The Abulon Dance

by Caro Soles

  In front of him, Beny was swaying with fatigue. The gray and mauve uniform of the Merculian Diplomatic Corps had not been designed for such heat. Thar-von steadied him unobtrusively with a hand under one elbow.

  Beny turned towards him and whispered wearily; “Will it ever end?”

  “‘Even though the sun may shine on your neighbor’s corn field, the grain will also grow on your side of the fence’,” replied Thar-von, quoting an old Serpian proverb that he had always found comforting.

  Beny smiled. “Somehow, I think it lost a lot in the translation,” he said.

  An eruption of drumming made Beny snap his head back to the fire in time to see the First Minister step into the circle and draw the knife he always wore strapped against his left bicep. Another man appeared, holding what looked like a large white satin square, the corners embroidered with symbols. The drums stopped, just as suddenly as they had started. Tquan raised the knife above his head. The sun glanced off the glittering blade in bright shards of light that made Beny blink. Slowly, the knife was lowered again and with a long smooth gesture the man touched the razor-sharp tip to his bare chest, drawing it down from left to right, leaving a scarlet ribbon of blood in his flesh. As he repeated the gesture, he threw back his head and began the ululating cry of mourning that had been heard off and on throughout the ceremony. Beny felt his stomach heave unpleasantly. Once again he was thankful for the reassuring touch of Thar-von behind him. At his side, he sensed a sudden tenseness in his own personal Hunter-guard. Was this an unexpected development? He looked back at the First Minister in time to see him grab a lock of his long black hair and shear it off with the knife. He laid the hair on the white cloth, now sprinkled with his blood, and added a paring from his thumb nail. The Hunter beside him moved his hand to his long knife, just as a cry rang out in the smoke-laden air from the back of the crowd.

  “No! You have no right to the Mourner ritual! That is for his son to perform! I—”

  The voice was cut off suddenly. A murmur went through the crowd, people craning their heads trying to see who had dared to voice a challenge.

  As Tquan hesitated, a young man rushed out of the crowd, holding what looked like Luan’s flowered vest in his hands, along with a lock of black hair. Without a pause, he rushed across the open space and leapt onto the winding metal steps that led up and around and over the funeral pyre. The crowd burst into a loud keening as the figure made his way swiftly up the steps, until he was obscured by the thick smoke.

  Beny leapt forward, hands stretched out to the rapidly disappearing figure. At once, strong arms caught him and he was dragged back by the Hunter.

  “Stop him!” Beny cried. “He’s committing suicide! Can’t you see?”

  “Perhaps this is supposed to happen,” Thar-von pointed out. “We were not prepared for a state funeral.” Beny twisted his hands together, wincing with the pain in his aural membranes.

  “The young man means to take the honor of Principal Mourner from the First Minister,” the Hunter explained, still holding him in his steely grip. “Only the Chief’s son has that right, and since Luan is dead, someone should be sent in his place.”

  Suddenly, the young man tumbled from the high scaffold into the fire, his smoke-streaked body writhing in the flames, a knife plainly visible in his chest.

  Beny screamed.

  “You ought not to be here,” said the Hunter quietly. “They should have insisted you stay with the women, where it is safe.”

  Beny cleared his throat. “I am all right now. Please let me go. It was a shock, that’s all.”

  Reluctantly, the Hunter released him and stepped back, but only one pace.

  When Beny forced himself to look at the pyre, he saw no trace of the young man’s body. Then the drums started up again and from somewhere out of sight, the low tremulous call of Abulonian horns shivered through the crowd, silencing all but the most ardent keening. The First Minister took the white cloth from the priest-like figure and walked to the steps. As the drums beat louder, he started up into the shimmering heat. The crowd began to shout encouragement to him as he moved slowly, surely, up into the swirling smoke. Everyone craned their necks, pushing forward to watch his progress with rising excitement.

  Beny felt as if his breath was coming in short gasps. He imagined the heat Tquan must be enduring, the difficulty in breathing.

