[Closed] A Buried and a Burning Flame

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Early Evening, 30 Bethas, 2720
Nkese and Ifran's Home, the Outskirts of Dkanat

Nkese stands at the stove, still, stirring steadily; heat wafts into the air, steam, spices, goat-smell and frying ghee mingling and drifting through the window, catching the shades of the setting sun. Nkemi kisses her cheek, and goes to find her father.

The table is polished clean; Nkemi and Ifran moved it to the dining room an hour ago, when light still streamed in through the open windows, and air stirred the walls. Nkemi knows better than to think Nkese would allow them or the curtains to become dusty, but she knows too that it is all as clean as it has ever been.

Ifran is setting the table, moving slowly and carefully; there is a pitcher of watered, covered, on the table cloth – turned so the stitches do not show – and he sets out the glasses for it. There are plates, too, and silverware Nkemi did not know they had. His hands shake, slightly, as he sets down the last of the spoons at the fourth place.

Nkemi stands in the doorway, watching him. He has changed; he wears all white, now, his hands taut at the edge of his long sleeves, his face drawn over the white amel’iwe. He looks up at her, and there is a moment before he smiles – but he does, slowly, at the sight of her in the doorway.

Nkemi comes in; she takes his hands in hers. “Have I made a mistake, jara?” She asks, quietly.

Ifran shakes his head. “No, efa’on,” he says, his voice soft and hoarse in his chest. He does not have as far to bend as he once did, to brush her forehead with his lips. “There is much I remember, from a life as which ended long before you were born.”

Nkemi smiles at him; his hands shake in hers, and she holds them a little tighter, as if she can stop the trembling. “He is not such a man,” she says, quietly, looking at the gleaming table past him, the candles not yet lit.

“No,” Ifran says, slowly; he turns as well, frowning, and he looks. He looks, then, back at Nkemi. “But I wish to be.”

Nkemi nods; she understands. She smiles at her father, and after a moment, looking at her, he smiles back. He goes, then, past her, to the iron full of coals at the edge of the board, and the napkin cloths laid out upon it, and picks it up without a word.

Nkemi checks on Nkese in the kitchen; she fetches the rack for the finished flatbreads, and hands her mother the crushed pepper, and lingers until Nkese shoos her away, laughing. Nkemi goes outside, then; she sits on the edge of the goat fence, gleaming red-orange-yellow in the sunset, all the colors of her skirt and shirt catching the light, her sandals resting on the edge of the fence.

It is Iki’dzof who comes over, who butts at her calves with his head. Nkemi laughs; she strokes the thick, rough hair of his head. He takes a fold of her skirt between his teeth; his eyes gleam. Nkemi laughs at him, and he lets it go and saunters off, almost prancing.

Nkemi swings herself back over the fence and hops down. She calls through the window, and makes her way down the narrow dusty trail down into town, from the hillside until she is on the main road. She calls greetings and laughs and crouches, once, to chat with Jeela, who offers her a bright and brilliant grin.

It is not long, all the same, before Nkemi walks to the edge of Emeka’s door; she knocks, and comes inside, smiling bright.

“Nkemi!” Jioma says; she smiles. “Have you come to fetch ada’xa Vahkeelin for dinner?”

“Yes,” Nkemi says, cheerful. “He is resting still?” She glances up towards the stairs.

“I do not know otherwise,” Jioma says. “A moment; I shall send Dhafed.”

“There is no need,” Nkemi says, cheerfully. “I am honored to go myself.”

Jioma laughs; Nkemi grins at her, and she makes her way up the staircase, towards the room where she knows he must be. She knocks, and waits, smiling, just outside.

[Tom Cooke]

Dkanat • The Southern Desert

Early Evening on the 28th of Bethas, 2720

H
e wakes in time to wash up, but it’s early, and after that, he lies on the bed looking out the window at the darkening sky. The breeze whisks against his cheeks and ruffles its fingers through his hair. The last of his dreams has slipped his hands; he can’t remember a thing, except for the faint impression of having lost something important. Not even the air, just beginning the cool, can fill his head and keep out the buzz of worry.

When the knock comes, he rises – slow and stiff, though not like before. He adjusts the deep crimson amel’iwe about his shoulders. His heart thumps for a moment before he reaches the door, but even through it, he can feel her; they settle into their warm caprise, and he opens the door. He’s not smiling, at first. He can no longer feel the feathery stubble on his face; it’s a foreign landscape again, as ever, and he thinks he may have forgotten how.

