[Closed] Keep Ourselves Afloat

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate • Muluku Islands

Afternoon on the 26th of Yaris, 2719

H
is first impression of the Ibutatu plantation was the soft ruffling of linen. Noises wafted in from an open window somewhere, men calling out to one another. There was a warm, dry breeze, and it carried a faint burnt smell, earthy and darkly sweet.

He was curled on his side, one hand cupping his eyes against the light.

After sleeping on the Uccello di Hurte, he was used to the pop and groan of wood buffeted by the wind, the muffled thump of feet on the floorboards. It was strangely still; he did remember the moment he’d stepped off on the platform and nearly fallen, ‘cause his legs still expected the tilt and shift, and the ground was nothing like an aeroship. But if the stillness unsettled him, he’d been too tired to care.

Now, it made him feel hungover. When he thought he could bear the light, he rolled over onto his back and squinted up at the ceiling. His mouth was dry, and there was a tight ache in his stomach; he couldn’t tell if he was hungry or sick.

His neck was cramped where he’d fallen asleep in the study, and he felt like he’d taken a tsuter of a beating. He hadn’t felt that way in a damned long time, and he almost forgot— It was a pleasantly familiar sensation. He lay in it for he couldn’t’ve said how long, shutting his eyes and listening and breathing in the scents. The wind only carried up snatches of voices, but he tried to separate them and make sense of the words.

Then the wind picked up proper, and the drapes rippled and snapped, and the room was full of the smell of strong kofi. Tom shifted; he rolled his shoulders, wincing, laughing softly.

The boards were warm under his feet. He tested his weight on his hip and found his back stiff, but serviceable. There was a light robe folded up at the edge of his bed, untouched, and he took it as he stood up.

He pulled his robe closer about him, then padded curiously to the window, feeling the soft creak of the old boards underneath the soles of his feet. The breeze caught the thin white drapes and filled them; he had to move them aside, brushing his fingertips soft and light as cloud, to see out. He felt it comb fingers through his hair and dry the sweat from his brow, and then he felt the warm sun on his face. Holding onto the sill, he shaded his eyes and let them adjust to the daylight.

The sun was fair high, and the air was warm. It wasn't morning anymore; he was wiping a little sweat from his brow. The landscape that spread out before him was unfamiliar, and for a few long moments, he struggled to make sense of it. He knuckled the matter from his eyes. Neat, long rows of what must’ve been cane, dotted here and there with broad, bobbing hats, buildings here and there whose purposes he could only guess at.

At some distance, he could see part of some kind of grove, disappearing out of sight around back. A path winding along rows of — tsug trees, he recognized. He remembered they grew in Quarter Fords, in the wealthier neighborhoods closest the coast; he’d slipped on a shell once and near broken his erse. The sunlight shivered down through whorls of long, glossy green leaves, dappling the ground.

He glanced down. Below, near hugging the wall, he could see more rows of a plant he didn’t recognize.

He leaned out just a pina to watch a dark shape wheel against the broad blue sky, the sill creaking underneath his hands. The wind tugged at his collar and his sleeves. It died down, and he heard, drifting up from below, a chatter of voices — a woman’s and a man’s, soft — long, lilting vowels.

When he stepped away from the window, he could still smell coffee, mingled with other, less familiar scents. The ache in his stomach tightened, and he found a name for it quick enough.

There was a mirror in his room, with the washstand. He couldn’t’ve said why, but after the last long night on the Uccello, it was too much. He found his coat in his things. Like he was sneaking up on a house hingle with a net, he came at the mirror with it from the side, and covered it before he’d got the chance to see hide or hair of himself.

After that, it was easy going, and he found himself in a tentatively cheerful mood. He didn’t need to shave; he cleaned up quick enough, and found a fresh shirt and trousers in his things. By the time he stepped out into the hall, he’d fairly steeled himself, and he was of a mind to follow the scents the wind’d been so kind as to show him with the nose and diligence of a hound.

He remembered the trip from the ship to the house like something that hadn’t happened, something that’d happened to someone else, or in a novel. The bed underneath him felt unfamiliar, and if you’d asked him how he ended up in it, he wouldn’t’ve been able to tell you, aside from the vague notion of halls and a mant staircase it'd been hell to climb.

Now, even half-alert as he was, the place felt awake. Tom’d always thought of big, old houses as stuffy, dark places, disrepaired and full of ghosts. He had wondered what ghost might live in these walls; on the ship, he’d wondered how it would be, to sleep under this roof, knowing. He had almost dreaded it. He did wonder, glancing up the hall, where Niccolette was, and he decided not to dwell too much on it.

But the distress here was loving; it was a body with a soul, he thought idly, a living body. Great open windows filled the hallways with light and motion and sound, and he kept expecting to round a corner and see someone, though he never did.

He found the broad staircase again without much trouble, and he tackled it slowly, holding onto the old wooden banister. At the bottom, the smells were stronger. Down another hall, and he heard another snippet of voices, one familiar and one strange. A woman laughed.

They’d fallen silent by the time he found the doorway. When he peered round, there was only one person he could see.

The imbala hadn’t yet looked up; he thought he might be able to slip off silently, light-footed as ever, back up to his room. But the prickle of anxiety faded fast, and it was replaced by an odd sense of gladness, a familiarity that didn’t sting so much as it’d done on the platform in Vienda. Something about the last long night in the captain’s study made it hard to feel as skittish as he had. It was becoming almost mundane, and Tom found he was just happy to see him alive.

He was sitting at the table and working intently at something; he looked tired, Tom thought, but well, and in his element. There was an empty plate near the hand with the pen.

Tom moved into the doorway, holding onto the frame. “Ayah, Ada'xa,” he said, then cleared the frog from his tired throat. He bowed reflexively, though the motion ached. How’re you feeling? he wanted to ask, but didn’t; he didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. The you felt damned personal. “I hope I’m not intruding, but I could smell the coffee from upstairs,” he offered instead, trying a smile, and looked around.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Afternoon, 26 Yaris, 2719
The Ibutatu Estate

Aremu adjusted himself on his chair, lowered his pen and stifled a yawn with his hand.

