by Lea Daley
“Yep.”
“And a pencil?”
“A pen.”
“I know about them from my language modules, but not how they work.”
“Piece of cake.”
Bewildered eyes met mine.
“That means it’s simple, Bahji—easy peasy. Do this.” I made a series of strokes, crimson lines blooming under my hand. The child looked as gobsmacked as I’d felt in my first encounter with invisible furniture. “The word you’re looking for is ‘Wow!’”
“Wow! Can I use this?”
“Please. Make a map—lines that show me how to get to your house.”
Bahji had to talk herself through the process. Clearly she had no graphic experience and the idea of a map was new. She bit her lip as she worked the problem, questioning herself, nodding confirmation. I could check her initial work against the path I’d taken—my god!—just that morning. Only once, at a place where streets branched in a complicated way, had Bahji gone astray. But soon she was sketching new territory and I’d have to rely on her accuracy. By the time she finished, my young friend was smiling. Predictably, there was a red smudge on one cheek.
“Give me the notebook, please.”
Bahji handed it over reverently.
“Now sit still.” I drew a quick portrait, purely gestural, yet caught something of her bright spirit. When I displayed it, Bahji’s grin broadened. “Wow!”
“That’s for your mom. Tear it out and take it with you. And tell her I’ll stop by tomorrow, if I can.”
“Okay, Leslie.”
I half expected her to vanish into thin air, but she just looked at me, some unnamed desire rumpling her brow. Without thought, I spread my arms and she leaped lightly into them, that knobby little body pressed close against mine. I hugged her hard, resting one cheek on her hair, inhaling its sweet, evocative scent. It was harder to let go of her than I would have guessed—I hadn’t held a child for such a long time. And then she was off and running.
I returned to bed and lay in the dark. Clutching Stonewall’s toy in one hand and my memory sphere in the other. Trying, futilely, to guess what revelations lay ahead. Sleep was out of the question—or, rather, the night was dense with questions. Why did Bahji’s mother want to meet me? Was her appearance really so strange she couldn’t be seen in public? Where in hell had Bahji gotten a cat? And why was Belladonna a secret?
Finally, I gave up all pretense of resting and threw off the covers. Seeking diversion, I palmed the memory sphere and skimmed through a bit of past history. Then I padded around my apartment, sorting through cabinets, rifling through drawers. When my eye fell on Serenghi’s book, I knew I’d found the distraction I needed.
In my bedroom, I piled pillows behind me and opened the volume to a random page: All you have to invest in life—and all you have to lose—is yourself. This is neither too little, nor too much, in service of a great cause.”
For a long while, I considered Serenghi—her unparalleled passion, her inexhaustible courage, her unknown end. Then I let the book fall open to a new spot. On the left-hand page, a haunting portrait. On the right, a parable bordered in blood. I felt I’d never seen either before. With a premonition of dread, I began to read.
The Stranger
A stranger once entered a small village, seeking nothing more than afternoon shade and a drink of cool water. She had not traveled far when she came upon a deep and ancient well in the heart of town. After quenching her thirst, she settled herself against the trunk of a venerable olive tree. Closing her eyes, she began to meditate. Soon she attained a state of such clarity she might have achieved nirvana.
It was at this time that a group of villagers spied her. They drew closer, yet cautiously, for the stranger was unlike anyone they had known. Her clothing was immodest, her face unveiled. Her hair was unbound and shone, even in the shade. They hailed her, but she did not reply. Indeed, she did not even open her eyes. She only sat—in a state of perfect relaxation, of apparent indifference—under the shelter of the spreading tree. Their tree.
Although they could not have said why, the stranger’s silence angered the crowd. They grew bolder. One spoke sharply. Another nudged her sandal. A third unwound her sash, waving it like a flag on the breeze. Still, she sat motionless and unresponsive, seeming not even to sense their presence. The villagers began to murmur darkly among themselves.
It was a child without sin, a boy of three, who cast the first stone. It arced through the air and grazed the stranger’s temple, etching a jagged scarlet challenge. For an instant, the world held its breath. But even then the woman did not acknowledge the villagers. Maddened, they rushed her as one, howling, ripping, stoning. In a matter of seconds, the stranger was nothing more than a dampness in the dust and a disquieting memory. The boy stood apart, watching, stunned to stillness himself.
