[Closed] Something Foreknown to Me

[Tom Cooke]

Crossing the Desert • Eastern Erg

Morning on the 28th of Bethas, 2720

A
boatman may not profit by worry,” says Ole, sitting stick-straight, “but worry’s my qalqa, ada’na.” She’s still not smiling, but there’s something satisfied in her look, in even the grim set of her lips. She watches Nkemi for a moment, and then casts a look at ada’na Ipiwo and ada’xa Ofero across the crackling fire. There’s another movement – a small, deep line – at her brow.

She lingers on the couple. As if reluctantly, her eyes slide back to the prefect, and she inclines her head. He sits with his kofi balanced on one of his bony knees, nibbling at his hot lentil cake.

“Tseqi’dzotúhy Ohihú listens well.” This is all she says.

She gazes intently at Nkemi. When she looks at him, he thinks there’s an echo of the same look she gave ada’na Ipiwo in the narrowing of her eyes. “Thank you, ada’na,” he says with a small frown, inclining his head much like Nkemi did.

Uquwidi’s rough voice comes from somewhere behind. Despite the grim set of Ole’s face, he hears Inis laugh her sharp, ringing laugh. There’s another swirling gust of sand. He breathes a little of it in – not enough to cough, this early, but enough to tickle. The sensation is new to him. Crouched beside him, he watches Nkemi’s hand flicker over her cup, covering the dark kofi. He does the same. There’s a thin dusting of the stuff on the lip of a fold of her headscarf, now, he notices.

Ole rises with fluid ease and strides across to the camels on her long limbs, shirt tugging round her shoulders. The new sunlight glints off her bare dark scalp. There’s more cursing from over there, and a scuffling and a snorting.

He watches ada’na Ipiwo for a moment, catching her eye and smiling. She looks easier at heart, leastways, if still wan. Well, he suspects he can’t throw stones. He wonders what she makes of the breath of sand in the air.

He finds himself wishing he’d crouched like Nkemi, when he comes to stand. The ache again makes his legs want to buckle.

She’s gentle, but firm – she let him sit, but she urges him along now, as if through a meditation. Some of the men by the camels have already tied their scarves round their mouths. Anfe’s scar is just visible above the pale fabric; the human is at some distance, and he doesn’t stare, or look about for Kafo.

Further ahead, ada’na Inis looks back over the camels and the wagons, her as face full of shadows as Ole’s was earlier. She starts it: she spits on the sand, and it goes down the line like a whoosh.

He struggles to gather the spittle in his mouth for it, at first. The prayer to Hulali comes easy enough to his lips, this time. He doesn’t feel unlike he’s hungover, funny enough, with that loose rattling behind-the-eyes ache and the dry mouth. Maybe this is what men call irony. He takes a sip of water then.

There’s an unspoken question. He answers it. They climb onto the kneeling camel as the last of the tents goes down with a snap and a billowing, a ghost where there was once a form. The fire is nothing but a blackened pit, and they’re covering even it. The rugs have been rolled up.

It’s harder and easier both this time to keep his balance as the camel rises. Ahead of them, both Ofero and Ipiwo ride. He’s already wrapped the cloth round and tied it like she showed him, and settled on the goggles.

Back to it. The camp site disappears behind, sand swept over it like it was never there to begin with. The wagon wheels still roll easy, though there’s a motion to the land all around – a subtle shifting in the hills and valleys of sand – that reminds him too much of the sea, that unsettles him. Shivers of it run through his field, though he doesn’t let himself go queasy yellow-shift in Nkemi’s caprise. Mechanically, he sips his water, steadying his stomach with each swallow.

They reach a crest again when the sun spills over the horizon proper. It edges the shifting dunes, stretches long rippling shadows out from the shrubs.

He takes a deep breath under his wrap as they begin to descend.

An hour – hours? – pass. The air stirs, thickens with sand and heat; the wind burns his cheeks, precludes conversation. Once, there’s a powerful gust, a snorting complaint from the camels, and then there’s nothing beyond his goggles; he can’t even see the knotwork at the back of Nkemi’s head. When it subsides, there’s still a faint graininess flickering across. There’s what looks like a distant cloud bank, but he can’t see very well with his tired eyes.

