"Volemak wants me to work with this digger hostage," said Elemak,
"If you want to," said Oykib. "I do my duty," said Elemak. He smiled nastily. "I took the oath."
"Well," said Oykib. "Then we're both supposed to learn his language."
"You have a head start," said Elemak. "I'd like you to teach me what you know about the language."
"Not much yet. Just a few words. I don't know the structure yet."
"Whatever you know, I'd like to learn it. I'd like Protchnu to learn it, too. Can you give us a class in digger language?"
"That's a good idea," said Oykib. "Yes, I will."
Someone was running around outside. Pounding feet. Protchnu stood in the doorway. "Father," he said.
Elemak stood up.
"There's one of those angels standing on the roof of Issib's house."
"Who's on watch?" asked Oykib, standing up, pulling on his clothes.
"Motya," said Protchnu. "He sent me to fetch you."
"To fetch me?" asked Elemak.
"Um, to get the adults."
"He didn't mean me," said Elemak.
Protchnu looked defiant. "But I did."
"Go get Volemak," said Elemak.
Chveya was surprised that Elemak understood so well what his role in the community was now-and that he seemed to accept it. She knew that his connection to most people was very thin these days, but she could see that his bond with his eldest son was bright and strong. Yet he had let his son see his own humility. It made her rather sad that he could not be as strong and proud as Protchnu longed for him to be. It was bound to cause real pain in Protchnu, and yet Elemak faced it openly and... .
Unless he wanted to make sure that Protchnu felt that pain.
No, she wasn't going to believe that Elemak had some elaborate plan that involved the kindling of deep resentment in his son's heart.
Oykib was dressed now, and heading out the door. Elemak gave no sign that he intended to follow.
"Aren't you curious?" asked Chveya, as she followed Oykib out.
"I've seen one," said Elemak.
When they got to Issib's house, the angel was standing on the roof, rigid, unmoving. Issib and Hushidh and their children were outside, looking up at him; other people were gathering, too. "He looks so frightened," said Chveya.
"Not of us," said Oykib. He gestured toward the trees. The shadowy forms of diggers could be seen in the branches, in the underbrush, "Their word for the angels is mveevo. Meat from the sky."
"They eat them?"
"They prefer the babies," said Oykib. "Let's just say that international relations between diggers and angels are on a kind of primitive level."
But Chveya was seeing something else now. The angel on the rooftop had the brightest, strongest connection she had ever seen between any two people, and the connection led to the ship. "He's here for the other one," she said. "For the injured one in the ship."
"I guess so," said Oykib.
"I know it," she said.
"He's praying that we won't give him to the devils before he finds his ... brother. But more than a brother."
"Then let's take him," said Chveya. She walked to the edge of the roof, reached up, took hold of the roof beam, and started climbing up the rough log wall.
"Veya," said Oykib, annoyed. "You're pregnant."
"And you're just standing there," she said.
A couple of moments later they were both on the roof. The angel looked at them, but didn't move. Oykib held out a hand. So did Chveya.
The angel spread his wings, unfolding himself like an umbrella. The effect was astonishing. From being a small, quivering thing, he was suddenly transformed into a great looming shadow. So this is what the injured one would look like, if he were strong and healthy. Like a butterfly, though, the body was so thin and frail inside the canopy of the wings. Only the head was still in proportion to the great width of the wings. The heavy, nodding head,
"Well, we can't carry him or anything," Oykib said. He beckoned for the angel to come closer. The angel took an awkward step. "Not much of a walking animal, is he," said Oykib.
"He's not an animal," said Chveya. "He's a very brave and frightened man, and he loves his brother."
"His other self," said Oykib. "That's what the word is. His otherself."
"So let's lead him there." She went to the edge of the roof, sat down, swung off. Oykib followed her. And a few moments later, the angel perched on the edge, then swooped off. Some of the children shrieked and ran off a little way.
