The Loved and the Lost

by Lory Kaufman

  The Deganawida turned at the sound of Hansum’s laugh and looked at him. For a moment his black eyes burned into Hansum’s. Then a slow smile came to his lips and his face transformed, with large square teeth shining out from dark skin. He motioned for Hansum to join them. The Deganawida’s eyes followed Hansum as he approached, and Hansum could tell the older man was watching to see how he would react to the dead animal and fresh pile of guts. Hansum looked to the mound but did not flinch.

  “So, you found me this time,” the Deganawida said quietly.

  “Greetings elder,” Hansum said.

  “Slave, what are you being sick for?” the Deganawida called, turning back to the younger man. His voice was still soft, but firm. “You weren’t squeamish tucking into that deer steak the other night. Come now, we’ve got to butcher the meat and we’ve got company. Stand up and show respect to my visitor.”

  The young man, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, turned. His eyes went wide when he saw Hansum. He jumped to his feet.

  “You’re . . . you’re . . .”

  “I didn’t say to speak, slave. Now you must stand and be quiet.” The older man turned back to Hansum, smiling again. Hansum held out his hand.

  “Hello. I’m . . .”

  “Yes, I know who you are,” he said clasping Hansum’s hand. He grasped it with both of his and took time to inspect the famous scar. “I’ve got one of those here,” he said pulling up his shirt. “Got it when I was fourteen, from a buck not far from here. That was a lesson worth keeping too.”

  “Impressive,” Hansum said.

  “You, slave. Come here. Mind if I show him this?” he asked Hansum about the thumb.

  “That’s fine.”

  The boy walked over tentatively, looking down at the thumb, and then at something else. Hansum realized he was looking at his sword. The Deganawida realized it too and laughed.

  “I caught this one watching your first sword fight by the river the other night. He had a stick in his hand and was slashing away at the air. ‘What are you doing, slave,’ I asked? ‘I’m going to be a time traveler,’ he said like the grown child he is. ‘Maybe you need a stint at a Hard Time History Camp?’ I asked him, and he pouted. Pouted.” Hansum knew what the Deganawida was saying was not meant cruelly. It was the job of a mentor to point out hard realities, something a parent couldn’t always do. “Look again at Journeyman Hansum’s thumb and think of what he went through to get his scars.” You could see the boy’s imagination working and he went discernibly paler. “You can’t even stand seeing a deer cleaned and you think you’re fit for exploits? Now, look into Journeyman Hansum’s eyes.”

  What Deganawida was doing to his slave had been done many times to Hansum when he was a hard case, trying to make the boy think outside his own ego-driven fantasies. Hansum stared back at the boy, his hard eyes, eyes that had seen so much in the past year, looking into the soft self-deluded eyes of a teen maybe three years his junior. The boy blinked, and then looked down.

  “Good, good,” the Deganawida said softly. “This one, my slave, back in his territory had won an archery contest and crowed about it when we got here. But could he shoot this deer when he had it in his sights? No, I had to. Do you think you will be able to do it next time? Eh? Answer me.”

  “I’ll try, Master.”

  Hansum looked over at the boy, who had a tear running down his face.

  “You know, Elder, I’ve just realized something,” Hansum said.

  “What’s that, my son?”

  “In all my experiences on missions, in all I’ve been through, I’ve never killed anyone . . . or anything. Not even a deer.” The young man, the slave, looked up surprised. “Can I help finish dressing the animal?” Hansum asked. “We could learn together,” he said to the youth.

  Chapter 3

  “I’ve never been to a wedding like this before,” Shamira whispered to Kingsley. Her eyes were wide. “Is this where they cut into their arms?”

  “Yes, that’s coming up, sweetie,” Kingsley whispered, and gave her a loving squeeze.

  The ceremony had been so romantic. Charlie was in his tribe’s wedding regalia of white rabbit fur and Miriama wore a modest, but beautifully tailored suit of an East European Jewish bride. The wedding had been conducted by both the Tadodahoe, to administer the Haudenosaunee rites, and a rabbi for the Jewish ones. And it all took place under a wedding canopy, or chuppah. The bride and groom were paraded in to the hauntingly beautiful sounds of a Haudenosaunee courting flute.

