[Closed, Mature] A Soul That’s Born in Cold and Rain

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Evening, 34 Bethas, 2720
The Heart of Dkanat

There is much learning which is done to become a prefect. There are many things a prefect must know, and for one with clairvoyant and static conversations both, this was especially true. There were physical arts as well, the learning of the baton and the toughening of those calluses. There was also the art of investigation, of gathering up bits of shattered pottery and piecing them together. Much of this she has learned by the doing, but much she was also taught.

The other side of learning is the side of the law.

The killing of one’s fellow man, wrote one magistrate, more than two millennia ago, is the worst of crimes. No man has the right to take another back to the cycle; to do so is to take the power of the Circle for oneself. For he who commits this crime, it is often said that he must lose his life as well, excepting in circumstances whereby he prevented his own demise or the demise of others at the other man’s hands, or whereby it can be clearly shown that he was not of himself in this moment. And yet in this proportionate taking he is sent back to the cycle to begin anew; instead, let him spend his life in penance, and be as a slave to those whom he has most wronged by his actions.

These are ancient words. Modern laws are clearer, and less fanciful: a man who has committed such a crime may not walk free for a long time. If it is believed he will do so again, he may never walk free.

Nkemi looks at him, standing opposite across the kitchen from her, thin freckle-spotted hand resting on the counter. There is a faint gleam of moisture in dark eyes, beneath slender pale eyelashes.

Nkemi tried to think of how she would charge him. The law cannot touch what is not believed; the law cannot punish that which cannot be contained. Lifetimes, he said; she thinks again of her grandfather’s words.

Nkemi is no magistrate. Her breath is coming a little unevenly; she finds the steadiness of it once more. She is only a prefect; here in the desert, just now, she does not feel even that. She is a child of Dkanat; she is a daughter who loves her mother and father. She is a woman who has brought something terrible into the midst of all of these.

She does not wish he had not spoken; if there is within her a wish that he had spoken earlier, it is herself she blames, and not him. Her head aches; all the long hours of the day drag at her, and she knows not what to make of any of them, nor how to sit in judgment. This is not mine, she wishes to beg, and yet there is no other to take this burden from her.

Nkemi nods her understanding, in the end; she does not dare to speak. Perhaps she has had no right to ask such a question. She knows she does not know what to make of the answer. All the same he has offered it to her, and with all her skills and practice, she thinks he speaks truth.

“I do not now see,” Nkemi says, looking at him, “any need to make this known.” Her face tightens; she looks away from him, finally, towards the dark streets and the lights upon it. She thinks of Jeela, of ghosts, of fear. She breathes in, deeply, and out again.

Nkemi inclines her head; she looks up once more, and meets his gaze. “When I made my offer, it was understood between us that I should be your guide to this place and back to Thul Ka afterwards. I do not believe that I am relieved of this promise by what we have spoken of here; I intend to honor it.”

[Tom Cooke]

Emeka's Home • Dkanat

Morning on the 34th of Bethas, 2720

H
e hasn’t stopped looking at her, and she hasn’t spoken, a single time. The stew’s off the stove and the village is back asleep, or as close as it can come to it – lights out, lying breathless quiet – and the only thing he can hear is the ruffle of the wind in the drapes.

He can see Nkemi’s chest rising and falling unsteadily. She evens it out. She’s never been anything less than straight, ramrod-backed straight, the kind of straight that’s easy from long practice; not since she came off the counter, not since the stranger came into the room. But he’s watched the jerk of her breath, once or twice. The quickening, where the breaths have fallen over each other like stumbling feet; the holding, when her chest has flattened out still, and there’s nothing in or out.

Her breath is smooth, now, in and out. If he focused, he might line them up, his and hers; it seems an awful mockery to do that. As it is, he’s holding his breath even.

I’m not making excuses, he wants to say. I know what I am, he wants to say, with his posture and his breathing. No leira tears, no sad opera-masks. I’m a monster, and every bit of it – on the rooftop overlooking Dejai Point; on the steamship; in the desert, the Things you saved along with ada’na Ipiwo; at dinner with your juela and your jara – every bit of it was a lie. I know what I am, and it’s best that you know, too.

And when she speaks finally, he can’t help the slight sagging of his shoulders. Or the way he swallows, the dry desert air tight in his throat, and his eyes flick down and to the side for just a moment – toward the pot-lid catching the lanternlight, toward the window and the long dark street, his brow furrowed like a guilty dog’s. Relieved.

He hates himself for it.

