Survive

by Vera Nazarian

  Or are we all mistaken, lulled into a false sense of security?

  Just for once, I try not to think along those lines. . . . This is supposed to be a friendly, traditional meeting of our relatives.

  And then Romhutat picks up his eating utensil, which is our cue to also begin eating.

  I glance to my side at Dad, and see that he automatically takes his own eating implement and moves it around the plate without actually putting anything in his mouth. Instead, Dad observes with thoughtful interest our future in-laws. Right now, what is he thinking?

  The Imperator consumes his first course in silence. The Imperatris and the Princess eat slowly, taking dainty bites. My own siblings follow suit, copying the Imperial women’s restraint and table manners. For a few minutes there’s only the clanking of cutlery against plates.

  I make a show of putting small pieces of food past my lips, but I’m unable to eat or taste anything. Glancing over at Aeson, I see him taking his own controlled bites and watching his Father.

  How soon can we engage in small talk?

  And then it begins.

  “Ter Charles,” the Imperator says. “My congratulations on your recent loss of your wife.”

  All at once, silence descends on the room.

  Everyone freezes. . . . I hear Gracie’s barely controlled gasp. My eyes widen in sudden horror.

  My Dad stops moving things around on his plate. His brows twitch, and then his face stills into a peculiar expression of uncertainty. He slowly turns his head to look directly at the Imperator. “Beg your pardon?”

  “Eh—wrong word in your English,” the Imperator says, and his expression remains a mask. “I meant to say condolences. So—my condolences on your loss.”

  “Oh!” my poor father says at once, as his face eases in relief. And then he nods. “Yes, thank you.”

  The relief of everyone else around the table is palpable. I hear multiple breaths being released, and then the renewed faint sound of moving utensils.

  I glance at Aeson quickly, just as he meets my gaze in that moment, frowning. I read the fierce darkness in his look and then I have no doubt. . . . The Imperator’s command of English is excellent. Which means, he chose his words intentionally—a sadistic provocation.

  “I am deeply sorry for you in your beloved wife’s loss,” Devora Kassiopei says softly. “It must be unimaginable. . . . Your heart is plunged in death’s shadow, and your spirit is fractured prematurely. Your ka is poised between this world and the next, its life purpose faltering, while the ba is ready to flee on shadow wings and take the ka with it. . . . And it must be agony because, for all practical purposes, the akh is already gone, having reunited with your beloved mate on the beyond side, the next stage of your mutual journey.”

  My father looks at the Imperatris with wonder and gratitude. “What a graceful way of expressing it. . . .”

  “Grace is required for proper understanding.” Devora nods with a faint smile. “It is the nature of our human grief to best respond to the sublime, even as the grieving heart longs to regain clarity. . . . When we lose loved ones to death—ahead of ourselves—we rely on them to light the way first, as they travel ahead of us into the eternal realm. Then, for the rest of our lives, we are pulled relentlessly toward them by all the three parts of our spirit caught in that light. . . . Our physical bodies become limp, useless dolls controlled only by grief’s far-reaching strings—especially in the beginning.”

  Dad nods slowly, his expression full of raw suffering.

  “It is this fracturing into three that causes the imbalance that you are feeling now. As our three-layered spirit fabric is temporarily redefined, the new version of our selves has to be inscribed in The Book of the Dead. Once it is done, grief becomes bearable and life purpose returns. But—it takes time. Afterwards, of course, we are no longer the same in this world, because our loved one has taken parts of us, permanently.”

  “I—I am truly grateful for the kind words and your sympathy—My Sovereign Lady Devora,” Charles Lark, my father, says in a quiet voice. “It’s apparent that you understand grief and loss.”

  “And I am glad to help in any small way. You are entangled with your love, and she is holding your akh in a safe embrace until your time comes. Such is the world that I believe.”

  “And a pretty world it is, My Wife,” the Imperator says, his cool voice cutting like steel into the gentle exchange. Staring at my father, he adds, “The Archaeona Imperatris holds to certain traditional religious beliefs, and I’m certain she will expand on them in detail on a different occasion.”