Chveya could see the diggers in the forest draw nearer, but they apparently didn't dare to cross the line into human territory.
Oykib was explaining to Nafai and Volemak what he and Chveya had seen, what they had decided.
"Do we want the two angels together?" asked Nafai. "What will his reaction be when he sees how badly injured his brother is?"
"More to the point," said Volemak, "what would his reaction be if we blocked him from seeing his brother?" Nafai nodded. In the meantime, Oykib and Chveya led the angel toward the ship. pTo had awakened several times since the Old Ones took him, but every wakening had been like a dream. He drifted, floating on his back, as if the air had grown thick and now held him up without effort. He didn't know whether he could move or not because he couldn't summon up the will to move, not even his lips to speak. And when he let his eyes fell open, what he saw was a female Old One, also floating, slowly drifting into and out of his field of vision. Above him the sky, of a neutral color, as if the clouds had not yet decided whether to be stormy or benign. And there were feint breezes, coming from no particular direction-perhaps from below him. Nothing smelled alive except his own faint sweat and the mustier perfumes of the Old One.
Then he drifted off again, not into sleep, really, but into oblivion.
Is this death? Do Old Ones take us to the sky god? Is this life inside a cloud?
But then, perhaps the third time or the fifth time he awoke-he wasn't sure how many separate memories had gone before-he realized that this must be the inside of the tower of the Old Ones, and the sky was no sky, but rather a roof. So would this be considered a tunnel, like the ones the devils made, only built above the ground? Or would it be a sheltering nest, like the woven thatch that the people build above the nests where infants clung, first to their mothers' fur, and then to the twigs under the nest?
Are the Old Ones like us, or like them?
Like the devils, because of the way the Old One in his terrible fury tore and flung pTo and left him for dead.
Like the people, because of the careful tender way the Old Ones lifted him onto the woven thatchlike leathers they put on and took off their bodies at will. Like the people, because of the way they carried him down the hill before at last, mercifully, he slipped into unconsciousness. Like the people, because he was still alive, not eaten, not torn to bits, not even held as a prisoner.
Or a third possibility. Perhaps they were like the gods. After all, there was no pain.
And then a day came when there was pain, but along with the pain he came fatty awake for the first time. Not floating any more. And now able to feel his limbs, his fingers, and to move them. Some of them. A great weight pressed down on the bones that had been broken. He turned his head-yes, he could turn his head, he could shift his back enough to let him see that something had been wrapped around his broken bones, splinting them like the graft of a tree branch. The splints were so heavy he couldn't lift them, and when he tried it only caused the dull undercurrent of pain to become sharp.
Why have they let the pain come back? Is it a prelude to death? Have I been judged and found unworthy? Or is it because they have decided to let me return to life? To see again my otherself. My wife. My people.
A whining, hooting sound-ah, yes, the speech of the Old Ones. There was some music in it, but there were also those devil sounds, hissing and humming.
And then another sound. His name, spoken clearly, with love, with concern. "pTo," said the voice, and he knew it a
t once, impossible as it was that it could be real.
"Poto," he answered, and then with a rustic of his leathery wings pTo's otherself stood on the same surface where pTo lay, and looked down at him. "I told you not to go to the Old Ones' tower," Poto said.
"And now you've come, too," said pTo.
"Boboi wanted to tear my wings to prevent me," said Poto. "I almost fled without awaiting the verdict. But I wanted you to be able to return in honor if you should live. So I waited, and the people stood with me. With us, pTo, They honor you. The way you bore the punishment of the angry Old One."
"He was the most terrible creature I've ever seen," said pTo. "Surely more terrible than the devils."
Poto shook his head. "I've looked the devils in the face, and these Old Ones also."
"But the devils, Poto, they don't hate us, they merely hunger for us. There is no hate like the Old Ones' hate."
"They led me to you, my self, my most beautiful self," said Poto. "They knew who I was and what I wanted, and they led me to you."