She’s wrapped in dizzying-bright color, this evening. At the sight of her smile, he can’t help the way his own cracks across his tired face.

He reaches to press her hands, first, then – he doesn’t know what moves him. He draws her into an embrace, like she has many times before. It’s a wordless thing. He rests his chin on her shoulder, where the sunset’s warmth has lingered on the bright cloth.

When he draws away, he doesn’t quite look abashed, though he clears his throat. He clasps one of her small shoulders and then drops his hand. “You honor me, Nkemi,” he says, inclining his head.

They move downstairs looped arm-in-arm, his dark-embroidered hems whispering about his ankles and the steps, her asymmetric skirt swishing.

He watches his feet on the steps, one shaky hand tracing the wall. He can’t picture Nkemi’s jara, this man who – he doesn’t know why he’s so hung on it – this man who doesn’t take kofi har’aq. A phrase bats itself round his mind, deafening-loud, as if he’s frightened he’ll say it aloud without meaning to, against all logic.

It’s not that he’s afraid; his own guilt sits in his belly like a cold stone. It’s not – he doesn’t know what it is. Perhaps, he’s been thinking, he shouldn’t take kofi har’aq. He doesn’t know.

None of it touches his face or his field. There’s been the benny smells of cooking all through Emeka’s house, growing and growing in the last hour. He breathes them in deep when they reach the door; he listens to the sound of Dhafed laughing heartily as they step out into the street, and the wind ripples through both their clothes.

The setting sun hits the sides of the buildings, glowing soft, deep orange. The bochi playing a ways down, kicking a ball through the dust, cast long shadows.

“I hope you’ve spent the afternoon well,” he says, smiling sidelong, laying a hand on her arm.

The smells of Emeka’s cooking drift away behind, but others from the houses around them join it. “Dzul!” shouts a wiry boy, holding up both hands; another lad darts round, throwing the ball before a great, plump lad can tackle him into the dirt. The boy he remembers from earlier crouches nearby, watching the game with a furrowed brow. Nobody’s throwing the ball to him.

As he and Nkemi draw by, he breaks off from the rest, tottering uncertainly behind them, first – as if he thinks they don’t notice. Risha’s smiling, though he’s not looking, one eyebrow quirked. He glances over at Nkemi once, but mostly keeps his eyes ahead, nodding.

Eventually: “Ada’na Nkemi!” The lad catches up with them, walking on Nkemi’s side. He’s younger than the other boys, younger, he thinks, than he’d thought earlier. “I heard from Ameqran who told me the ghost was your guest,” he says. “I did not believe.” He sneaks a glance around her at him, wide-eyed.

He bows his head, trying very hard not to snort.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Early Evening, 30 Bethas, 2720
Nkese and Ifran's Home, the Outskirts of Dkanat

Anetol reaches out and wraps her in his arms. Nkemi holds him close, and feels the soft sharpness of his chin against her shoulder, and is as grateful as she knows how to be; it fills her up and spills over into her smile, welling up deep from within.

Nkemi inclines her head, too, with Anetol’s. Sometimes she has wondered if he will ever trust, when he sees her, that she will not turn away. She wonders what it is he thinks she sees, when he stands stiff and waiting after they have been apart. She learned of freezing in Vienda, of ice which forms in thin sheets over the river in the cold; staring down one can almost see the rushing below when it has not snowed so recently. They call it thawing, when it melts.

Nkemi does not mind thawing Anetol herself, reaching out with her hand and field to make warmth enough. But she cannot say how much it touches her, this hug, even more than the words which follow.

“I am grateful,” Nkemi puts them to her tongue as best as she knows how; she smiles at Anetol. “And I, too, am honored.”

They go down the stairs together, and out the door. The sun is not yet sunk; light spills over the horizon, vibrant and colorful. It is hard to think only a day ago they came to Dkanat; Nkemi feels full to the brim with all that has passed already - full like a water barrel, with every drop one to be grateful for.

“Yes,” Nkemi says, smiling. She thinks of mixing flour and dicing potatoes; she thinks of chopping the onion small and then smaller. She thinks of moving the table, of laying the cloth out and out again, of milking the goats and pumping the water up to the house, of her mother’s smile and her father’s frown. “Very well,” Nkemi says. “And you?”

She is reminded of following her mother to the store, of carrying back one potato, and then two, and then a basketful. It is no more than a basket which she held today; for all the strength she has found in herself there are some burdens which cannot be lifted. But she has found joy in the attempt, and for that, too, she is grateful.