His skin prickles. He leans to look at the back of Ofero’s head, once, reflecting on the thought of being in Dkanat that evening. Instead, he sees Ipiwo, swaying slightly on the camel’s back.

One of the wagon-wheels gets stuck.

It’s Ipiwo’s camel that crouches, first; it’s one of the natt that helps her off, the one he recognizes from earlier. He sees her hand linger in Ofero’s, arm outstretched, fingertips brushing and then parting. The natt’s shape and hers, much smaller, move through the whipping wind and sand toward the wagons.

They’ve already got the wheel free. He feels a prickle at the back of his neck. Nkemi’s caprise is still warm against his; he’s no desire to be parted from it, not now. But –

The muscles of his thighs ache, and he can’t seem to draw enough breath. He raises his hand and the natt from earlier begins to come over. He leans to touch Nkemi’s shoulder, close enough to be heard. “Ep’ama,” he says breathlessly, meeting her eye as the camel begins to crouch. “Ada’na Ipiwo is wise. There’s ised’usa in this,” he adds. Through the thick glass of his goggles, there’s a smile crinkling his eyes.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Morning, 28 Bethas, 2720
Tseq’ule Caravan, Crossing the Desert

Do not be sorry for the knowing of your limits,” Nkemi squeezes Anetol’s hand in hers, lightly, and does not linger.

He goes; Nkemi watches the pop of color of his ame’liwe wrapped around his head until she sees the wagon he is in. She marks it by the green covering, faded dull by the sun but still distinct against the sand and the grainy sky. She sits still on Tsotusú, her hand gently stroking the camel’s neck. Tsotusú is calm and sturdy beneath her as she was the day before; she levers herself back up, Nkemi leaning gently backwards, and they go on through the sand.

Nkemi’s headwrap covers her nose and mouth; her goggles rest over her eyes. Almost no inch of her skin is exposed, and the knots on the back of her head are pulled tight. She is covered, today, and she wraps bits of cloth around her hands, too, and ties them tight. Only bits of bare feet between the straps of her sandals and her fingers are exposed.

The sand, still, finds a way. The wind whips it against her, even as she hunches down about Tsotusú. It prickles against her skin as if she wears nothing; it creeps beneath the edge of the fabric and lingers and settles in all the folds, heavy and grimy. It is only wind; it is only sand. They go on, through it, though the camels know to stop when the wind whips it up too high to see; Nkemi’s goggles blur and she wipes them clean, and they keep on.

Ofero before her is hunched over, almost hugging the neck of his camel. She can see only one camel beyond him, Nkemi realizes, where Awaro sits with his neck hunched into his shoulders, tall and sturdy and alone on his camel.

In a gap between the wind, Nkemi takes her water and drinks, greedily; it spills down her front and she gasps for breath. The wind comes again; she covers the water, clutching it against herself, and holds still against the battering gusts of it. It calms; Nkemi covers the bottle once more, and tucks it back against Tsotusú’s side. She remembers the first of these, when she sat cradled between her jara and her juela, on a long trip back from Thul Ka to Dkanat. She remembers feeling safe with her feet dangling high up on the camel’s sides, and her ear cuddled into her mother’s back, listening to the sound of her heartbeat.

The cry goes up.

They have all known it will; they have all known it must.

“Úle’údú!”

Someone is yelling; they are all yelling.

“Úle’údú!” Nkemi adds her own hoarse voice to the chorus, glancing around. There is a sharp snap on the reins. The camels are kneeling, and Tsotusú with them.

Nkemi hesitates; she hesitates. The world is a hazy mass of flinging sand and only growing worse. There is a roaring in her ears; above it, distant, she hears a creak and a snap.

She makes her choice; if she goes not go now, Nkemi thinks, she will not go. Ole profits by worry; Inis knows well her value. They would not have called the camels down unless –

Nkemi flings herself from Tsotusú the moment they hit the ground. Her ears flicker back; before her, Nkemi sees all the rest dismounting, crouching down behind the heavy backs of the camels. Not this; not for her. Nkemi takes off, struggling through the surging sand; she can see nothing, at first, but she remembers. She almost stumbles over a block of wood; the sand is rising around her, clutching at each foot as the wind whisks it across.

She sees the green fabric through eyes which cannot but squint behind her goggles; she sees a slim shape before her through the sand. He slips into the back of the wagon.

