by CK Collins
The Middlers safely gone, she re-opens the folder. Should she present it as a breakthrough? Or take softer approach, lay it out as idle conjecture and see how he reacts? She mustn’t lead with the data tables, he won’t pay attention. The narrative first.
It was an off-handed comment — Gilu, a mate of Kistulo come to visit from Patchil-Kinaat, profane but humourous in describing his year’s misery there. Not so sour a cup, truly, to intern at the gem exchange and enjoy subsidised rent in a Niconammek high rise. He’d brought Guinness, scarce in Liashe, and Tchori cleared her plants from the balcony so they could enjoy them in the night’s cool.
He told a funny story of moving flats in the post-monsoon swelter and pausing to watch the conclusion of Union Day. The re-enactment of Vad Piir’s triumphant landing at the Korin Point — all turned to bizarre fiasco by the absence of wind on the river. It was necessary for a tug to rescue the becalmed replica boat, a right disappointing prelude to fireworks.
“Even the wind enjoying the holiday,” said Kistulo. “Probably down in the slough becoming truly lit.”
“Stayed lit the month through, then,” Gilu said, beating Kistulo to the bottom of the first Guinness. “We’ve had no wind at all till end of October. No complaints from me — less of that river fragrance.”
Tchori waited for them to switch on some ODI — terribly important, much shouting — before going to her computer.
A peculiar thought, no real sense behind it, but they were desperate. No rock unturned. It was simple enough finding articles and blog posts from early September through mid-October referring to the absence of wind in Patchil-Kinaat. Some people found it welcome, some a nuisance, others simply odd. And then there was the memory, lodged in her mind from that irritating trip to the tobacconist, of the wind at Ghaatasira.
Google returned several links to the credulous Der Spiegel piece (as well as a dismaying array of ill-informed commentary, the international left ever happy to palaver about the relative righteousness of Hilm Hivaa). In the final paragraph, she found it: the perfect absence, so very peculiar, of wind in September. A paucity of other reporting, but she found additional references to support the account, on into October. And thus germinated a theory that she’s been this last fortnight feeding in secret.
Her sister-in-law is of staff at the Ministry of Standards and when Tchori asked her help in obtaining weather data for the island, Piraadi didn’t inquire why but rather expressed sympathy for the annoyances of university life. A day later she had the e-mail of an earnest chap called Stiyalo in Commercial Statistics.
The island had eleven meteorological stations inherited from Britain and five more built in the early 90s from pennies in one of Mrs. Daar’s piggybanks. All sixteen stations regularly fax in tracking data on temperature, humidity, precipitation, and barometric pressure, ad continuum. A typically Masalayan squandering of the treasury, it seemed to Tchori, but it was dear Stiyalo’s claim that the data were well used by the Maritime Ministry and agencies of agriculture. She asked for weekly spreadsheets of each station’s data (no problem, that) and (harder, but he enjoyed a challenge) historical data going back as far as he could, which turned out to be 22 years.
Friday last, he FTP’d an enormous zip file and she sent him a tin of Morgan’s Toffees and a still of Captain Pike from The Menagerie, Part II. (Kistulo would never miss the silly thing — he collected the shots, but when did he ever look at them?)
The important step has consumed her the week, and she’s relied greatly on Kistulo for it. She was prepared to dissemble if he became inquisitive, but he assumed it was just the sort of daft assignment a university librarian would issue. And it pleased him to be the clever one this once — leading her through the statistics package and generation of graphs.
She’s run the analyses twice over and had Kistulo review the numbers to confirm her interpretation. “So these are significant, Kistu? Statistically then?”
“Right, yeah.”
“Not random?”
“Sweetest, your voice so husky over math — I fancy this.”
She pushed him away. Gently. “Not random?” He looked again at the p-values she’d circled. “Very unlikely. Now come to bed, yeah?”
* * *
She recognises Carodai’s gait before the rest of him. But if the High Librarian has seen his novice at the end of the mariden-stained walk, he gives no indication until reaching her. She remains seated a moment, legs crossed, drumming the folder in her lap. “Addi, Brother.”
He grins and breathes deeply. “Lovely smell.”
“Do you think?”
“So many people don’t care for it.”
“I have something for you.”
“Do tell, will I be excited?”
“Possibly.”
Carodai manages the locks and, as usual, leaves it to Tchori to check Sule’s alarm, which is hidden and silent, intended only to warn them if the flat has been intruded upon. She removes the device that they use for detecting bugs, which Brother finds comical. It does feel absurd marching about with electric wand, but can one dispute the prudence of it?
“Tea, dove?”
They’re meant to remain silent until the sweep is complete — Sule was clear about that — but Carodai is all the time flouting the rule. She shakes her head.
“What’s that then?”
“No thank you.”
“Well I believe I’ll have a cup.”
When it’s finished, she returns the device to its hiding place. “All clear,” she announces over the din of the kettle.
“So glad. Now, what is it you have to give me?”