He looks back at her with surprise, his brow furrowing deeper. He waits ‘til she’s finished, but when she does, his mouth comes open a little; he shuts it, pressing his lips together.

Somewhere, a rooster crows.

He just about jumps out of his skin. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, clearing his throat, and looks back at Nkemi. She looks tired, he thinks, even if her back is straight, even if her face is solemn. He thinks she ought to go upstairs and rest, instead of whatever lays ahead for her now. He thinks it ought to be him making a pot of tea and bringing it up, this time; he wonders if he could’ve held off just a little longer, just long enough to do that. Would it’ve been for him, or for her?

She looks so tired.

“I can’t question it,” he says. “Your belief. I know I can’t – release you – from that promise.”

And what will tonight be like? And tomorrow? Will ada’na Nkese come by again? Will they have to – no, they can’t. Nkemi won’t, he thinks; if he knows anything of her, she can’t bear to. And neither can he: it’s one thing to act the part of Anatole, smooth and vapid, with her on his arm; it’s another to act the part of this man, this man he so very much enjoyed being.

He holds her gaze, the frown still on his face, glancing from one wide dark eye to the other. “I made a promise, too. With my intent, if not with my words.” He thinks of her hands on his, warm through the gloves, and the lanterns drifting by underneath the river. “We made plans to leave on the thirty-sixth,” he says. “I want to do whatever I can, tonight and tomorrow, to make this - bearable. Or at least no worse.”

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Evening, 34 Bethas, 2720
The Heart of Dkanat

Something which had held him upright sags; Nkemi sees it shudder through the lines of his face, the set of his shoulders. He crumbles, just a little, where he had held straight, through he never quite slumps. She sees it, in the moment when he understands. He looks tired, then, and small and old, and many other things which he is and is not.

Nkemi’s chest rises and falls evenly with her breath. He frowns, looking at her, and she does not look away. Bearable, he says, or at least no worst. A promise with my intent, he calls it, if not my words. Nkemi’s breath holds even and steady. She inclines her head. “Thank you,” she says, evenly.

There is no sound from the quiet street outside; she does not know how long it will be until Emeka returns. She thinks he will want to wait at the Cultural Center, perhaps, for news; she tries to imagine him and all the rest walking through the lantern light, staying in the center of the path where the pale circles overlap, carrying the walking lanterns with them through the dark, color gleaming through the striped gray of the walls just around them, and no further.

She imagines them searching the walls, above and below; she imagines them calling up and down, and along the line, searching and finding.

There is a creak from the stairs outside. Nkemi glances once more at him. She breathes in, and out, and does not say any more.

“Nkemi,” Ale’ala’s voice is thinner than it was that morning.

Nkemi goes to the stairs; she climbs them, up, and slips her arm beneath Ale’ala’s.

“A good girl,” Ale’ala murmurs; she shakes where she rests against Nkemi. “What has happened? I thought I heard a noise.” They walk slowly down the stairs, Ale’ala’s gnarled hand tight on the banister and her arm trembling through Nkemi’s still.

Nkemi eases her into a chair, and finds a blanket which she drapes over the tsorerem.

They talk.

“Frightened,” Nkemi finishes, softly.

“All of us are,” Ale’ala murmurs; her eyes close, and she breathes in deep. Her gaze lifts to him as he enters, a tray in his thin, freckled hands.

Anetol sets it down, with two cups, and not three. “Ada’na,” he murmurs; he doesn’t linger.

Nkemi takes the cup of tea, warm and mint-fragrant, and curls her hands around it. Ale’ala sips at hers, slowly, and shakes her head. “And your grandfather’s journals?” She asks.

Nkemi inclines her head. “He wrote much of what they told him,” she says, quietly. “I understand how it must have troubled him; it is troubling, to think on.”

Ale’ala raises her thin white eyebrows.

Nkemi goes on. “I think by the end he would have thought them like a sandstorm,” she says, her hands curled around the tea. “The banning was the best he could do for our shelter. The winds have their own logic; we do not seek too deeply to understand them.”

“Is this a prefect’s answer?” Ale’ala murmurs.

“It is a granddaughter’s,” Nkemi says, softly.

Ale’ala inclines her head.

Anetol is a pale shadow at the edge of her vision; she sees him go past, and into the kitchen, and then back up the stairs once more.

It is not until Nkemi rising, Ale’ala waiting behind her, that she understands. There is a slip of fabric and a handwritten note. Nkemi takes it, reading. Gifts, she understands, for her parents. Her hands tighten on it, for a moment; she glances towards the stairs.