“You should be resting,” Ahura murmured from the stove, her voice a faint sing-song, making the already lyrical Mugrobi even more musical.

Aremu smiled, and rubbed his eyes. “Another cup of kofi will solve that,” he said, picking the pen back up. He adjusted the book with his right wrist, holding it steadily, and went back to copying the numbers from the invoices into the ledger, careful neat columns on the left and right.

“Is this price right?” Aremu asked. “For the rice?”

Ahura chuckled. “The harvest came early for Muerdha,” she said, pleased. She turned from the stove, and scooped up a mortar and pestle, grinding steadily; the smell of kofi beans filled the air, and Aremu sighed.

There was a knock at the door then. Aremu rubbed the sleep from his eyes, set the pen back down, and rose, grinning at Tsau. “Good afternoon, Tsau.” He crossed the kitchen in two light, easy steps, and clasped the man’s hand in his, squeezing lightly.

“Good afternoon, iora,” Tsau said. “Good to have you back.”

“Did you come for me?" Aremu’s eyebrows raised. He glanced behind the human, half-wondering if there would be a mess of some sort in the distance, storm clouds threatening the bright blue sky.

“Just to say hello, sir,” Tsau smiles. “We’re breaking for lunch in a few moments. I’ll find you at the end of the day with the count.” The foreman went off back to the fields, bare chest glinting with sweat beneath the hot Yaris sun.

Aremu closed the door behind it, and rubbed his head with his hand.

“When will it stop taking you by surprise?” Ahura asked, looking up at him from the stove. She smiled, all the lines around her eyes crinkling gently, her gaze a little too knowing for Aremu’s tastes.

Aremu shrugged, and shifted. Standing had reawaken all the aches throughout him; his back felt as if it was a rope that had been knotted up, and his arms and legs ached throughout, sore - but of the bruise the night before there was no sign, and the burn on his back might have been weeks old. He studied the rope burn on his palm, and closed his hand over it, and went back to the table.

Aremu turned to the next of the invoices, picked the pen back up, and began to work.

There was silence for a little while, almost comfortable, broken only by the raising whistle of the kettle and the smell of kofi as sharp as a sound, then again a little later by the scrape of the mortar and pestle and the fresh coconut it wafted into the world.

The sound from the doorway made Aremu turn. He rose, reflexively, easing the chair back and bowing without a second thought. Vauquelin was smiling at him. It was the first time, Aremu thought, that he could see the man in the light - that he could look at him, because at breakfast the day before he had known not to look anywhere but the food before him. Aremu could not have said how it was that Vauquelin looked different than he had imagined; he could not have said what struck him as strange.

He shook the feeling away and smiled back. “Good afternoon, sir. You are not intruding - please.“

Aremu glanced around, wondering what the other man saw in the wide, bright kitchen, with herbs hanging from the ceiling, fresh ones scattered on the counter, the heavy steamer on the stove and the pot bubbling lightly. And Ahura, a few inches shorter than even Niccolette, with her rounded delicate face and dark eyes, masses of spiraling dark hair tied up in a brightly colored cloth, with only the laugh lines at her eyes and mouth to show anything like her age, with her lack of a field almost as sharp as his.

“This is Ahura pezre Noor,” Aremu said, turning to Ahura with a little smile, which flickered and died on his lips as he turned back to the incumbent. “Niccolette’s head of household and cook, sir.”

Ahura bowed neatly to Vauquelin, and smiled at him. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said in her lilting Estuan. “The kofi has brewed. Should you like some food? I am making now some thing for Ada’xa Aremu.”

Aremu glanced down at the scraped clean plate on the table. “Ahura,” he said, setting his hand to his linen shirt with a mock groan.

“You still eat like a boy!” Ahura told him, grinning, shaking her spoon at him, switching back to Mugrobi with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “You eat as much now as you did twenty years ago,” she said. She turned back to Vauquelin with a smile. “Food will be ready soon, sir.”

Ahura turned back to the stove then, removing the lid from the steamer in a cloud of smoke.

Aremu felt a faint heat prickling over the back of his neck. He cleared his throat, and turned back to Vauquelin. “Uh,” he said. “Please sit, I’ll -“ he gestured with his hand towards the kofi.

Aremu went and poured a small cup of the steaming, rich, dark liquid, and set it on the table for the incumbent. Next, he tucked the invoices into the ledger and closed it over them, and put the book away beside the door. Only then did he pour himself a cup of kofi, and sit back down at the table, at the same place he had been at before.

Aremu curled his hand around it, and took a deep breath, feeling the steam wash over his face. He closed his eyes, and tried not to remember. I cannot, he found himself telling his memories. The kofi ceremony is not for me, not for Niccolette. There is no one to welcome him properly, anymore, Uzoji.

Aremu opened his eyes, and took a sip of the kofi. “Did you sleep well, sir?” He asked, politely.

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate • Muluku Islands

Afternoon on the 26th of Yaris, 2719

T
om wondered what hama’d’ve done in a kitchen like this. He heard the scrape of the chair, and he saw Aremu getting to his feet, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from their wandering path round the kitchen.

It was big, bigger than any kitchen he was used to, but it wasn’t anything like the kitchens in Uptown houses. Back in Vienda, if he’d set foot in Anatole’s kitchen, everybody acted like something was fair wrong; and you just didn’t go in other toffins’ kitchens, if you even saw them. But there was no hiding this place, with the mant bright windows filling it with light and sound from outside, and, in turn, spilling out all manner of smells. Aremu didn't look out of place here, working at his accounts. It was a place to be, not just a place where food was made. He thought again of hama's old kitchen, and pushed down an ache.

