his fashionably large mustache and added, “It’s not as if they’ll really die of shame, after all.”
“Sir,” Marianne began.
He raised his hands. “The subject is closed. How are the plans coming for the Christmas bash?”
“Fine, sir,” she said without enthusiasm. “Killim—she’s the local glassblower—would like to arrange a trade for some dyes, by the way. Not just for the Christmas tree ornaments, I gather, but for some project of her own. I’m sending letters with Nick Minski to a number of glassblowers back home to find out what sort of dye is wanted.”
“Good work. Any trade item that helps tie the Rejoicers into the galactic economy is a find. You’re to be commended.”
Marianne wasn’t feeling very commended, but she said, “Thank you, sir.”
“And keep up the good work—this Christmas idea of yours is turning out to be a big morale booster.”
That was the dismissal. Marianne excused herself and, feet dragging, she headed back to her office. “ ‘They’re not human,’ ” she muttered to herself. “ ‘They’re aliens. It’s not as if they’ll really die of shame . . . ’ ” She slammed her door closed behind her and snarled aloud, “But Chornian can’t keep up work and the kids can’t play with their friends and his mate Chaylam can’t go to the market. What if they starve?”
“They won’t starve,” said a firm voice.
Marianne jumped.
“It’s just me,” said Nick Minski. “I’m early.” He leaned back in the chair and put his long legs up on her desk. “I’ve been watching how the neighbors behave. Friends—your friend Tatep included—take their leftovers to Chornian’s family. They won’t starve. At least, Chornian’s family won’t. I’m not sure what would happen to someone who is generally unpopular.”
Nick was head of the ethnology team studying the Rejoicers. At least he had genuine observations to base his decision on.
He tipped the chair to a precarious angle. “I can’t begin to guess whether or not helping Chornian will land Tatep in the same hot water, so I can’t reassure you there. I take it from your muttering that Clarence won’t make a formal protest?”
Marianne nodded . . .
He straightened the chair with a bang that made Marianne start. “Shit,” he said. “Doggett’s such a pissant.”
Marianne grinned ruefully. “God, I’m going to miss you, Nick. Diplomats aren’t permitted to speak in such matter-of-fact terms.”
“I’ll be back in a year. I’ll bring you fireworks for your next Christmas.” He grinned.
“We’ve been through that, Nick. Fireworks may be part of your family’s Christmas tradition, but they’re not part of mine. All that banging and flashing of light just wouldn’t feel right to me, not on Christmas.”
“Meanwhile,” he went on, undeterred, “you think about my offer. You learned more about Tatep and his people than half the folks on my staff; academic credentials or no, I can swing putting you on the ethnology team. We’re shorthanded as it is. I’d rather have skipped the rotation home this year, but . . . ”
“You can’t get everything you want, either.”
He laughed. “I think they’re afraid we’ll all go native if we don’t go home one year in five.” He preened and grinned suddenly. “How d’you think I’d look in quills?”
“Sharp,” she said and drew a second burst of laughter from him.
There was a knock at the door. Marianne stretched out a toe and tapped the latch. Tatep stood on the threshold, his quills still bristling from the cold. “Hi, Tatep—you’re just in time. Come share.”
His laughter subsiding to a chuckle, Nick took his feet from the desk and greeted Tatep in high-formal Rejoicer. Tatep returned the favor, then added by way of explanation, “Marianne is sharing her Christmas with me.”
Nick cocked his head at Marianne. “But it’s not for some time yet . . . ”
“I know,” said Marianne. She went to her desk and pulled out a wrapped package. “Tatep, Nick is my very good friend. Ordinarily, we exchange gifts on Chri
stmas Day, but since Nick won’t be here for Christmas, I’m going to give him his present now.”
She held out the package. “Merry Christmas, Nick. A little too early, but—”
“You’ve hidden the gift in paper,” said Tatep. “Is that also traditional?”
“Traditional but not necessary. Some of the pleasure is the surprise involved,” Nick told the Rejoicer. With a sidelong glance and smile at Marianne, he held the package to his ear and shook it. “And some of the pleasure is in trying to guess what’s in the package.” He shook it and listened again.
“Nope, I haven’t the faintest idea.”
He laid the package in his lap.
Tatep flicked his tail in surprise. “Why don’t you open it?”
“In my family, it’s traditional to wait until Christmas Day to open your presents, even if they’re wrapped and sitting under the Christmas tree in plain sight for three weeks or more.”
Tatep clambered onto the stool to give him a stare of open astonishment from a more effective angle.
“Oh, no!” said Marianne. “Do you really mean it, Nick? You’re not going to open it until Christmas Day?”
Nick laughed again. “I’m teasing.” To Tatep, he said, “It’s traditional in my family to wait—but it’s also traditional to find some rationalization to open a gift the minute you lay hands on it. Marianne wants to see my expression; I think that takes precedence in this case.”
His long fingers found a cranny in the paper wrapping and began to worry it ever so slightly. “Besides, our respective homeworlds can’t agree on a date for Christmas . . . On some world today must be Christmas, right?”
“Good rationalizing,” said Marianne, with a sigh and a smile of relief. “Right!”
“Right,” said Tatep, catching on. He leaned precariously from his perch to watch as Nick ripped open the wrapping paper.
“Tchaikovsky made me think of it,” Marianne said. “Although, to be honest, Tchaikovsky’s nutcracker wasn’t particularly traditional. This one is: take a close look.”
He did. He held up the brightly painted figure, took in its green weskit, its striped silver tights, its flamboyant mustache. Four metal loops jangled at its carved belt, and Nick laughed aloud.