In that moment, he recognized the monster within all men. And from that day forward, though he became a leader of his people, he knew himself as a despoiler of peace and beauty. He neither married nor fathered children, but lived instead a life of asceticism and restraint.
On his deathbed, he asked to be buried in an unmarked grave under the old olive tree. And there he rests, united for perpetuity with the stranger.
I turned back to the illustration—a woman’s face composed of deceptively simple brushstrokes. A self-portrait? I compared that image to Serenghi’s holo, to the inexplicable tranquility in her eyes. But the painting was too idealized for me to be certain. Next I shifted my attention to the blood-red border outlining the parable—an intricate, interlacing design, dissolving at intervals, blurring and running beyond the confines of the pattern. That, I thought, was as much an emblem of Serenghi’s life as the portrait itself. Equal measures of instinct and accident, order and disintegration, chaos and beauty. I closed the book gently and raised it to my lips, embarrassing myself with such sentimentality. Then, aching for all us long-lost women, I set the book aside.
I woke in the middle of the night. Scared. Intolerably lonely. Bereft. I said the word aloud and it sounded like a sigh. Louder, and it sounded like a wail. Sometimes loss is palpable. Aimée’s absence beat at me, oppressed me, consumed me. Knowing it was pointless, I let out a low call for her. Could she hear me? Could she resist my summons? Did she still exist? Or had she been disassembled? Reprogrammed? Sent away? I knew only one thing: If she could return, she didn’t choose to.
Throwing off the quilt, I slipped into my courtyard. Where I waited impatiently for the suns to rise. For the town to stir. For the hours to pass till I could follow Bahji’s map to its end.
Chapter Fifteen
The sky brightened and pedestrians reappeared on the path, but it was far too early to intrude on Bahji’s mother. I dawdled over breakfast and made my bed—a task the average Jasharian with invisible furniture would never need to perform, yet that suggestion of normalcy was strangely comforting. Next I composed my clothing, choosing a simple, conservative look. Reassuring, I hoped, for a woman whose child had visited me in the dead of night. Still too early to set out. So I decided to read for an hour—or at least sit with a book on my lap. Because I couldn’t focus on anything but that cryptic invitation to a stranger’s home. And seeing Bahji again. And maybe even petting her cat.
By the time I left for town, I should have been exhausted from a night of broken sleep. Instead, I was buoyed by the energy that exertion generates and brimming with pleasant anticipation. Suddenly I remembered how Mer once described me to Parisian friends: “Elle rit toujours,” she’d said. “She always laughs.” And that was my true nature, open and optimistic. I hardly recognized the person I’d been since waking on Jashari—so apathetic, so suspicious.
I whistled under my breath as I followed yesterday’s path. Passing familiar landmarks, noting details I’d missed on my earlier excursion, gaping like any tourist. But before long I encountered new territory and knew I’d better pay more attention to the route. Halfway down the first unexplored street on Bahji’s map
, someone tapped my shoulder from behind, called my name. I broke stride—so suddenly that Chastity Whitehall slammed into me. Or maybe that contact was purposeful. Because we were both nude, after all, and I’d instantly registered the imprint of soft breasts against my shoulder blades.
“It’s great to see you out and about!” the woman cried. As if we were old pals.
I tucked Bahji’s map inside my shoulder bag, then turned slowly, reluctantly. Whitehall smiled when she saw me checking out her costume—a ridiculously demure dress. Which probably meant she’d modified it for effect while I was recovering from that startling impact. In her luscious face I saw only calculation, and those big brown eyes seemed like windows into a cold, cold soul. But if my greeting was restrained, Chastity didn’t seem to notice. “Where are you headed?”
Where, indeed? I wouldn’t pursue my plan to find Bahji unless I could shake the lovely Ms. Whitehall. Yet I had no idea what lay down this avenue. Couldn’t see a single sign from my vantage point. Couldn’t risk a lie about Aural Alignment, Renticular Synthesis or even good old-fashioned Subliminal Massage. Mimicking her airy tone, I said, “I’m just out exploring.”
“Be careful where you wander! Les Incurables are not the most popular citizens.”
