ercy.
It was as if somebody’d tied a ribbon over it; it was as if their fingers had been resting over the tie, Roa had tied the bow with careful fingers. He hadn’t been sure what to make of it at first, Nkemi holding up the orange. Her goggles on her forehead, her face turned toward the sun, so it caught on the tear-tracks like trails of glass.
He’d understood, then. Even one. He’d been quiet as they walked back toward the blankets, the sun sinking low in the deep blue sky behind them. He’d wondered how many she had packed, not knowing if they’d make the journey.
It had sat well and ill with him, all at once, for all her trust – in him, in the Circle, in the world – meant, for all the different shapes it took.
He had told himself, then, it was the shock of what had just happened (I’m not ready, echoing in his head). He kept thinking of her tucking the orange back in her trunk, orange-on-orange, and kneeling and praying.
He’d prayed with her, then, sinking to the floorboards behind; he’d thanked Roa for that trust, and asked Her questions there was no answer to.
He spreads his pages out that evening in the tent, ink glistening in the soft lanternlight. The page numbers are worn off, here and there, but he knows them. He tries to remember which pages she’s seen and which she hasn’t, but it’s a fool’s errand. In the blurry glow, raw-eyed but full of warm spicy chickpea stew, he lays them out one by one in order against the blankets. He puts them together; he takes stock, alone, of this dzu’tsogiq.
This clause – amplification?
Ada’na Inis’ warm voice still echoes through the back of his mind. Nkemi was right; she sang of dzu’tsogiq. She also sang of mercy.
Mostly, it seemed to him, she sang of mercy.
Ole sang with her, this time. He’d thought Uquwidi would make fun, but nobody did, and not even Et’oso said a word about it. There was a slow, sad-sounding song – tsobúpew tsa úle’egetowak, lamentation of the swallowing sands, Awaro had explained – that only Inis had sung and played; then another, with a strange tilt that reminded him a little of the songs he’d heard in Hox and a little of gkacha, and Ole sang in a strain of Tek he’d never heard before. Nobody had explained it, and Ole had disappeared into the tent shortly after.
He traces the line of a prodigium with his fingertip. He tears out a sheet from his own journal; it doesn’t line up perfect, but he can finish the prodigium on it, as fresh as it still is in his mind.
Warder is written in the sitting-space on the grim’s side, and on the other, he writes in: Possessed.
They finished on Safala. It wasn’t Nkemi who suggested it, this time; it wasn’t any one person. Et’oso first, maybe, and then Awaro, laughing raucously, and then everybody had chimed in. Even him, grinning, linking his arm in Nkemi’s and leaning close against the cutting night chill. His head had been full of the color orange, brilliant brilliant orange.
They had taken mercy on Safala, in the end: the final verse before the final chorus had him sleeping against the warm flank of a camel. Uqasah had lovingly described her long soft eyelashes, and the way her soft, fuzzy lips brushed over his scalp, tongue lapping at his hair.
By then, he had been half-delirious, just happy to be – alive?
He hadn’t seen Kafo or Anfe round the fire, and nor had he looked. Nor had he seen Ipiwo, though Ofero had slipped in for two bowls and then slipped out, diligent and tired-looking; he’d given them a smile, still, as he’d passed.
Trust? he finds written in what remains of his favorite ward. There is no answer underneath it, but it’s underlined several times.
Underneath it, tonight, he pens another in a shaky hand: Hope?
Somewhere, he thinks of Kafo sleeping in Anfe’s arms, and Anfe in Kafo’s. He sleeps dreamlessly.
Across the tent, she has been wrapped up in against the chill; she looks as if she’s sleeping like a rock, for all the world, and he knows dzesi’tsofe now when he sees it. He lies with his back to her, nestling his cheek into the scratchy wool, and sleeps dreamlessly.
The morning passes quickly. Not everyone’s in good spirits. The sleep doesn’t seem to’ve done Inis much good; her face is a knot, and she must make use of her stick until she mounts her camel. Ole isn’t in a fine mood, either, snapping at Et’oso he doesn’t have to use his flooding e efi úwey’dzúro ankle to ride a camel. Nkemi seems to have slept better, and though a ghost of dzesi’tsofe still hangs about her, kofi and lentil cakes seems to go a long way.
He saw Kafo once that morning, and offered him a smile; Anfe was not far off.
After yesterday’s Ever, he feels in higher hopes than he has in days. It’s hard to believe they’re in the last stretch; at the same time, it’s hard to believe that just a week ago, he was sitting in an office Uptown.
He does not ride in the wagon, today, despite the concerned looks. He’s bone-tired, aching all through, but he can’t do it; he can’t think of it. When he mounts, he makes a promise – without words – to take care with himself, with his water, to pay heed to his dizzy head and his living body, even as unsettling as it is.
He prays through the morning. He prays through the afternoon. He thinks of an orange in the sand, and tears like glass. He prays until he’s dreaming upright on his saddle, swaying, and when the wind picks up and brushes sand across them, he holds close and prays harder. He breathes even, counting to fours, until the dust passes.
And then, somewhere in the afternoon, without warning –
It’s just a shape, or a cluster of shapes in the dusty distance. He thinks he can feel it go through Nkemi; he reaches out to touch her shoulder, then offers his hand. “Nkemi,” is all he can say, grinning underneath his scarf. “Osi,” he says softly, playfully, and laughs.