Emeka’s Home • Dkanat
Afternoon on the 30th of Bethas, 2720
T
omorrow.
No word, no name; just him and Nkemi and the tsorerem – and the tsochyusem outside, though he never looks back – and the books. Every bit of the cool, dark space is packed with them. He fetches nothing down today, though he eyes a few volumes the Brunnhold library’s missing, finding them immediately in the neat-ordered stacks. Somehow, the thought he’ll need a stepladder to get at one or two of them doesn’t trouble him.
It’s comfortable here, even with eyes on his back, just out of sight. It smells of unfamiliar desert smells, dust and lantern oil and underground rock, yes – and familiar leather and binding glue and well-preserved old paper, too. He doesn’t know when he came to like books so very much.
It’s all the more precious for the sight of Nkemi here, the brush and mingle of her caprise. He’ll come and speak to the archivist tomorrow; he’ll come and spend much of the day studying, he imagines. In this place he can picture a curious little boch standing on her tip-toes, reaching for a book fair high up to bring to her friend upstairs.
There are no eyes on the walk back from Serkaih. He doesn’t remember to watch the path for footfalls; he doesn’t know what he’d be looking for, even if he did, and he senses nothing in Nkemi’s easy posture. He’s too tired to think too hard on it.
She leaves him at Emeka’s house with a smile so big he thinks it outshines the sun. What he feels lays along his bones almost like dzesi’tsofe.
He felt the glow of it as he came inside. All that stone and stucco hold in the cool; the heat rises up to the high ceilings, Jinasa explained to him. The entryway was full of light and quieter, it seemed to him, than yesterday, but Tsasú’ki found him first, and then Jioma came bustling out with all the warmth in her caprise and noises like the clattering of pots and pans spilling out of the kitchen behind her.
“Dhafed,” came the sharp creak of Emeka’s voice, and a smile was bright in Jioma’s eyes.
After Nkemi leaves, they manage to cajole him into joining them downstairs. It’s not hard; Tsasú’ki’s clucking over him like a dagka, fetching water and a cool wet cloth.
It’s good to have a little on his stomach, and better to pass the time talking and laughing in company. They’re hesitant with him at first, he thinks; it’s Jinasa who talks with him, sharp and no-nonsense like her father, and Emeka joins them eventually, pulling contemplatively at his wisp of a beard.
As the sun heats up the street outside, the sounds of bochi spill in through the open window with the breeze and the heat. Once, a lad of eight or nine comes up to the window, a ball under his arm. Jioma stands talking to him, her hands on her hips. A pair of curious dark eyes peers past her, flitting about the kitchen, meeting his and widening. He hears a small voice ask if the ghost is still around.
It’s with the same laughter in his chest he winds his way upstairs to rest before the evening.
His hands don’t shake overmuch on the wall. One thing he must do before he has dinner with Nkemi’s fami; he’s been putting it off, but his heart is light enough for it now.
When he sees the face in the washstand mirror, he almost laughs. There’s a greying orange shadow on his face; he’s maybe a fifth of the way to a beard, if you can call it that. He sets about shaving almost reluctantly. When he finishes, he is there, all cold grey eyes and thin curling lip, but he’s only a ghost here, like a mask you know is a mask, so the monster can’t hurt you.
He drifts off underneath the window, with the wind singing in the chimes. He’s so tired he could sink into the earth. He thinks of Serkaih. If his fingers knot in the coverlet, if he twitches with bad dreams, they’re of a boch wandering too far off the lanternlit canyon paths, or of goats that cannot be found.
Mostly, he dreams of colors.
omorrow.
No word, no name; just him and Nkemi and the tsorerem – and the tsochyusem outside, though he never looks back – and the books. Every bit of the cool, dark space is packed with them. He fetches nothing down today, though he eyes a few volumes the Brunnhold library’s missing, finding them immediately in the neat-ordered stacks. Somehow, the thought he’ll need a stepladder to get at one or two of them doesn’t trouble him.
It’s comfortable here, even with eyes on his back, just out of sight. It smells of unfamiliar desert smells, dust and lantern oil and underground rock, yes – and familiar leather and binding glue and well-preserved old paper, too. He doesn’t know when he came to like books so very much.
It’s all the more precious for the sight of Nkemi here, the brush and mingle of her caprise. He’ll come and speak to the archivist tomorrow; he’ll come and spend much of the day studying, he imagines. In this place he can picture a curious little boch standing on her tip-toes, reaching for a book fair high up to bring to her friend upstairs.
There are no eyes on the walk back from Serkaih. He doesn’t remember to watch the path for footfalls; he doesn’t know what he’d be looking for, even if he did, and he senses nothing in Nkemi’s easy posture. He’s too tired to think too hard on it.
She leaves him at Emeka’s house with a smile so big he thinks it outshines the sun. What he feels lays along his bones almost like dzesi’tsofe.
He felt the glow of it as he came inside. All that stone and stucco hold in the cool; the heat rises up to the high ceilings, Jinasa explained to him. The entryway was full of light and quieter, it seemed to him, than yesterday, but Tsasú’ki found him first, and then Jioma came bustling out with all the warmth in her caprise and noises like the clattering of pots and pans spilling out of the kitchen behind her.
“Dhafed,” came the sharp creak of Emeka’s voice, and a smile was bright in Jioma’s eyes.
After Nkemi leaves, they manage to cajole him into joining them downstairs. It’s not hard; Tsasú’ki’s clucking over him like a dagka, fetching water and a cool wet cloth.
It’s good to have a little on his stomach, and better to pass the time talking and laughing in company. They’re hesitant with him at first, he thinks; it’s Jinasa who talks with him, sharp and no-nonsense like her father, and Emeka joins them eventually, pulling contemplatively at his wisp of a beard.
As the sun heats up the street outside, the sounds of bochi spill in through the open window with the breeze and the heat. Once, a lad of eight or nine comes up to the window, a ball under his arm. Jioma stands talking to him, her hands on her hips. A pair of curious dark eyes peers past her, flitting about the kitchen, meeting his and widening. He hears a small voice ask if the ghost is still around.
It’s with the same laughter in his chest he winds his way upstairs to rest before the evening.
His hands don’t shake overmuch on the wall. One thing he must do before he has dinner with Nkemi’s fami; he’s been putting it off, but his heart is light enough for it now.
When he sees the face in the washstand mirror, he almost laughs. There’s a greying orange shadow on his face; he’s maybe a fifth of the way to a beard, if you can call it that. He sets about shaving almost reluctantly. When he finishes, he is there, all cold grey eyes and thin curling lip, but he’s only a ghost here, like a mask you know is a mask, so the monster can’t hurt you.
He drifts off underneath the window, with the wind singing in the chimes. He’s so tired he could sink into the earth. He thinks of Serkaih. If his fingers knot in the coverlet, if he twitches with bad dreams, they’re of a boch wandering too far off the lanternlit canyon paths, or of goats that cannot be found.
Mostly, he dreams of colors.