It was just about too macha to want to hide, anyway. Strings of garlic swayed pleasantly in the breeze, long dried bundles of — more things than Tom knew how to name, but he thought hama could’ve told you what all of them were, and how to use them, too. Scattered pods on the counter, bowls of ground spices with colors like fall leaves. By the time he looked back at Aremu, there was nothing forced about the smile.

The ‘sir’ didn’t sting as bad, today. Even if it had, he didn’t half know what to do about it. He was — what he was; covering up all the mirrors in the house wouldn’t change that, he thought, chagrined. What did he want, to force Aremu to pretend at friendly informality with some fusty Anaxi politician? It was best, Tom thought, if he kept his distance, and didn’t give the imbala, or anyone here, yet another reason to find his company trying. He thought only briefly of the wooden hand; he didn't look for it, and tried not to avoid looking, either.

Behind Aremu, at the stove, was a woman. As Aremu introduced her, she turned. A little surprise flickered across his face. She looked – like a galdor, he thought at first, with her dark skin and delicate features, shorter than both him and Aremu, though from here – cook, Aremu said, and head of household, and Tom understood, without needing to feel.

“Ma’ralio, ada’na Ahura.” He smiled at her warmly, then returned her bow. He thought of introducing himself, but his mind shied away from speaking the name. “Thank you,” he said instead, and laughed softly at Aremu’s groan.

Ahura slipped back into Mugrobi; Tom watched the exchange, one eyebrow slightly raised, the smile still on his face. It was funny, but sometimes he caught a word, here or there, with the vague shape of a word he knew in Tek. Not enough, of course, not to be mystified. But he reckoned you didn’t need to know Mugrobi to pick up some of it: it was written in the subtle, teasing lines round Ahura’s eyes and mouth. She turned back to the stove and took the lid off the mant pot, and with a great waft of steam came other smells, some sweet, some hot, some that struck Tom as fair pleasant, and some that were so unfamiliar he wasn’t sure what to think of them.

And he didn’t need to speak any language to know what Aremu clearing his throat like that meant. He stifled his smile. The imbala’d turned to the kofi, and Tom took a step into the kitchen, though not so far either of them could feel his porven. He felt clumsy, like he was pushing the tsuter, strange mess of himself into a lovely moment. He hesitated, then moved to the chair and sat.

He smelled the kofi before Aremu set a cup in front of him. He let out a soft laugh, a sigh of appreciation; he wrapped his hands round the steaming cup and shut his eyes, breathing in the scent, as the imbala began to pack up his books. No interruption, my erse, he thought, a little sorry. But his back ached, and he was fair happy to sit. He opened his eyes as Aremu sat, looking down into the dark amber froth. He surprised himself by thinking, Eat your heart out, Shrikeweed.

When the imbala spoke, he looked up, rousing himself as from a daze. “Very,” he replied with a little grin. “I was worried I’d sleep ‘til nightfall, though being back on the ground makes me feel like a hingle that’s just been let out of a sack. Thank you,” he added again, with a little more weight, glancing from Aremu to the back of Ahura’s head. “You’ve a hell of a way of making a guest feel welcome.”

Another smile, almost sad, flickering out; he looked down into his kofi.

“How are you, ada’xa?” he asked, offhandedly as he could; he brought his cup to his lips and tested it. Still too hot, but he didn’t burn his tongue. He just set the cup back down and looked back at Aremu through the waft of steam.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Afternoon, 26 Yaris, 2719
The Ibutatu Estate

Aremu smiled at Vauquelin’s description of himself as a confused hingle, half because it was funny and half because it was true. Yes sir, he wanted to say, and after a long voyage - like a sailor, sir, rocking on the ground. But the incumbent hadn’t paused, and Aremu hadn’t wanted to interrupt, and more than that, he wasn’t sure. He remembered Our Brother, drifting quietly from a nearby chair, but he wasn’t sure.

“Well, sir, thank you,” Aremu said, looking at Vauquelin steadily, the truth of it his alone to know. He hoped the other man would not want to speak of it; he did not. If he could have cast the night before from his mind, he would have. What little pride he felt seemed barely to offset the shame of his fear. When his mind drifted back to it, despite his best efforts, it was the fear he remembered; it was the fear that had driven him from his bed. 

He had almost no memory of leaving the ship; he must have climbed down the ladder, but he could scarcely recall anything but the sharp bright touch of Niccolette’s field, and the vaguely unsteady stillness of the ground beneath his feet. Of the house itself - of how he had gotten settled and how their things had been brought inside - he knew nothing. There was only a faint recollection of the growing dawn outside as he had lain down -

And then the sharp tang of sour fear had jerked him awake, and he had been curled in sweaty sheets, screaming without being able to make a sound. Morning sun had streamed pale through the windows and bathed him in light. He had held, and slowly the chills of terror had been warmed away.

Aremu blinked, and lifted his kofi to his lips once more, and took another sip. It was a little hot, still, but it warmed through him. After a moment, he set the cup down and lifted the plate, and carried it to the sink, rinsed it clean and set it down to dry, his right wrist resting gently against the seam of his pocket, with no bulge inside. By the time he returned to the table, he felt steadier.

Ahura was bustling to the table. She set a plate down before Vauquelin with a bright smile, a tangle of white strings already set out on it. “These are of’irukew,” Ahura smiled. “String hoppers,” she said. “They're made from rice.”

Aremu sat, as well, and Ahura brought him a plate of two, heaped one on top of the other, and patted him lightly on the back.

She went, then, and came back with a bowl for each of them, a rich yellow-orange broth with specks of black, dark green small eggplant halves floating in it, with bits of tomato and green leaves, large and soft or small and firm. “Tam’oqap,” Ahura pronounced, cheerfully, and raised her eyebrows at Aremu.

Aremu rubbed his neck with his hand. He shrugged. “There’s not an exact translation,” he told Vauquelin with an easier smile. “Niccolette has suggested tamarind soup, but it’s made with lentils as well.”