  Tquan dropped the white cloth bearing his blood and hair and nail clippings into the fire and then disappeared from view.

  “Oh god! Now what?” asked Beny, looking up at his mentor, but the Hunter hushed him, his eyes never leaving the top of the twisting steps.

  A cheer went up and suddenly, there was Tquan on the ground again, holding the Great Chief’s staff of office in his soot-streaked hand.

  “He did it,” breathed the Hunter. “He retrieved the staff from the pyre! He now holds the power.”

  “Why?” Beny asked.

  “It is ordained, even though I see he has not brought back the cats-eye pendant, as is the custom.”

  Beny looked at Thar-von, his round eyes wide with the shock he was trying to control.

  “It is said in my country, that the ruler of the beasts is not always the largest or most powerful in the timberland,” Thar-von remarked. The Hunter gave him a strange look, then deftly caught Beny just before he passed out.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  On the fourth day after the funeral, people began to emerge cautiously from their homes, going about their business again with one eye on the armed guards, who were everywhere. The Imperial Hunters, on the other hand, were no longer a strong presence in the city. Beny opened the theater for rehearsals, mostly to keep the company busy, but he urged the Merculians not to wander around in the city and even appointed a guard to accompany them. He was waiting for final word on the arrival of the I.P.A. ship that would take them all home, but unexpected delays kept extending the ETA. “Just my luck to get us passage on a ship belonging to the fleet of His Supreme Highness, the Veershtag of Ultraat,” he muttered as he glowered at the monitor. Several times a day he checked for the latest reports and they were always unclear. Very friendly, but vague to the point of being almost meaningless. This one said; “We look forward with joy to the voyage with us of our esteemed Merculian friends, but our engines continue not to respond. More anon.” What did that mean?

  “Any news about the ship?” asked Thar-von, closing the door behind him.

  “Same old song of joyful anticipation, plus ‘more anon’.” Beny sighed and turned away from the console. “Between the Veershtag’s casual approach to engineering, Eulio’s withdrawal and Triani harassing me about doing a final performance, I’m at my wits end.”

  “A final performance?”

  “Triani’s determined Cham’s going to get his chance to dance with the company, no matter what cataclysm is unfolding around us.”

  “Are you considering it?”

  “It’s out of the question, Von, although it would be a nice gesture of farewell from us to Luan’s memory. Since he is apparently viewed as a ‘traitor’, there will be no state funeral, did I tell you? I got that from the F.M. himself. And now I hear Quetzelan has disappeared. He may be dead, too.” Beny sniffed and wiped his eyes.

  “Ben, I must tell you something of the utmost importance.” Thar-von sprung the privacy lock on the door and came over to stand in front of the Merculian. He handed a thick envelope across the desk. “My resignation,” he said. “I have overstepped my authority. I should have contacted you at once before issuing—”

  “What—what are you talking about?” Beny collapsed into his chair. “I’m not accepting your resignation! I don’t care what you’ve done!”

  “You’re very loyal, but if I don’t resign, then you will be held responsible for my actions.”

  “Stop this talk about resigning, sit down and tell me what you did.”

  “First of all, Luan is not dead.” Thar-von hesitated, then sat down opposite Beny. “Right after the funeral,
Xunanda’s brother dropped in to see me. It turns out he’s one of the Imperial Hunters, the Chief’s elite bodyguard. They’re practically a law unto themselves, apparently. He told me most of them have watched Luan grow up and they are fiercely loyal. Because of his connections with Xunanda, he found out that Luan had been saved from his attackers by Xenobar and is being cared for in the tunnels. But he needed medical attention beyond their skills. So…I sent the company doctor.”

  “You sent a Merculian underground.”

  “With a good supply of day-glow torches. Now will you accept my resignation?”

  “Certainly not. How is Luan?”

  “Apparently, he is progressing well.”

  “That’s wonderful news! Any more surprises?”

