[Closed] All that was shown to me

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Early Afternoon, 27 Bethas, 2720
Tseq’ule Caravan, an Oasis to the South of Tsaha’ota

They climb the hill to the south of Tsaha’ota slowly through the first stages of the trip. Nkemi glances back at the top, for the view she remembers from the journey towards; she sees a glimpse of Anetol behind her, swathed in fabric and shaded by his hat, his face pinched and already red.

Past him there is the long downward slope of the scrublands, scratched here and there with scraggly dry trees, bent sideways beneath the sun, the ground cracked beneath them. In the distance the ribbon of the Turga glitters, half-indistinguishable from the haze of heat which rises up into the sky. Tsaha’ota is a blur curled into the sweep of the river, a blotch of brown against brown; Nkemi can see it only because she knows where to look against the sweep of Hulali’s waters.

The caravan keeps going, and Nkemi looks forward once more, to the long train of camels and wagons before her.

Anetol talks like a thunderstorm; it builds in him, builds in the deepening of his caprise and the shifting of his field, and then opens up and pours down on her. He wants to talk of camels, of goats, of the journey, of Tsaha’ota. Nkemi listens to the words and the spaces between them; she remembers sitting behind Nkanzi a long time ago, asking questions to fill the desert silence, and drinking greedily in the answers which flowed like water. She remembers, too, the strange pinching newness of Vienda, and how much there was she does not know.

She talks; she talks, although her throat goes dry and hoarse.

“It is not done,” Nkemi explains, “to bring one’s own water. To have a supply your own is to say you do not trust Tseq’ule, and that you cannot be trusted like them. Water is precious - Hulali is merciful,” Nkemi pauses, and grins, “- but it is also heavy. The canteen by your legs is for this morning; it is best to drink now, so that when the heat comes you will be prepared.”

“When the heat comes?” Anetol asks; Nkemi hears the tightness in his throat, and the drawing together of his eyebrows.

Nkemi does not answer; she knows there are no words which will be of comfort.

He wants to know about the camels; she answers, as she can. “It is said they may go a week without drinking, and still work. They need to eat – they like the cactus which grow deeper in the sands, for all that they are covered in thorns.” She rests a small hand on the tan neck of the camel, and strokes, lightly. “But it is well for them to take more water,” Nkemi says, cheerful, “and to save such measures.”

They wind through the low hills, up and down; after the slope up past Tsaha’ota, they weave between, and slope down once more. There is little even of scrub grass now; the ground is all cracked and hot beneath them. As they walk, onwards, the wind drifts sand through the camels’ hooves; here and there can be found a small pile of it, huddled in the lee of a rock or burying the base of a cactus; the wind scatters and sends it off.

There is little to be found in the way of life; lizards perch here and there on rocks, tongues flicking out to taste the dry air. Once a shadow brushes over them, and Nkemi looks up to see a hawk circling, high overhead.

The call, when it comes, echoes down the line: “Osi!”

Nkemi takes it up: “Osi!” She cries, and leans over the edge of the saddle to gather up the precious moisture of her mouth, and spit on the ground. Before them, Ipiwo and Ofero do the same; Ipiwo has wilted slowly in the heat, and is not quite straight upright, anymore.

“It means gift,” Nkemi says, shining a beaming smile back at Anetol. She says no more; he will see for himself.

There is a gleaming in the distance; there are trees which arch up from the desert, stretching into the sky, ringed with cacti. In the midst of it there is soft green grass, and a cool water which burbles and ripples in the middle. The camels come to it; they ring it, and one of the men comes along, kneeling each of them.

Nkemi climbs off through the stiffness of her legs; she does not ask, but gives both her hands to Anetol, and holds him steady.

Next to them, Ipiwo is sick, retching on the ground, her face drawn; Ofero crouches next to her, holding her up with one hand as the other rubs smooth circles on her back.

Nkemi looks, her face still; she turns back to Anetol, and squeezes his hands lightly. “It is well to walk a little in the shade,” she tells him. “Let them see to the camels first, and there will be sun-dried meat for us to eat.”

[Tom Cooke]

Tseq’ule Caravan • Traveling South

Morning on the 27th of Bethas, 2720

H
e’s almost numb to the chafing, by the time he’s leaned back and the camel is kneeling by the water. It burbles softly, and light glitters on the ripples and bubbles like so many pearls. He has half-longed for it, in the minutes since he first tried the word osi on his tongue – half-longed for it, and half-dreaded it. But now, as Nkemi helps him ease off the hump with wordless grace, he has no energy to look about the milling natt for the familiar scar. He’s no sense of eyes looking at him; he’s no sense of anything but the cool breeze and the smell of water and greenery.