Ahura brought back a handful of additional bowls of dips, one thick white, one red, and one green. “Coconut, tomato, and mint,” she said, setting each one before Vauquelin. She gave Aremu one of each as well, and left a thick cloth for each of them.

Aremu found himself relaxing, now. Each of his bowls had red curled peppers on them, but he noticed, with a faint tinge of relief, that Ahura had left those off of Vauquelin’s. He hesitated, looking at the incumbent. “Would you like a fork and knife, sir?” Aremu offered, conscious not of himself but of Niccolette, worried Vauquelin might think – he was not sure, precisely, what he worried the man might think.

If Vauquelin wanted them, Aremu would fetch them; otherwise or afterwards, he would wash his hand thoroughly at the sink, and, when seated again, rip off a piece of the tangle with his fingers, feeling the thick, starchy texture of the rice, made into strings and steamed into a tangle. He dipped it first in the tam’oqap, then in the coconut dip, and ate it. He would have said he had already eaten his fill and beyond, but to his surprise the food woke his appetite again, and it was a struggle to go slowly, politely, to respect that his stomach would be full when it was full, and not to push it beyond what he could bear.

“The tomato might be spicy,” Aremu said. He paused. “… So might the rest,” Aremu grinned, then, sheepishly, and ripped off another bite of the hopper, dragging it through the tam’oqap and trying the mint dip this time, eating with obvious enjoyment. The tomato was the spiciest; the coconut was almost mild; the mint was somewhere between, the cool flavor balancing the spice. The tam’oqap was mild enough, with the thick chunks of eggplant soft and flavorful.

“Shall I make a tray?” Ahura asked, in quiet Mugrobi.

Aremu glanced back over his shoulder. She was looking at him, her face creased between the brows, worry in her eyes. “Give her time,” he said, softly, in the same language.

Ahura nodded, and busied herself at the counter once more, with a clatter of pots and pans.

Aremu looked back at Vauquelin then, and he smiled, and it was easier than it could have been. “How do you like it, sir?”

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate • Muluku Islands

Afternoon on the 26th of Yaris, 2719

A
m I supposed to use them? Tom looked at Aremu for a moment, then glanced back down at the of’irukew – string hopper, she’d called it in Estuan, and he could fair well see why.

Tom wasn’t mung, ‘course; the fact he was being asked if he’d like them probably meant he didn’t need them. It was a tangle of rice noodles like yarn, but by the shape of it, he reckoned it clumped together, if not as solidly as a scone. He glanced over the little bowls of sauces. Coconut, tomato, and mint, Ahura’d said. That only answered one of his questions, being honest – but if he felt a little helpless looking at the tam’oqap, he kept the smile on his face and determined to play this one by ear. He hadn't even been offered a soup spoon, after all. “No thank you, ada’xa,” he said lightly.

He smiled back up at Ahura as Aremu went to the sink. He noticed in the corner of his eye, as the imbala stood, his shoulders at that unfamiliar-familiar angle; he noticed the wrist tucked into the pocket. Looking back down at the table, he studied the food.

It smelled benny, like what’d brought him to the kitchen, but stronger. You never noticed just how tired and hungry you were, Tom thought, ‘til somebody plopped steaming-hot yats in front of you; he felt like a man in rags looking at a pile of concords. He looked again at the tam’oqap and thought of Niccolette’s rough translation – tamarind soup – and thought it wasn’t fair helpful, considering he wasn’t altogether sure he’d ever knowingly eaten a tamarind. Chunks of what looked like aubergines, judging by the seeds, but smaller and greener, floated among bits of leaves.

He shot a glance over at Aremu’s. Two of’irukew, he noticed with a ghost of a smile, thinking of Ahura’s teasing looks and Aremu’s groan. He raised an eyebrow briefly at the dried chilis in each of the imbala’s little bowls.

His stomach ached, but he felt uncertain. His hand flickered up, once, got halfway to the string hopper, and then fluttered up to scratch the back of his head. As Aremu sat down, he made a decision, getting stiffly to his feet himself and moving to the sink. When he reclaimed his seat, he stayed put a moment, watching – not terribly covertly – Aremu pull a piece off the of’irukew and then use it for the tam’oqap.

Less hesitantly, Tom followed suit, tearing off a bit of his hopper and angling for a little chunk of eggplant. On his periphery, Aremu was eating with relish, and for a few moments, Tom didn’t feel so conscious of himself, or even his hands, save the feeling of the rice noodles against his fingertips. There was a certain kind of pleasure came from the fact that the biggest decision he had to make right now was coconut or tomato or mint, and he’d get to try them all anyway.

He was putting a bite in his mouth when Aremu warned him about the tomato. He’d reckoned so, and he hadn’t been so sure about the nutty-sweet smelling white one, but the mint was pleasantly cool in his mouth – at first – and offset the tam’oqap well. The heat didn’t come all at once, but by the time he’d swallowed, his whole mouth stung with it, like he’d bit into a pepper.

Aremu was giving him a sheepish grin, and he raised an eyebrow again, only to let out a soft, but genuine, laugh.

His eyes were prickling; he blinked a few times. There were so many unfamiliar flavors he barely knew to tell them apart, but, once the sting of the spice’d ebbed, they balanced out macha. He couldn’t describe it, and found he didn’t want to, not right now.

Ahura was saying something to Aremu in Mugrobi as he pulled off another piece. His glance flicked between them, but didn’t stay long; he busied himself about his food, making politely to ignore them. Aremu spoke soft and brief, and Ahura’s face’d been worried. He wondered – uncomfortable, he didn’t know – he reckoned he’d best not think on it, or ask. Though he couldn’t be sure, a familiar worry tugged at him, and he was surprised at it; very little under this roof, he reminded himself, was his business.

He found he liked the coconut a fair manna more than he’d thought he would; the strange, dull sweetness – he couldn’t describe it – complemented everything even better than the mint.

