The Crocus’ Stem, Cinnamon Hill
The letter should not perhaps have been a surprise, and yet it had been. He had known it by the address, of course, when it had reached him at Dzum some weeks back. He had opened it, and found an unfamiliar hand.
He had never seen Tom write; he had not seen it in life, and he had not seen it since. He couldn’t imagine this as the other man’s hand, all the same. The words, though, the words were Tom’s, and he had smiled to read them, and then read them again, and savored it to himself.
I hope this letter finds you in good health. I was exceptionally pleased to hear about your success intercropping the úrowoxo cultivar, given its propensity for delicacy and instability, with the if’uwu variety of tsug tree. I am told that the úrowoxo kofi plants take their time, but that the yield is all the richer for the wait, especially in the company of the tsug.
I cannot pretend to know much about the process, but it seems apt: as the Symvouli cycle turns, our roots and Mugroba’s must share the same soil. In nourishing one another, we nourish the grove.
He hadn’t thought - of course, he had known Tom would be in Thul Ka for the rainy season, as all Incumbents would be. He had hoped, too; he had promised Tom once that he would show him Thul’Amat, and he had meant every word.
In the thinking there was fear and anticipation both. The more he thought of it, the more there was Aremu wanted to show him. Giddy, excited, he had nearly sat down to make a list, even if it could never be sent. He had thought better of it, then, all the same. There was fear, too, and not so much on his own behalf.
Aremu had sent a note to the address Tom had given, after he himself had reached. It said none of the things he wished to say, only that he himself was in Thul Ka and he looked forward to seeing Incumbent Vauquelin at a time of his convenience on the manner of business he had proposed. He had started to add a line on intercropping, on the pleasures and challenges of it, and then he had stopped, and thought better of it, in the end. He wrote instead that the kofi harvest had been of good quality, and was well worth the wait.
He had not known quite what to expect or when, but not so long later a note had been returned - in rougher handwriting which he had smiled to see - and they had fixed a time.
Perhaps he would not have walked if the skies had not, for once, been clear. It had rained all morning and most of the afternoon, and then stopped, suddenly, and the clouds had seemed to evaporate, leaving behind a clear blue sky. There were traces of sunset as he walked, colorful gleams spilling half visible over the city, and sometimes when he reached the top of this hill or that he could turn to look at them, and admire it. Usually he did.
Aremu wore tan, light cloth, a long sleeved tunic and pants; his amel’iwe was orange and yellow, embroidered in red, draped comfortably over his shoulders. His right wrist rested in his pocket, the bulge of his prosthetic indistinguishable through the fabric of his pants.
He found the Crocus’ Stem, in time; he made his way up the steps, and came inside, and bowed to the front desk.
The woman behind it watched him; her eyebrows lifted, and her lips pressed into a thin purple-painted line. “Good evening, ada’xa,” her voice drifted up, ever so faintly at the end.
“Good evening,” Aremu said, unflinching. “I have an engagement with Incumbent Vauquelin on business.”
“He is not available at the moment,” the human said, smiling politely.
Aremu inclined his head. “Thank you,” he said, the liar’s smile easy to carve into the mask of his face. He is expecting me, he wished to say; he knew there was no point.
He knew better than to look at the chairs in the lobby; instead, he turned and he went back outside, standing at the edge of the sidewalk. He waited, there, his left hand finding his pocket as well, his face smooth and even.