Evening, 28 Yaris 2719
Festival Hall, Laus Oma, Mere Tauthua
Festival Hall, Laus Oma, Mere Tauthua
“The festival of Dzum’úlúsa,” Yesufu said, smiling. The carriage rolled smoothly down the road away from his manor, well-sprung and balanced. The older galdor sat perfectly upright, his sharp white shock of hair tamed, his suit neat and traditional.
“It is an opportunity,” Yesufu said, “to celebrate opportunity.” His eyes moved between them slowly, and Niccolette knew they went last to Vauquelin. “To celebrate the seizing of the moment.”
There was silence, then, between them. Niccolette could feel Yesufu and Eduxu’s fields, soft quantitative and clairvoyant mona politely distant from hers. Vauquelin’s field, as always, was a snarled mess, but it had calmed from the day before. After so long spent traveling together, Niccolette could feel the faintest edge of whispering clairvoyant mona, just barely.
Good for him, she thought. Her gaze was on Yesufu, and her smile didn’t change.
“It promises to be an exciting night,” Niccolette said, calmly, into the stillness. She turned to Eduxu. “Eduxu, would you tell us something of the festival’s origins?”
Eduxu smiled at her. There was something sad at the edges of it, something Niccolette could not place in the flickering of his gaze. She was sharply, keenly aware of it.. “It is not my specialty, of course. But you are right that it interested me very much as a boy.”
The carriage ride passed in a discussion of symbolism, of galdori and imbali culture, of the islands. It was not practical, Niccolette thought, but distant and esoteric. She found it oddly disconnected from the reality of the world around them, from the bright shouts of laughter and joy, from the sharp crackling heat of festival foods, from the distant drumming. She was reminded why she had always disliked the study of history.
And then the carriage drew to a stop, and they had arrived.
The door to the festival hall was heavy, old, smooth wood, unpainted. The two humans standing on either side of it bowed, and opened it together, in two easy movements. The entryway was lit by lanterns, flames flickering soft beneath cloudy glass, and they walked through together, all the way to the heavy curtain of dark beads that hung from the ceiling and blocked the first room from view.
It had not been so long ago that Niccolette had crossed through them for the first time. Seven years ago, she thought. She had come on Uzoji’s arm, with Aremu and Chibugo. Then, she thought, Aremu had been a stranger still. She had seen what he was and she had not known to look beneath.
The evening, Niccolette thought, had been beautiful and entirely bizarre. She had known so little of the islands then. She glanced sideways at Vauquelin, at his smooth shaved face and light hair neatly combed, his Anaxi suit. She wondered what Vauquelin would make of it. She did not look at Yesufu; there was little point.
The mangrove tree was the first thing one saw, when the beads were brushed aside. Sprawling roots rose to nearly waist height, and vanished down beneath the floorboards. It rose, up and up and up, branches hanging down straight towards the salt water beneath.
Niccolette had seen it in the day, in other season. She knew it had pale gray wood, that it was wrapped in dark green vines from trunk upwards - but tonight it was a riot of color, yellow and red flowers sprawling from the vine, shifting lightly in the gentle breeze.
Wooden boards stretched in beneath their feet, nailed one to the next like a dock. Water swished softly beneath, lapping at the supports; drums pounded in the distance, and shouts and laughter trickled in through the open ceiling. The floorboards circled at the tree, parting wide around it and joining back together.
“Dzum’úlúsa,” Yesufu said, proudly, his gaze fixed on the tree.
It did not matter, Niccolette thought, how many times she had seen the sudden blooming. There one day and gone the next; the mangrove trees near the plantation had the same vine, and she knew even now they would be sprouting yellow, and that yellow turning to red. A day ago, the vines had been smooth green. In another day and a half, the flowers would blow away, scatter, and it would be as if it all had never been.
Niccolette glanced sideways at Aremu. He seemed, she thought, to be feeling better. There was an ache of worry in her chest which she could not tame. But he had eaten today, and spoken without prompting. He was looking at the tree now, his face soft and solemn. Something twitched over it, and Niccolette frowned faintly.