He sniffled and cleared his throat, smiling back at Aremu. Sir, the imbala said, and he was aware again. “Very well, ada’xa,” he replied, warmly as he could. But it didn’t come out right; he though he could hear his brittle emphasis on the ada’xa, like a push. He started to falter; he felt something in him fray. I should go, he wanted to say. I shouldn’t’ve intruded. How do you like it, sir? Sir, sir, sir. He thought suddenly of the engine room, and felt a sudden tightness in his chest, as if it'd never gone away - as if it'd just been waiting, until now, to creep back up on him. He was aware he wasn’t smiling anymore, but he didn’t know what his face was doing.

He opened his mouth to say something, and paused, and his eyes trailed back to the of’irukew. He forced himself to focus on the tastes that lingered in his mouth, and thought he might’ve found a foothold back to how he’d felt before. He took a breath, and found it even.

“The heat – it – leaves a taste behind it,” he said, pulling off another bite thoughtfully and smiling again at Aremu. “Or a feeling, or maybe – both. It brings up everything else, doesn’t it? I’ve never had anything like it, but it’s lovely, ada’na,” he said, fair honestly, looking up at Ahura, busy at the counter. When he turned back to Aremu, his smile had warmed a pina. “D’you usually eat this in the morning?”

He felt mung and more than a little embarrassed, but he found himself forging onward anyway, dipping his piece of of’irukew in the soup and then opting for the tomato.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Afternoon, 26 Yaris, 2719
The Ibutatu Estate

Aremu had seen the prickle of moisture in Vauquelin’s eyes, but he hadn’t said anything. Ahura had cooked for them from nearly the beginning, on the island; she’d cooked for Niccolette, for the various Anaxi they had brought back from the Rose, for other, stranger guests. He trusted her to have made something Vauquelin could eat, if he had the will to.

That Vauquelin smiled through his sniffle spoke well of him, Aremu thought. He wasn’t sure what else to say in response, and busied himself with another handful of of’irukew, scooping up a soft bite of eggplant this time, a small straight leaf resting against it, and eating it with a quick, easy motion, not even a drop of the tam’oqap lost. Vauquelin seemed to be breathing carefully through his mouth, and Aremu was sure that he felt the sting of it.

Aremu thought of Niccolette, of her early attempts to make of’irukew, before they had decided it wasn’t worth taking the press on the ship. He thought of how she had studied the hoppers intently – how she had made him sketch a diagram of one for her, insistent, the full shape and the cross-sections, with measurements. Uzoji had came into the kitchen, found them at it – Aremu bent over an of’irukew with the measuring tape, Niccolette watching with a furrowed brow – and laughed until tears streamed from his eyes.

Ahura, if she had laughed, had done it in private. She had never minded Niccolette watching her – Niccolette perched on a stool next to the stove, counting the minutes that the hoppers needed to boil – Niccolette, imitating Ahura’s easy kneading of the dough until her hands ached – how enthusiastically Uzoji had eaten her first attempt, even though it had been half mush, and they had all known it, and Aremu too, because Niccolette had been watching him, as if leaving even a bite behind would be a personal offense.

Vauquelin was speaking again, and Aremu smiled at him, and wondered, to himself, what would happen to these memories in time. Would they fade, like old pictures, cloudy and pale brown? Would they soften at the corners, ground down?

Ahura glanced back over her shoulder at Vauquelin, and smiled at him, broadly. There was, Aremu thought, an almost proud look on her face, and she brought Vauquelin a second hopper and laid it on his plate like a prize, smiled at him again, and went back to her cleaning. Aremu grinned a little, and found a tightness in his chest had eased. He kept eating, mixing the red and white dips together this time, and found to his surprise that he’d finished the first hopper already. He wiped his fingers, and took the kofi and sat back, wanting to give himself time before he rushed through the second. There was no hurry, he told himself, gently.

“Often enough,” Aremu said. He hesitated – he wasn’t sure what Vauquelin knew about Mugrobi food, and he didn’t want to come across as rude. “Rice flour is popular here on the islands,” Aremu said, after a moment, looking at the other man almost cautiously. He waited – feeling it out – but then, carefully, he continued.


“Breakfast and dinner are often much the same,” Aremu said. “Of’irukew are popular, and another dish called idari, which rice flour mixed with lentil flour, steamed in cakes. There’s another dish made from lentil flour as well, tsoq’ud, which is fried.” Aremu took a small sip of kofi, and smiled tentatively at the incumbent.

“And irukew,” Ahura added with a smile. She was back at the spices now, grinding a yellow root into powder, a faint earthy smell drifting through the kitchen.

“And irukew,” Aremu agreed. “It’s – the batter for the of’irukew is mixed with coconut milk, and made into a flatter sort of… crepe,” Aremu found the word Niccolette might have used easily enough. He set the kofi down, carefully, and set about the second of’irukew, ripping off a careful piece and finding a sliver of eggplant with it.

“If you need anything today, sir,” Aremu said, quietly, looking at Vauquelin, “please come to me.” He hadn’t known if he should say anything at all; he would understand, he thought, if Vauquelin preferred to find Niccolette. He didn’t know if he should have said it more strongly, more deliberately: leave her alone. He didn’t keep eating, not just then, hand lingering on his plate. He couldn’t bring himself to say more; it felt disloyal.

Aremu hesitated; it had needed to be said, he thought, but all the same he found himself wishing to soften it. “I’d be happy to give you a tour,” he offered, tentatively, and then, worried he was forgetting himself, “sir. If you like.” Carefully, Aremu ripped off another piece of his hopper, and mopped up a bit more of the red dip with it, mixing it with the green this time.

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate • Muluku Islands

Afternoon on the 26th of Yaris, 2719

S
lightly incredulous, he watched the second of’irukew plop onto his plate. He returned Ahura’s smile; as he turned back to his food, he found it lingered on his face, despite himself, like a patch of sunlight. Being honest, he wasn’t sure he could finish two, but he’d be damned if he didn’t at least try.