“Let’s wait for the tea then.” And she waits for him to prepare it — he’s well enough — whilst taking a final survey of the map and figures. A sideways introduction seems best: “Do you remember, Brother, what Lidayim said about the wind? After the flowers appeared, what happened with the wind?”
“I do remember,” he says as he crosses to his armchair, the tea cup rattling on its mismatched saucer. “There was none — the air quite dead. It’s been noted that the most common way of referring to the Skythk is as wind. Particularly in the most ancient texts.” He stands, immediately on mission to find a volume in one of his stacks. Sighing most gratuitously.
“I’ve not changed your stacks, Brother. I moved some of them so that we could have room to walk.”
He surveys the stack nearest the kitchen, then the ones beneath the window. “So then where is Gerhard Hoechst?”
“In Germany, I presume.”
“Ashma Belief in Second Empire Masalay — I was looking for it just yesterday. I’m to believe it walked away?”
“Turned to mould, more likely.”
“You haven’t an edition, have you?”
“I don’t read German.”
He’s genuinely startled. “You don’t read German?”
“No Brother. I read English, Masalayan, Old Talidic, basic Latin, and some French.”
“You need German.”
“I shall start on it straight away.”
“You’re rather cheeky this morning, my dear.”
“It’s no longer morning, Brother. And I’ve not been sleeping much. I want to show you what I have. It’s related to the wind. It may be useful.”
“Alright, well it would have been nice if I could have found Gerhard’s book.” He returns to the armchair, flushed from bending over. “No Masalayan could have written it. Certainly not today. Scholarship has become so politicised. We must rely on foreigners to do our scholarship for us, and even then . . . July last, the Masalayan Languages Association in Munich, so much rancour over the word Talidic. Gerhard would have been appalled to see his views so misinterpreted, wilfully so. Several of us left mid-discussion and had drinks instead, delightful tavern, we stayed hours.”
He scans the room again, contemplating another search. “Well, I suppose I know it well enough from memory. He devotes an entire section to weather. Wind most particularly. And he goes d
eeply into early Que’ism, the best exegesis I’ve read of proto-Ashmanist belief, and shows how very central the association was between Oblivion and wind. He makes a compelling case, in fact, that in earliest Talidic, the words for ‘evil,’ ‘Oblivion,’ and ‘wind’ were the same: kithk. And that from that word came, much later, ‘Skythk.’
“On the theology — imagine it from Oblivion’s perspective. For all eternity, the universe is perfectly silent. Perfectly still, perfectly unified. Then a quiver. And it all shatters in an instant. Ashma’s urge to be known has flung the perfection apart, all madly rushing. The noise, the crashing together — making heat, making light — and the formation of so many bumps and creases in the fabric that had been flat. Oblivion reacted, how could it not? It moved to smooth out the creases. By expanding and blowing the fragments of creation apart.
“Ashma strives to crash things together. Oblivion strives to fling all things apart. Ashma craves mad and unpredictable heat — because it’s only through such contact, such creativity, that She can be known — while Oblivion craves to smooth out all the texture and render existence inert. On earth, we see Oblivion’s urge manifested as violence. But it springs from the pull for perfect stillness and perfect sameness, which underlies all, which we call death.”
“And so,” says Tchori, struggling with impatience, “if I understand what you’ve said about Hoechst, there’s reason to think that the early Que’ists and the Khaadumites believed that Oblivion on earth — the Skythk — manifested as wind. Not metaphorically, but literally, tangibly, as wind.”
“Yes, yes. For instance, we have the earliest texts of the Godling cult indicating that Khaadum’s protectors were able to detect an oncoming attack by watching the wind.”
“Watching what in the wind?”
“A bit difficult to interpret. But I think they came to believe that the wind would, as we’ve discussed, search for the Godling. The word would translate as ‘sniff,’ in the sense of what a predator does in tracking prey. ‘Stalk’ would be another translation. What they noticed is that there would always be a period of unnatural calm. Lasting days or longer. They attributed it to the Skythk pausing to gather energy. Coiling, as it were, preparing to pounce. Unnatural calm punctuated by violence, sudden violence.”
“And I think there’s something to that, Brother. I think that may be what happens. Sidaarik has the idea that he can follow the Skythk by observing Ikidris’ mother. How well that’s worked, we can’t know. But what if we could follow the Skythk by observing the wind?”
“Indeed . . .”
“Being honest, it feels ridiculous. Brother, I know what causes wind. It’s the simultaneous rising of hot air and falling of cold air — nothing magical about it, a natural phenomenon. There’s no motive involved, it simply happens.”
“I’ve the same unease. We’re rational people, you and I, and this is difficult. And to object to the word motive is exactly right. It’s not a matter of wanting, it’s not thought in any way that we would understand. The word in the Av Udaan, of course, is kiestaa. One could argue the translation forever. Smythe’s translation has it as impulse. Chu and his group have opted for drive. Interesting choice, don’t know that I like it. As you may know, I’ve always preferred urge. But then nothing ever feels quite right. We could spend forever on narrow semantic distinctions.”
