The Focals sat unmoving, rooted to the floor of the apartment. Their faces were tranquil. The boy was struck by the fact that they were able to sit still in a hot room for so long. They had not moved a muscle since he came in the door. If they were charlatans then they were highly trained and highly talented, like the Jay magicians he had heard could perform miracles, piercing their flesh with hardwood pins or slowing their pulse to appear dead. The figures on the weave-mat might have been made of wood.
‘And you really believe they can see the future?’ he asked Samiha, gesturing towards the Focals. ‘You believe in the Saints, the Grafting prophecies, all that stuff?’
‘Particularly in all that stuff, as you call it,’ she observed. ‘That’s why I travelled to Argos in the first place.’ A spasm of regret passed over her face. ‘Actually, it was Juno’s idea to go. He was studying with the Focals.’
Tymon’s heart beat a little faster. He thought he understood now. The five people on the mat were rebels, whatever their bizarre beliefs. They were the friends Samiha had mentioned, the enemies of the Council.
‘So the Focals sent you to Argos,’ he breathed.
‘No one sent me,’ she answered quickly, almost defensively. ‘I went on behalf of the Focals, yes. But they didn’t send me.’
This nicety was beyond Tymon. ‘Well then, you went on their behalf,’ he said. ‘And you say you found the priests using Grafting on the pilgrims.’ She nodded. ‘But why didn’t the Focals do something about that themselves? Or couldn’t they stand up to the priests?’
‘They can, and they do. Though again not in the way you mean. The Rites were only one concern of ours. Juno and I were looking for a Sign of the Sap in Argos city, the fulfilment of a prophecy. One that predicts the end of Argosian power—the end of all power based on hate and tyranny.’ Her smile became eager as she leaned forward. ‘There are times when the Sap flows more strongly, Tymon. We’re privileged to be alive at such a time. The Year of Fire is upon us.’
He frowned in amazement. She sounded like the poetry on the walls of the city.
‘Help me to understand,’ he said. ‘You came all the way to Argos city, risked your life—your friend lost his life—simply because of some prophecy of the End Times?’ It seemed too ridiculous to contemplate.
‘It’s not just any prophecy. The King returns, remember. Not a King in hiding like we have now, but the Green Lord, the High King of the Four Canopies, crowned in glory. Nur will be free. We’ll all be free.’
Her eyes shone as she spoke. Tymon was shocked. He had assumed that, whatever her personal philosophy, the shanti was purely pragmatic when it came to fighting for Nurian freedom. Had he not known her better and witnessed her bravery first-hand, he might have dismissed her convictions as those of a crank.
‘Why wait around for some mystic King to come and save you?’ he scoffed. ‘Why not save yourselves?’
‘Do I look like I’m waiting around?’ she asked dryly. ‘The best way to save ourselves is to do the work of the Grafting. We can help the prophecies along.’
‘I don’t see why you’d want those particular prophecies to come true,’ he objected. ‘The world dying, and all…A third of this, a third of that…What if you’re in the wrong third?’
‘We Nurians are in the wrong third already, from what I can see,’ she said sadly. ‘The world is dying, Tymon. The Eastern Canopy has been dead for generations. There’s no Tree-water, and precious little rain. We might as well go all the way.’
Tymon was reminded of Galliano’s enthusiasm for other, more scientific apocalypses. The thought of his old friend was bittersweet.
‘So, did you find it? Your omen?’ he asked, deflated.
‘Oh yes,’ she replied with a mysterious smile. ‘I believe we did.’
‘What was it?’
As he spoke the group in the alcove stirred. All five people moved simultaneously. Their eyes were still closed, but they took hold of each other’s hands.
‘It is done,’ Samiha murmured. ‘Now we’ll have some answers.’
He saw that her face was transfigured with hope. She genuinely believed in the prophecies her friends provided; if they were charlatans, then the shanti was as much duped as anyone. He considered the possibility warily as, one by one, the Focals opened their eyes and stood up. They exited the tiny alcove and came to join Tymon and Samiha on the floor of the front room. The two elders nodded to the boy but did not address him directly. Samiha rose and fetched more yosha to serve them. Once she had completed the round of the room, handing out bowls of the fragrant drink and exchanging a few quiet words in Nurian with her guests, she took her place again beside Tymon.