  “Yes, of course,” my Dad says somewhat awkwardly, this time addressing both of them. “I would appreciate the opportunity to listen. . . . Thank you again.”

  “As far as opportunities,” the Imperator continues. “Now that you are here in my Court, and you are bereaved, I grant you permission to seek a suitable replacement among the noblewomen of the Court.”

  For the first time, Devora Kassiopei utters a gasp. “Rom!”

  Immediately the Imperator swivels his head to look at her. “What? The man is not dead as you make him out to be. Indeed, he and his grief will both benefit from having a new wife. He may look for her in Low, Middle, or High Court. I am granting him an Imperial favor.”

  “Father, how can you—how can you suggest something so cold?” Aeson says suddenly.

  “Not you too, boy?” the Imperator snarls at his son. “You will remember your place as you sit today at my table.”

  The grim desolation in Aeson’s expression is impossible to convey. . . .

  At this point everyone around the table comes alive with angry energy. So many darting glances, so much movement ready to burst out. My siblings are fuming.

  As for me—I’ve literally forgotten about myself, about having normal living reactions such as anger or outrage, so focused am I on the others in my family—on my father in particular—in the sickening tension of the moment.

  This heartless monster just casually informed our Dad that he should replace our Mom.

  Gracie looks ready to jump out of her chair, and if I’m not wrong, I think Manala has gripped her arm to keep her in place. Manala herself looks terrified. George and Gordie are exchanging grim glances. We squirm, still keeping our silence, but everyone waits for Dad to respond to this outrage.

  Charles Lark, my father, straightens in his seat, and lets the utensil in his hand fall. He looks directly at the Imperator and does not blink as their gazes lock together. “I must assume this is a cultural misunderstanding or another linguistic gaffe—but your suggestion is highly inappropriate. My wife died barely two months ago. The idea that I would want to look for a replacement now or ever—even if I were to be inclined that way at some point, and I am not—is not merely tone-deaf in a society that prides itself on musical tonality, but very unkind.”

  My Dad pauses, even as his usually mellow, friendly baritone voice has grown loud and resonant and forceful—as I’ve never heard him sound like this before. “I understand that I’m an invited guest here, and this is your house, your rules. Your court, your country—You are the Imperial Sovereign of the nation Atlantida. Considering all these differences in cultural norms and values, and our mutual unfamiliarity, I am still going to give you—and your intentions—the benefit of the doubt. But I will have to respectfully decline this favor.”

  Silence reigns again.

  And then the Imperator makes a mocking sound. “Very well, suit yourself. And yes, you are my guest, and as such, it will do you good to remember that you are here only because of my son’s choice of your daughter.”

  “I will remember it,” Dad says. “For the sake of my daughter and your very worthy son.”

  “Shall we continue the meal and have the next dish, please?” Devora Kassiopei interrupts carefully.

  “Yes, proceed with it,” Romhutat says with disdain and waves his hand to the servers.

  The Imperial staff obeys, and our half-eaten plates are take
n away and replaced with new ones.

  As the service is happening, the Imperator calls for a refill of his glass and begins to drink, glancing around at all of us between swallows.

  He must’ve noticed Gracie’s particularly intense expression of barely repressed anger as she stares at the clean plate before her, because he pauses to observe her, narrowing his eyes. He then continues his visual sweep of the table, this time examining my brother George.

  George keeps up a cold demeanor, and very slowly picks up his own glass and takes a swallow. He too is staring directly ahead, basically locking gazes with Gordie across the table, so as not to have to reveal the turmoil he is keeping under a hard lid. As for my younger brother, his expression is fixed in a frown of permanent disbelief. Furthermore, Gordie is not eating.

  The second course of food is served on our plates—a fragrant vegetable cream soup inside shallow bowls of sculpted dough blossoms. We pick up the accompanying chivkoor—weird bidirectional ladle utensils shaped like boats that Atlanteans use to eat soup—and dip them in the bowls.