But Aremu turned to her, and he smiled, softly. Niccolette wondered what was on her face. She turned back to the tree, breathing smoothly and evenly.
Uzoji had loved dzum’úlúsa. From that first strange year, when he and Aremu had all but carried Chibugo home, to the last, when the festival had become comfortable and familiar, something she had looked forward to. She would gladly have skipped it this year. She could not think of such things, not now; she knew better. She focused on her breathing instead. She could not even quite find the joy of it, but that was, perhaps, as it should be.
Niccolette was not here for joy.
There were three doorways of jet black beads, one left, one right, and one straight back. Yesufu led them left, towards the soft, sonorous sounds of an oud, away from the heavy beat of drumming.
The rooms alongside the tree were better lit, but still traced with trees and vines. In the oud room, someone had coaxed the vines to grow through the walls, so a riot of bright flowers seemed to be painted on them. There were smaller mangroves in two corners, with holes left for them in the floorboards, their roots sinking deep into the saltwater beneath.
Niccolette looked up at the room of Mugrobi, smiling and laughing, a cacophony of noise dressed in vivid colors. Bare arms glinted; rigid metal collars swallowed necks, pricked out in intricate patterns. Some men favored darker suits; others wore lighter colors. All of the fabric draped and flowed and swayed.
None of that, Niccolette thought, had been so shocking. Not by Yaris, not after months in Mugroba. She liked the fabrics; she wore a vivid gold tonight, wrapped and wrapped and wrapped again over the torso, so the delicate layers blended together. Her arms were covered only by one or two, the lines of them visible through the fabric. The skirt was looser, just as fashionable, and carefully wide enough that no one could see the line of the pistol strapped to her thigh.
No, what had shocked her then - what she could never expect, even now - was the lack of fields. There were some, of course; there were some. But many of those who laughed and talked and bowed, dressed in glittering jewel tones and expensive gold and silver, had none.
Niccolette turned to Vauquelin. “Well,” she said, softly, aware of Yesufu just ahead. Her own ramscott was politely dampened; she had meditated that day, and it was crisp and vivid, but she was content not to flare it fully out. “What do you think?” She found a grin for him, and it was surprisingly easy.
“It is an opportunity,” Yesufu said, “to celebrate opportunity.” His eyes moved between them slowly, and Niccolette knew they went last to Vauquelin. “To celebrate the seizing of the moment.”
There was silence, then, between them. Niccolette could feel Yesufu and Eduxu’s fields, soft quantitative and clairvoyant mona politely distant from hers. Vauquelin’s field, as always, was a snarled mess, but it had calmed from the day before. After so long spent traveling together, Niccolette could feel the faintest edge of whispering clairvoyant mona, just barely.
Good for him, she thought. Her gaze was on Yesufu, and her smile didn’t change.
“It promises to be an exciting night,” Niccolette said, calmly, into the stillness. She turned to Eduxu. “Eduxu, would you tell us something of the festival’s origins?”
Eduxu smiled at her. There was something sad at the edges of it, something Niccolette could not place in the flickering of his gaze. She was sharply, keenly aware of it.. “It is not my specialty, of course. But you are right that it interested me very much as a boy.”
The carriage ride passed in a discussion of symbolism, of galdori and imbali culture, of the islands. It was not practical, Niccolette thought, but distant and esoteric. She found it oddly disconnected from the reality of the world around them, from the bright shouts of laughter and joy, from the sharp crackling heat of festival foods, from the distant drumming. She was reminded why she had always disliked the study of history.
And then the carriage drew to a stop, and they had arrived.
The door to the festival hall was heavy, old, smooth wood, unpainted. The two humans standing on either side of it bowed, and opened it together, in two easy movements. The entryway was lit by lanterns, flames flickering soft beneath cloudy glass, and they walked through together, all the way to the heavy curtain of dark beads that hung from the ceiling and blocked the first room from view.
