The Abulon Dance

by Caro Soles

  “See? I’m not going to hurt you,” Triani murmured. “I’m used to males. I’ll make you happy.” His fingers were working with the belt clasp, trying to find the combination to release it.

  Talassa-ran grimaced as if in pain but his hands, moving without his volition, went to the belt, his fingers fitting into the familiar pattern to release the clasp. The heavy belt fell away.

  Through the open door, the scented breeze drifted in from the garden. Suddenly there was a splash, followed by a wailing cry. Triani raised his head and listened. “Shit. The kid fell in.” As he did up his blouse he looked at Serrin who was still watching from the door. “Just when things were getting interesting, too. He’s all yours, sweetie. After all, you are my understudy.” With a wink, he went out into the garden and closed the door behind him. A blue privacy light flashed on.

  Triani went through the garden, heavy with the sounds of murmured conversations, to the tiny, white crescent of a beach where a raft lay half out of the water. He bent down, pushed it in and jumped lightly aboard. Standing legs wide apart for balance, he pushed off from shore, his body bending gracefully as he poled towards the spluttering Cham. He was in no hurry. Cham could swim, although in his present state it might take him awhile to realize it. When he saw Triani, Cham stopped splashing about. He climbed aboard laughing, shaking back his long, wet hair.

  “I fell out of the boat,” he announced. “It floated away without me.”

  “Next time you drown.”

  Cham laughed merrily and stepped out of his clothes. He wrung them out with exaggerated care and dropped them on the raft. Triani watched him, watched the moonlight silvering the curves and hollows of his strong young dancer’s body as he stretched out his arms to the stars. He was a statue come to life. He was beautiful. He moved suddenly to the edge of the raft and began jumping up and down, making waves that washed noisily against the shore. Triani sat down abruptly. He could smell the sharp resin in the yellow wood. “Are you selling tickets to this show?” he called. He could hear faint laughter from the shore. In the brightly-lit garden, he caught sight of Talassa-ran, almost naked, stumbling towards the gate. His silver body hair gleamed iridescent in the many-colored lights.

  Cham stopped jumping and the raft began to level off, drifting further out from shore. “I’m cold,” he said in a small, husky voice.

  “Come here, lover. I’ll warm you up.” Cham dropped to his knees and nestled against him. Triani held the yielding body in his arms for a moment, then cupped the small chin in his hand and raised Cham’s face to his. He gazed steadily into the wide grey eyes. The gold flecks sparkled strangely in the moonlight.

  “Why are you afraid?” Triani asked.

  “Abulon.” Tears spilled over and trickled down Cham’s cheeks. “I’m sorry. It’s just… I’ve never been off-planet before.”

  “Shit.” Triani looked away for a moment. “Is this the thanks I get for pulling strings to let you come along?” He felt Cham tremble, felt the ebb and flow of his emotions, the fear of the unknown, the effort to overcome it, the desperate need for comfort and reassurance. “Look, I’ll be right there with you. You’ve got nothing to worry about, okay?”

  “Oh, Triani, I love you!”

  “I know, sweetie. Just don’t rock the boat.” He eased Cham down on the gently swaying raft.

  TWO

  Being an Ambassador did not appeal to Orosin At’hali Benvolini. It meant leaving behind everything he loved; his family, his friends, his music…and Eulio. But he could not turn down the honor shown to the Benvolini name. He gave himself a mental shake. At least he had his friend Thar-von Del with him. And the Dance Company was arriving next week, so he wouldn’t be apart from Eulio for long. He sighed.

  “What the bloody damn am I going to do if these pills don’t work and I up chuck at my first Abulonian state banquet?” He looked up anxiously at the tall, pale blue Serpian male beside him.

  “Why wouldn’t they work?” replied Thar-von patiently. “And why are you so convinced they’re going to serve meat dishes?”

