The Ibutatu Estate, Isla Dzum
Niccolette did not look in the least apologetic, her fingers pressing rather viciously into his shoulder joint. “You are a striping idiot,” the Bastian told him.
“I know,” Aremu said, quietly.
The Bastian snapped a fierce glare at him, and began to cast. It wasn’t painful, so Aremu supposed it diagnostic. He stared at the opposite wall, waiting silently. In his head, he turned over Aurelie’s letter, trying to think what to say. A striping idiot indeed, Aremu thought.
“Several cracked bones,” Niccolette snapped. “Inflammation,” her voice trailed off, her fingers probing once more.
Aremu stifled a cry; he closed his eyes, holding as still as he could bear.
Niccolette let go of his shoulder. She was still wearing her travel clothes; she smelled, just a little, although Aremu didn’t think he should mention it.
“I suppose you did not even bother to call a doctor?” Niccolette asked coldly.
“I did,” Aremu said.
Niccolette glared at him. “Some imbala, I am sure!”
“Who else would come?” Aremu asked, quietly.
Niccolette snorted, but he knew the anger on her fave wasn’t for him. She went to the door, shouting for Ahura. “Heat,” she told Aremu, sharply, turning back. “And a limited range of motion. You are gods blessed, this time, that it is not worse and that it is healing well.”
No, Aremu thought, no - but he nodded.
Niccolette went off with Ahura, speaking rapid Mugrobi.
Aremu sat, shirtless still, on the chair, and waited. He looked down at the hand and wrist in his lap, silent.
Niccolette came back not long later, carrying a dripping wet cloth, steaming slightly. She pressed it to Aremu’s shoulder; he grunted again. “Ahura tells me you were trying to lock up the processing plant yourself in a storm.” Niccolette’s voice was cool.
”There wasn’t anyone else,” Aremu said, “and I was the one who left it unsecured.”
“You are an idiot,” Niccolette said, quietly. She adjusted the cloth, carefully, and left it in place. “And if I lose you too? Have you thought of that? Do you think Uzoji would have given a fuck about these machines, weighed against your life?”
Aremu shifted, silent. There were many things he could have said; he chose to say none of them. He did not think Niccolette was ready to listen.
Niccolette sighed. “Stay with this on,” she told him, “for half an hour. Then you can go about your day.”
“Can I use my hand?” Aremu asked.
“Small motions,” Niccolette snapped, narrowing her eyes at him. “No reaching up or behind for at least the month.”
“Writing?” Aremu asked.
Niccolette shrugged. ”Fine. Anything which does not move the shoulder,” she pressed his hand with hers, and she went.
Ahura brought him a glass of juice; when he asked, she brought him a piece of paper too. Water dripped steadily down his chest and back, and, slowly, Aremu began to write.
Dear Aurelie,
I apologize for my thoughtlessness, and for causing you worry. I am pleased to tell you that my shoulder is much improved and will in further time be fine, and that I am told writing will not do it any further harm.
Aremu paused, thinking. The doctor had prescribed an opium tincture; Ahura had given it to him, faithfully, for the better part of a week. He remembered almost none of it, the letter included, except the sharp tang of vomit in his mouth afterwards, and an odd memory not of flying but crashing.
Apadha had told him he was very insistent, that she had let him dictate the letter so he would rest, that she had sent it so he would stop asking. Aremu grimaced. It seemed to him far worse to tell Aurelie this, to make her worry for no reason. He knew what he had written from Apadha at least, or close enough.
I hope my letter did not distress you unduly. The doctor had prescribed me some medicine which did not agree with me very well. I am not taking it anymore, and feeling much better overall.
I have not done much baking. I was, I fear, over-optimistic in my prognosis in my last letter. You need not worry that I have strained myself.
We did make the tea cakes. Ahura did the mixing for me, and the kneading which was called for. We have an ice chest which we sometimes can use; there is no ice storage on Isla Dzum, but it comes sometimes to Laus Oma. Since we anyway had some, we used this for the cooling of the dough. Ahura added turmeric, pepper, and cardamom; I will add a card with the amounts if you wish to try this way of making them. They were very good.
When next we have ice, I shall make the shortbread, likely with macadamia. I hope that my shoulder will be fully recovered by then, so that I can work with this type of buttery dough myself. Ahura reported that it was more difficult, but I think she liked the challenge. She has come to enjoy the baking projects, both the work and the result.
I did not think my description of snow to Efere would frighten him. I told him of the world blanketed in white, that it was cold to the touch and damp when touched, and how the flakes fall from swirling gray clouds in the sky. I did not tell him of hypothermia or these other misfortunes which can befall a man in the snow; I hope you do not think me so foolish as that.
It sounds very cold in the kitchens. It is still warm here; it is always warm here, for which I am very grateful. There are some storms, but it has not been too bad a season so far. They say more will come, but I do not think we will see too much rain until the flood season starts.
You wished to know of Mugrobi holidays. We have many that I do not think Anaxi celebrate. These are mostly festivals, like Dzum’ulusa which I wrote of to you. We have another, Ku Ossa, which is a celebration of love.
I think the most similar to Clock’s Eve is Maltalaan, which is celebrated on Bethas 1. It is a celebration of Hulali. In thanks for his generosity, we throw offerings into the ocean: food, spices and precious stones. We also give gifts to one another.
In this spirit I have enclosed a small gift for you. I hope it will not cause you any trouble to have it. It is a miniature painting of a mangrove tree wrapped in a flowering dzutaw vine; it is enclosed in a locket. I thought you would like to see it.
I am grateful to call you my friend, Aurelie.
Best regards,
Aremu
Aremu reached up, slowly, taking the warm damp cloth from his skin. He set it off to the side, looking down at the letter. After a moment, swallowing hard, he put the letter to dry.
There was no need, he thought, to mention Niccolette, or to mention the year anniversary of Uzoji’s death. It would only trouble her, and he had done already enough of that.