Tom was even more incredulous to find he’d finished his first hopper a little before Aremu. A slight tremor went through his hand, as always, and he struggled sometimes to get a particularly fiddly leaf or falling-apart-tender eggplant-shape on a looser tangle of noodles; but if anybody noticed, nobody laughed — or even watched with the discomfort and faint pity he’d grown used to in the capital. Aremu was busy enough at his own, applying himself, if with more pleasure, like he’d tucked into his tepid eggs shipside. He was mixing sauces, as he had the broth with the mint, and Tom made a note of it. The tomato’d been hot; he wondered if the coconut would offset it, and was fair pleased once again to have nothing more pressing to think about.

He was starting on the second hopper, sniffing dignified-like as he could, when Aremu’s voice drew him back. He started slow, almost tentative; Tom studied him, knowing he was being studied, too, and not knowing much at all of what Aremu saw in him, what cues he took now.

His voice picked up; Tom nodded, and he echoed Aremu’s smile tentatively, except when he turned back to his mint sauce with a frown of concentration. Again, most everything else fell away, except the scrape, scrape, scrape of a mortar and pestle in the background.

“I’d like to try irukew,” he put in, carefully wrapping himself round the word. Thinking how he’d never seen coconut used like this, not even in the Rose.

Then the imbala set about his own second hopper; Tom had wondered if he might be full to the brim, thinking of the empty plate before he’d walked in, but he reckoned you didn’t refuse Ahura. He remembered Josie Phillips, suddenly, insisting he stay for dinner, lumping more fish and potatoes into his bowl. It’d been a long time since anyone treated him like a...

He turned his attention determinedly to his string hopper. They ate in a comfortable quiet that wasn’t fair quiet at all, with the sounds of cooking and eating and the fields.

Aremu had stopped eating. Tom paused, wiping his fingers off on the cloth in his lap. “Of course, ada’xa. Thank you,” he said after a moment, meeting the imbala’s eye mildly, as if he didn’t plan to give it another thought.

When Aremu suggested a tour, he looked up again, surprised. He took a sip of kofi, still warm.

Sir. If you like. Tom thought of him anticipating hours with a porven grating his nerves, leading round some doddering — dze. Why was he offering? Just to keep him out of Niccolette’s hair? Or maybe it was just manners; maybe he expected, hoped, he’d refuse. But he thought of Ahura’s smile, and of Aremu’s thoughtful answer.

Tom hesitated. Impolite as it’d be to refuse, he reckoned it’d be wise, and kinder on everybody, not least himself.

He soured at the idea. He’d no clue what state Niccolette’d be in for the next week, and he reckoned he’d be seeing a mant manna Aremu Ediwo whether he liked it or not. He’d never done himself any favors by hiding. And didn’t have to be Anatole, he told himself gently. He wasn’t the Tom Aremu’d known; there was pain enough, oes, and secrets buried underneath his skin, but they were safe there. Nothing’d come spilling out. He could trust himself to just be.

“I’d appreciate it,” he replied, “if you’ve the time. I saw an orchard, from upstairs — tsug trees?” He took another drink of kofi, then set about the hopper again, more slowly this time. He paused after a bite of eggplant; he’d got a bit of something fair hot, he didn’t know what, and cleared his throat awkwardly. “Though I wouldn’t take you away from your work, ada’xa.”

[Aremu Ediwo]

Afternoon, 26 Yaris, 2719
The Ibutatu Estate

Aremu still couldn’t quite think what it was that had caught him off guard at the sight of Vauquelin at the kitchen door. Two days ago, he had expected an Anaxi who would be offended or afraid at the very sight of him at worst, or offer him a mix of pity and disdain at best. Aremu understood both and the long spectrum between, but he struggled to enjoy any of it.



There had been exceptions, in Anaxas, some he could think on fondly and some he could not. There had been many more who followed familiar patterns, and who made it clear to him why so few imbali ventured out of Mugroba.



And then, Vauquelin had bowed to him as he had Niccolette, and had offered friendly conversation on the deck of the airship. He understood what the galdor had seen as he descended to the engine room; it would not have been a stretch of anyone’s imagination to assume -



Whatever Vauquelin had thought, he had offered a careful narrative of truth to Niccolette and Isidore. Whatever Vauquelin thought now, he was applying himself with a diligent little smile to the of’irukew, and called them ada’xa and ada’na. If he pronounced them like an Anaxi, Aremu couldn’t hold it against him.



Aremu found his muscles had tightened; he relaxed them, consciously, and found another piece of string hopper, a little more tam’oqap.



What was strange, Aremu decided, was that Vauquelin looked every bit as Aremu had imagined him. He looked like the sort of old man who would find it most irregular and perhaps offensive to eat with his hands. He had found himself waiting, Aremu realized, as if at any moment the friendly, smiling front might fall away and reveal the man behind.



Ahura, Aremu thought, was a good judge of character. He knew Uzoji had thought so as well. It was funny to see her treat Vauquelin, probably half a decade her senior and an Anaxi Incumbent, much like she had the crewmates of the Eqe Aqawe, doling out second helpings according to her own instincts.



“I’d be glad to, sir,” Aremu said, firmly and honestly, and he met the incumbent’s eye once more. There was a time, not long ago, when he would have said he couldn’t, when his responsibility had weighed on him so that he had thought the plantation would come apart if he neglected the books for a day, if he wasn’t there himself to oversee every repair. He knew better now, or he hoped he did. And besides, he hadn’t gone to see the tsug trees in some time; it would be good to check on them.



“Tsug trees, intercropped with kofi plants in places,” Aremu said, a little proudly. He finished the last of the string hopper, and sat back with a soft, pleased groan, wiping his hand clean and cradling the kofi cup in it with a smile. He had been tracking the production of the kofi plants they had shifted to the shade of the trees, and they were considerably out producing those elsewhere.