  “They look like meat eaters to me, Von,” he muttered unhappily, inspecting his image in the dusky mirror. They were in the large, cheerless suite of rooms assigned to the Merculian Ambassador after the ceremonies welcoming them to Abulon. The rooms were high-ceilinged, but dark, lit by a peculiar combination of indirect lighting and torches. When they arrived, Orosin had placed dozens of brightly burning Merculian ‘candles’ about to lighten the atmosphere but they didn’t seem to help much. There were enough fur-covered couches and chairs placed in awkward groupings to seat two dozen people. “Apparently they expect you to do a lot of entertaining,” Thar-von had remarked dryly, looking around. His own quarters next door were almost cramped by comparison.

  “Could you help me with this clasp, Von? I’m so nervous I can’t seem to do anything right.”

  Thar-von leaned over the small, trim figure, his pale blue fingers working the clasp open and fitting the cloak fastening inside. Orosin studied his reflection critically. He had never questioned his looks before; the round, smiling face, the laughing, sherry-brown eyes, the fine, red-gold curls. He wore the grey and mauve uniform of the Merculian Diplomatic Corps. The long cloak lined with iridescent satin hung from the clasp on his right shoulder. Ruffles of lace frothed at his wrists and a slender ceremonial dagger encrusted with jewels hung at his waist.

  “Gods, Von! I look so…so….”

  “You look like what you are—an elegant Merculian diplomat.” Orosin bit his lip and didn’t answer. He glanced up at Thar-von, tall and distinguished in his simple navy blue tunic with the distinctive crystal figurine on a long chain around his neck, and the silver buttons and sash that matched his hair. It was no wonder there had been that unfortunate mix-up at their arrival. Following Alliance protocol, Thar-von had stepped forward first to make the official introductions. The Abulonians had instantly concluded that this imposing figure was the Merculian Ambassador. It took a lot of talk to persuade them that such a small, pretty person as Orosin could be of any importance. When this point was cleared up, they decided that Thar-von must be his body-guard. “It doesn’t matter, Beny,” Thar-von had murmured, using the affectionate, masculine-sounding nickname he had chosen years ago for his hermaphrodite friend. But it did matter…to Beny. The welcoming ceremonies were held in a huge amphitheater carved out of the dull, red rock. The Abulonians appeared warm and friendly. Dressed in colorful sarongs, kilts and feathered cloaks, they packed the open spaces, waving wooden clappers to show their enthusiasm. The women were grouped together in one area, giggling and chattering to each other behind their hands. This was obviously a patriarchal society and the strutting, virile men made Beny feel positively effete. They were tall, heavily built and dark-eyed, with deeply bronzed skin and thick, black, shoulder-length hair. They gazed at Beny’s red-gold curls with lively curiosity.

  At home on Merculian, no distinguished visitor would ever be exhibited like this to the stares of the public. Beny stood alone on a raised platform of rock in the middle of the open space where everyone could see him. He bowed gravely to the makers of speeches, watched with real interest the amazing riding skills of a squad of men mounted on long-haired, four-legged creatures with a lumpy, gnarled horn on their foreheads. He greeted the leaders of various clans as they paraded by with their followers and standards. There was much discordant blowing of horns by a group of musicians perched high on the cliff near the edge of the arena. Beny was thankful for his years of travel with his parents on diplomatic business when he had witnessed many strange rituals. What he was not prepared for was being the center of attention; one lone, five feet tall hermaphrodite amid the barbaric, masculine splendor of Abulon.

  A horn sounded mournfully along some distant hallway and almost at once there was the sound of a wooden clapper at the door. It opened and a small boy bowed low.

  “You are ready, lords?”

  “We are ready.” On impulse, Beny turned and held Thar
-von’s large hand for a moment.

  “Courage, my friend,” murmured the Serpian. “I am with you.” They followed the boy through the high, dim corridors. Beny’s hands were clenched at his side. Like all Merculians, used to almost endless daylight and the brightness of their double moons, he was terrified of the dark, and the lack of lighting here was like a frightening physical presence. He longed to touch the reassuring bulk of Thar-von who followed the regulation three paces behind. He began to recite a familiar litany to himself; ‘Darkness is only the absence of light. I am not afraid.’ One hand went to his dagger.

