The Crocus’ Stem, Cinnamon Hill, Thul Ka
The coachman is lifting the chest to the top of the carriage; Ada’xa Uwexo is standing beneath, lifting.
Subprefect Nasana of Windward Market district cups Nkemi’s cheek in her hand; she smiles, and sighs out the last of her laughter. “You have only just returned,” she says.
“The time will pass as the blink
of a camel’s eye.” Nkemi says, cheerfully. “This journey I undertake with a glad heart.”
“Ule’elana!” Orexo tackles Nkemi with a swift hug; she giggles and squeezes the boy back.
“So tall!” Nkemi says, admiringly, not for the first time in this visit. “When will you pass me?”
“Very soon, I think,” Orexo says proudly, his eddle comfortable now in its caprise, his small boy’s chest thrown proudly out, puffed up with his breath. “It will not be hard, as you are so short!”
“Orexo!” Nasana laughs. Nkemi is laughing too.
“The tide waits for no farewells,” Nkemi says; she bows. “My gratitude is as deep as Hulali’s waters,” she says, taking Nasana’s hands in hers.
“You float upon the waters of our hearts,” Nasana says firmly; she squeezes Nkemi’s hands.
“May the currents guide you well!” It is Uwexo who calls out last. Nkemi is half-hanging from the carriage, waving to the three of them. She settles back against the seat, laughing still bubbling bastly through her. She breathes deep.
It was a long day well-spent; the day before found her speaking truth before the commission. They will make their judgments while she is gone; she can do nothing more. Whatever she has, Nkemi knows, she has left behind. Today was all errands; Nkese has asked for nothing and so Nkemi wishes to bring her everything - all of Thul Ka, if she could, and Vienda too. Nestled in amidst her own things, clothing and books, she has placed fabrics, lentils, spices, rice; there are dried fruits also, sealed, and dried flakes of onion and garlic. She knows better now than to bring pickles; this mistake she made only once. Anetol’s goggles, and her own, she has checked three times.
Tonight Nkemi wears blue to honor the river; her pants weave together all the colors of Hulali’s waters, flowing in loose wide stripes, with a black sash for a waist and loose wide cuffs at the hem. Her shirt is white , loose and flowing, with long sleeves for the chill of the river. Her head is wrapped up in blue shimmering with waves of black and silver threaded through.
The day is still cooling; the sun has begun its slow slant towards the horizon, and though the heat has broken, it is not yet night. Nkemi watches her city from the open window of the coach; they wind around the edges of Windward Market, and though she has spent nearly the whole day there she misses it still.
The only foolish purchase she has made are the oranges. They are underripe, she is promised; she wrapped them up, carefully, again and again, and tucked them separate, where no fall of books with crush them. She knows it may be an idle hope; she accepts that they are in Roa’s hands know. But they are thick-skinned, and she wishes to give her mother and father their tart sweetness enough to hope.
The streets are teeming busy; this is the hours when the market overflows what loose boundaries it has, when there are far too many coming and going for it to be contained. Listening, Nkemi hears the roar of voices like the rushing of the river, all their droplets flowing onwards; listening, she hears laughter and glad shouting, and an angry scatter of voices too. She looks, but not for too long; she grins, for there is no reason to hide it.
They keep going; soon enough the coach is in Cinnamon Hill, where by now the shade stretches over all the road, wrapping it in cool wind. Nkemi hops out of the coach and tells the coachman to wait, dodging the fluffing of his moa’s tail.
“Epa’ma, ada’na, they are too long,” the coachman says, rueful.
“They are lovely,” Nkemi says staunchly, and dashes up the stairs and inside.