  I should point out that the chivkoor boat ladle has no handle, holds much more than an Earth spoon, and you can sip or slurp the contents from either nose end of the “boat”—the prow or the stern. One end is slightly blunt and rounded, the other slightly pointy and angled. Really interesting utensil, and I think my Dad is momentarily fascinated by it as he slowly turns it in his fingers, probably distancing himself in order to forget the crass ugliness of what has just happened.

  But apparently that’s not an option.

  “Gwen, my dear, how are the Wedding preparations progressing for both of you?” the Imperatris asks me in a comforting voice, maneuvering the conversation in a pleasant direction for everyone. “With only one day left, you must be overwhelmed with all the excitement. Please let me know if you need assistance with any of the remaining details on your schedule. The Venerable Therutat tells me that everything is proceeding splendidly, so you should feel a sense of great relief and accomplishment at this point.”

  “Thank you, my Sovereign Lady,” I say with an instant flood of warmth at her continued kindness. “Everything has been wonderful. I’m mostly done with all Bridal events and selections, and I believe Aeson is too.” And I glance to my left to see Aeson looking at me.

  “Indeed,” he says. “All that remains is tomorrow, the day of fasting, cleansing, and reflection.”

  “Good.” Devora inclines her head graciously. “And it is such a fortunate blessing that Gwen’s father and brother arrived here just in time for the Wedding to participate in your joyful day.”

  “Oh, yes,” I say to her and glance at my Dad with a smile.

  Dad meets my gaze and gives me a surprisingly confident, encouraging nod and smile that immediately sets me at ease with the familiarity of childhood. “It will be a wonder to see my little girl get married. Still hard to believe it is happening.” And then he leans forward slightly and glances past me at Aeson. “And you, Aeson. Such an impressive, wonderful young man—what an honor to have you in the family.”

  “Thank you, Amre-ter Charles.” Aeson looks at my Dad with an earnest expression in his eyes, which I find particularly touching.

  “Not merely a fine young man,” Romhutat Kassiopei’s voice cuts in suddenly. “My Son is the future Imperator. The honor that is being bestowed upon the Lark Family cannot be overstated—it is beyond your imagination or understanding.”

  “Oh, I understand,” Dad replies, almost startled at the sound of the Imperator speaking.

  He’s come to expect the worst, it occurs to me. In just one afternoon of being exposed to the Imperial personality, my Dad now knows what that man is like. He knows that whatever comes out of the Imperator’s mouth is going to be hurtful, or terrifying, or outrageous, yet again.

  But this is my Dad. . . . And his mere presence is a comfort even now in this surreal place and time.

  Even so, right now, I’m terribly worried for him.

  “You do not. It is true that you will attempt to understand,” the Imperator says in an ice-hard tone, and the weight of his gaze intensifies. “It is your duty now to fathom as much as you may about the Imperial Kassiopei.”

  “Fortunately, studying the intricacies of your dynasty and its traditions is within the realm of my professional interests,” my father replies in a tone that is both placid and genuine. “I will proceed to remedy my lack of knowledge and expand my understanding with sincere appreciation.”

  “Yes, I recall now, you are a scholar,” the Imperator says.

  “A historian,” my Dad clarifies. “PhD in Classics and Ancient History, with a focus on Anthro-Linguistics and early Civilization. Ancient Mesopotamia and Greece were a particular core area of my research. . . . Indeed, now that I’m here, I find a startling number of commonalities between Earth’s most distant past and what exists at present on Atlantis. Such a wonderful set of parallels, and no doubt there will be many more as I explore the absolute vastness of your culture. It could very well be humanity’s earliest, longest uninterrupted branch—”

  “It is.” Romhutat Kassiopei pronounces, interrupting. “We are the dawn of what you know, and the Kassiopei line stretches even farther into the past.”

  “Some say you are gods.” It is my brother George speaking suddenly, with just a tiny bit of sarcasm. “Or, so I’ve read in the ship’s database during our flight here. A daring claim. No doubt, it’s the most pragmatic way of holding on to such near-absolute power for so long.”