Once Vauquelin was ready, Aremu would fetch him a wide-brimmed hat, and offer it to him at the back door, a little hesitant. 
“For shade, sir.” He doubted the man had spent much time in the sun, by the look of him, and he had learned that Anaxi did not take to it well. He did not think Niccolette would be best pleased if he brought him back as red as a kofi berry.


It wasn’t as humid as it could have been, but the sun beat down heavily on them as they left the house. There was a breeze, though, whispering up off the ocean, carrying the faint fresh tang of salt water with it. Aremu set off slowly towards the orchard, his right wrist tucked against his pocket, the space beneath flat. He would be happy to answer questions, if Vauquelin had them, but would otherwise pass the walk largely in silence, enjoying the stroll; he kept at an easy slow pace, expecting the heat would take the older man by surprise. After so much time in Anaxas, after a day cooped up on an airship, after a night of restless sleep, it was hard not to run; his body ached for it, Aremu thought, for the easy joy of movement.


The house itself was on a small bluff; a small, winding trail went out east towards the cliffs nearby, and beyond was ocean, as far as the eye could see, dotted with white cap waves, distant clouds and the ocean dark huddled shapes of islands. There was an airship tether just north of it behind the back of the house, a little distant, with the path they must have walked last night trailing from it to the back entrance. The front of the house faced the fields to the south, with a broad road running up to it along on one side of the sugarcane. The road sloped down gently with the cliff, and not too far south, off to the left, was the pale white glimmer of a beach with a tangle of wild mangrove trees at the far end.



The plantation itself stretched off right, spreading southwest as far as the eye could see. The figures were gone from the sugarcane fields now, but laughter echoed from beneath a cluster of trees as its far end. Distant heads raised in their direction; Aremu’s wave was returned, and there were a few calls in Mugrobi towards the two of them.



Aremu was smiling when they turned, cutting along the edge of the sugarcane towards the orchard. It was hot beneath the sun; after the coldness of the Uccello di Hurte high in the air, it was a welcome relief. They rounded the corner of the field again, and there they were - the tsug trees, planted in long rows, stretching up towards the sky, overlapping branches shading the ground below, shiny long leaves waving in the gentle breeze. Here, where Aremu had brought them, a row of kofi bushes lined the bottom of the trees, dotted with green and red berries.



Aremu sighed with pleasure at the sight. Perhaps, he thought, a little embarrassed, there was still a part of him which worried it would all evaporate to smoke without his presence. He stepped forward, into the shade, pleased to see only a handful of nuts on the ground beneath the trees; there was just a hint of ripeness in the air, a honey-sweetness that drifted towards them on the breeze.

Aremu reached forward, and plucked a couple of red berries from one of the kofi plants, running them between his fingers. “Here, sir,” He turned to Vauquelin with an easy smile, relaxed and comfortable; he had never bothered to put on shoes, wearing a light linen shirt and pants of the same material. He offered Vauquelin one of the berries. “They’re edible, but be careful, the seed is hard.” Aremu popped the other kofi berry into his mouth, chewing, the sticky pulp inside delicately sweet and fleeting.

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate • Muluku Islands

Afternoon on the 26th of Yaris, 2719

E
ven in the copious shade of his broad-brimmed hat, the sun beat down hot.

Tom was content to walk in silence beside Aremu, long before he started to lose his breath. The light was different, here; it wasn’t the kind that reflected itself back at you from paved streets Uptown, where carriages kicked up dust and sweating clerks flitted from building to building in the courtyards of Stainthorpe and Montesquieu and the other parliamentary offices, heat and sweat and sound and the smells of overdressed men and horses mingling into an unbearable soup. He’d almost forgot what it was like, sunlight filtered through the salt-sea breeze; he could smell it, breathe it, carrying some balm inland from the faint white ridges of waves.

That breeze swept through fields of cane, stalks gently a-sway and shiver, smelling green and bitter-sap-sweet. Despite the growing ache in his hip and the prickle of sweat between his shoulder-blades, he was absorbed in looking about him. Once, Aremu raised his hand, and Tom followed his look to a few shapes in the shade of a cluster of trees, at a distance; he saw hands raised in return, and raised his hat, and heard voices calling in Mugrobi.

He only stole a few glances at Aremu, at the sunlit profile he wished he didn’t know so well. Looking out over the plantation and thinking of Aremu at the kitchen table, intent on his accounts, he almost felt – he imagined there was more to see of Aremu in the carefully-cultivated landscape around them, and that distant laughter, than there was in his face. It stung, and he felt grateful for it, and it stung terribly, all at once.

It was strange to see the great old house behind, once they’d got far enough away; he thought he must’ve seen it that morning, but he couldn’t remember anything of it. He glimpsed the airship tether, once, and wondered – but he didn’t wonder too long.

He was thankful Aremu’d thought of the hat, but he tried to remember what it’d been like once, because he knew it’d been different. Soaking up the sun in the summer and dry season, greeting the warmth like an old friend ‘til he wore a deep tan almost into the fall and winter. It felt a world away from the cruel prickle, the peeling burn he knew would happen if he stayed out too long without shade; even his eyes stung, like the sun’d got brighter and hotter of its own accord in less than a year.

He was more winded than he’d’ve liked to admit, when they finally rounded the field and reached the grove. Aremu looked pleased as punch, and spry as a sapling; Tom couldn’t envy him his easy, graceful step, not with the wrist in his empty pocket, but he wondered if he was holding him up, and he felt sorry.

The shade was blessed, and the smell of tsug trees was rich here, sweet and earthy and a little pungent, with that sharp twist all things growing from the dirt have. A few familiar green fruits, brown-dusted, scattered the path underneath the arching tangle of branches, but not many.