They walk down the street; Nkemi thinks Efedhe thinks they do not know he follows, like a small shadow. When he speaks, Nkemi looks back at him with a smile.

“Good evening, ada’xa Efedhe,” Nkemi says with a smile. “This man is Anetol Vakelin of Anaxas. He breathes as you do; his heart beats as does yours.”

“Oh,” Efedhe sneaks a look at Anetol from around Nkemi. “Does this mean he is not a ghost, Ada’na?”

Nkemi thinks of a whirling black darkness; she thinks of a rush of cold through her. She thinks of unworldly sounds echoing through chambers, filling every inch with no need for air.

“This is my understanding,” Nkemi says.

Efedhe frowns. “Osferon told me ghosts are white.”

“So it is said,” Nkemi agrees. “But not all who are white are ghosts. Is not Na’kore white?” She thinks of the large white camel with a smile; he is famous through the whole village.

“Yes,” Efedhe laughs. “He spit on me.” His hand comes into Nkemi’s. She gives it a little squeeze, her other arm still through Anetol’s. “Na’kore is not a ghost,” Efedhe says, considering; he glances once more at Anetol. “I see,” he says, solemn.

They walk a little longer; Efedhe stays with them through the town, but when Nkemi passes the last house he lets go. He bows and calls his goodbyes, and runs back down the street. It is only once he is gone that Nkemi let’s her grin come loose, smiling with Anetol.

The sky is darkening; at this angle it is hard to see the house. They come around, and he can see it then: old and large, all wood, tucked into the shadow of the hill above Dkanat. It is not a long walk, but it is not so short either; the hill climbs slowly but steadily.

From this approach they see the front, and only the edge of the goat pen. Ifran waits on the front step, white cloth fluttering around him, watching them come.

When Anetol and Nkemi are close enough to caprise, he bows, deeply. “Anatole Vauquelin,” Ifran says, quietly; he has the accent of Thul Ka, Nkemi knows, though the vowels have lengthened a little over the years. “I am Ifran pez Tejulo; I welcome you to my family’s home.”

Nkemi stands with Anetol, and she tries to see her father through his eyes. She knows he was taller, once; he holds himself up, now, but he cannot fight the slow bending forward of his shoulders. His face is shadowed and lined; his scalp is soft with white curls. His white clothes are neat and clean. His face is pinched at the eyes, at the mouth; he has not found his smile.

There is no field around him; there is nothing at all. There never has been, as long as Nkemi remembers. She knows he studied once at Ire’dzosat; it is Nkanzi who told her of his field when he and Nkese married, and how it was deep and soft, full of clairvoyant mona. He stands in the midst of his nothingness, as tall as he can; he does not flinch.

[Tom Cooke]

Dkanat • The Southern Desert

Early Evening on the 28th of Bethas, 2720

H
e tries not to hold his breath. The words she chooses are a strange sort of relief, though he should’ve known she’d choose them carefully. He looks up at the sky once, at the wash of brilliant pink-orange just fading to dark, and shuts his eyes for a moment. He resists the urge to touch the inside of his wrist just to make sure he hasn’t made a liar of her.

Smiling softly, he looks over and meets the lad’s dark eyes, inclining his head and shoulders in something like a bow.

He doesn’t understand, at first. At the name Na’kore, his brows furrow slightly; he’s heard of Mugrobi who… Then he makes a little noise, somewhere between a squeak and a stifled snort, almost – not quite – inaudible under Efedhe’s laughter. He nods very seriously when the lad looks at him again. When he leaves, when the smile spreads across Nkemi’s face, he dissolves into quiet laughter.

The last of his laughter’s still glowing in his chest as they start up and out of town. With the sky darkening and his poor eyes, it’s hard for him to see much of anything; he doesn’t try to squint ahead, to catch any glimpses over the rocky, winding path.

There’s not much for him to say, either. He pats Nkemi’s arm again, still smiling. Once, he nearly gives into another laugh, soft and joyful.

For awhile there’s just the sound of their sandals in the dust, and there’s a thoughtful look on his face, not quite a smile. He’s told her of his restful afternoon; and of how Jioma might’ve told him all the news in Dkanat, with more names than he can ever keep up with, for all he was honored to try. Now, he’s grateful for the warmth of her arm in his and the caprise of their fields, and he’s content to wait, come what may, and put everything else aside.

