Early Evening, 21 Dentis, 2704
East Hall, Idisúfi Library, Thul’Amat
East Hall, Idisúfi Library, Thul’Amat
Nkemi was eleven years old and she had never been alone for her birthday before. She had not been alone the day before; Aunt Ofe had come all the way to Thul’Amat, and she and Piri and Juedho had taken Nkemi out for a special dinner. Nkemi had had a small bird she did not remember the name of which had been stuffed with rice and spices, because Ofe had told her she should get something special. She had never eaten anything like it before, but she had liked it very much. She had drank a big sip of Aunt Ofe’s tsenid also, but it had not tasted as nice as the bird. Piri and Juedho had laughed with her and cheered her though, and that had felt very nice. Aunt Ofe had even given Nkemi a little present, a pretty red-gold pouch with some coins. Aunt Ofe had told her not to spend them all on sweets, which had been very exciting because Nkemi had not known that she was allowed to spend them at all.
But it was not the same.
There was no juela to wake with kisses early in the morning, when the light was pink-gold still and very pretty. There was no jara either to make a special cup of kofi for her or juela to put an extra spoon of sugar in it. Nkemi did not have any plants she could pick bright red berries from, and there were no goats at all, not anywhere in all of Thul’Amat. There was a small pen at the School of Animal Husbands, but she was not allowed to go and pet them so Nkemi felt it did not count. In Dkanat there were many people who knew her birthday and would give her blessings for the year to come, and Nkemi was not sure if she would have a good year if she did not receive any blessings. She had always had a good year before, but maybe it would be different, this time. She could not go and crouch beneath the scraggly tree which had the best-smelling sap in all the plains or go to the edge of the big canyon and toss pebbles down the edge of it.
And, worst of all, she could not go with juela and jara at sunset to watch the light over the canyons. She had done it every year, her whole entire life, except when she was turning seven and they had been in Thul Ka, but even that had been nice because juela had taken her to a very high roof, and Nkemi had liked that. So that did not count, really.
Nkemi did not mind very much that she could not go to the plains or the canyon. She had classes, instead, like a big girl, and Nkemi liked her classes, even if sometimes she grew very confused. And Tsadiya had wished her a happy birthday very loudly, and so everyone else had said it also, which Nkemi liked. So it was not all so bad.
Except it was; except no matter how many good things there were, more than anything Nkemi missed her juela. She missed her too much even for dinner; everyone else had gone from the library but Nkemi had decided to stay. Except once everyone had gone it was very hard to focus on her book, even though it was a nice book and Nkemi liked it. She closed it and put it away and put on her backpack, and she thought perhaps she would go to her room – but Lidha and Alef would not be back from dinner, not yet, and Nkemi did not think she would like to be all alone.
So, instead, Nkemi had explored. She liked Idisúfi, even the parts where it was very forbidden to talk – even the tiniest whisper was not allowed. But Nkemi loved all the books; she had never seen so many in all her life. There were more than the Cultural Center – more than Jara’s library – more than Aunt Ofe’s library. And it was only one of the libraries and not even the biggest, even if everyone agreed it was the best. The books were bound in all different colors; sometimes when she looked up at the shelves it reminded Nkemi of being inside the canyons at home, and she liked that very much also.
She had gone upstairs and wandered through all the rows of shelves, and Nkemi had pretended that she was home in Dkanat and exploring the canyon. And it had been fun, for a little while, only she was not in Dkanat; she was in Thul’Amat, and she could not go home to juela whenever she wanted. And then Nkemi’s chest had hurt, and grown very tight, and she had sat down on the floor and cried, very quietly, because she did not wish to break the rules. She had hugged her knees and buried her face against them, and there were wet splotches all over her pants when she had finished.
Nkemi had stopped crying, eventually. The books across the way were very nice, she thought mournfully; they had a very pretty red binding. Nkemi crawled across the floor and went to them; she traced her finger letter by letter down the spine.
“Mugroba Atlas, 2650,” Nkemi read aloud, carefully, her voice no louder than a whisper. “Western Erg, Vol 4.”
Carefully, sitting cross-legged, Nkemi pulled the big heavy book off the shelf and settled it into her lap. She sniffled, once more, wiping her face on her sleeve; she flipped it open, looking at a random page in the middle.
Nkemi had thought that there would be words; there were not words. It was a diagram, instead, or something like it, with many different lines – some straight and some dotted and some dashed. There were some shaded areas and dots, also, with words written beside them, and notes in the margins here and there, shortened words that Nkemi did not know. There was a little box in one corner too, with strange symbols and words next to them. Nkemi frowned at one of the shaded areas; it was in the middle of long curving lines. “Manatse,” Nkemi whispered the written words aloud. “Approx.”
Nkemi stared at the page a little while longer. Slowly, her eyes widened. She knew what Manatse was; it was a town which floated on the Turga, where wicks lived. Nkemi turned the book, looking at the word written sideways in the middle of the wide lines that went around the Mantse dot. “Turga River,” she whispered.