Tom took off his hat, running a hand through his hair and tousling it with an almost vengeful pleasure. He echoed Aremu’s sigh. Whatever shape you were in, however much pain it gave you, there was nothing cruel about the kind of tired that came from being out in the sun with a full belly.

Underneath the trees were smaller plants, spilling out broad, soft green leaves and clusters of red berries. Aremu went to one of them, and Tom followed, watching him curiously. Kofi, he remembered the imbala saying; he’d intercropped — whatever that meant — the tsug with kofi. He faintly remembered seeing more plants like these out the kitchen window, though he’d not known what they were. Aremu plucked two of the red berries; Tom watched, a crease between his brows, then raised both eyebrows as he turned and offered him one.

It wasn’t much like he’d expected, that pale sweet taste, like the smell of rose oil. There wasn’t much flesh, either; he hit the seeds fair quick, and saw what Aremu meant. He savored the skin of the berry for a few seconds, then delicately took the seeds from his mouth and looked at them in his palm. One eyebrow went up. Like two kofi beans in his hand, but pale and mottled.

He glanced up at Aremu. “Hell, I never thought.” He laughed softly. “It’s easy to imagine them as beans on a stalk, or something like that. Tastes like hibiscus tea.”

Circle, but – he stopped, wincing, and his hand found the hollow of his lower back. After the walk, it was as if all the muscles’d remembered their stiffness from the night before. “D’you mind if I sit, ada’xa?” he asked, and heard the rough strain in his voice. “Not for long.”

If the imbala didn’t say otherwise, he’d sink carefully to sit near one slender trunk, crossing his legs. The relief was immediate, and after the hot, bright air outside the grove, the dirt was almost cool underneath him.

He glanced at Aremu’s bare feet, half-wishing he’d left off himself; his own were sweaty and sore where his shoes’d chafed. He wondered if Aremu’d laugh at him if he took them off now, but then thought better of it. The soles of his feet were tender as a boch’s erse. Different shoes, instead, next time. Sighing, he fanned himself with the brim of his hat. He felt the wisping tickle of stray hair in his face.

“Be patient with me,” he said, then laughed. He smiled up at the branches, at the sunlight dancing through whorls of glossy leaves. “I’ve missed waking up to this smell,” he said feelingly, then hesitated. “I spent a lot of time in the Rose, once, in the Fords, when — when I was a younger man. I’ve never seen so many in one place, or seen them this tall,” he added with a smile, thinking of the proud note in Aremu’s voice.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Afternoon, 26 Yaris, 2719
The Ibutatu Estate

Aremu felt a flicker of guilt at the strain in Vauquelin’s voice when he asked to sit. “No, sir, please do.” He said, frowning slightly. After a moment, he sat as well, cross-legged, just out of Vauquelin’s range, his left side facing towards the man, so that he could keep his right wrist out of sight behind his thigh.

“You can make something like a tea from the husks, when they’re dried,” Aremu offered into the other man’s quiet. Most of the leftover husks went to fertilizer, but they kept some, dried and milled and stored in airtight jars. The taste was as fruity and light as the fresh beans, delicate.

All Mugrobi galdori were raised knowing something of kofi; it was essential. As a boy, Aremu had stood and watched his father tending to his plants, silent and still, hands behind his back; as a boy, Aremu had expected to have his own plants, someday, somewhere. He had never thought of commercial production, of the scale required for all the kofi shops in Thul Ka, Vienda, Florne and beyond. He had needed to shed the lessons he had learnt as a boy to make space for it all; he had not been sorry to let them go.

Vauquelin asked for his patience. Aremu looked up, and was not sure how to say he already had it. He did not think Vauquelin was asking him, anyway, not really. Aremu leaned back against the trunk he had chosen, and tilted his head back, watching pale streams of light filter through the thick canopy, only the faintest motes reaching to dapple the ground below.

Aremu smiled a little at the other man’s compliment, and closed his eyes. He inhaled the smell of it, deep, familiar and rich and pleasant.

There had been only a handful of wild tsug trees the first time Aremu had come to the island, two decades ago, with Uzoji and his mother. The two boys had found them, drawn irresistibly to the slender branches, and scrambled up the narrow tangles without knowing fear. He could still remember the smell; he had never been anywhere like the islands before. He hadn’t known of options beyond the strange, heady mix of Thul Ka and the empty dryness of the desert.

He remembered the cool fresh taste of coconut milk, and the spices that had made them both yelp - the contests they had had of who could eat more of the spiciest dip, how Rayowa had rubbed his back too when they were both sick, the milk and rice porridge that was all they had eaten the next day. He remembered his surprise when he had come in hiding the torn knee of his nicest pants, and Rayowa had sent it to be fixed, so well that his father had never known, even though Aremu had been able to feel the little scar of fabric inside the leg.

Aremu did not quite know what to say. He doubted very much that Vauquelin would be interested in his thoughts on the Rose or the smell of tsug trees. And, too, he was hesitant of asking more from the other man, worried that a too-bold question would find something he did not wish to see beneath the incumbent’s smiling face.

“Thank you,” Aremu said, quietly, accepting the compliment - on his own behalf, and on Uzoji’s and Niccolette’s too. Uzoji’s, he thought, most of all. He was suddenly grateful for the strength of the harvest they had had the year before, that Uzoji had been able to come in the fall and see the grass beneath the trees full of seeds, after the meager beginning the year before. Uzoji had not worried, but Aremu had, staying up and doing the sums, again and again.

The Fords, Aremu thought. It was not Uzoji and Niccolette’s great empty house that he thought of first, but another - quieter - just as ghostlike now, Aremu supposed. He had not gone, in Roalis. Perhaps he should have - in case - to say - he knew too well that there were no words. He had not wanted to see it empty; he had not wanted to know that it no longer smelled of lavender.

“Do you like it, sir?” He asked instead, polite, neutral, curious, still looking up at the canopy of leaves. “The Rose, I mean.”