A threat? Unthinkable in such a peaceful place. I abandoned the comfort of English for the formal suggestiveness of Jashrine. “Surely even the most despicable of classes is no cause to disrupt the Harmony of the Whole.”
“Les Incurables dishonor harmony with every breath.”
I winced. In Jashrine, Chastity’s throaty voice sounded flat, foreign and treacherous, totally at odds with the lilts and blends of the language. Did I also speak with so little grace? Maybe Whitehall was a mind reader, because she reverted to English abruptly, linking an arm with mine. “I know what, Leslie! I’ll go with you! You couldn’t have a better guide to Jashari!”
I bit back a refusal. Our chance encounter threatened to commandeer my whole day. But I couldn’t complain, couldn’t explain, without feeling I’d violated Bahji’s trust. And Whitehall had piqued my curiosity. Sightseeing with someone from Earth might not be all bad. Surely there was no urgency about finding Bahji? She hadn’t asked me to hurry. I decided to enjoy the inevitable. Whatever I learned would be useful.
Still in girlish mode, Chastity asked, “What’s your mood, Leslie? Contemplative? Curious? Adventurous?”
“Is it possible to be adventurous in such an overly civilized society?”
“After a fashion. Want to check it out?”
“Why not?” What did I have to lose?
“Okay—you’re on! Come this way.”
Chastity pulled me through winding boulevards, rushing past a hundred things I would have liked to examine. Even so, our progress was slowed by the many Jasharians who greeted her. And I wasn’t born yesterday—the depth of their bows told me her status was mysteriously high. Only perfunctory acknowledgments—nods, almost—were directed toward me, though. What’s more, I thought I sensed intense relief in everyone we met…possibly because Chastity had me safely in tow. Who in god’s name was she? If I played my cards right, I might know by the end of this impromptu tour.
We crossed a broad plaza, then Whitehall drew me toward the largest building I’d seen yet. Inside, a crowd was assembling and she was continuously engaged in bowing. Still, she managed to move us forward. “We got here just in time, Leslie.”
A sudden break in the throng afforded a panoramic view. We were at the top of stone steps that led into an amphitheater hardly different from those the ancients had constructed on Earth. Open to the sky, the floor nothing but the sands of Jashari raked into intricate whorls. Wonder of wonders, I was in the presence of the first visible seating I’d seen outside my own home—and it looked comfortable. What was I about to witness? Certainly not the barbarism associated with the Roman Colosseum. Not here. But what?
“Sit, Leslie! It’s impolite to stand and gawk!”
I dropped into the first open space. “Is it rude to sit and gawk?”
Whitehall glared as she sank down beside me, but there was no help for it—I had to stare. I’d never been in such a huge gathering on Jashari and nowhere did I see anyone I took for a Returnee. Soon an anticipatory quiet settled over the amphitheater, yet there was very little difference between that and the chatter just before. Curiosity was eating me alive. But my softest whisper would echo through the stillness, reinforcing every negative stereotype of Les Incurables. If patience truly was a virtue, then I’d bite my tongue and earn some points.
Suddenly, simultaneously, the crowd looked up. Suspended over the amphitheater—by some mechanism I could neither see nor imagine—was an immense mirrored globe. It was strikingly, absurdly, like disco balls in the dance clubs my great-grandmother once frequented. The sphere began to rotate. Slowly at first, but quickly gaining speed, till it was a brilliant blur. When fractured light spangled the audience, the solemn hush blossomed into an expectancy beyond nearly anything I’d known.
Chastity gripped my hand and leaned close, enveloping me in her signature scent. “Let it happen, Leslie!”
Suddenly, I was in it—plunged into it, saturated by it. Exhilarated, titillated, terrified, through and through. Some force was playing my electrochemical being, working every complex series of sensory responses possible. It was like sex—rhythmic, relentless, escalating—only better.
I was falling, floating, gasping, grasping, tumbling, climbing, soaring, sailing, stroked and tweaked. Every synapse sang with sweet, insistent signals. I saw nothing, heard, tasted, smelled nothing, yet I’d never been more thrillingly alive. I was an endless ebb and flow, pitched high, then mellowed out.