When they first round the bend, he looks up at the house with faint surprise. Its edges bleed into the shadows of the hill behind, and it casts its own soft shadows; it’s hard for him to make out, but it’s larger than he expected.

He can feel the first cutting chill of the night, whispering over his amel’iwe and at his ankles. He almost shivers. There’s a ripple of white on the front steps.

It’s an old man he sees at first – the set of his shoulders, the way he holds himself. He knows better than to think of a grandfather or an uncle; he knows, whatever else he doesn’t know, that this is Nkemi’s jara.

He speaks Anatole’s name, when they get close enough. He lilts over the Anaxi vowels, careful and proper. They’re within caprising range, then, those four steps he’s measured and knows so well; he doesn’t reach out for a caprise because there’s nothing to caprise.

It doesn’t hit him all at once; it barely hits him at all, as the old man bows with a rustle of his pristine whites. Not all who are white, Nkemi said, are ghosts. The top of his head is covered with hair the color of snow. When he raises up, his dark face is pinched and traced with lines.

He bows right away, slipping his arm from Nkemi’s and bending low. “Thank you, ada’xa Ifran,” he says as he rises somewhat stiffly. He meets the old man’s eyes and holds them.

Ifran pez Tejulo speaks more like Nkemi than Nkese or Jioma or Jinasa, Emeka or any of the bochi; maybe more like those he met at Thul’amat – Natete and the rest – or even Aremu, than Nkemi. It makes sense, he thinks; it all makes sense, and that’s all he can think. He’s sharply aware of the clairvoyant mona around him, of the sense of them that never goes away.

He steps a little closer. “I am honored by your welcome, ada’xa,” he says, inclining his head, “and by you and your family’s hospitality.” He looks back at Nkemi, then up at the house, then meets Ifran’s eye again. The breeze picks up, and warm smells waft from somewhere inside. He finds a smile; it’s not so hard.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Early Evening, 30 Bethas, 2720
Nkese and Ifran's Home, the Outskirts of Dkanat

Anetol slips his arm from Nkemi’s, and he bows too. Nkemi can only watch; it is her father she looks up to, standing quiet on the steps. He is looking down at Anetol, meeting his gaze across the distance which is not so great.

She wonders how long he stood on the steps, watching the winding up trail. She knows, from her childhood, that a small girl with sharp eyes can see the moment when someone leaves the town, well enough to fling herself at a run down the path to greet an aunt, a mother, or a father.

The wind carries to them a drift of warm spiced stew, of soft bleating from behind the house. They are not many, the short steps which lead up to the front door; they are swept clean of dust, but they creak softly underfoot, as they have for as long as Nkemi remembers.

Ifran holds the door open. Candles are lit along the walls, a soft yellow glow which sweeps over the narrow hall. The rug is Hoxian - your grandfather’s, Nkanzi told Nkemi once, as she traced the patterns with small, curious fingers. She knows the colors have faded in the light, but here in the dark it looks as well as ever.

It was not strange, to pass through this doorway last night. Nkemi comes in after Anetol, and there he is, in his deep crimson amel’iwe, standing on the midst of her grandfather’s rug, the paleness of his skin and the freckles which interrupt it caught up in the candles’ gleaming.

Ifran leads him to the hall which runs through the house. They turn towards the kitchen. Ifran does not look the other now; he does not look towards the door to his study, the one Nkemi knows is closer. Neither does he look towards the narrow staircase, towards all the rest of it up above.

The smell of dinner is stronger now; it unclenches something in Nkemi’s stomach. The door to the dining room is open; moonlight and starlight gleam through the windows now, where they shine over the edge of the hill. Nkemi smiles at the familiar sight, which is even more dear to her from her bedroom above.

Nkemi names it: she is nervous. She does not know for whom, or whether it is for herself, after all. She cannot find it in the stiffness of her father’s shoulders, drawn upright against the inclination of many years; she cannot find it in the slight drawing together of Anetol’s brows above his smile, the line between them which deepens with it.

The napkins are folded at each place, now; there are four plates, four cups, four knives and forks and spoons. The pattern, she knows, would not have been to her grandfather’s taste. She wonders if they were a present from her father’s family, a long time ago.

Ifran goes to the head of the table; he holds there, standing behind the chair. He frowns for a moment, and he looks up at Nkemi.

This is familiar; she has watched him look so at her mother many times.

Nkemi smiles at him, easily; she relaxes into it, and turns to Anetol. “I think juela is still busy in the kitchen,” she says with a grin. “I hope you have brought much hunger with you.”