He hears a sound of laoso gagging, then catches a sick-sweet tang on the air. His lips feel numb; his teeth sit together oddly, he notices. Gritting his jaw, he manages to look once over his shoulder.

It’s – ada’na Ipiwo, he remembers, though he’s almost lost the name in the day’s haze, and he can’t quite find the shape of her husband’s. The mild-mannered caprise seems an age ago. He can only watch her for a split-second as she gives another lurch; he winces and looks away, feeling his own stomach turn over.

He looks at Nkemi instead. Her small face is set, brigk-serious, with no expression he can read.

He holds onto her, shameless for once, as she guides them away toward the shade. He takes his hat off, fanning himself with the great flopping brim. The tide recedes, once the air no longer smells like sick. “Thank you, Nkemi,” he says.

He wonders if it’s the couple’s first time traveling the desert; he can’t remember what they spoke of earlier, when Nkemi mentioned Dkanat. He feels a sharp pang of sympathy. Maybe she’s been sick all morning. Gods know he only narrowly escaped losing his breakfast, and the day’s only halfway.

Most of the other folk are steady enough, if sweat-shiny and tired-looking. He catches sight of Inis, at least, back by the water. Her hair is a dark cloud about her head, and she kneels by a camel, stroking its neck. He watches her rise to her feet, turning to a human man a good foot and a half taller than her. Her face seems longer and more drawn than it was earlier; her eyes seem deeper-set. She’s speaking, nodding, and then he’s offering her his arm.

“I’m sure the camels are glad for the rest, too,” he says, once he’s breath enough to speak.

He’s too tired to start, but it comes as a surprise anyway – the sight of her, tall and thin, leaned up against the curving thin trunk of a tree. Her sinewy arms are crossed over her chest; she’s watching Inis and the others from afar. With the thick kohl around her eyes, it’s hard to read her expression, but her wide mouth is dimpled at one corner with an especially deep frown.

She looks at him and Nkemi, raising one brow. “Ada’na,” she says. “Sir.”

“Ada’na Ole.” He disentangles himself from Nkemi briefly and does his best to bow; he manages his head and shoulders.

She follows them with her eyes. Then, she eases up off the tree. “You have had a pleasant journey thus far?” she asks, watching his pinched, drawn face.

He smiles. “I saw a hawk,” he offers brightly if hoarsely, not knowing what else he can honestly say.

If it’s possible for her frown to deepen, it does. She falls into step on the other side without warning, straight-backed, arms still crossed. “This is not your first crossing,” she says, “ada’na.” Past Nkemi, he notices there’s a knife in a well-cared-for leather sheath on her belt, and a few more bulky shapes under her clothes. “You are a sub-prefect of Windward Market,” she adds. “I have never been to Windward Market. I have never been inside of Thul Ka.”

She shrugs her shoulders minutely.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Early Afternoon, 27 Bethas, 2720
Tseq’ule Caravan, an Oasis to the South of Tsaha’ota

Nkemi is not quite used to it, the way the Anaxi show so much on their pale fair skin. She grew to know it, in Vienda, but one week returned and already the pale green cast to Anetol’s skin takes her by surprise – she does not know how he can look pale and green and red all at once, but he does. He clutches onto her shoulder with sweat-slick hands, and she eases them away from the camel and into the shade of the trees, away from the sickly-sweet smell of Ipiwo.

“Ada’na,” Nkemi says, politely, smiling at Ole. Anetol comes away from her and she holds herself very still until he has managed his bow – in case. Only then does she offer her own, careful and even, so that Anetol’s hand may rest on her shoulder as she does it.

It is Nkemi’s wish to keep guiding Anetol slowly through the shadwed grass. There is no rush; there is nowhere they must go. But she knows something of how he feels now, and she knows something of how he will feel tonight, and it is best that he stretch his legs out now, while he may. She knows, too, how she feels; all the lines of her small body have stiffened tight. More than anything she longs to strip down and dive into the cool water, or else to jog along the edge of the caravan at least a little while so that she may move.