The voice of the Old One rang out again. Poto looked at her, and at others; pTo looked around and saw that four others had come into the-what, the nest? The tunnel? Whatever this place was. He recognized one of them-the male he had seen that fateful night, just as he touched the tower. "That's the one who saw me," said pTo. "That's the one who saw I stole the grasses and must have given the alarm."
"But he's not the angry one?" asked Poto.
"He's not angry now," said pTo. "Not like the other one. Oh, let me never see the angry Old One again!"
"Finally," said Oykib. "Something like a prayer. Half of what the diggers say is at least partly directed toward their gods. It'd be easier for me if the angels were as pious."
"But what did they say?" asked Shedemei.
"He wanted never to see the angry one again. The angry Old One." He laughed. "We're Old Ones, of course. The ancients come back."
"That's not to laugh about," said Shedemei. "That's very important. Luet or Nafai, can you go and get Hushidh and Issib? They need to be here, to meet them-if they're going to be liaison with the angels."
"Yes, I'll go," said Nafai.
"No, Nafai, that's silly, I'll go," said Luet.
"I'll go," said Oykib.
"We need you here," said Shedemei. "In case you can understand anything more."
Nafai left.
"The language is all pops and song, isn't it?" said Luet. "Like bubbles in a stream. Like... ."
"Yes, Mother?" said Chveya.
"Like the music of the Lake of Women, when I floated on it at the edges of a true dream."
"Maybe the Keeper of Earth was able to send their songs to you," said Chveya.
"Hush," said Shedemei. "These two are twins, I think. Look how perfectly identical they are."
"Each calls the other his otherself" said Oykib. "It's much more than a brother."
"My twins might feel that way about each other," said Luet, "if only babies their age could articulate their feelings."
"Hush," said Shedemei. "Listen, Oykib. Watch, all of you."
But Chveya had to say this one last thing; "There's no love I've ever seen among humans like the love that binds these two."
"You are without doubt the stupidest of all men," said Poto.
"I accept the honor," said pTo. "And you are the truest of all. May some woman now see the strength and power in you, and take you as her husband."
Oykib spoke. "The injured one prays that some female will admire how strong the healthy one is and mate with him. No, bind with him,"
"Marry him," suggested Chveya.
"Well, it could be. The word has overtones of twining and knotting."
"I know about twining," said Chveya. "He means marriage. The injured one is married, and the healthy one is not-because the injured one has a strong tie to someone not here, someone up the canyon."
"Do they have names?" asked Shedemei.
"You expect me to produce those sounds?" asked Oykib.
"We'll have to, someday. You might as well try."
"The name of the healthy one is oh-oh, with quick little consonants in there. To-to. Po-to."
"And the other one?"
Oykib laughed in frustration. "The same. The same name."
"Otherself," murmured Shedemei.
"No, it's different. Like, Po-ta, and the healthy one is Po-to."
"Quiet," said pTo. "Listen."
"To what?"
"The Old Ones. They just said your name."
They listened.
"Poto," said Oykib. "Poto." Then he babbled some more, and then the name stuck out again. "Poto. Poto."
"They want you," said pTo.
Poto immediately leapt down to the ground, out of pTo's field of vision. But pTo could hear him say, "I am Poto, Old One, if it is truly me you seek. Let no more harm come to my otherself! If you have more punishment, I will bear it."
"He's praying to us" said Oykib.
"Oh, good," said Shedemei. "Maybe we can be gods to everyone now."
"If we're going to tear the wings again, he wants us to tear his and not the wings of his otherself."
"What brought that up?" asked Chveya. "Does he think we're angry?"
"How can he know what to think?" said Luet. "Let me try to show him."
They watched as Luet sank to her knees, then, still on her knees, shuffled forward to the healthy one. "Poto," she said, pointing to him.
He turned his back to her and spread out his wings, not fully wide, but enough that the leather of the wings hung loose and open before her.