“Not to denigrate narrow semantic distinctions.”
“No, never,” agrees the High Librarian fondly, “never. But we should agree that no word is ever going to be sufficient. Language lacks the capacity. And the exact mechanisms may forever be mysterious. They didn’t understand them at the time of the Av Udaan — and we’ve become more clever about the world since then, but not necessarily more knowing. I have confidence that we can know the where and the what. But I expect that the how and why will remain forever beyond us.”
“This may help with the first two,” says Tchori, opening the folder. “I have data. I have statistics analysing what’s significant. And from that I have maps. There’s a great deal of detail, and a story . . .”
“Which I will be delighted to hear. But I wonder if you might begin with the end?”
“Of course. I’ve taken data from all over the island. Comparing recent data, on the wind, to historical data for the same places at the same time periods. To look for aberrations. And I’ve found them: The wind has moved, it’s hidden, it’s gone quiet — at different places on the island, all since the conception.”
She flips through the papers. “I have a map. I’ve several maps and there’s movement and . . .” She closes the folder. “I’ll show them to you. I will. But Brother, I know where Sule should go. He needs to go to the Nova Coast.”
11 February
* * *
Jaya, Masalay
“Boy or girl?”
“I’m not sure, actually.”
It’s a full waiting room — the swankiest OB practice in Jaya, according to Pashi — and I’m the only woman who’s alone. She was going to come but then she got some kind of conflict, and I told her it was okay. And it is.
She wasn’t kidding about it being posh. First I had to get buzzed in after they verified I wasn’t riff-raff (suckers), and there was a maître d’ by the door asking me what refreshment I cared for. What I cared for was a Raspberry Snapple, but what I said was Perrier with lemon.
“We’re having a boy.” They’re a beautiful couple. Her accent sounds like she’s from Australia, but she looks Masalayan. His accent is just an I’m sexy accent.
“How far along are you?” I ask, to be polite. “I’m guessing . . . 28 weeks?”
“Exactly,” she says, impressed.
I tell her I’m not psychic — just used to work obstetrics. She asks how far I am. I tell them 24 weeks, and they stare at me like they’re sure I misspoke. Like maybe I meant sixty weeks, since I look like I should’ve popped a month ago. “I know. I’m big, huh? Third trimester I might need a wheelbarrow.”
They smile. A little. “Active then?”
“Pardon?”
“Does the baby move?”
“Yeah, yeah — never stops.”
* * *
Pashi seems to have forgiven me. Not completely — she thinks I’m insane, but she’s decided to let it go.
There’s a lot of ways I can justify what I did. Kindness, mercy, stuff like that. But the argument that seemed to work, at least a little, was the obligation one. He saved my life, and that comes with responsibility.
When I was walking down the road with him, my mind was not on any of that. I was mostly just trying to make him not be scared. I’d spent the whole night awake. He was in my bedroom and I just stayed in the main room. (Checking on that animal every two minutes to make sure it was still dead.) The wind and rain had all died down and it couldn’t have been more quiet. I knew what I wanted to do. I just didn’t know how.
On the road, navigating all the mud and downed branches and crap, I tried explaining in my pathetic Masalayan what I had in mind. A lot of hand gestures. He nodded along, but I knew he wasn’t getting it.
I’m not a complete dummy of course. I figured out from the tattoos, and the way he used that axe, and his chained-dog treatment, that this was a kid with a past. I knew enough about igmakis to wonder if he was one of them. But I’ve never been too good with the rational, examine-all-the-arguments kind of decision making. I kind of make a choice and then come up with why I did it.
There’s the two of us in this bright sun like a couple refugees. Him with dressings — the best I could improvise — on his arms and face, plus the zillion nicks and contusions on both of us. Coming on into the village, everybody gawking at us. Hard not feeling like we were the last two soldiers left from the war, us against them.
The whole place was in a tizzy. Fixing the damage from the storm and I’m sure gossiping about where Ephraim might have gone. I could feel Alimi’s heat before I even saw her. Swear to god, that chick’s got a stare that could freeze steam. And the
you’re dead look she gave Ephraim made me even more sure about what I wanted to do. I said I wanted to talk, and the two of us went into her little house. I told Ephraim not to move from those stairs.
In addition to chess and punching, Dad has taught me a few things about how you negotiate. First thing is to get the other guy on the defensive. So before we even sat I was all over her with what the hells — is this how she treats her guests, letting them get attacked by wild animals? Didn’t she promise she was going to look after me? What kind of crap door just falls down when some animal pushes on it?
She was all apologies, telling me how conscientious she is and swearing this kind of thing has never, ever happened. So a good start. Then I got to Ephraim and her whole body tensed. Jaw all tight, telling me I’m mistaken. I played the don’t insult me card and said I think I can remember my own near-death, thanks. I lifted up my shirt and showed her the huge contusion on my back. Pointed out the cuts on my face and said I had worse abrasions in places she couldn’t see. I asked what she thinks would have happened if Ephraim hadn’t come.