There is that which she can do, and there is that which she cannot – will not – and Nkemi knows the difference. She takes small, slow steps in the shade, Anetol grasped tight to her shoulder, and bears up well beneath the resting of his weight.

Even here, there is little enough shade to be found. The sun is at its highest point, in the sky above; it is a good season, Nkemi told Anetol earlier, for the crossing, because the days are not so long. There is enough light to set up camp at night – to travel in the early dawn – when the skies are clear, to set the pace of their days and nights as they see fit. In this, the hottest parts, they will rest and stretch; even the camels may like it.

Their camel, Nkemi notices with a smile, has found a small cactus which is too her liking; she is nibbling on it with large flat teeth, lips moving softly around it, and has a pleased camel-look on her face. Ipiwo has made it to the shade, and is slumped, trembling, against a tree; Ofero crouches next to her with a canteen, and pours water in a tightly cupped hand which he pools against the back of her neck. All this Nkemi sees with the corner of her gaze – this and the shifting movement of the caravan, the way the men settle the camels before themselves – and the rest of it is lifted squarely to Ole as she walks beside them.

Nkemi nods, as the woman speaks. “Many in Windward Market have never seen a hawk in the desert,” She says. She tucks her arm around Anetol and beneath his other arm, to prop him up a little more, when he stumbles and sags slightly more against her. There is a dampness there; Nkemi did not have a chance to check his canteen before he came off the camel, and she tries to think and to count back how many times she heard him drink; she is not sure. He makes a sort of grunting sound, but they keep walking, slowly and evenly.

Nkemi looks up at Ole; she does not hesitate to meet the woman’s gaze. “As a sub-prefect of Windward Market and a daughter of Dkanat, I have crossed the desert many times,” Nkemi says, solemnly. “But not as many times as you, ada’na,” she inclines her head now; it is not quite a bow, with Anetol tangled up in her, but it is a gesture of respect all the same.

[Tom Cooke]

Tseq’ule Caravan • Traveling South

Morning on the 27th of Bethas, 2720

T
here are many things those of Windward Market have not seen.” Ole’s voice is neutral, and the expression on her face hasn’t changed a whit. Nor has she removed her sharp gold eyes from Nkemi’s face.

Her frown doesn’t lessen as the prefect inclines her head, but she lifts her chin slightly – and then looks ahead, shrugging her shoulders again. There’s something of the hawk about her from this angle, he thinks.

Osi, he repeats in his mind, osi, osi. He’s not sure how he’d’ve felt in a kilometer, if they hadn’t found this oasis. His throat is dry, though he’s taken some water that morning. He’s never needed this much water in his life, nor wanted other, stronger drink more. Anything to ease the tight coils of the muscles in his back, the muscles in his legs. Even as Nkemi catches him underneath his armpit, letting him lean into her, he can’t seem to relax them.

The air has its warm thickness even here. He tries not to breathe too heavily, and instead counts the seconds between inhales and exhales.

He’s looked over at Nkemi only once or twice – only as often as his pride permits – and though he’s never caught her staring at him, he’s caught the edge of something in her face, he thinks. It puts him in mind of her crouched with him on the floor of his study, rubbing the life back into his hands.

Ada’na Ipiwo is having a tsuter time, too, by the looks of it. He’s seen her and her husband sitting in the shade, and she looks wrung dry, though she’s no longer hurling on the grass.

He finds himself looking out across the saddled humps of the camels, eyes wandering from face to face. He can’t find Inis anymore. A familiar natt crouches by a camel, running a hand over the soft fur of its neck. He can hear the hum of insects, the skitter of small feet, the rustling of the leaves and the burble of the water. Everything else is soft, tired conversation, with the wind carrying patches of Mugrobi and Estuan to his ear.

“I am a daughter of Iwayow’dzigid,” Ole goes on. Her voice lilts over the word; he’s never heard of it. “I am also a daughter of the steppe. It’s possible I have not crossed as many times as you, ada’na.” She inclines her head slightly, too.

His eyes don’t find what they’re looking for. Instead, he looks over and up at Ole, raising his brows. In spite of the thick kohl and the strong lines her angular face makes, he realizes now how young she looks.

Her hand comes down to rest its heel on the pommel of her knife. Her posture is looser, but he knows well enough the gesture. “I have been to Dkanat once.” Lifting her chin up again, she looks at him now. He raises his head, though his neck aches, to meet her gaze. “You? Son of – Anaxas?” Ah-nah-sas, she pronounces, skimming over the n. “Sir,” she adds.