Something of the tightness on her father’s face eases. He does not speak, much, she has thought to tell Anetol. It is true, but that it is truth is not reason enough. She is glad he spoke of honor; she is grateful to him, because she thinks maybe he understands.

“Perhaps after dinner,” Nkemi says cheekily, “I shall take you to meet Iki’dzof.” She feels her father’s stillness at her side, the rippling through him. Her gaze holds calm on Anetol, and she smiles, still, evenly. She hopes; she knows it is, perhaps, foolish, but she hopes.

[Tom Cooke]

Nkese and Ifran's Home • On the Edge of Dkanat

Evening on the 28th of Bethas, 2720

I
t’s warmer inside. He doesn’t realize that his hands are so cold – the skin beginning to numb, the joints beginning to ache – until they feel the warmth seeping back into them. Ifran has held open the door, and he moves through all that empty around him, soles creaking on the steps. The long shadows of dusk are replaced by the warm, flickering shadows of candlelight, and as the door shuts behind them, it doesn’t quite muffle the soft bleating of goats from somewhere.

They’re wrapped up in the scent of stew, of warm broth and spices both familiar and unfamiliar to him. Ifran leads them through, the drape of his amel’iwe luminous in the candlelight; they don’t linger long, though he almost wants to, for all the weight of the place is settling over him little by little.

The rug that stretches the length of the floor is beautiful. He recognizes the pattern, he thinks. This is the only place he pauses for even a moment, tracing the rich darks and lights of the pattern.

He doesn’t feel so much like a ghost here; he feels he’s surrounded by them, though he doesn’t taste the thin, sulphurous strangeness of the air, or hear any whispering but what the wind carries through the old wood. He has the even stranger urge to put his ear to the wall, to listen for what the house might tell him. He can fair well picture a little boch crawling about this carpet, or running down the hall they follow her jara into.

There are other doors. He doesn’t look in them; nor does he let his eyes linger on the stairs as they pass, or up to where they might go.

He doesn’t know when he lost his sense of it – how close to stand to a man without a field. He follows as many paces back as he thinks he would, if he were trying to hold a light caprise with Ifran. If he were imbala – he can’t think of that; it’s not the same – is it? – if he were, he would be able to feel something. He used to know this sort of nothing; it used to be his own. It used to be comfortable.

The sky is macha clear out the dining-room windows. Benea is only a sliver, now, soon to be swallowed by shadow, but she’s still bright. The stars all flock to her and spread around her, tinged with soft purples and blues and reds, as if somebody’s spilled dye into the sky’s dark water.

Inside, the colors are warm; the smells are stronger in here, and he wonders which of the Circle to thank that his roiling stomach doesn’t make itself heard. Somehow, it wouldn’t seem right. Ifran is making his way to the head of the table, his chin up and his back straight in spite of the slight roundness of his shoulders.

It takes him some time to figure out why he’s holding himself tense. Without understanding, he sees the candlelight spark on silverware. It’s only as he settles his shaky hands on the back of his own chair that he understands.

He doesn’t let his eyes linger on the settings. Only three at each, only a fork and a knife and a spoon. He’ll figure it out; he always does.

Nkemi is grinning at him, and he looks at her, though he can’t seem to make a grin of his own; he isn’t sure he should. “I have indeed,” he says pleasantly, and inclines his head.

Ifran has spoken once, at the door; he’s been silent since, though he hasn’t held his head down or avoided his eye, like someone else he knew once. He’s not the same kind of quiet man, he thinks, or quiet for the same reason.

Nkemi speaks again, and he looks at her – she has been watching him here, too – and his smile melts, though it’s still not quite a grin.

“I hope we’ve the chance,” he says. He smiles at Ifran, not long enough to address him, but long enough he hopes – he doesn’t know. Eyes are like doors; a shut door is no better than staring. “It smells wonderful,” he adds, daring a little: “I was afraid you’d both hear my stomach growling the second I smelled it outside.”

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Early Evening, 30 Bethas, 2720
Nkese and Ifran's Home, the Outskirts of Dkanat

There is a softening to Anetol’s smile which spreads through his face. Nkemi holds his gaze, just a moment longer; her gaze flicks up when he looks away.

Ifran is standing, still, his hands on the back of the chair. These chairs, Nkemi knows; they are not the bench which sits against the table in the kitchen, but high-backed, delicately carved. She realizes only now, looking down, that one of her parents has re-upholstered them; they are never dusty, but every inch of the dark wood gleams in the pale light. Nkemi feels an ache in his chest, and she does not know if it is the same one or made anew.