The wind rises; the wagon rattles. A huge gust comes, and heaves; it tips up, and over, and begins to slide, skidding down the edge of a dune as the storm buries it further and further into the depths. There is a yell from nearby; Nkemi sees the man with the scarred face lunge forward, and another from the caravan tackle him into the sands.

She hears snatches of voices over the wind; Nkemi’s heart is pounding in her ears. “… Roa,” she hears; she drops to her knees, crawling to the nearest camel, and she too prays.

[Tom Cooke]

In a Veil of Sand • Eastern Erg

Morning on the 28th of Bethas, 2720

Ú
le’údú –

It’s only when the second cry goes up, then the third, that he can make out the word. Then there are more, a thicket of voices, some louder than others. He thinks he recognizes one; his throat tightens.

It was hard to tell if Ada’na Ipiwo’s eyes were open or closed; she was propped up between the wagon wall and a block of roped-down luggage, her head back. Now they must be open. The thick glass of her goggles catches the dwindling light outside as she cranes her neck to look. The wind is whisking sand, more and more sand, into the wagon. It’s scattered now over the wood inside the opening like flour over a baker’s floorboards.

“Úle’údú,” he hears a familiar voice – Ipiwo’s – gasp, muffled by her scarf. “Ofero,” she says then, starting to climb unsteadily to her feet. But the wind buffets the wagon, and the motion knocks her back on her erse.

More whirls in, driven like the wind drives snow. Outside is a cacophony of voices. He shifts, starts to move – to look, at least, out toward the camels, to try and catch sight of the prefect. Outside, it’s just a tan froth, with vague glimpses of shapes. When he turns into the wind, the sand is in his face, caking his goggles; he wipes it away, takes a breath underneath his covering, and still begins wheezing.

The wheezes claw at his lungs. Tiny grains of sand prick between the soles of his sandals and his toes. He levers himself up on the wagon wall. The wind’s ruffling rolled-up canvas at the entrance; he looks at it for a moment, but he’s still mesmerized by the sandstorm outside.

Suddenly a lanky dark shape is scrambling up into the wagon. There’s a rustle, and the inside is thrown into shadow; as he eases back against the wall, he sees a familiar shape kneeling by the covering, tying it down with hands he can’t see. Hazy greyish light still creeps through the flickering cracks, little wheezes of sand like tendrils of steam escaping through.

The wagon rocks again. The figure at the entrance twists its long neck, and he catches the glint of goggles. A long-fingered hand is braced against the boards. He coughs again. There’s a lurch, then, and a crack.

Outside, there are more cries. “Roa dzukowezú úqi úwahiy,” he hears Ipiwo breathe, her voice uncharacteristically ragged. His heart’s pounding too fast for prayer. The whole dark space is tilting, and it feels as if the floor’s sliding out from under him. The wind is snapping the covering overhead and over the entrance taut. There’s an awful groan, and then the tilt becomes a pitch.

And then they’re tumbling.

He’s no words for it, and no thoughts. There’s a sliding, and a crash; one of the boxes has come dislodged and slammed against a wall. His heart is in his throat.

Then it’s over. His shoulder hits the wood first, then his head; pain cracks through him. For a while, lying still in the dark, he can’t bring himself to move. He doesn’t know if he lies against the wall or the floor. He can no longer hear voices.

Outside, as if across a wide distance, there’s a keening. Whalesong in the desert, he thinks – no, no. One cry goes up, wild and raw, and blurs into the howling wind.

“Am I dead?” he asks.

He hears it in a deep voice. He coughs, though there’s no more sand in the air in here, or in his mouth. Just between his toes.

He reaches out with his field, first. He can only make out a dim lump of a shape by the dislodged luggage, a lolled head. The field he brushes is dampened, scattered, unresponsive.

The back of his neck prickles. He begins to push himself up, feeling his muscles tremble, when – he freezes. “Ada’xa,” he says quietly.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Morning, 28 Bethas, 2720
Untethered

Kafo crouches at the edge of the wall, the corner where once it met the floor. He watches through the dark and he listens, and he feels. He feels the both of them; he feels the trickle of something in his face, itching in his eyes. He does not know what to do for it, for a time; then he blinks.