He finds it in him for a grin. “I’ve never crossed the desert before, no, ada’na. I’m nothing if not a son of Anaxas. I come from Vienda.” It’s not a lie, exactly, but it still tastes like ash in his dry mouth.

She frowns. She glances from him to Nkemi, her eyes settling on Nkemi. They narrow slightly.

He is tired. Leaned so close, he thinks he can feel tension in all Nkemi’s muscles, too. She’s as whipcord-sturdy as ever, but there’s the feel of a tight-wound spring about her; not a spring that can’t unwind itself – walking upright, easy, not shaking and about to break – but wound nevertheless. Do you think, he wants to ask Ole, she would lie to you? He feels unexpectedly offended.

Still looking at Nkemi, she says something in Mugrobi. He hears the word brigk, curling sharp. Ole nods once, then looks away sharply.

“Ada’na, sir,” comes Inis’ voice, with a rasp it didn’t have earlier that morning. Her limp is heavier. She’s come from the direction of Ipiwo and her husband, he realizes. “How fare you?” She looks between them, and her eyes linger neither on him nor on Ole’s face.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Early Afternoon, 27 Bethas, 2720
Tseq’ule Caravan, an Oasis to the South of Tsaha’ota

Nkemi feels the rhythm of Anetol’s breath, with her arm across his back. She can count the seconds of them with him, though there is no need; they are deep steady breaths, in and out, with smooth, even time between.

Nkemi does not know Iwayow’dzigid, but she can picture it, even before Ole goes on to speak of the steppe. She has never seen it, but she has read of it – she has looked, wondering, at maps and atlases and topographies – she has seen it painted, both in words and watercolors. She looks at Ole, and she can imagine her standing tall amidst the tall high grasses, the wide shaded trees which stretch sideways at the top.

Anetol’s breath is smooth still as he speaks; Nkemi hears the grin in his voice, and she is relieved. He is still leaning much of himself on her, but there is less of a shuffle to his steps, now; his feet come up a little more off the ground, and ease back down, and the stance of his legs is not so wide as it was

“I am Tseq’ule’s brigk,” Ole says in Mugrobi, looking at her.

Nkemi holds her gaze from beneath Anetol’s arm, looking at her through the shade.

Nkemi turns her head now; she looks out, deliberately, over the caravan. A bolt of sunlight catches the green and glitters on the blue water; there is a not so distant splash, and a burst of laughter. She looks at the camels, one by one, at the long eyelashes of one who dips his head to drink of the oasis, and the soft lips of her own, who nibbles delicately at her cactus still. She looks at the wagons, covered and sheltered against the trees, and she looks at the men, who, as all the passengers rest, are busying themselves still, kneeling on the banks to fill canteens and securing ropes and ties.

Nkemi looks back to Ole. “All treasures need a guard,” she answers in the same language.

Ole nods once, and looks away.

Anetol is taking a little more of his weight; Nkemi evens her breathing beneath his, tucked against his side. This too, she told him, as they road together on the camel, when the words trickling from him had come to a stop, the storm clouds of his mind drained enough to be still; this too, may be ised’usa.

There are meditations for pain and injury, too; they ask one to accept the pain which flows through them, and to thank the body for it. Thank you, Nkemi could tell Anetol to say, for reminding me of the sun’s warmth; thank you for guiding me to when I must rest. Thank you, for telling me of the strength of my legs, and showing me their limits; thank you, for letting me know I must drink water.

She did not, yet; it is only the morning of the first day. This too, can wait; she knows that the aches he feels now will be worse by far, this night. She does not think him incapable of discomfort; she knows he knew how this would be, whether they spoke of it or not. All the same, there is much to be said for the reminder; all the same, there is much to be said for the guiding.

Nkemi smiles at Inis. “Ada’na,” she bows her head and shoulders, as far as she may without disrupting Anetol. “This osi is welcome and welcoming,” Nkemi says, with a smile, looking about the water and trees and back to Inis. “Hulali’s mercy is boundless.” She lets Anetol rest, now; throughout she has kept him moving, slowly, but they come to a stop now, and stand still beneath the thick shade.

[Tom Cooke]

Tseq’ule Caravan • Traveling South

Morning on the 27th of Bethas, 2720

I
nis inclines her head and shoulders, smiling. “His gift on the first day’s keja. Speaks of a good Ever.”