"Touch them," suggested Shedemei. "Very gently. They're strong, but I don't know whether they're sensitive to pain or not."
Luet reached out her hand and gently stroked the skin of his wing. It was hairless and smooth, like shoe leather, but much lighter. Springier.
The angel seemed to wait for more, but when it didn't come, he turned around, looked at her.
"Poto," Luet said again. And now she held out her hand to him, palm up, open.
He studied her hand, then looked around from face to face, trying to find meaning. Perhaps he found some meaning that they could not even guess at, or perhaps he simply decided for himself what the gesture must mean. But in the end, he bowed his body until his cheek lay against her palm. As if she had intended this all along, Luet gently closed her other hand over his face, resting her palm against his other cheek. She held this pose for only a moment, then raised her hand.
The angel quietly spoke, not to her, but to his twin.
"pTo, she has made herself an aunt to me, she folded me truly, and on the side."
"Oh, Poto, may all our people have such a gift from the Old Ones," answered pTo from the bed behind him.
"The one on the bed prays that all his people can have a blessing like that from the Old Ones," said Oykib.
"Very nice," said Shedemei.
"Not enough," said Luet. "I refuse to let us be gods to these people."
So now she bowed herself before him, offering her own head to be clasped between hands.
"What do I do, pTo?" cried Poto in distress. "She bows to me as to a father, her head not even turned to the side."
"If the Old One demands that you be her father, then do it!" said pTo. "Don't make her angry! They're terrible when they're angry."
"But I can't be her father," said Poto. "It isn't right."
"It is right," said pTo, "She doesn't have a father. He's dead."
"And how do you know that, Broken Wings?"
"He's dead, Poto, I know it. I saw it when I was sleeping. I saw it in my dreams."
"You've never even seen the face of the Old One who kneels before me."
"I've seen her, too. I've seen them all." It was true. pTo had not remembered until now, until the moment that he needed the memory, and then it flooded back. He had seen all their faces in dreams. Even the angry one, only not angry, surrounded by little ones, by his children. And he knew from her voice which one this w
as. She was the one he saw with both of his own firstborn children perched on her shoulders. "She will stand one day in a meadow in the village, and my children will stand on her shoulders."
"All right," said Poto. "I'll take her as my niece, then."
"Daughter," said pTo. "She has no father. You will be her father now."
"I have no wife," said Poto. "What woman will marry me, if she must become the mother of an Old One when she does?"
"The one who should be your wife, and no other," said pTo. "You have been chosen to be the father of an Old One, and you're worried about mating? Are you that lonely, my dear mad self?"
"They sound upset," Luet murmured.
"Just stay where you are," said Oykib. "I'm catching some of this, I think when you took his head in your hands, it's like you made him a relative. You took him under protection. And now you're asking him to adopt you as a relative."
"Mm," said Luet. "Maybe it's not a good idea."
"Do it," said Shedemei. "Just stay there and let him decide."
The conversation between them stopped. And then Poto spread his wings wide, and instead of placing them on either side of Luet's head, he enfolded her entire body in his wings. She felt them wrap around her, feathery-light. She knew that if she struck out with either arm she would tear the wing; she also knew that to tear this creature's wing would destroy, not him, but her.
"He's praying that he can be a good father to you," said Oykib,
"Father?" asked Luet.
"He says that he hopes he can take the place of your ancient father who died in a faraway place."
"What?" asked Chveya. "Mother, how can he know that?"
"He says that he will not die unless he can die defending you from the hungry devils. I think it's part of the ritual language of adoption. Only of course you're not an infant."
"Can you tell me the word for father?" asked Luet.
"Um," said Oykib, "I think-let's see if he says it again when I can-"
The angel spoke some more.
"Bet," said Oykib.
"What?" said Chveya.
"The word is bet. The word for father."
When the angel took his wings from around her, Luet sat back on her heels and looked him in the eye. "Poto," she said, pointing to him. "Bet." Then she pointed to herself. "Luet," she said.
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