He watches through the dark and he listens. He hears the woman’s breath, soft and fast and scratching, oddly thin. Beneath it he hears him, deeper and steadier. He waits.

The world is howling all around. He knows which way is up from the blood that rushes to his head, from the steady trickle that falls down his face. It is dark above then, but the canvas holds - except the corner, where he felt with his fingers, where there is a small shifting of sand.

They fell; they fell for a long time. Kafo fell too; he tumbled down, and he let himself be limp and still, and prepared to let go, if he had to. He does not like to; it hurts. It hurts every time and every time there is less of him. He remembers only enough to know it, to know that before there was more and now there is less. But it does not hurt as much as other things can hurt.

Time will tell. It always does. He feels something strange in his chest; he remembers not to laugh, because he wants to hear. He cannot see, but he can hear them both. He quiets his own breath to listen; he remembers to breathe.

Something is wet on his face. His eyes itch; he blinks. He watches through the dark, and he listens.

Am I dead?

There is a long silence drawn out after the question, asked in a deep, rasping voice. Kafo shifts himself against the wall; his fingers come forward, and press against the floor. He comes closer, and closer still. He does not touch either of them but he could, if he wanted to; he is close enough to touch. He doesn’t like it, touch, anymore, not from strangers. Men touch; they don’t know but they touch. Women, too; they are worse. He cannot bear it. Maybe that is what he lost this time. He doesn’t remember but he knows he liked it, once.

He knew.

He knew when he saw them through the smoke in the wick’s tent; he knew right away but he didn’t know, not until he felt them from behind the camels. They don’t like him, camels.

It was the prefect Anfe worried about but Anfe does not know what he does. Not many know what he does - but some. He knew; he knows the taste of him in the air and the look of his face and the brush of his field. He can feel it now and he can feel hers. He does not like the way they feel, like this, but sometimes he wants to remember.

They have not met before but he knows. He knows he knows he knows he knows.

Ada’xa.

“Yes,” Kafo says. “You are dead.” This noise is called a giggle; he remembers that too. “So am I.”

The woman makes a snorting noise. Her breathing is very thin. He does not think she will wake. When she is gone she will be gone; they all go, and they cannot be found again. This, he has learned. It does not matter if you walk the whole of Vita. You cannot find them again, once they go. A rushing river of souls streaming from life to life; he has tried to dive in, more than once, but the water spits him back out.

He waits; he crouches in the corner. Something heavy presses against him. He does not know what it is, but he will know, in time. Time will pass and he will know, one way or another.

[Tom Cooke]

In a Veil of Sand • Eastern Erg

Morning on the 28th of Bethas, 2720

K
afo giggles. A brook of chills rolls down his spine. No, he thinks. Not you. Not you. He must’ve known, even then. All the hairs on the back of his neck are standing up, stirring as if in the path of lightning. His eyes still haven’t adjusted to the dark, but the moment Kafo spoke, he jerked his head in the direction of the voice, and now he stares with wide, unseeing eyes.

Ipiwo snorts; he starts. “Ada’na?” he says. His heart is hammering. One of his fists is knotted in the hem of his shirt, and he can feel the pulse through his skin.

There’s only the soft scrape, in and out, of breathing. Ipiwo’s field is still limp and spread out, lapping at its edges like the mona are held by no will but their own. His own is shivering yellow, and he evens it out as he can, breathing in the sour tang of his own fear. No good to her; no good to anybody.

He blinks back to where he heard Kafo, forcing himself to think. Moony, then. What is it they call it here? Cracked in the water barrel.

Or maybe, he thinks slowly, just afraid – fair, fair afraid.

He’s afraid, too; he’s crawling out of his skin afraid. He’s the one who asked the question, after all. You don’t have to be cracked already to crack under the weight of this. All of them dead, he thinks. Oes, that’d be easy to believe, in a place like this.

His eyes don’t adjust, because there’s not much light for them to adjust to. He remembers something he read about Iz, not too long ago. There are places under the ground where there’s no light at all; there are fish down there for whom such things like shape and color have never existed.

He knows a sightless state, himself, where all there is is cold and hunger. It feels closer now than it has in a year. He pushes the thought away.

“No,” he says, trying to put more strength in his voice than he feels. He coughs. “If I died on Nkemi like this, I’d… hells.” She doesn’t know, he wants to say, aching. She doesn’t know. What would this do to her?