“Keja owaf owaf,” agrees Ole.

“And of Roa on our path,” he says, still with the grin lingering about his lips. Inis returns it, inclining her head again wordlessly.

They’ve stopped in this shady patch, the grass soft under his soles, the breeze cutting with more confidence through the thick heat. Everything outside is vibrant greens, splotches of pink and red where cacti have little blooms; there’s dappled soft blue in the water, and vivid deep blue at the apex of the sky.

There’s splish-splashing, laughter – a gruff kov’s voice, bhe – Ole has been looking over Inis’ shoulder for some time now, since she nodded and looked away from Nkemi. It’s not a smile, not quite, but it’s a satisfied sort of frown.

Riding, he’d’ve thought he’d give anything to stretch his legs; walking, he wanted to stand; now, pausing in the shade, he’s conscious of how he leans on Nkemi, and he’s not sure if he wants to keep walking or sink to the earth. One or the other, he thinks.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to stop; it wasn’t that he hadn’t been relieved at the cry of osi, and the sight of the greenery. Nkemi had said something to him earlier – he might’ve imagined it – about ised’usa, and he’d found himself thinking there was a narrowing of the mind to it, of the endless sway and chafe and dry-mouthed breathlessness. It had been hard to remember to take water, hard to remember to dismount even when the camel knelt by the pool. It had been like tracing familiar lines, over and over, losing himself in the motions.

In the stillness, now, there’s no losing himself; every piece of him nags. This is not the sort of pain that you drink and fight to find, or even the aches and bruises of a strong body that’s taken a beating.

But he eases himself a little away from Nkemi, struggling against the strain of his thighs and calves and back to bend in a stiff half-bow.

Inis returns it, equally stiff but more practiced.

“How is Et’oso?” Ole uncrosses her arms, resting one on her hip.

Inis runs a hand along her jaw. “Tsif’úsir says the ligaments are like cloth stretched but not torn. If he walks more today, he runs the risk of tearing them,” she says. “We will see what she says in the evening. He is being…” Inis says a word in Mugrobi.

Ole laughs. “He insists it’s broken?”

Inis grins and turns back to Nkemi. “The men are nearly done with their work. Still – Hulali’s gift is precious.” Behind her, there’s more splashing, more laughter. He thinks, then shivers against Nkemi; the only thing worse than the tightness in his muscles is the thought of relaxing them, of easing into the cool water. “You’ll take yats with us?”

Reflexively, he glances over her shoulder, where Ipiwo and her husband are shapes in the shade. Though she’s come from them, Inis hasn’t looked back.

He wonders, then searches himself. There’s an ache in his stomach; he can’t tell if it’s sick or hungry – or thirsty, even. All at once, maybe. Sometimes the latter two help with the former, he admits. “Thank you,” he says.

“Come.” It’s when Inis turns he notices the sagging of her face; she passes a hand over her brow, runs her fingers over her hair, but keeps smiling. She’s looking at the camels, now. He recognizes theirs by the pattern of the cloth on the saddle, reaching its long neck to nibble at a cactus. “Tsotusú has carried you well? She’s one of Uqasah’s favorites.”

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Early Afternoon, 27 Bethas, 2720
Tseq’ule Caravan, an Oasis to the South of Tsaha’ota

Nkemi listens to Inis and Ole with bright-eyes curiosity, unhidden. She does not interrupt when she is not spoken to, nor even with her eyes or the shifting of her body. Anetol eases himself away for a bow, and does not rest quite as much of himself on her when he comes back.

He shifts, slightly; he finds his weight on two feet, and then eases it to one, and then the other. Nkemi holds still beneath the movement, patient, and does not mind.

The splash in the water echoes through her like a longing. Nkemi realizes that she does not know when last she swam; not since she went to Anaxas, certainly. She tries to imagine many of the Seventen swimming; some of them, she can picture so. She does not look at Anetol; she does not know what she thinks is wise. There is nothing which feels so good as the coolness of the water now, but she wonders if it will help him later. The heavy weight of wet clothing, even this light clothing which knows the knack of drying, will not help him later, and there is the whole of the afternoon to come.

“I would be glad,” Nkemi says, cheerfully. She is hungry; it is not the roaring, all-consuming hunger of the days before. Even for her, the heat forbids it. But she feels it, and she thinks well of food.