  As the corridor curved downwards to the right, Beny became aware of the indistinct babble of voices and laughter. At last, a large, high-ceilinged hall spread out in front of them filled with smoke from the open fires built on raised platforms that were scattered about in an irregular pattern. Torches flared high up on the rough, stone walls. On one side, brightly dressed women sat in groups apart from the fires. The air was heavy with the acrid smells of burning animal flesh. Beny felt Thar-von’s hand on his shoulder for a moment, heard the familiar, low voice, a whisper on the air. “It’s only for a few hours. The pills will work.” As they passed, men seated on the floor on rugs and animal skins waved their bare arms and made the peculiar, deep-throated noise of approbation he had noticed earlier. The firelight danced on their faces and made points of yellow light gleam in their dark eyes. Obviously, Beny thought, a race of hunters, predators. He wondered bleakly whose idea it had been to abandon him here among these savages.

  Their young guide halted near the middle of the hall at a fire larger than the rest. Like the others, it was built up on a stone platform with a wide ledge running around the outside which served as a table. The Great Chief and his advisors stood to welcome them, clasping each of them in turn on the upper arm in a firm grip. Beny tried not to wince as the First Minister’s steely fingers closed around his arm. He could sense he was being tested. The men’s creased and weathered faces looked as if polished to a hard, nut-like finish. They all sat on fur cushions or beautifully woven blankets. Thanks to the tiny, sub-cutaneous two-way translators worn by the Merculians, conversation flowed easily.

  It was obvious who was the Am Quarr, the Great Chief. Not that he wore any distinguishing robes or chains of office. He was simply dressed in a sleeveless brown tunic that showed off his wide shoulders and sinewy arms. It was his manner, his way of speaking, the simple assumption that he held absolute power and his every wish would be obeyed. Around his neck he wore a flat, irregularly shaped stone resembling a large cat’s eye. In the uncertain light, it seemed to change color, even texture. His deep set, old-young eyes were full of knowledge and gave the impression of seeing much more than surfaces. At the Chief’s right hand sat the First Minister, whose name, Beny remembered, was Tquan. A streak of startling white hair swept from the center of his forehead to his shoulders, giving him a distinguished look. It made him stand out in the sea of dark proud faces around him. The First Minister had a leather thong around his left arm where the unsheathed blade of a small knife gleamed against his bare skin.

  The Chief leaned towards Beny, nothing but polite interest in his face. “We understand that you do not eat meat for religious reasons. Is this so?”

  “Yes, Am Quarr. Originally it was for religious reasons. We cherish a reverence for all life forms.”

  “Here we look at things quite differently, Ambassador. The life taken from an animal gives life to us as food. Therefore it is not lost, merely changed.”

  “It is a change we have chosen not to make, Great One.”

  Thar-von, at Beny’s side, raised his silver head suddenly. “That philosophy is not so different from the way we think on my home planet. We, too, are still hunters, even though technology has taken away the need.”

  “Ah, yes. Technology.” The Great One smiled and closed his eyes for a moment. “It takes more than it gives, we have found. That is why we strive to maintain the old ways, the ancient ceremonies, the legends of our people.” Beny leaned forward with interest, thinking of the Merculian storytelling art he had studied years ago. “You keep alive the old songs and legends, just as we do!” he cried delightedly. “We would be honored to hear an example of your art.”

  “Quetzelan, our Dream Weaver would be only too happy to oblige,” the Chief replied.

  “Am Quarr, the Lord Benvolini is himself an accomplished teller of tales,” Thar-von said gravely.

  Some men in the group made the distinctive growls of approval. Some waved the half-gnawed bones they were chewing. It was obvious that they enjoyed this form of entertainment and Beny promised to perform for them soon, pleased to have discovered some common ground. He tried to avoid looking at their shiny faces smeared with fat. He took a long drink of the flat brown ale and the clumsy, horn beaker was instantly refilled. The smoke was making his eyes water. It was difficult to breathe. Far above them, he could just make out round holes in the ceiling. The smoke didn’t seem to be finding them.

  The First Minister leaned forward, one elbow on his knee. “You and I, Ambassador, we know that playing with words is only a game, but an important game,” he said, and he flashed a smile that was startling in its sudden brilliance. “And it is also something to amuse the women, no? Perhaps that is why it appeals so much to you people.”