He thinks of her even now. She must still be taking cover. He can still hear the howling wind, though it’s muffled as if by a thick layer of sand. Buried, he thinks. He can’t tell how deep, except there’s air slithering in from somewhere; it whispers against his cheek. He unties his scarf from his face, then takes off his goggles. He breathes in the warm, close air and the dark, and the smell of sweat, and maybe blood. He doesn’t know whose.

He doesn’t know which way is up, or where the entrance to the wagon is; he only knows where ada’na Ipiwo is by her shallow breathing. There are bandages, at least, in his bag, and certainly spirits, he thinks wistfully. And matches, too. But it’s not on him; it must’ve slipped off in the fall and gone – somewhere.

He needs light, he thinks – surely, if anywhere, this is where you’d keep a lantern, too – if they could search together… The hope feels flimsy. He needs help. Kafo’s cracked, but maybe not all gone.

He’s been counting out his breaths evenly, one, two, three, four, despite the quiet hitch of Ipiwo’s breath. When he speaks, he tries to speak soft and even. “You’re not dead,” he insists, “and neither am I, and neither is ada’na Ipiwo. You can’t give up yet.” It feels flimsier and flimsier. “You’ll see the stars again,” he adds, remembering, trying to smile. He’ll make it true.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Morning, 28 Bethas, 2720
Untethered

No, he says.

It is easier to look towards him when he speaks. Kafo turns more in the dark and settles in. His arm brushes the wall and his feet are bare in the floor; he wiggles his toes into the boards and holds on. He likes the way it feels, to touch things with his feet; he likes the reminder of it.

Kafo shakes his head but the other can’t see him.

There is a shifting of fabric and a noise like goggles. Kafo doesn’t know where his went. He had them on when they began to fall; he remembers that. They aren’t now, he thinks. He reaches up to touch his face, to check; there is something sticky wet on the skin of it. He shakes his hand, but it doesn’t help; he remembers to wipe his fingers on his pants.

“Ipiwo is not dead yet,” Kafo agrees. He did not know her name before. She is still breathing so she cannot be dead. He is still breathing but he is dead.

He remembers the first time he met another. He remembers; he didn’t know then, or maybe he did and he lost that, too. But what he remembers is the not knowing and the not understanding. He felt it then - he knew to feel it - but he didn’t know what it meant

It’s so lonely between.

Anfe doesn’t know; doesn’t understand; can’t imagine. Nobody knows except those who have been there; nobody knows what it’s like. Naulas takes you but Roa lets you forgot, when you come again. He thinks the forgetting must be in the river; that is why he has not found it.

He remembers meeting and understanding; he remembers not being alone. He is not alone now - he has Anfe - but he is always alone. He is alone forever because of the gaps between him and his skin, because he doesn’t fill the space inside anymore, like he did once. Touching is not touching; nobody can reach all the way. He can feel the touching beneath his hand but it doesn’t reach.

“We are,” Kafo touches anyway. He wants him to understand; he needs him to understand. He needs not to be alone; he didn’t want to lose him before he knows, before he sees. He didn’t want to lose him with him not knowing, with him alone. He remembers the fear of being alone; he doesn’t like to think about it. He loses more when he thinks about it.

Kafo comes forward further; he comes off the wall, and the air prickles over his back. He comes forward. It hurts; he doesn’t know why or what to do about it. He doesn’t think about that now. His fingers find the other man, searching carefully from his leg, up, to his arm; he comes back down the other man’s forearm.

Kafo’s fingers settle on the inside of his wrist, where he can feel the pulse of his heartbeat, thumping steadily again and again. It is a little fast but it is strong, Kafo thinks. This is a good body; he would not like it. He does not like the way it feels to have a field, now; he can feel a strangeness to the one around him, but it isn’t bad. It doesn’t hurt the way he remembers it hurting.

“We are dead,” Kafo repeats, low and urgent; his fingers settle in a grasp around the other man’s wrist, and he holds firm even though he doesn’t like it, not the warmth and not the way it moves beneath his fingers all by itself. Some things are more important than liking. “But we will see the stars again.”

He lets go, slowly and carefully. He does not want to hurt the thing that holds either of them. You need them, he wants to tell him, to hold you. You need them, or you’ll lose so much.