“Tsotusú is a jewel among camels,” Nkemi says in Mugrobi; she smiles at the camel, looking at her through the trees. Anetol is leaning on her still; however much she wants to, she does not go to run her hands over Tsotusú’s warm soft sides, or let soft lips flap at the edges of her hands. Besides, Nkemi would not like to be petted while eating; she does not see why it should be different for a camel.

They sit on a grassy shore against the edge of the oasis, shade-dappled. Nkemi eases Anetol down, slow and careful. Once he is seated, she stretches herself, slow and careful, extending her arms up high overhead and bending carefully to touch her toes. She straightens up, twisting at the waist, and glances longingly over her shoulder at the water.

“Do not eat all the food before I return,” Nkemi tells Anetol with a grin which makes a mockery of her sternness. “I will pray,” she says, mock-solemn, “by the accepting of Hulali’s gift.”

Nkemi strips off her layers, unabashed; she folds her shirt and pants and lays them on the grass, her sandals and headwrap beside them, so she wears only her underthings. She goes to the water’s edge; she does not wade in slowly, but leaps in, and yelps as she rises to the surface once more from the shock of it. She is giggling; she slides beneath the surface of the water and emerges once more, tossing her head back, all the short curly hair on her scalp gleaming with the water.

It is deep enough for a small Mugrobi to swim a few strokes, to roll over into her back and float, eyes half-closed, in the sun. There is warmth on the skin of the water and a deeper coolness beneath; Hulali’s gift envelops her. Nkemi prays without the need for words; she offers herself, all gratitude, to He who knows so much of mercy. She thinks of nothing, and in that nothing she knows peace.

Nkemi does not linger too long; she comes dripping wet back from the pool, and lays back on the grass with a happy sigh, eyes closed. The desert sun begins its work even in the shade, crisp and drying, but it is a price she gladly pays.

After a moment, Nkemi sits up and takes a piece of jerkey, sitting cross-legged before Anetol. She raises her eyebrows at him, nibbling at the tough, spiced meat, and asks of him all that which is unspoken.

[Tom Cooke]

Tseq’ule Caravan • Traveling South

Morning on the 27th of Bethas, 2720

T
his close and he can smell the water where the breeze ripples over it, carrying the ghost of the bubble and spray to his face. One of the camels – not theirs; there’s bright green worked into the saddlecloth – sits nearby, long knobbly legs folded underneath, neck outstretched and tongue lapping softly at the water. The grass is soft underneath him, though his erse aches as if bruised.

He’s smiled up at Nkemi, raising his eyebrows as if to say, What’s the chance of that? There are things he might’ve said – it’ll all be gone by the time you get back, you know – that he knows not to, with newly-familiar certainty.

He suspects but does not know what gift she’s accepting, not until she begins to strip down. On the steamship, he caught her out sunbathing, once, and at first he’d hesitated to approach; he’d averted his eyes until the rest of the picture caught up with him, the barefoot bochi slapping by on the deck and laughing, the old wick sitting in a chair and smoking his pipe nearby. Now, though he feels a prickling of the same feeling, he doesn’t avert his eyes.

Her headcloth is a bright bird folded among her other things. Her head is covered in short, curly dark hair. He raises his brows even higher watching her jump in, watching her head come up out of the water flinging droplets and stippled with dew.

A ways round, near Tsotusú and her own osi, one of the natt from earlier is waist-deep in the pool. He’s stripped to his waistcloth, his beard and his hairy chest glistening. He watches him wade deeper, the sun glinting off the heavy muscle of his back. Others have done the same; a woman lies drying off on the banks, covered in her long tan shirt and trousers like a blanket, shading her eyes with her hand to look up at the bright sky.

It’s simple, what he feels at first – he smiles and eases back, remembering the feeling of warm sun on all his skin after climbing out of the Mahogany in the summer. The sand between his toes. The lasses that giggled, sometimes, as he slung his shirt over one shoulder, finding a place on the beach or the wharf to have a smoke and feel the warmth leach into his muscles.

It’s like a dream, or a different world, and so he doesn’t get the urge to strip again; he can’t imagine doing it himself. If he feels envy, it’s a fleeting sort of melancholy.

At first – he watches the laughing faces, the swimmers and the bathers, the camels loafing peacefully. He nibbles at the dried, spiced meat; at first, he finds it too much effort, but the taste of it wakes something up in him.