  It had taken the better part of an hour to get through the two ceremonies and, while the traditions had been continents apart in origin, they were surprising close in emphasizing the building of familial ties and mutual respect between men and women.

  Even though Shamira and Kingsley were standing among some two hundred guests, Shamira felt an incredible intimacy. Kingsley’s warm arms were wrapped around her and every few minutes he would kiss her hair.

  But now, after the ancient wedding rites, came the modern part of the ceremony. Back in the part of the world where Shamira and Lincoln grew up, what came next was usually done later and by a doctor. But here it was done as part of the marriage ritual and in full view of the community.

  Their work completed, the Tadodaho and rabbi stepped aside and the angel, Laylah, flew into the longhouse. Laylah was an A.I. in the shape of a renaissance cherub, a plump little baby with golden hair, rosy cheeks, black eyes and a pink toga. After joyfully dive-bombing the crowd, he took his place, hovering in front of the couple.

  “So, you want to have a child, do you?” he challenged the new couple. His voice was that of a boy of perhaps six, but harsh.

  “Yes, we do,” Charlie and Miriama cried loudly.

  “I am here to grant your wish,” Laylah replied. “But first I must remind you of the seriousness of this undertaking.” He turned and started to fly slowly about the crowd, his little wings beating away. “In prehistoric times, before the human animal gained sentience, its reproduction, like that of all living things, had to be in great enough numbers to overcome a high mortality rate. But after the invention of agriculture,” Laylah snapped his fingers, “within the blink of a galactic eye, the short space of ten thousand years, your kind’s ingenuity outstripped its biology and the human population grew from a few million to over twelve billion.” He paused for effect. “That’s when your ancestors finally came to their collective senses and adopted binding population targets. They also called upon us, the A.I.s, to enforce this law. Since then, when a child is born an implant is placed within its body, not allowing that individual to reproduce . . . until a day like this.”

  In a blur, the angel sped back to the couple, stopping in a flash and hovering with a serious expression on his baby face.

  “Put forward the limb from which you want me to cut the constraining device,” he said solemnly. Both Miriama and Charlie pulled back their sleeves and exposed their upturned forearms. “Do you both vow that, come what may, you will love and support any child that comes from this action?”

  “Yes, we vow,” the couple replied together.

  Without taking his serious little eyes from the couple, Laylah cried in a sonorous voice, “And does the community likewise vow to be loving and supportive in helping raise Miriama and Charlie’s child?”

  A great shout came up from all the people in congregation. Old and young alike knew what they were to respond and why.

  “Miriama, Charlie and the child have our support!” several hundred people cried in unison.

  The room went silent again. All that was heard was the rhythmic beating of Laylah’s wings. Even the birds outside seemed to have stopped chirping. Laylah continued looking between Mariama and Charlie, his face a child’s, but his eyes those of a terribly serious adult.

  “Layla actually symbolizes the unborn child,” Kingsley whispered, “looking at his future parents and questioning what type of world he will be brought into.”

  Hovering in the air, La
yla now reached over his shoulder and took a short, sharp golden knife from his robes. It had a ruby encrusted hilt. Of course, everybody knew it was really a bloodless skin scalpel. The cherub placed the blade on Charlie’s arm. The rubies glowed as he stuck the tip into his flesh. Charlie winced, for this was not to be a completely painless procedure. The skin opened up in a perfect oval. There, among the exposed muscles and tendons were two small spheres, each the size of a pea, one gold and one black. With the tip of the knife, Laylah flicked out the black one, catching it in the air and placing it within his robes. The cherub then turned to Miriama and placed the tip of the blade on her forearm, staring hard into her eyes. The bride smiled and the blade was pushed in. Miriama winced, but her smile never left her. Laylah removed her black sphere and held up both of their arms, so the congregation could see the open flesh.