[Tom Cooke]

Not Alone • Eastern Erg

Sometime on the 28th of Bethas, 2720

H
e jerks at the brush of fingers on his leg. He had the sense of movement, but Kafo’s quiet, and he’d no way of knowing how close the other man was. What are you doing? he wants to demand, only he can’t unstick his throat. His tongue is paralyzed in his mouth. His heart thumpthumpthumpleaps when the fingertips find his upper arm through the thin fabric, and he imagines them crushing his throat.

Not that way, he pleads, don’t let her find me like that. But the touch moves down, tracing the inside of his forearm. It finds the hem of his sleeve and the bare wrist underneath; he shivers for what it reminds him of, and it makes no sense at all.

Ipiwo is not dead; we are. Kafo has already drawn the line, delicate and distinct. And honest.

He pushed back – gave him an out, a lie he could tuck himself into with all the ease in Vita. He didn’t want to know; he still wants to plead away the knowledge. It won’t help them here, each man knowing he’s trapped in the dark with another monster like him. They could’ve pretended. He was trying to pretend.

But the pad of Kafo’s thumb is settled in the crook of his wrist, on the soft ridge of veins there. He breathes in and smells blood, stronger this time. He frowns, swallowing tightly, and looks down. There’s no up, no down, just dark. He can feel the other man’s warmth, even when he lets go.

“We will,” he agrees numbly. “One way or another.” He can barely believe what he’s saying. Push back again, he tells himself. You don’t have to believe it if you don’t want to.

But Kafo – or whoever he is – whoever it is – is sitting fair near to him, and there’s nothing violent in his touch or in his voice. Does that mean there won’t be? He can’t think. He can feel so many questions bubbling and slithering about in his mind, but if he grabs for their tails, they slip between his fingers. There’s so much, he wouldn’t even know where to start.

There’s a messy laoso warmth pressing at his eyes, prickling. He tries to blink the wetness away. “I thought it was Anfe,” he admits. There’s an edge of a laugh to his voice; he tries not to, but then he gives way to it, because it’s all just too much. “I really, really thought it was Anfe.”

He lets himself sniff, finally. He can smell the salt of his own tears, mixed with the smell of blood. He lets himself wipe away his tears, because he reckons it doesn’t matter if the other dead man sees them.

“You’re bleeding,” he says. There’s something in his voice, but he doesn’t know what it is. He doesn’t reach out to touch him, to try and find it; something about the thought of doing so gives him the jitters. “My bag’s around here somewhere. There are bandages in it, and – matches, too. I think. It came off, and I don’t know where it went.” His voice is tight. He forces himself to breathe.

He doesn’t know what he expects. He doesn’t know if he’s too cracked in the water barrel by now to hold much, or to care what happens to his body or anybody else’s. But he touched him gentle-like, still; he thinks there must be some reason why he came over here, some reason why he’s telling him this.

He bows his head. “Does anybody else know?” he asks, finally, when the buzzing in his head gives way to a question. There are so many more in line behind it; there’s a tower of them, dizzying-high. He sits instead with that one. If he can just light a match, he can sit with the dark.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Morning, 28 Bethas, 2720
Untethered

He moves, when Kafo touches him. He ripples; it slides all through him and prickles over his skin.

He understands, this time. Kafo is crouched close to him still, silent, listening. He nods in the darkness, when he speaks; he understands. He knew; he knew, too, through the smoke and the distance, through the camels and the sand, through all the space between them and their skin. He felt it, even if he didn’t know where it came from.

Bandages and matches in his bag. Kafo doesn’t move to look for it. They know darkness; this isn’t darkness. Bleeding; he knows that’s the name for it. He remembers that and the trail of wetness down his skin and he knows it, for a moment, and he forgets. His eyes itch again, and he forgets, but then he blinks and the dryness goes.

Kafo watches through the dark. He does not move away; he’s close enough that he can feel him – the warmth of him. The wind howls outside. He doesn’t need to listen for his breath. He still hears the woman’s; she is behind them. He doesn’t know where; he doesn’t want to touch her and he doesn’t want her to touch him. Her field itches against him – itches, itches, itches – and he feels a ripple over his skin too, and a prickle.