But then his eyes wander from face to face, and he finds himself looking again. The natt climbs out of the water, stretching. Ada’na Inis is sitting and taking yats with Ole not too far off, though far enough he can’t hear what they’re saying; he can only see a broad smile on Ole’s face, to his surprise. Inis hasn’t moved to strip or swim, either.

His eyes move from laughing face to laughing face. He’s frowning now; there’s tension in the set of his shoulders.

He’s not sure how long she’s been; he’s not sure when she came back, until she’s lying on her back, dripping off in the grass. The tension eases, though not entirely, and he settles into their caprise again.

Finally, she sits up and starts a tear of jerky. She raises her brows. Her headscarf is still folded in the grass; it’s strange to see her without a spot of bright color at her brow. The light glints off her thin shoulders. He smiles; he hasn’t wished to interrupt her prayer.

“I see why you spoke well of ada’na Inis,” he starts, then pauses, then grins. “Ada’na Ole’s trust is earned; I hope to earn it.”

He laughs, then takes breath. He’s had some water, now, though it was strangely difficult to swallow the cool liquid. He’s still flushed, and he’s nothing if not slumped, but his breaths are deep and easy. He looks askance, to where Tsotusú has made decent headway on the cactus.

He restrains himself from looking at any of the men around, from looking for a scar. He thinks to ask – then chides himself. What would he ask, without making an ass of himself? Not too far away, he sees ada’na Ipiwo, still resting; he feels a pang of sympathy. “D’you think she’ll be all right?” he asks finally, brow furrowed.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Early Afternoon, 27 Bethas, 2720
Tseq’ule Caravan, an Oasis to the South of Tsaha’ota

Nkemi is comfortable and easy in the grass, her field intertwined deeply into Anetol’s. She takes another bite of the dried meat, chewing industriously; it is toothsome eating, this, with the pop of spices and pepper to interrupt the steady chewing.

“I hope so also,” Nkemi says; she does not look at Inis or Ole, now, leaving them their quiet conversation, and the broad smiles on both faces. She can imagine how Ole's might fade, if she sees Nkemi watching her. “But we are ourselves, nothing more or less. This is the best way to be.”

Around them, the caravan has settled into the calm and quiet; the camels are all settled in and amidst the trees, the wagons too, covered up against the worst heat of the sun. They are all of them sprawled out amidst the shade on the banks; there is a rustle in a tree nearby, and Nkemi glances up to see dark eyes looking down through the branches. They shift and look away; a long arm dangles loose from the branches, a burn scar patterned up over the wrist.

The man with the scarred face is sitting cross-legged in the shade of the same tree; he is intent in discussion with another member of the caravan – Uqasah, Nkemi guesses, from earlier conversation. Once, his gaze flickers over to them, but it keeps moving, drifting around the caravan.

Nkemi follows Anetol’s gaze to Ipiwo. She is on her side in another patch of shade, her face drawn. She looks no more than half-asleep; something twitches behind her eyelids, and shudders across her face. She shifts, but does not quite move; her fingers curl into the grass. Ofero lays on his back next to her; the glint of his eyes gives away his wakefulness, but he moves little more than she does, slender arms bent in the grass and hands tucked behind his head.

“I do not know whether Ada’na Ipiwo has crossed the desert this way before,” Nkemi says, instead, looking back at Anetol. She nibbles again at the dried meat.

“Ada’na, sir,” the man from that morning, the one who greeted them at the camels with their luggage, comes over; he is still damp from his own bath, and he half-bows. “Some dried fruit?” He offers a small bag.

“Domea domea, ada’xa," Nkemi says, gratefully; she smiles up at him, and takes a date from the bag; she settles them on the cloth which holds the meat, and nibbles at the jerky once more. She will save the sticky sweet date for last, Nkemi decides; she knows it will be hard to return to the toughness of the jerky after it, and she wishes to savor the taste.

The man smiles, glancing at them both. He goes, then; he does not approach Ipiwo and Ofero. Ofero’s eyes are closed now, too; his chest rises and falls, evenly, in the heat.