  Thar-von studied his boots. “Other than okaying the technical equipment for Luan’s broadcast, nothing.”

  “I’d agreed to that one earlier, so it doesn’t count.” Beny picked up the envelope by a corner as if it were contaminated and held it out to Thar-von. “Put this thing in the disintegrator. When is the broadcast?”

  “Frankly, I didn’t want to know.”

  “Well, I do. And it better be soon. I’m sick to death of dealing with the First Minister. He doesn’t take me seriously, Von. He doesn’t even believe me when I tell him the I.P.A. will not consider a state as a member that condones slavery. He just laughs, and says I don’t understand them yet. It’s insulting. You know, I sometimes wish he was the one who’d been assassinated.”

  Thar-von looked at him askance. “Ben, please do not say those things. It does not become you.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s true. And he’s always teasing me about fainting during the funeral. As if that’s something to laugh about.” He shook his head. “He’s changed, Von. A lot.”

  Thar-von looked at the wall thoughtfully. “Sometimes the truth is like a shy woman, who can be more forthcoming in the dark.”

  Beny stared at him. Then he started to laugh. “It’s not like that with Merculians,” he said, and laughed harder.

  Thar-von shrugged. “Serpian proverbs do not always translate well, cross-culturally speaking.”

  Beny jumped to his feet. “All right. Enough of this chit-chat. Something must be done! Von, take me to Luan!”

  * * *

  For days, Luan floated in a sea of pain and confusion. He felt as if packed in layers of gauze and he had no clear idea of the exact confines of his own body. At times he could smell dampness and decay and the medicinal sharpness of ointment, and he thought of his mother, with her cool hands and lulling voice, and the sweet spiced drinks of his childhood. When he surfaced, he had the impression of being in a cave, deep underground, of one lone flaring torch and leaping shadows.

  Then came a time when he opened his eyes and looked into a Merculian face that was unknown to him, with long pale hair, and round green eyes. His conscious mind told him he ought to be concerned, but there was something in the touch of the alien hands that calmed and reassured him, in spite of the strange cave-like surroundings. Once more he drifted off. Now he had the feeling of weightlessness, a happy carefree feeling that made him smile in his sleep. When he woke up and looked around, his damp cave was infused with every color of the rainbow. It was beautiful! He reached out and touched the glittering rock wall beside him and studied his fingers in wonder.

  Finally, he woke up as if from a natural sleep. He tried to sit, to take inventory of his surroundings, but his own weakness overwhelmed him and he sank back against the pillows. Above his head, on the rough wall, a slick of dampness gleamed in the light of a single torch.

  “Where am I?” he asked at last. His own voice sounded old and rusty from disuse.

  At once a young man appeared beside him. One half of his face was horribly scarred. “You are safe with me, lord.” The voice was low and musical, the eyes a glowing copper.

  In spite of the scars, the face was strangely familiar. “What place is this?” Luan asked.

  “We are in the tunnels. Xenobar brought you here to recover after the attack. Please rest. It will help the healing.” Luan closed his eyes for a moment, remembering at last the sickening blows and the confusion of pain and the panic of not being able to breath. Someone had tried to kill him! Even now, suffering from the results of this attack, it was difficult to grasp the concept. Perhaps Marselind was right about the First Minister. Or perhaps it had been one of Norh’s men, or a member of one of the fanatic splinter groups, or….

  Luan focused again on his companion. “Something about you is familiar,” he said slowly. “Do I know you?”

  “You have forgotten, lord. I am Sinxin. I served you for three years.”

  “I remember now. But I thought you—” He stopped himself. He was about to say ‘I thought you broke down’. “I thought you were reassigned.”

  “I was liberated soon after one of the Elders threw a pail of chemicals at me for being too slow.”

  Luan winced. The young man began sponging his face and chest with gentle, sure strokes. The skin on his hands was a dull red color, tight and shiny like plastic.

  Luan forced his mind away from the ugly picture of savagery. “How long have I been here?”