The chairs are Mugrobi, not Hoxian. The edges are carved in a wave-like pattern; it is not quite what one sees on calypt-tree tables, but a wave like the desert dunes, etched into the wood. Nkemi remembers standing on the seat, tracing them with her eyes and fingertips; she had many years to explore this house. She knows it; she knows it well enough to make a vestibule of it, effortlessly, to pour herself into the walls and floor, the staircase and the kitchen and the room upstairs, even the few of stars outside. She thinks, fleetingly, of the brush of sage and the chime of glass, but it slips like sand between her fingers.

Perhaps last night she would have said it has not changed; last night, entering, she thought she knew it all. Today she is not sure if it has, or if she has, or both; today she wonders that she thought she knew every inch of it, and this ache, too, curls inside her. She looks again at Anetol, pale white dotted with red, silver and white winding through his red curls, his face shaved clean and the planes of it a little sharper than they were, just two days ago.

Ifran watches Anetol through large, dark eyes; he smiles, slowly, at Anetol’s words, although it does not quite last. “My wife’s cooking often reminds me of my hunger,” Ifran says, quiet. He glances over at Nkemi, then; he smiles a little more, swallowing once, his throat moving with it beneath his chin.

It is a different look in his eyes this time. Nkemi smiles at him; she does not know what to make of this one. She is not sure she recognizes it, not well enough to take a cue. She waits; he waits, too, and there is a pause.

“Nkemi speaks very well of the goats,” Ifran says; he looks back at Anetol. There is smile on his face Nkemi does not recognize, not quite, as he looks at the Anaxi. “She has had a gift of telling stories since she was small,” Ifran says, quietly. He sits at the table; his shoulders curve forward, away from the chair, and he straightens them back and up. “Of telling the truth,” Ifran says, looking once more at Anetol, heavy on the last word, “but so as to make the words come alive.”

Nkemi knows it now, his look. She smiles. There is a lump in her throat, but it is one which she can smile through, effortlessly; it is not that sort of lump. She sits as well; her shoes come off, and she crosses her feet on the chair, small enough to fit within. She, too, sits prefect straight, a long line of her back, and her hands tuck into her lap.

Nkemi knows this is how he feels; he has spoken to her of pride and joy, at times when he was capable, at times when she needed to hear it. Even when he did not, she did not doubt him. She is not so young, anymore, to be ashamed of her father speaking so to another man; she is not abashed or made shy, but only proud of herself, and proud, too, of him. This is what she smiles in; this is what she is made glad of.

[Tom Cooke]

Nkese and Ifran's Home • On the Edge of Dkanat

Evening on the 28th of Bethas, 2720

I
t’s his eyes, he thinks.

They’re wide and fair dark, and the candleflames’ flickering echoes through the irises and the pupil. He doesn’t stare, but he watches, a familiar sort of watching on an unfamiliar sort of face. He’s the sense of the mind that’s working behind them, deep and rushing like a river. Brief as Ifran’s smile is, the way it crinkles the edges of them is familiar, too.

Even if he doesn’t know the smile on the rest of the face, he blinks, and his own smile warms, a well-worn reflex these past months.

What he says rightaway, soft and ponderous, is more than enough; he’d never’ve asked such a man to speak, if it gave him pain. It’s not exactly what he said given back to him – not in the way of another incumbent at a dinner Uptown, talking of how famished he is – but it’s just as true, and he thinks he understands, more and more.

They all stand there, Ifran’s hands on the back of his chair, waiting. Nkemi’s jara looks at her, but if she’s meant to speak, she doesn’t. When he turns back, there’s a smile on his face, this one lingering.

He doesn’t sit until Ifran does; he pulls the macha-carved, high-backed chair out carefully, his eyes sweeping over the smooth tablecloth again, the light flickering through the pitcher of water, the lovely-patterned folded napkins. Talk of goats seems strange amid all these fine things. He feels strange amid all these fine things, though he knows there’s nothing suspect in the rich cloth of his amel’iwe, the best clothes he’s had tailored, and he hopes there’s nothing suspect in his manner.

But he listens, patient, when Ifran speaks. He knows enough of quiet men to know to let one finish speaking. The words drop from him in short spurts, with pauses in-between, hewn careful as tsan’ehew.

When he does finish – and he knows from the way of his smile, he thinks – he can’t help the grin on his own face. He doesn’t know if it suits this place; he doesn’t care, for the moment.