Nkemi keeps nibbling at her jerky, looking down. When she looks again at Anetol, there is a smoothness to her face. She sets the strip of dried meat down, her hands in her lap. Her memories of Ipiwo are quiet whispers and giggles on the street, conversations which stopped, abruptly, when Nkemi came to join them, of words heard from around the corner which were all of truth and nothing of kindness. Such memories ache, deeply, for all that there is to balance them. This too, Nkemi knows, is a kind of ised’usa. She thanks herself for these reminders; she feels the softness of the spongy grass beneath her, the warmth of the sun, the softness of the water against her skin. Nkemi looks over once more; she looks at the pinched skin on Ipiwo’s face, the thin smear of green-gray at the corner of her mouth, the shifting once more of her eyes beneath their lids.

“I hope she will feel better in the afternoon,” Nkemi says. She looks back at Anetol, now, and nibbles at her jerky once more. “It may be possible, sometimes, for a person to ride in the wagon, or for a covering to be attached to their saddle,” She looks at him, although she does not raise her eyebrows this time, “if there is a need.”

[Tom Cooke]

Tseq’ule Caravan • Traveling South

Morning on the 27th of Bethas, 2720

H
e is silent at first. His eyes flicker down to his hands, once. If his frown falters, it’s only for a second. “That is,” he agrees finally, smiling back up, “the best way to be.” He’s pleased to find a warmth of truth in his voice; with the soft burble of the water, with the sound of footfalls in the grass, it’s enough. He takes another bite of jerky, and his teeth pop on a bit of peppercorn, and the peppery spicy taste fills his mouth.

He only looks at the two arati for as long as she does, and he doesn’t frown, though the sight of Ipiwo on her side yanks at his heart.

He glances back at Nkemi almost the moment she looks back at him, thinking – this way, she has said – but then a voice comes, almost-familiar, and he looks up.

Even in the shade, the bright sky darkens him to near a silhouette. Still, he recognizes the natt from earlier, with his broad-set, strong features. A few droplets glisten in his short-cropped hair. Beyond him, there’s more splashing and laughter; the nattle still lays on the pool’s edge, long limbs spread, though she’s shuffled off the blanket of her shirt and trousers for the dry warmth of the sun. He hears Inis’ sharp, full laughter.

He smiles, pulling himself straighter, and takes a date too.

He eats it right off, as Nkemi nibbles more at her jerky. He’s had them, once or twice – so long ago the syrup-sweet taste is new to him, as are most things he tasted in another life, with another shape. The natt is off, and he watches him go.

There’s a tree not far off; in the corner of his eye – there all along – is a familiar face. The back of his neck prickles, but he doesn’t look. There’s no reason to look, after all. When his eyes move back to Ipiwo, they dance round the tree entire, though he catches some little movement or glitter in the branches. The set of ada’na’s face hasn’t much changed, and her eyelids still flicker; her husband’s chest rises and falls, slow and easy beside her.

He wonders if they should’ve gone to her. He half-wonders why Nkemi didn’t; but then, he thinks – the attentions of an acquaintance, even a friend, don’t often ease a roiling stomach, and he supposes it’s best to leave the sick to their retching. He frowns slightly, but then his expression smooths out. He remembers where he’s looking, and then looks back to Nkemi.

She’s looking at him. He meets her eye, studying the easy set of her face, the evenness of her brow. He thinks through another gnaw of jerky.

His lip twitches. “I hope there will not be a need,” he says, “but – if there is…”

I hope, he thinks to say, grave and frowning, sympathetic, it allays her sickness. Or some other, vaguer rubbish. At last, he eases back, letting out a deep breath that’s almost a sigh; he runs the fingers of one hand through his hair, tangled and messy from his hat and drying sweat. When he looks back at Nkemi, he tries for a serious expression, then smiles.

“I may have need of it yet.” He remembers the way she listened as he spoke of his hands; whatever shame he had, it vanished somewhere on the aeroship, or maybe when she laid her hand on his arm in the Soots. “I’m not so sick as ada’na, not yet, but it’s only the morning. I don’t – I’ve never…”

He frowns, sucking at a tooth. He spreads out one hand, pale and speckled. The nails are still all benny and even-trimmed; he hasn’t had to do it himself yet, though it may be soon he’ll have to reacquaint himself with the clippers. Or a riff. There’s no dirt under them, still, and no scuffing.

“When will I know? When I need it,” he says, curling his fingers in his lap. He looks up at Nkemi, suddenly intent. “How do I know how much is too much? My mind can handle it, pain – it’s only…” He can’t bring himself to it; afar, he hears ada’na Inis laugh again, faintly breathless. Ipiwo lays still in the shade.