  “Six days. You lost a great deal of blood, lord. But you will be well, soon. The Merculians sent their healer to you. You are doing much better now.” Luan was shocked to discover the length of time he could not remember. The alien drug…. That explained a lot; how he felt like a different person, even though his head ached and his ribs still reminded him of his ordeal if he made a sudden movement. It explained why he was having such a problem with time. The strong alien medication that had been injected into his body had compressed days into what seemed like minutes.

  “How old are you?” asked Luan suddenly.

  “I don’t know. I suppose there must be records somewhere. Not that it matters.”

  Luan shook his head at the immensity of the task he had set himself. “I need writing materials. I must prepare my speech to the people. There is still time?”

  “Yes, lord. The Day of Awakening in still three days off.”

  Sinxin handed him paper and pens.

  “So soon? Oh ye gods! What am I going to say?”

  “I am told you were very good at the river camp.”

  “That was preaching to the converted. They were prepared to accept me. These people have been hearing nothing but lies about me for days. People will believe anything if they hear it often enough.”

  “Not everyone.” Luan dropped the book he had just scribbled a few notes in. His heart thumped painfully against his sore ribs. Marselind stood in the doorway. His long hair was tied back and his clothing was covered with dust as if he had been traveling for a long time.

  “Where have you been?” asked Luan. The light from the torch showed up Marselind’s chiseled high cheek bones and the strong line of his jaw.

  “I have been to the mountains. Norh’s men are deserting him in great numbers. Some have joined our ranks. I assured all our supporters you would speak out on the Festival of Awakening, if you are well enough. They are moving into position in the tunnels, in safe houses in the city and just outside in the caves. They have orders to take over key points around the city during your speech. They are counting heavily on that amnesty you promised them.”

  “If I get elected. That’s a big ‘if’.”

  “Not so big. The Imperial Hunters are with you, remember. After your speech, others will be, too.” Marselind paused. “There are some personal things I wish to discuss.” He looked pointedly at Sinxin, who got up and left the room with a bow. “The days have been very long,” he said, with his slow, gentle smile. “Have you sorted things out?”

  “There’s so much to think about,” Luan faltered.

  “I mean, about us.” Luan looked up at the fine, sculptured face, the steady, dark eyes, the elegant, arched eyebrows. All the words he had rehearsed for this meeting, all the politics he had been immersed in, everything evaporated
on the air. He swallowed, groping for words. “Marse… I just…” He felt a sudden storm gathering inside, the tears he hadn’t shed yet breaking through.

  Marselind crossed the room and pulled him into his arms. Luan clung to him, his muscles taut with strain, gasping in his grief and pain, not trying to stop the tears that finally came. Marselind said nothing, his cheek resting against the glossy, black hair, as he waited for the storm to end. Gradually the boy’s body began to relax against him. He loosened his arms.

  “Are you all right now, Lu?”

  He nodded.

  “That was the first time, wasn’t it? The first time you cried?”

  Luan nodded again. “I’m sorry, Marse. Your shirt’s all wet.”

  “I don’t care about the shirt. I care about you.”

  “Even after what I said back at Xunanda’s?”

  “You were upset. It doesn’t matter now.” He cupped Luan’s chin gently in his big soldier’s hand and kissed him. “I’ve missed you,” he said softly. “And I’ve been so worried. Are you really all right?”

  “I’m fine, now. Just don’t go away again.”

  “Not without telling you.”

  “Marse, even if this speech doesn’t work…I mean, if I don’t become Chief, will you stay with me?”

  “Of course.” There had been no hesitation.

  “Then…you accept me as your Life’s Companion?”

  “I do.”

  Luan didn’t know what to say next. He tugged at this hair and laughed to cover his embarrassment. “I guess we can’t do anything official yet.”

  “That can wait.” Marselind reached up with one hand and took off the thong holding back his hair. He cut the leather strip in two with his Hunter’s knife and handed half to Luan. “Tie the knot, Lu. That’s official enough for me.” He held out his left hand.