“Anfe doesn’t know,” Kafo says, when he asks. “Inis doesn’t know, Ole doesn’t know, they don’t know. The camels know. The camels always know; the cats know, and the dogs know, and the leira know. The bugs know, sometimes; they don’t come to bite me.”

There are more ripples through him; something hurts. Something hurts – it hurts – it hurts – he moves. He hears a noise and he knows he made it, from his mouth, but he didn’t mean to. It is his side; it hurts, too. He lifts his hand; touching it hurts, too. Touching makes it hurt worse. He’s making noises still; he closes his mouth. He sits; sitting is better than crouching. He lets his head rest against something soft which does not move; he feels the weight of sand behind it. He closes his eyes.

Kafo remembers to breathe. He opens his eyes again. He touches the floor with his fingertips, to make sure he can still feel it. “I do want the light,” he whispers. “I don’t want to be in the dark again,” he shudders. He didn’t mind before; it wasn’t like that dark, before. It was the pain; it made him remember. It isn’t that pain, but he doesn’t know if he remembers, anymore, how to tell; he doesn’t know if he remembers, anymore, how to know when he has to let go, when the pain here is worse than the pain there. He doesn’t know if anything is worse than the pain there; he doesn’t know what he’ll lose, this time.

Kafo reaches out; his hand moves in the dark and he finds his hand again and his wrist and he feels the movement between the skin and he holds on, and he tries not to hold too tight. “There are others,” Kafo whispers. “There are others, like us. We’re not alone. We’re alone but we’re not alone – we’re not alone – ” His breath quiets. The hurt is stopping; it isn’t so bad. He doesn’t know why; he isn’t sure. He lets go; he doesn’t want to make him feel it.

He waits. He waits in the dark. He can still feel it all; he can feel the ache through him, and the strangeness in his eyes, and the wetness which slides down his skin. He can feel the floor and the press of the sand. He remembers to breathe. He waits; it doesn’t come, not yet, not the darkness. He breathes.

“Anfe doesn’t know,” Kafo says, again, quietly. “Don’t tell him,” he turns; he feels the press of the sand against his face, instead. Something ripples all through him and wetness slides down his skin.

[Tom Cooke]

Not Alone • Eastern Erg

Sometime on the 28th of Bethas, 2720

A
nfe doesn’t know, Inis doesn’t know, Ole doesn’t know. The camels know. The cats, the dogs. The bugs – he cracks a smile, ridiculous, because there are tear-tracks wet on his cheeks; he still has to smile, because he can’t remember being bit once by a bug, not since. Swatting away flies is a thing he knows you must do, but he remembers it from life; he takes for granted now that he hasn’t had to do it once.

It’s all so much, so flooding much. He feels the other man shift, and he tries not to jump.

There’s a sound like a grunting – a whimpering – an animal pain kind of sound. He doesn’t want to ask how bad it is, and he doesn’t think this kov could give him much of an answer, either.

He doesn’t want to be in the dark again, at least. He squeezes his eyes shut; he reminds himself where he is. This isn’t that, not yet – they both know it’s not. I call it the cold, he wants to offer. The thought of saying it aloud seems perverse; he’s never spoken to anyone of it. He doesn’t think it’s a thing they speak of in Kzecka, or anywhere else. No explanation, no classification, can make that place less awful.

“We’ll get us some light, then,” he starts, and shifts. “And I’ll take a look at…”

He tries – and fails – not to jump. The long fingers are round his wrist again; the thumb is on the pulse. His throat tightens.

There are others, he says. There’s a fervent note in his voice swelling like high tide; he’s tuned to it, because there’s nothing else to see, nothing else to hear except the scrape of ada’na Ipiwo’s breathing. We’re alone but we’re not alone, he insists.

He’s not sure whether he should lay a hand on his; by the time he pushes past the crawling in his skin, musters up the strength, the hand is gone.

It’s wrong. He’s felt this before, this sense of creeping, cold wrongness. A man was born to that body; the thing in it now isn’t that man. He can’t see it in the dark, but he thinks of the scar on his lanky wrist.

It’s wrong, but – the fingers were warm against his wrist. He remembers the pained noises in Kafo’s throat. “Thank you,” he says firmly. There are more tears budding in his eyes; he’s not sure why. “We aren’t many,” he says, “and we’re… But we’re not alone. I’ve met others like you – like me. I know.”