‘Friends,’ she announced as the group gazed expectantly at her, ‘today is a good day. We have a visitor. This is Tymon of Argos. It is the first time in many years that a foreigner has witnessed a true Grafting. I call on you to tell us what you have Seen, though the tongue is strange.’
‘Beni, shanti,’ replied the old man. ‘Forgive my Argosi speech, it is not good. Signs are counted. Year has begun.’ He acknowledged Tymon with a kindly smile. ‘We are glad you found path here, young one. Do not hate weakness—’
‘—for weakness is strength,’ interjected the old woman.
Tymon stared at her in surprise. The wizened little lady sitting next to the old man had finished his phrase as if it were her own. ‘Soon you will choose your loyalties, Argosi,’ she continued without missing a beat, her grasp of the foreign words easier. ‘Choose well, and remember that strength lies in the Sap, not the stick.’
The old man did not appear in the least upset by her interference. He made a bobbing bow to Samiha.
‘You have done well, shanti,’ he said. ‘Your journey bears fruit.’
The old woman also bowed to Samiha, murmuring ‘shanti’ in turn; ‘shanti, shanti, shanti,’ echoed the three other members of the circle, bobbing in succession like rooks in a roost.
‘The time of testing has begun,’ proclaimed the old woman. ‘Events are now in motion that have been spoken of—’
‘—for centuries,’ put in the Nurian youth on her left. Again, the disruption appeared entirely natural, even expected. The young man went on as if his voice and the old woman’s were one. ‘Nothing can stand in our way. We have the victory. But that does not mean it will be—’
‘—easy,’ added the thin, pale girl beside him. She stumbled over the unfamiliar grammar, still holding tightly to the young man’s hand though the others had separated. ‘Fire Times show quality. Dead wood burns.’
Tymon felt a stab of disappointment. Apart from their unusual style of speech, the Focals’ predictions were standard prophetic fare. This, then, was all he could hope for from the Grafting: a series of riddles, vague statements that could apply to anything or anyone. His irritation intensified, his mood exacerbated by the suffocating atmosphere in the room. The apartment was unbearably hot. He told himself that he should not have expected more from a group of wild-eyed zealots, and shifted restlessly in his seat.
‘The next few days will be difficult, shanti,’ resumed the old woman. ‘The judgment is passed. The path is chosen. We have failed—’
‘—the test,’ completed the young man, frowning to himself in recollection. ‘The vision was clear. All is not as it should be. We speak the language of hate, the language of fire, and that flame will consume us. Every action has a—’
‘—consequence,’ stammered the thin girl, her expression troubled. She seemed half-lost in her trance even now. She eyed the empty space at the centre of the room as if she saw something there that terrified her. ‘We reap fire. It takes us, hearts and cities, all will—’
‘—burn,’ finished the fifth man, speaking for the first time.
Tymon shuddered. He was inclined to ask Samiha if he might open the balcony door, for an unpleasant, dizzy sensation had taken hold of him. Waves of dry heat travelled up his body and it occurred to him that the yosha might have disagreed with him.
He barely listened to the litany of predictions.
‘All will burn,’ repeated the fifth Focal. ‘All will suffer. High and low, rich and poor, guilty and innocent alike. There is no sanctuary. The choice is made, the path taken, all will—’
‘—burn,’ affirmed the man with white hair.
‘Burn!’ declared the old woman.
‘Burn, burn, burn!’ chanted the others in quick succession, their voices rising to a collective shout. All the Grafters now gazed at the space in the centre of the room.
‘Burn!’ cried Tymon belatedly, as he jumped to his feet, knocking over the tray of yosha.
For he had seen it. Rivers of flame had sprung into being before his eyes, consuming the air between the Focals: a vision, brief but unmistakable, of a city at the summit of a branch, burning like a torch. Then the momentary hallucination was gone and he was left standing, open-mouthed, among the spilled bowls. The Focals barely glanced at him. As usual, they showed no surprise at all at the interruption.