  “Well, it is appealing,” Beny agreed cautiously. He felt he was missing something, another meaning sliding between the words. “To us it is an art form.”

  “Of course. An art. Like war.”

  “Perhaps more like politics,” Beny suggested.

  “Politics.” The First Minister’s voice caressed the word, his dark eyes danced. His long fingers touched the naked steel against his arm. “Yes, of course. You are indeed clever. But do you not find that the absence of meat weakens the mind as well as the body?”

  “Our guest has explained his position, Tquan,” the Chief cut in. He held out a chunk of bread to Beny on the end of his knife. Carefully, Beny took the bread and placed it on his plate. He felt that he had lost the thread somewhere along the way and hoped he would find it again soon.

  The conversation flowed on around them, talk of hunting and trading, of obscure building projects, of the Festival. Beny ran down the program of exotic, alien names and assured them that the Merculian National Dance Company would be arriving next week. He thought of Eulio and ached with longing. When he had taken on this job, he had not realized how much it entailed. For months he and Thar-von had worked steadily, setting up contacts, checking out details of transportation, preparing information packages for performers and their agents and managers. Even choosing their own staff turned out to be a problem.

  Thar-von had come to him early one morning. It was obvious that he was very embarrassed. He had been closeted with the Serpian Ambassador most of the night. “Beny, I’m sorry but the insufferable woman insists we have a token Serpian on the office staff and she’s chosen Talassa-ran Zox.”

  “Bloody damn!” exclaimed Beny, sinking into a chair. This was one Serpian male he could not abide. Zox was meticulous and precise to a fault, had no sense of humor and thought all Merculians were slightly mad. His thin lips seemed to be always pursed together with distaste.

  “There’s nothing I can do about it, Beny. Believe me, I tried.” Thar-von was not fond of the man either.

  “What else did your charming Ambassador have to say, Von?”

  The Serpian turned away. “Her usual anti-Merculian propaganda. She warned me at great length about you.”

  “Me?”

  “She seems to have the idea that you’ll try to seduce me.”

  “Did you tell her I tried that years ago and failed? For the first time in my life, I might add.”

  “No, I did not. I don’t want to give her any ammunition. I’ll never understand why they picked a puritan like her to serve on Merculian.” Beny had to admit that Zox was a good worker and excellent at his job of office manager. But the Merculians disliked him
. Talassa-ran’s humiliating experience at Triani’s party had not made him any more friendly towards his Merculian co-workers and now he insisted on reporting to Thar-von instead of to Beny.

  Still, in spite of everything, the Festival was taking shape. The Terran contingent was organized. Final arrangements had been made for the Medorial chant-singers, the Silhouette theater of Carpuso 5 and an Ultraati Rope Dance troupe. Zox would have his work cut out for him. Beny had just opened negotiations with Serpianus for one of their famed circus troupes. The logistics of that one would intrigue a man like Zox.

  Abulonian ale was stronger than it appeared. Thar-von warned him with a touch of his pale blue hand. “Eat,” he whispered. Beny tried, but the smells of the food were upsetting to him and the tastes, even of the non-meat dishes, were strange on his tongue. His stomach was queasy, in spite of the pills he had taken. The meal dragged on and on. Strange parts of unknown animals sizzled on the fire in front of him. Odd-looking, scorched vegetables baked in the coals, drizzled with fat from the meat. Chunks of coarse black bread and piles of nuts were about the only things he could eat with impunity. “Greetings.” A young man dropped down beside him. He wore only a short kilt and an intricately embroidered vest. Around his neck was a necklace of rough, green stones and a gold ring glinted in one ear. One slim, brown hand fingered the beads as he studied the Merculian. “I am Luan of Quarr.”

  “The Chief’s son?” Beny asked, recognizing the name from the long list he had committed to memory.

  The boy nodded. “For a long time I have had dreams about an alien sun. I see a person with hair on fire and round eyes like yours.”

  “I guess you met the Merculian who was a member of the Contact team,” Beny said. He smiled at the young man, relieved to have someone to look at who wasn’t covered with grease.