He nods, turning what he’s said over carefully. He glances at Nkemi, hesitating before he speaks; not every young woman wants to sit in the midst of a couple of old men bragging on her. But there’s a smile filling up every inch of her face, for all the straightness of her back. “She finds the truth and – shines a light on it, ada’xa,” he agrees, still smiling, not looking at Nkemi except in the corner of his eye. “I’ve learned a great deal from the stories she’s told me.”

Nkemi and Ifran are both sitting fair straight. He saw Ifran’s shoulders sag a moment when he sat; he saw him pull himself upright.

He sits straight, too, with his jaw set, with his legs slightly parted. He looks over the silverware, trying not to think of wrangling the fork with his shaky hand until he has to. They’re not so bad, today, he tells himself. And only three, he reminds himself, no more. When all else fails, you watch what’s around you. When in Florne, do as the Flornese.

He can’t imagine these people laughing at him, Ifran with his watchful eyes, Nkese with the warm press of her hands on his. He doesn’t want to make himself unwelcome, all the same. These aren’t the whispers at an Uptown party; if these people speak of him when he leaves, of the rude Anaxi incumbent…

He thinks he remembers the soft scuffling sound of sandals on the floor. He doesn’t know; they sat at the same time. He can’t tell just from the set of Nkemi’s shoulders, but something about the set of her back makes him think – that if he were to crane himself down to look underneath the table, which is the sort of thing a boch would do and certainly does not befit a man of his station… If he were to do this, he might see her legs crossed and the soles of her bare feet pale in the dark.

Still, he sits straight as ever, and he smiles again at both of them.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Early Evening, 30 Bethas, 2720
Nkese and Ifran's Home, the Outskirts of Dkanat

Anetol glances over at her; he makes a faint question with his eyebrows, and Nkemi smiles permission at him. Her cheeks warm a little as he goes on; the words mean a good deal, from him.

She thinks of him in the tent, gazing solidly down at the thin hands in his lap, as if to memorize the lines of them. She thinks of her own hands, and the lines on her palm, and a deep rasping voice, of age-thickened fingers which brushed her palm, her heart, and her head.

Seeker and shaper and finder, Nkemi thinks. She thinks of the sun glinting off the Turga; she thinks of gray sheets flapping in a cold breeze; she thinks of words like clay; she thinks of glass glittering in the desert.

Ifran is smiling, now, more easily. It reaches his eyes, as it had not before, and lingers in the lines around them, crinkling them up even when it fades on his lips.

The door opens and Nkese comes in; she is smiling, and the warm smells of the kitchen chase her in. She is colorful now, too, wrapped in turquoise and green and yellow, and Nkemi’s smile brightens for the sight of her.

“Ahna-toll,” Nkese says, bright and smiling. There is a platter in her hands but she bows effortlessly around it, and sets it on the table, taking the last seat. “You are very welcome,” she grins at him.

Ifran’s shoulders soften a little more.

The platter is full of small green and brown fritters, bits of greens folded over and around themselves, mixed with onion and ground lentils. There are two small bowls as well, one with yogurt and another with yogurt mixed with chili.

“Nkemi has written to me that Anaxi eat their food without spices,” Nkese said, solemn, though her eyes gleam. “So I have prepared a dip for you without the heat which we like.“

Nkemi looks down at the platter. She pauses, after a moment; next to her, Ifran goes very still. Nkese frowns, the tiniest wrinkle in her forehead, and she looks down as well.

Nkemi sees the moment when her mother sees it, the change that flickers over her face. She has not thought of a serving utensil; Nkemi is not quite sure how to say that Anetol will not mind taking it by hand. Her father is so very still, in the corner of her gaze. Nkemi cannot even think of what they have which would work well; perhaps there is much more like this silverware which hides, waiting, in places unknown.

After a moment, undaunted, Nkese stands up again, picks up the lovely spoon and fork from where Ifran has set them, and scoops up one of the fritters. She sets it firmly on Anetol’s plate, and then serves each of them rest of them. There are spoons, at least, in the sauces, and these Nkese sets as well in front of Anetol.

When they come to her, Nkemi takes a small dollop of each. She looks doubtfully down at the fritter; they all do.

After a moment, somewhat hesitant, Ifran takes his fork and knife and cuts into it. It comes apart more quickly than he expects; the knife clinks hard against the plate and he sets them both down, quickly, as if startled.