‘Tymon, are you alright?’ Samiha asked anxiously. She alone of the people in the room appeared startled by his outburst. ‘Do you feel unwell?’
He passed a hand over his eyes. ‘No!’ he answered. ‘I’m fine. I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.’ He sat down. ‘Go on, I’m perfectly well,’ he mumbled to the others, wilting in embarrassment.
And he did feel better. The heat and dizziness had drained out of him. The temperature in the room now seemed perfectly normal. He must have been dreaming, he thought. The events of the day before had exhausted him and he had been half asleep, hypnotised by the repetitive predictions. He berated himself for being so susceptible. The burning city had not even resembled Marak. It was a dream, he told himself, breathing deeply to calm his ragged pulse.
Whatever it had been, the episode in the apartment was now clearly over. A point of tension had passed. The Focals bowed their heads as if preparing to pray and took hold of each others’ hands again. To his discomfort, Tymon found his own hands grasped by Samiha to his right, and, more awkwardly, by the fifth Focal to his left. He squirmed, unused to the touch of a stranger. The verse the Nurians chanted was part of no liturgy he knew.
‘In weakness, find strength,’ began the white-haired man.
‘In emptiness, power,’ continued the old woman quietly.
‘Worlds that were severed, we now bind together,’ finished the young couple, as one. The fifth Focal said nothing, but remained still, his head bowed.
The words sent a pulse of joy through Tymon, as if his body recognised them even if his mind did not. He quelled the reaction hastily, unwilling to be enthralled by the Grafters yet again. But the Focals seemed uninterested in further dramatics. Much to Tymon’s relief, they let go of each other’s hands and looked up. The atmosphere in the room lightened. Even the young girl appeared to be fully restored to the ordinary world; she gave Tymon a timid smile. The old man murmured something in the old woman’s ear and the old woman made a wry remark in Nurian to her companions. Everyone laughed—except Samiha.
‘Is there no more to be done, friends?’ she broke in. ‘Are we condemned to simply watch and wait for disaster?’
She sat hunched, her hands clenched in her lap. With some surprise, Tymon understood that the Grafters’ prophecies had not been to her liking. All was not as it should be. He pricked up his ears.
‘Advise me,’ she pleaded. ‘Surely we can do something to stop the worst from happening?’
It was the fifth Focal who answered, his green eyes as merry and kind as if he had just predicted good rainfall and a fine harvest instead of fire, failure and ruin.
‘There is nothing you can do for now, shanti,’ he said gently. ‘Sometimes we must let a fever run its course. When the time for intervention comes, you’ll know. You’ll act swiftly to cut off the rotten member. Right now, any direct action would bring worse results.’ He winked at Tymon. ‘But here we have something more encouraging. A friend from the West! Samiha has told us of your exploits on the greatship. I’m glad to see you here at last, Tymon of Argos.’
The boy revived a little at the compliment, though he was too shy to do more than mumble his inarticulate thanks. He could not shake off the persistent impression that he had seen the fifth Focal before. Even on his own merits, the man was a complete puzzle. He spoke Argosian like a native, his accent flawless. His face was as dark as that of an Argosian too, and lined with suffering like a map. Only the eyes were too light and too foreign, a youthful flash under his grey locks. They seemed to pierce Tymon’s very soul.
Could it be real? the boy wondered suddenly. Had he been wrong to dismiss what was going on in the apartment as foolishness or chicanery? Could these people actually see the future? He recalled that the Grafters of old were able to produce illusions, to conjure images out of thin air. Their creations could have great effect if people believed in them. Was that what he had seen, shimmering for an instant in the middle of the room? Had he witnessed a Seeming?
‘Samiha,’ he hissed, edging towards the shanti on the weave-mat. ‘Tell me: did you notice anything strange during the Grafting?’
‘Strange?’ she repeated. She was preoccupied, staring absently at the pattern on the mat. ‘No. What do you mean?’
He shrugged uncomfortably. ‘Nothing. I just thought for a moment…It’s nothing. Forget it.’
She raised an eyebrow, but Tymon’s embarrassment had won over his curiosity and he refused to be drawn out. He helped the younger Nurians collect and refill the yosha bowls, taking advantage of the lull to surreptitiously observe the fifth Focal. The green-eyed man did not say much to the others, but drank from his bowl with quiet contentment. The boy had just regained his seat, determined to ask his neighbour his name, when Samiha addressed the gathering again.