I might as well have scaled Everest, crampons slipping, slipping, then gripping with a jolt, just before the final disastrous plunge. I might have been in deep space, drifting, dreaming then startled into horror. I might have been fleeing the mightiest beast, barely fleeter of foot and quicker of mind. I might have been the favorite plaything of the most tireless, most inventive lover.
Every fear, every desire, every delight thundered through me, not once, but for eternity. And then again…
Coming back was like returning from cryosleep. I don’t know when I realized that Chastity and I were alone in the amphitheater. Dimly, distantly, in memory perhaps, I heard the others shuffling out. I flexed my body from top to toe. Though drained and hesitant to respond, it was back in my control.
Opening my eyes tentatively, I saw Chastity’s bright face mere inches away—intent, superior. I hated having to ask her, but needed to know.
“What the fuck was that?”
She played sophisticated city dweller to my country mouse. “Theater of the mind.”
I stood—shakily. “Light entertainment for a slow Saturday?”
“More like everyone’s favorite vice…safe, non-toxic, addictive.”
“How’s it work?”
A patronizing eye roll. “It’s difficult to explain to someone without the appropriate science background, but your…emotional blueprint…is manipulated, producing the most intense possible interplay of sensory events.” Chastity’s eyes flickered over me. “How do you feel?”
I took inventory. “Weird, wonderful, wild, overwhelmed. Exhausted, dazed, excited. Like I have the ultimate case of spring fever.”
“Is that all?”
“Well, no.” I paused, loath to share the rest. “I feel…satisfied. Complete. Fulfilled.”
Whitehall smiled knowingly. “They got you just right.”
“Got me just right? What does that mean?”
She huffed with exasperation. “Leslie. What you experienced was tailored to your specific molecular makeup—you’re the only instrument on which that particular composition can be played.”
Maybe I was slow to catch on. Maybe I was ungrateful and childish. Why couldn’t I just enjoy the most outrageously sensuous moment in my life? Why did I suddenly yearn for the ordinary, earthly pleasures I’d kn
own in Meredith’s arms?
Chastity was watching me like a hawk. As soon as tears appeared, she levered me upright. “Come on, you need a drink.” She hustled me outside, but I scarcely noticed our departure from the monumental structure. I was deep in thought—and a major adrenaline crash. All at once, I realized we’d entered a neighborhood I’d never seen before.
“Where are we going?”
“To my house.”
* * *
Naturally, Chastity’s home was expansive, elegant, a perfect exemplar of the Jashrine esthetic. And someone was waiting inside—another Earthling! A woman. Small and wiry, with crinkly eyes, a wide mouth and cropped hair gone prematurely gray. For a moment I thought I knew her. Then I got it: I’d seen her type in a hundred gay bars, at a thousand parties, on every lesbian softball team that ever swung a bat on a sultry summer day. She wasn’t wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, but I knew just how she’d look in them. Even before she spoke, I liked the woman—and I couldn’t imagine her giving Whitehall the time of day.
“Hi, honey, I’m home,” Chastity said in a brittle parody of domesticity.
“But not home alone, I see.”
“I’ve finally captured our latest outcast. Taylor Hemingway, meet the infamous Leslie Burke.”
Hemingway greeted me with an easy grin and an exaggerated bow. “Welcome to Les Incurables, the most exclusive club in the universe.”
I bowed back. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Taylor.” And I meant it. She felt real to me. Felt like she might be a friend—an honest-to-god, flesh-and-blood friend. Who could have guessed I’d find her in Chastity’s company?
“Sit down, Leslie,” Taylor urged. “Let us get you something to drink.”
I looked around the room. “Just point me toward the furniture.”
Taylor waved at one wall, an economical gesture that conveyed much about her no-nonsense nature. “Anywhere over there. Chastity’s mad about this invisible stuff, but sometimes I’d kill for my old autoform couch.”
While Whitehall fetched refreshments, Taylor sat beside me. And as we worked through the traditional rituals of first meeting, my instincts were confirmed—I liked her enormously. Though she seemed outgoing, I sensed she’d have told me more about herself if Chastity weren’t just out of sight. Still, I learned she’d been an auxobiologist back on Earth—a field concerned with growth and increase that I couldn’t pretend to understand.