There is a burst of noise from outside; there are footsteps, heavy, man and donkey both. All the lights come back on, flickering one by one, a held breath suddenly released.

Nkemi tucks the package into the pocket of her tunic; she turns, and goes back to join Ale’ala once more, who stirs and shakes herself awake.

Emeka is straight backed and bright-eyed when they come inside. “… found the trail,” he is saying to Jinasa, who walks beside him. “Clever – cut sideways into the cliffside. If we hadn’t known to look, we’d never have seen it. Veke studied physical conversation at Thul’Amat – he’d an idea to pull it down, in the morning; for tonight, Tsarero’s stationed two guards at the top and bottom.”

He claps his hands together. “Stew,” Emeka calls, firmly. The lights come on; they are pouring into the room then, all of them, and Nkemi in the midst of it. There are no footsteps on the staircase.

Nkemi turns herself to this, now, all of that which she has. She breathes in deep, and settles in, and does not think of the package resting against her chest.

[Tom Cooke]

Emeka's Home • Dkanat

Morning on the 34th of Bethas, 2720

W
hen he goes up the stairs for the second time, silent on the boards, he doesn’t look back. He can hear Nkemi’s soft voice, and then Ale’ala’s – “Both granddaughter and prefect are valuable to us beyond what may be expressed, Nkemi. If these winds continue to blow through Dkanat and Serkaih…”

It’s only at the top of the stairs that he shuts his eyes against the wave that hits him. The upstairs common room is still lit by its soft red phosphor lantern, hanging just inside the latticed window. All of it smears; he presses the heels of his hands to his eyelids, squeezing them shut as if he can hold them back.

He doesn’t know why he did it, not really. He knows why he might say he did it; he knows what arguments he might make for himself.

He can’t slide his arm through Nkemi’s any more than she can slide hers through his. He can’t throw his arms around her like he did only a few days ago. If Nkese comes down with her in the morning – and he hopes dearly that she won’t – he doesn’t know that either of them can bear to smile. If Nkese takes his hands in hers, warm and callused, he will bear it, but only because of everything he’s put on Nkemi to bear. He wonders if she’ll have to call him Anatole; he remembers what she told him of intent, countless times, but he doesn’t know if it comes out that way, now that the dye is in the water.

The little parcel wrapped in cloth, still sitting on the desk, seemed to him like something he could offer, like the clasp of a hand or a caprise. He doesn’t wish to make anyone feel as if their guest thought ill of them.

The note in his shaky, cramped hand is innocuous, but every word of it is true. He says nothing of honor, now that she knows he has none, but he writes of their hospitality and warmth and cooking. He explains that the soap and the pendant come from Old Rose Harbor, and that the blackberry wine was made in Plugit around the time of the Cartographer’s Convention. He thanks Nkese at the end for lending him the book. It’s not a very long note.

He tucked Dhe’fere’s book into it at the end, then folded it up and re-tied the twine. When he brought it downstairs, he caught only a little of the conversation. It is troubling to think on, Nkemi was saying as he set it on the counter.

Did he do it for her? For them? he thinks now, as he covers up the light in his room. He can’t bear to sleep; he sits on his bed in the dark for a long time. Did he do it for himself? The thought of taking the package back to Thul Ka was unbearable, too.

Honor is like Uvew, for him. He wonders if he’s ever had a truly honorable intention in either of his lives. He can see it sometimes when he throws sand into the breeze, but he can never see it long enough to remember why he began following it. It’s not for him to hold.

He thinks there’s something in what Aremu’s always said of it – there always has been, he knows now; he thinks the imbala has a better grasp of it than anyone – that some men can’t hold it. With what’s he meant to hold it? Somebody else’s hands?

He listens to the noise downstairs come and go. There’s a rapping at his door, and when he cracks it later, he finds a bowl of cooling stew and flatbread outside. He takes and eats it mechanically.

He wonders if the Jeela lass is sleeping; he wonders if nightmares come. He tries to picture Dzevizawa rattling through the dark, and he can’t. Nor can he imagine Nkemi’s long walk back to the house underneath the hill, or the soft bleating of Iki’dzof and Dzoch’aw and Ipat’ulu, or little Dzepi’pat.

He thinks on Dhe’fere, finally. He knows Nkemi has her father’s eyes, but it’s these eyes he pictures anyway. Sitting across from a wika strung with bones. He imagines Dhe’fere with a very straight back, with lines between his brows, with lips set in a straight line.

He doesn’t sleep that night, but he looks out the window and up at the lightening sky.