Nkemi’s lips press together, faintly. She thinks of the rooftop restaurant where they ate in Dejai; she looks now at the trembling of Anetol’s hands.

“Perhaps this too, I may shine a light on,” Nkemi says, into the silence which has fallen over the table. She takes her fritter in her fingers, still warm; she teases it apart, and dips a piece into the cool red sauce, and lifts it to her mouth.

Ifran is staring down at his plate; Nkese is sitting back in her chair, watching him.

“You are wiser than I, daughter,” Ifran says, after a moment. His voice cracks on the words, but he takes the piece of fritter which he cut in his fingers, and begins to eat.

[Tom Cooke]

Nkese and Ifran's Home • On the Edge of Dkanat

Evening on the 28th of Bethas, 2720

T
hank you, ada’na,” he says; it slips out, his voice warm with delight. Underneath ada’na Nkese’s voice, in the midst of the noise and motion, he’s fair sure his stomach’s given a banderwolf’s growl, but he doesn’t think anybody heard it. Nkese’s eyes are glittering; they aren’t Nkemi’s, he sees now, for all the rest of her smile’s echoed in her face – but she comes in a whirl of color, green and green-blue and bright yellow, vivid but so unlike Serkaih.

He doesn’t sit stiffly; nor does his spine relax from its ramrod. He finds himself breathing in and out from his diaphragm, as if he’s preparing to sing.

When Nkese sets the platter down, his smile brightens and warms – for a moment. He glances over the fritters with their benny glistening dark greens, smelling strongly of fried onions and lentils, and the two dips. He can smell them, cool herbed yoghurt and something hot, if the color and the scattering of chili seeds tells him anything.

He looks down, then, because he can no longer help it. The handles of the spoon and fork are long and thin, slightly curved, a pattern of swirls worked into the silver. It catches the light prettily. The same pattern is worked into the flat of the knife; his eyes move along its edge, trying to gauge its sharpness. More a steak knife than a butter knife.

He glances back up at the fritters. This isn’t how Emeka’s fami eats, but he thinks of the chairs, and the carpet, and the big old house, and the way Ifran speaks. He can’t puzzle it out; he supposes you use the spoon to dollop out the sauces onto the cakes, and then the fork to cut into them.

May be that it’s rude to use your fork to cut into the fritter, the same way you have to use a knife with a tender roast. May be that they’re tougher than they look.

He has only the fraction of a second to think on it. He glances up at Nkese, barely understanding what she’s saying, and nods and smiles without thinking. “Thank you,” he says.

Then he glances back down at the sauces and understands. His mind creeps sluggishly into other understandings.

He sees it, he suspects, right round when Nkemi does; he can see her watching the platter in the corner of his eye. She can’t think – no, he knows, she doesn’t. He wants her to say something, but it’s not her place to speak for him. What, then, is he to say? He doesn’t dare look at Ifran.

Nkese’s already moved to serve them, though she’s already seated herself and he doesn’t want her to get up. He smiles at her; he starts to thank her a third time, then stops, sheepish. It’s a good solution – for this problem.

They’re all taking up their forks and knives, and he imagines it’d be rude not to take his. It’s been a time since he’s used one; it feels unfamiliar in his hand, but it doesn’t shake so much. Not until there’s a clack from Ifran’s end of the table, and he nearly drops it, startled. He looks, now; his large, familiar dark eyes are looking down at the neatly-cut fritter. He glances back down at his, wishing he hadn’t.

It’s Nkemi who breaks the tension, in the end, cutting through it not with a knife but with careful fingers. He smiles, warm but a little wan; it’s only after Ifran has spoken and started eating again that he pushes past the lump in his throat and takes the fritter in his own shaking fingers, feeling oddly self-conscious.

He tries the paler sauce, first, as he thinks it would be rude not to. He thinks to say something; he’s not sure what they think an Anaxi incumbent will say.

The first bite warms him. “Wonderful, ada’na,” he says. It slips out when he’s finished chewing; he hasn’t realized how hungry he was, and he smiles across at Nkese, unabashed. The sauce isn’t hot, but the coolness of it still balances the warmth of the fritter, and – he finds himself relaxing, just a little.

“Nkemi’s told me much of Dkanat these last few months,” he starts, a little sheepish. Casually, he dips his next piece of the fritter into the hotter sauce. “I’m grateful to be here, finally. You’ve a lovely house, ada’xa, ada’na.”. There’s not a question in his voice, exactly, or a request for a question in return; it’s more an offer, or, he hopes, the passing of a candle.