  At the sound of his voice everyone turns to look at him. The Imperator examines George. “You think the divinity of Kassiopei is a mere deception?” he says softly. In this very moment, the Imperator’s quiet speech is even more terrifying than his normal volume.

  George stares back at him with a controlled, slightly defiant, slightly uncertain expression. “I don’t know,” he says after a pause. “Are you saying you are divine? Seriously?”

  “Stand up,” the Imperator says, and suddenly his voice modulates and becomes a slithering, reverberating, unnaturally amplified—or is that only an illusion—familiar thing of irrefutable power and compulsion. “Stand up, come closer, kneel before me.”

  “Huh?” George says, frowning. “What?” But he rises from his seat nevertheless.

  “Rise! Approach! Kneel!” the Imperial compelling voice thunders in my mind—in everyone’s mind—and suddenly all of us start getting up from our seats, chairs being pushed back loudly, uncontrollably. . . . Even the servants stop their work and obey. . . . A plate crashes to the floor. . . .

  In seconds, everyone is down on the floor, bodies hunched, heads lowered, wherever they stand.

  Small correction—most of us, but not all of us.

  I remain in my chair, frowning and trying to shake my head in order to shake off the compulsion like an annoying buzzing in my inner ears.

  Next to me, Aeson remains in place, leaning forward with a stormy expression, but does not budge from his seat as he glares at his Father with fury.

  And on the other side of me, Charles Lark, my father, parts his mouth in uncertainty and says calmly, without moving, “What is happening?”

  All three of us are not compelled.

  The Imperator sits like a dragon, looking over a room full of prostrate people, and stares at us. Remnants of the otherworldly tide of power are still surging in his eyes, even as the echoes of his compelling voice seem to rebound, strike the walls of the chamber and move outward in concentric quantum circles in our minds. . . .

  His expression is controlled as he sees both me and Aeson still in our places, defying him—but there is a flicker of surprise as he notes that my father is unaffected also.

  Meanwhile, I stare with outrage, seeing people I love, my family, groveling on the floor. I can’t see Gracie’s face, only that she is shaking, huddled in a fetal position on her knees, with her head down, next to Manala who has assumed her usual resigned obedience pose. Manala’s hands are almost neatly
folded, palms down on the floor, her gracefully framed forehead is touching the ground, earrings and other jewelry cascading to sweep the tiles.

  Both my brothers’ bodies are in a strange, awkward configuration of limbs, not knowing what to do with themselves, but definitely kneeling, with faces down. I notice that George is shaking his head, similar to what I’ve been doing, as though trying to get rid of the compulsion probably still ringing inside his head. . . . Gordie has assumed a bizarre variation of the “duck, cover, and hold” position that we’ve been taught in school, when we were still back in California, to use in case of an earthquake. His hands are wrapped over the back of his head to cover the neck, and he appears utterly confused. . . . Poor Gordie!

  The Imperatris herself is kneeling gracefully, in an unresisting, practiced way, just as her daughter. Because of her seating proximity to the Imperator, she is literally at his feet. . . . My heart surges with particular hurt and anger on her behalf. It is yet another reminder of the chronic humiliation she must endure from her husband.

  The servants are scattered around the room, kneeling variously. One of the cooking stations starts to smoke with a loud sizzle, and now a dish that was in the process of being sautéed is burning unattended. . . .

  And then I hear the very normal voice of my Dad, as he repeats his question, sitting at my side. “What is going on?”

  At once the Imperator focuses on my father. His perusal of my Dad is different . . . calculating, evaluating. “So—you are immune also. How very interesting. I see now where your daughter gets it—from you.”

  “What?” My Dad shakes his head and his own tone hardens. “Gets what? What did you do to my children? Why are they on the floor? Are they hurt?”

  “My Imperial Father’s compelling voice—the divine Logos voice of the Kassiopei, has the power to sway everyone to his will,” Aeson replies with clear, resonant anger. “With a few exceptions.”