Pre-Dawn, 27 Yaris, 2719
The Ibutatu Estate
For a moment, in the pre-dawn glow against the cliffs, Aremu was at peace. Even the Tincta Basta was cold on a morning like this, even in Yaris, even where it tucked up and swirled about against the islands. The shock of it, as he dove into the water, had knocked all the thoughts from his head. It was an instinctive, visceral rush, that cold, as powerful as an electric shock, and he had felt it in every inch of his body, as if it had slid beneath his skin and rushed to fill him whole.
There was no lingering beneath, not today; Aremu thrust himself up through the skin of the water, and treaded at it for a moment, breathing hard. His skin prickled with goosebumps, and he turned and swam towards the cliffs. The waves snatched at him, here and there, and he ducked beneath to avoid them, to keep from being caught up in the rush of them – at least, any more caught up than he wished to be.
And then he was at the cliffs, brushed gently against the rocks; he grabbed hold with wet fingers, and pressed his elbow firmly against another nook, and found toeholds in the wet smooth surface beneath the bottom of the water. There was no time; there was no time to do anything but choose a path and to go, because the swell of the waves had drawn back, and would rush forward again before long.
Once he had set the pattern, there was nothing to do but climb.
Aremu knew this cliff; he had not bothered to count the times he had climbed it. But it was a long one, and even starting twice from the same spot, his route was never the same. The one he found today pushed him, and that was as it should be. He turned himself over completely to the climb, arms and legs working together, fingers and toes gripping wet at the rock, water dripping from the short scruff of his hair to trail cool down his back. He climbed, higher and higher, and he let go over everything else, and simply was.
Close to the top, a bit of rock crumbled – gave way beneath his foot. Aremu scrabbled to hold on, and felt a sting of pain as something caught against the softest skin of it. Adrenaline rushed through him, and he heaved himself up over the edge, lying on his stomach for a moment against the grassy rocks.
Aremu groaned, softly, and his eyes fluttered shut. The adrenaline drained from him, slowly, and he rose – onto his hands and knees, first, before he pushed himself up to his feet. Aremu breathed steadily in and out, and settled his foot against a rock, glancing down to see seawater and faint cloudy red mingling on the hard black surface of it. He sighed, and rubbed his hand over his face, looking out at the horizon beyond.
The sun was still not quite rising, but light had long-since spilled over the horizon. If he turned – if he twisted – he could see the barest fading pinpricks of light above, the last moment when the stars made themselves known in the distant sky. He closed his eyes, and shifted, and wiped his foot against the edge of the rock, and sat again, slowly, easing back so his legs rested close to the edge.
Aremu’s eyes fluttered closed. There was still a sense of peace inside him – like an echo, he thought. His thoughts drifted, and wandered, but old familiar paths did not hurt, just now, not like they might have.
“No one’s your master,” he said, softly, to the Tincta Basta. Once – once, Aremu thought with a sigh, he had liked the western side better, on the far edge of the plantation. He had known better even as he had found the map, but he had traced out the direction to look towards the Rose – where, if one drew a line – sometimes he had seen distant lightning storms, flashing out over the horizons, and he had let himself wonder. Not since, of course.
Uzoji had been kind about it, Aremu thought, looking down at his hand and his wrist against his lap. The little pool of bloody water caught the first light of the day; other droplets were scattered around him, beginning slowly to dry. He had told Aremu himself. Aremu had never asked him for news, but it had come, nonetheless, occasionally, indirectly, by implication.
And then, a little over a year ago now, Uzoji had come off of the ship with a grim face. He hadn’t done it straight away. Aremu had not known; he had looked first to the crew, thinking – perhaps – but they had all been there, everyone who had left returned, as safe as ever. No, not right away, but Uzoji had not made him wait either. He had sat Aremu down after dinner, that night, with the summer crickets chirping outside, and the house still smelling faintly of warm spices.
“I’m sorry, Aremu,” Uzoji had said, softly. “It’s Tom Cooke. He’s gone.”
Like a shock of cold water, Aremu thought, now, looking over the edge of the cliff. He closed his eyes, and sighed, and rubbed his face with his hand. He had wept, of course. Uzoji had held his hand – and then him – and had said nothing of it, but there had been tears running down his friend’s face too, like permission.
Aremu looked back up at the horizon. Some pain, he thought, dulled over time. That had not been his experience with grief; it was not constant, but when it came back, it still cut knife-sharp. It marked you, he thought. Tom –
The horizon began to blur.
Aremu blinked at it, and shook his head faintly. His breath caught in his chest, and he groaned, and squeezed his eyes shut, and shook his head again. “No,” he whispered, breath coming faster and faster; it caught and choked and rippled in his throat. “No,” he twisted, and squeezed his eyes shut tighter, and gasped.
The horizon was still blurring, gray-blue – spreading, strange, as if it was rippling open. Aremu let his head tilt back, choking on his breath; he squeezed his eyes shut; his whole body tightened and spasmed with the force of fighting it. He bit the inside of his cheek, sharp and hard – tasted blood, coppery-bitter on his tongue – he fought, he fought with everything he had, brought it all to bear and pushed back with whatever strength he called his own.
And, inevitably, he lost.
Aremu jerked forward; he was bent half-over, and his eyes were drawn, as if he could not help it, to the rays of light gleaming in the little puddle of watery blood. He groaned, softly, and felt it begin; the world was gone, then. There was nothing, at first, nothing at all; only sight and sound and sensation, but indecipherable, all of it, rushing through him unyielding, as if he were a tool only, nothing more.
Slowly, slowly, images began to form before him, his blood shimmering and shining a thousand colors and then coalescing, slowly, into something he could see – a golden path, winding through trees – kofi and tsug trees growing with one another – strong, familiar hands, a voice that cut into him like a knife – and then another voice, and other hands.
Aremu was nothing, then, no man; only a dark emptiness where something moved, shifted and lived and breathed.
It washed over him, the sights and sounds, and he could not have looked away. He wanted to; he would have. If he could have seen anything else – if he could have unknown it – but he saw it all; he felt it all. His own voice, echoing inside him, sharp and painful – a bloody trace of shapes on the ground – a new, familiar face – made horrible –
It left him then.
He was only Aremu, once more, but no less empty than he had been. Aremu crumpled, slowly, lying sprawled against the edge of the cliff. He shuddered, and he could hear his own voice, then, faint and keening and whimpering. He longed to cry; he could not. If he let go – if he let go – if he let go he would fly apart, he thought, into a thousand pieces, into –
Aremu didn’t fight, this time, not the encroaching blackness. The last sound he heard was his own voice in a panting, pained groan, the bright squawks of seagulls above, and then, as if the gods knew mercy, the world crumbled to black around him.