‘Thank you for all your help, my friends. Maz, namis,’ she said graciously, though Tymon could hear an edge of regret in her voice. She turned to him. ‘It’s time for you to leave now, Argosi. There’s someone waiting for you at the mission.’
The directive took him by surprise. ‘But…but—’ he protested, forgetting both his manners and his embarrassment in his excitement, ‘I have so much to ask you! I want to know all about Grafting!’
This drew a general laugh from his listeners. ‘All about Grafting?’ observed the old woman. ‘It would take more than a lifetime to learn that, Argosi!’
‘Hush, Tuvala, he is thirsty for knowledge,’ said the white-haired man. ‘As it should be! If Sap wills, you learn more.’
‘We’ll see each other tomorrow,’ Samiha assured him. ‘We can talk then.’
She stood up and moved towards the door without further discussion or explanation, as if their next meeting had already been arranged. Tymon scrambled after her. He did not know what else to do, so he bowed to the group in farewell.
‘In the beauty,’ he said.
‘Be blessed,’ answered the old man, politely.
‘Sav beni,’ added the woman named Tuvala. The younger couple echoed her words.
‘In the beauty,’ said the fifth Focal, raising his hand in farewell.
Tymon followed Samiha onto the balcony. ‘I’m sorry about the yosha,’ he told her. ‘I don’t know what happened back there. I felt very hot. I must have come across like a complete lunatic.’
She gave him a hard look, but her reply was unruffled. ‘Don’t mention it.’
He did not want to leave, and cast about for an excuse to prolong the conversation.
‘Back on the ship I promised to tell you how I knew your name,’ he blurted. ‘I was worried you wouldn’t believe me, but I think you will, now. I dreamt it.’
‘Is that so?’ She surveyed him calmly from the doorway.
‘I thought you’d be surprised,’ he said. ‘I mean, what are the odds that I dream up the right name? It’s almost like Grafting.’
‘The odds are quite high, if one is listening, that one will hear. If one looks, one might even See.’
&n
bsp; ‘You sound like the Focals,’ he grumbled. ‘Don’t Nurians ever talk plainly?’
His comment provoked her to wry laughter. ‘I’m sorry, Tymon. I’ve been so used to hiding my true thoughts and intentions…I want to talk to you plainly. Come again tomorrow and we’ll have a good long conversation about the Grafting, and your dreams. Be here by the fifth hour. Right now we have to prepare for the funeral service of those who died yesterday. I hope you will forgive me if I do not invite you.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘Be blessed, Tymon! Sav beni.’
‘I’ll be back tomorrow! Thank you!’ he called, as she shut the door of the apartment.
He grinned a moment at the peeling green paint of the doorway, his thoughts far away. The morning’s experiences had filled him with a wild hope. Perhaps there really were Grafters in the world. Perhaps they would share their secrets with him. Even if the fiery vision in Samiha’s apartment had been nothing but an aberration, a daydream, it had a salutary effect. He felt lighter than he had when he arrived, as if he had been freed of a layer of binding dust. He took the ladder down from the balcony two rungs at a time, hardly aware of the pain in his ribs. Whether it was sheer chance that had brought him to Samiha’s house or the power of the Sap, he had found the red-haired girl again, and found her to be the friend he yearned for. He did not mind for the moment that she seemed always to be teasing him or looking down on him. He wondered briefly what she had meant when she said that someone was waiting for him at the mission. He dropped into the street, whistling to himself. He felt ready to meet anything and anyone.
He decided to brave the quays and collect the mission’s water allowance after all, for he felt surprisingly restored after his encounter with Samiha and the Focals. He wound his way back along the alley, towards the main ramp and the city gates. He had almost reached the first-tier market when he chanced on the street sign that had eluded him on his way down. A dirty white board hung on the wall at the corner of the road, indicating its name. Like many places in the colonial city, Samiha’s street had both a Nurian and an Argosian designation: the two words were written next to each other on the sign. Tymon peered up at the double marker.
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