  “And now they can have a baby,” Shamira whispered, squeezing Kingsley’s massive arm and melting back into his warmth.

  Laylah took Charlie’s arm and moved it so his opened wound was covering Miriama’s. He pressed the two together and a glow appeared. As he separated them, the skin was whole and fresh.

  “No matter how many times I see that, I’m always amazed,” Kingsley whispered.

  “Elder Sam, my brother,” the cherub called to the Tadodaho, “I believe there is one more piece of business.”

  Sam Goldman took a small empty wine glass and wrapped it in a linen. He placed it on the floor.

  “Charlie,” he said, motioning downward.

  “With pleasure,” Charlie answered, smiling at his bride. He lifted up his foot and came down on the tiny bundle with all his might. It made a loud crunch.

  “MAZEL TOV!” the crowd screamed, as Miriama and Charlie kissed for the first time as man and wife.

  Now Laylah lost all his seriousness. “All right then,” he laughed loudly. “The rest you must do the old fashioned way. I’ve got to get to another wedding,” and he flew out of the longhouse as a klezmer band struck up a lively tune and everybody started dancing.

  Shamira watched as Lincoln and Medeea, who were standing next to them, turned to each other and started gallivanting with the crowd. She turned to Kingsley to start dancing with him, but he was looking at her seriously.

  “What?” she asked.

  He bent down and whispered in her ear.

  “I know it’s dangerous to do this at a wedding, because a person’s emotions are so high, but I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” Shamira’s eyes went wide. And when Kingsley went down on one knee, her whole body started to quiver. “Shamira. I love you. I love you so much. Will you be my wife?” She tried but couldn’t get the word out. That single word. Kingsley looked at her oddly. Then she noticed Medeea and Lincoln staring at them, amazement and expectation on both their faces. Many of the revelers noticed as well and turned their smiling faces to them, every eye beaming.

  “Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you, Kingsley.”

  Shamira heard Medeea screech with excitement, and the crowd roared its approval. Shamira felt herself being raised off the ground and the room began to spin as Kingsley whirled her around. As all the laughing and dancing people sped past her vision in a blur, as her ears were filled with laughter and music, Shamira threw back her head and squealed with an immense joy that permeated her entire being. Around and around she twirled, and then Kingsley brought her into his arms and their mouths met, to seal the happy promise.

  Then another voice spoke to her.

  “Sorry to disturb, my dears,”

  Arimus’s voice said in all the teen’s minds.

  “Sideways will now transport you unimpeded,

  as your presence at the meeting is now needed.”

  Chapter 4

  The deer was now skinned and cut into large pieces, ready to be wrapped in foil-like envelopes and put into backpacks for carrying to the village.

  “There, slave, was it as bad as you imagined?” the Deganawida asked.

  “No, Master. It wasn’t. Thank you, Master.”

  The interaction between this master and slave reminded Hansum of his late father-in-law, Agistino della Cappa, and how he and Lincoln had to behave as apprentices.

  “Good, slave,” the Deganawida said slowly. “Another five or six hunts and I shall be able to trust you to do this by yourself.” The boy beamed. “Now, put everything into our two packs so we can carry them back.”

  “They’ll be heavy, Master. Can’t we call a transport to come and get them?” the Deganawida looked at him, saying nothing. “Sorry, Master,” and he lowered his eyes.

  “Come, Journeyman Hansum. Let us walk and chat for a few minutes, while my slave does his work.”

  “It was nice meeting you, sir,” the young man said to Hansum. “You’ve been a hero of mine.” Hansum and The Deganawida looked back at the boy.

  “Heroes?” the Deganawida questioned, almost with disgust. “Get back to work.”

  The two men began walking through the woods in silence, Hansum thinking how the Deganawida had referred to him as a journeyman several times. It had only been days since he earned that accreditation and was one of the few facts the world didn’t know about him yet. Obviously, something was up.

  “So, since you’ve been following my progress and have access to my training records. . .” Hansum began.