It had not been so long ago that Niccolette had crossed through them for the first time. Seven years ago, she thought. She had come on Uzoji’s arm, with Aremu and Chibugo. Then, she thought, Aremu had been a stranger still. She had seen what he was and she had not known to look beneath.
The evening, Niccolette thought, had been beautiful and entirely bizarre. She had known so little of the islands then. She glanced sideways at Vauquelin, at his smooth shaved face and light hair neatly combed, his Anaxi suit. She wondered what Vauquelin would make of it. She did not look at Yesufu; there was little point.
The mangrove tree was the first thing one saw, when the beads were brushed aside. Sprawling roots rose to nearly waist height, and vanished down beneath the floorboards. It rose, up and up and up, branches hanging down straight towards the salt water beneath.
Niccolette had seen it in the day, in other season. She knew it had pale gray wood, that it was wrapped in dark green vines from trunk upwards - but tonight it was a riot of color, yellow and red flowers sprawling from the vine, shifting lightly in the gentle breeze.
Wooden boards stretched in beneath their feet, nailed one to the next like a dock. Water swished softly beneath, lapping at the supports; drums pounded in the distance, and shouts and laughter trickled in through the open ceiling. The floorboards circled at the tree, parting wide around it and joining back together.
“Dzum’úlúsa,” Yesufu said, proudly, his gaze fixed on the tree.
It did not matter, Niccolette thought, how many times she had seen the sudden blooming. There one day and gone the next; the mangrove trees near the plantation had the same vine, and she knew even now they would be sprouting yellow, and that yellow turning to red. A day ago, the vines had been smooth green. In another day and a half, the flowers would blow away, scatter, and it would be as if it all had never been.
Niccolette glanced sideways at Aremu. He seemed, she thought, to be feeling better. There was an ache of worry in her chest which she could not tame. But he had eaten today, and spoken without prompting. He was looking at the tree now, his face soft and solemn. Something twitched over it, and Niccolette frowned faintly.
But Aremu turned to her, and he smiled, softly. Niccolette wondered what was on her face. She turned back to the tree, breathing smoothly and evenly.
Uzoji had loved dzum’úlúsa. From that first strange year, when he and Aremu had all but carried Chibugo home, to the last, when the festival had become comfortable and familiar, something she had looked forward to. She would gladly have skipped it this year. She could not think of such things, not now; she knew better. She focused on her breathing instead. She could not even quite find the joy of it, but that was, perhaps, as it should be.
Niccolette was not here for joy.
There were three doorways of jet black beads, one left, one right, and one straight back. Yesufu led them left, towards the soft, sonorous sounds of an oud, away from the heavy beat of drumming.
The rooms alongside the tree were better lit, but still traced with trees and vines. In the oud room, someone had coaxed the vines to grow through the walls, so a riot of bright flowers seemed to be painted on them. There were smaller mangroves in two corners, with holes left for them in the floorboards, their roots sinking deep into the saltwater beneath.
Niccolette looked up at the room of Mugrobi, smiling and laughing, a cacophony of noise dressed in vivid colors. Bare arms glinted; rigid metal collars swallowed necks, pricked out in intricate patterns. Some men favored darker suits; others wore lighter colors. All of the fabric draped and flowed and swayed.
None of that, Niccolette thought, had been so shocking. Not by Yaris, not after months in Mugroba. She liked the fabrics; she wore a vivid gold tonight, wrapped and wrapped and wrapped again over the torso, so the delicate layers blended together. Her arms were covered only by one or two, the lines of them visible through the fabric. The skirt was looser, just as fashionable, and carefully wide enough that no one could see the line of the pistol strapped to her thigh.
No, what had shocked her then - what she could never expect, even now - was the lack of fields. There were some, of course; there were some. But many of those who laughed and talked and bowed, dressed in glittering jewel tones and expensive gold and silver, had none.
Niccolette turned to Vauquelin. “Well,” she said, softly, aware of Yesufu just ahead. Her own ramscott was politely dampened; she had meditated that day, and it was crisp and vivid, but she was content not to flare it fully out. “What do you think?” She found a grin for him, and it was surprisingly easy.