Other raen, he thinks to say, then hesitates. Kafo doesn’t strike him as a Kzecka sort, though he doesn’t know how old this soul is, or how far it’s wandered. The thought again dizzies him; he has to step back from it. In the pitch dark, all the thoughts threaten to swallow him whole like the sand. This isn’t real; it must be real.

There’s still the smell of blood. There’s still the soft noises of Ipiwo’s breath. These – these are real.

The other man speaks again, and he feels him shiver. The lump in the back of his throat thickens. He wants to reply rightaway; he can’t, not through the lump. There are so many tears welling in his eyes that he has to shut them for a moment and grit his teeth.

“I won’t tell Anfe,” he says when he can speak, thick-voiced, “on whatever honor I have.”

He needs to move away, but he doesn’t want to turn his back on the raen – and not out of fear, he finds. “Nkemi doesn’t know, either. I don’t want – I don’t want her to find this body cold. And I don’t want Anfe to find yours like that. When they find us. And they will.” He begins to shift away, feels a pang, and pauses. “So I’m going to look for my bag now,” he says. “Is that all right?”

He pauses.

“Is Kafo what you like to be called?” he asks softly.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Morning, 28 Bethas, 2720
Untethered

Kafo,” Kafo says. “Yes.” His eyes are closed again, he thinks; that’s what this darkness is. He opens them but it doesn’t make a difference; maybe he closed them. He doesn’t know; he cannot keep track.

“Anfe gave it to me,” Kafo says. He forgets; he forgets sometimes not to speak aloud. Anfe tells him not to, to be quiet, tells him not to, tells him it isn’t safe. Being careful, Anfe calls it. He didn’t mean to speak, but it’s all right here in the dark-not-dark; it’s all right with him. Her breathing is unsteady still.

“I like it,” Kafo adds. He feels the heat of the other man shift away. His bag, he said; his bag and bandages and light. Light is good; he thinks it will hurt but there is pain that is good, too, that reminds you. He touches the cloth with his fingertips to remember. He does not know if his eyes are open or closed.

He had forgotten, when he met Anfe. He forgot the name that came before with him; he never knew the name that came before with the body. He does not like to lie, when he does not know - when he does not know if he remembers. Anfe gave him Kafo; he smiles to think of it, or he thinks he does and there is wetness on his face.

Anfe doesn’t like it to be told. Anfe doesn’t like it to be known, what there is between them. Kafo sees the shame on him sometimes and he feels it between them but he feels other things, too; he knows those. He is not alone and this is his name: Kafo. He lost the ones that came before; he didn’t mean to but they slid between his fingers like sand clutched tight.

“Ahnatoleh Vawkelin,” Kafo says, slow and careful. He can see it spelled out if he tries; he remembers. He does not know her name; he does not know if he knows his name, but he tries. “Did you bring it with you? In your tser’úxiraw.”

Others, he promised, like you, like me; he knows. He isn’t alone. They aren’t alone; they aren’t alone together. He won’t tell; he promised he won’t tell. Honor, he said; Kafo felt himself ripple all over again but he doesn’t want him to tell. He doesn’t want Anfe to know. He is afraid; Anfe is afraid. He is afraid now in the dark - of the dark - of the pain.

He doesn’t want to think about Anfe finding him. He doesn’t want to think about finding Anfe, next time. He doesn’t know if he would lose him, in the remembering or the finding. He doesn’t know what he would lose.

There is a sticky dampness on his face; he remembers to blink. It is his own breath he is hearing now, thin and high. That is not the part of the pain which he doesn’t like, which cuts sharp through the thoughts and the space and reaches him even though he tries to put it away. He cannot, not without letting go, and he isn’t ready. He doesn’t want to.

It calms; it evens. He hears himself again; he quiets his breath to listen. He hears movement and shifting; he hears her make a noise through her breathing, a little cry. She is not dead yet.

He rests his head against it still.

When the light comes he cries out; he remembers how much it hurts to go from the dark to the light. His hands know to cover his face; he does not have to tell them. Dark glistens on his fingertips when he pulls them away; he looks at his hands and he moves them and he knows he has not gone yet, not if he can move them.

Kafo looks up, slowly, through the not-dark; he watches, squinting against the light.