  “I hope you are not offended,” the Deganawida replied gently.

  “No Elder. I’m just curious as to why.”

  The elder laughed. “I can usually do my job more stealthily. It’s better if those whom I counsel come to their own conclusions. But you have seen through it all. What was it? Oh, of course. I called you a journeyman.”

  Hansum stopped and turned.

  “Sir, I doubt you did it by mistake. It was a test, as is your last statement about it being a mistake.”

  The Deganawida laughed again. “You’ve had good teaching about reading between the lines and understanding motives. I did not see that on your curriculum.”

  “My mentor for that skill was Mastino della Scalla.”

  “Perhaps I’m not equal to the task I’ve been given with you.”

  “What task is that, Elder?”

  “My old friend, Arimus, asked me to see what I can do about your recent hardening of temperament.”

  Suddenly, without apparent reason, a wave of emotion swept over Hansum. It was stronger than any he had experienced so far. He stopped walking and shut his eyes tightly. He felt completely blindsided by this seemingly innocent comment. ‘Why?’ an inner voice screamed. Part of him knew. He was standing with one of the most experienced mentors on the planet, most probably a doctor of psychology, the spiritual head of a whole people, and also someone trusted by Arimus. This had to be why Arimus arranged the meeting with the Council to be here. Hansum suddenly felt vulnerable. He put a hand to his chest.

  “Are you ill?” the Deganawida asked.

  “No sir. Just dizzy,” Hansum replied, reaching out for the nearest tree. The Deganawida took Hansum’s arm and walked him to the towering oak. Hansum grabbed the rough bark to steady himself.

  “Whatever it is, it wants to come out, my son.”

  This simple statement caused Hansum to fall against the tree. His hands flew up and he grabbed great clumps of his hair.

  “I know, I know,” Hansum answered in a constricted voice. “But I don’t know what it is.”

  “Arimus fears that whatever is troubling you will affect your judgment in the field and also the trust your comrades have in you!”

  Upon hearing that Arimus’s worries mirrored his own, Hansum ground his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut harder. Why, why was this conversation causing him to fall apart?

  “I . . . I fear that too!” he said breathlessly.

  The Deganawida brought his face close.

  “And the way you are acting to others, is this what’s causing your mind to be troubled?”

  Hansum held his breath, staring into space. “No,” he said, then, �
��Yes. Maybe. I mean,” Hansum’s confusion was palpable. “I mean I don’t know. No, no, no, I don’t know.”

  The Deganawida didn’t rush. He contemplated before asking his next question. “Do you think the way you are acting could be a symptom and not a cause?”

  “A what?” There was a catch in Hansum’s voice.

  “A symptom of the cause. The . . . true cause.”

  “I . . . I don’t understand.”

  “Perhaps these actions toward others are an indication of something that is troubling you. Something you don’t want to face. So your subconscious makes you act out in . . . odd ways.”

  Hansum shivered. He leaned back against the oak, trying to breathe slowly. He had practiced this in battle classes, calming himself before an assault on some objective. Was he attacking an objective here?

  “I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hansum answered. He could feel the demon lurking in his mind, looking for the bottomless pit of his subconscious, a place where the light of truth could never shine. Hansum stared at the Deganawida. This man’s countenance seemed to exude a power to draw the best out of people . . . no matter how much it hurt.

  “Most know the answers to the things they are struggling with. They only balk at admitting these answers to themselves . . . because of an inner fear.”

  A flash of anger flared up in Hansum. “I’m not afraid!” he bellowed defensively. He glared fiercely and thrust out the hand with the scar. “I would do this a thousand times without hesitation if . . .” Hansum froze.

  “If what, my son?”

  “If I thought . . .”

  “If you thought what?” the mentor prompted. Hansum remained silent for some seconds.

  “If I thought I had a . . .”

  “Had a?”

  “Chance. A chance,” Hansum finally admitted quietly. “If I thought I had a chance.”

  “A chance for what, Hansum?”