Nkemi set the book down. She understood now; it was a map. She turned the page, and there was another, and another, and another. It was a whole book of maps, all of them parts of Mugroba. Nkemi closed the book and set it back on the floor; she scooted back, looking wide-eyed at the shelves. There were so many books, Nkemi realized, slowly, all bound in red-leather; a big, matching set. She stood up, looking at them. There were many for Western, and many for Central, and many for Eastern. Dkanat was to the south, Nkemi knew, but there were not any books for south.
Nkemi breathed in deep. She took the first of the Western Atlases down and settled it on her lap. She turned it open to the middle and began to flip through, quickly, searching. At the end she found a page with a list of names and page numbers beside them. Towns, Nkemi thought, bright-eyed. She ran her finger down it; they were in order, and so she went to the places with D, first, and then S. She did not see Dkanat or Serkaih.
Nkemi set the book to the side; she stood again, and took the next one down, and settled it on her lap and began again. And then the next one, and then the next; and when Nkemi needed to, she climbed the small ladder that rested against the shelves, and took down the books which were very high and hard to read.
By the time Nkemi found it, finally, she was nestled in a small canyon of her own making, red-leather bound books piled up all around her, mostly closed – some, still, sprawled open where she had left them.
Nkemi flipped back slowly, turning the pages. The index had said to go to page 112, and so Nkemi went to page 112; she pressed hand on the sides of the pages, holding it open. At first she did not know what to make of it; at first, she was not sure. There were many lines, squiggles; it looked very different from Manatse. Sometimes they were close together; sometimes they were far apart. Nkemi traced the shape of them with her finger. She went back to the beginning of them and drew her finger down the page. There; she put her finger on the small shaded area which read Dkanat.
Nkemi’s lips trembled; her eyes began to spill over again. She turned her head to the side and squeezed them shut; she did not want to get her tears on the precious book. Nkemi wiped her eyes and her nose on her sleeve and looked back down at the page. She turned it, carefully, and there was Serkaih; there were more big curving lines, all around it, wriggled close together.
“The canyons!” Nkemi gasped aloud, and then shushed herself and glanced around. She flipped the page back, now. She could not make sense of it, not quite – there were not so many small canyons as there were lines. But they were in the right place – and there, where there were not any lines, those were the flats. There, Nkemi thought, tears trickling down her cheeks again, poking her finger against the map. There was the tree with the best sap. There was where juela had the men take the goats. There was –
Nkemi found the little hill on which she should have been watching the sunset. She set her finger on it; she smiled, then, through the tears in her eyes. She kissed her finger, carefully, and touched it again to Dkanat. “Many blessings to me,” Nkemi whispered, very, very softly, so softly that surely it was allowed even in Idisúfi. She closed the book, and hugged it to her chest, tucking her chin against the cover. Then, hurriedly, she opened it again, and found the same page, and admired the shape of Dkanat once more.
Nkemi set the book down; she crawled back through the stacks left behind, and opened her backpack. She took out a sheet of paper and a pencil, and went back to the map. If she pressed it down - very carefully - she could only just make out the lines beneath through the paper. Carefully, slowly, she began to trace the lines beneath. She would not leave Dkanat behind, Nkemi promised herself; she would carry it with her, always.
But it was not the same.
There was no juela to wake with kisses early in the morning, when the light was pink-gold still and very pretty. There was no jara either to make a special cup of kofi for her or juela to put an extra spoon of sugar in it. Nkemi did not have any plants she could pick bright red berries from, and there were no goats at all, not anywhere in all of Thul’Amat. There was a small pen at the School of Animal Husbands, but she was not allowed to go and pet them so Nkemi felt it did not count. In Dkanat there were many people who knew her birthday and would give her blessings for the year to come, and Nkemi was not sure if she would have a good year if she did not receive any blessings. She had always had a good year before, but maybe it would be different, this time. She could not go and crouch beneath the scraggly tree which had the best-smelling sap in all the plains or go to the edge of the big canyon and toss pebbles down the edge of it.
And, worst of all, she could not go with juela and jara at sunset to watch the light over the canyons. She had done it every year, her whole entire life, except when she was turning seven and they had been in Thul Ka, but even that had been nice because juela had taken her to a very high roof, and Nkemi had liked that. So that did not count, really.
Nkemi did not mind very much that she could not go to the plains or the canyon. She had classes, instead, like a big girl, and Nkemi liked her classes, even if sometimes she grew very confused. And Tsadiya had wished her a happy birthday very loudly, and so everyone else had said it also, which Nkemi liked. So it was not all so bad.
Except it was; except no matter how many good things there were, more than anything Nkemi missed her juela. She missed her too much even for dinner; everyone else had gone from the library but Nkemi had decided to stay. Except once everyone had gone it was very hard to focus on her book, even though it was a nice book and Nkemi liked it. She closed it and put it away and put on her backpack, and she thought perhaps she would go to her room – but Lidha and Alef would not be back from dinner, not yet, and Nkemi did not think she would like to be all alone.
So, instead, Nkemi had explored. She liked Idisúfi, even the parts where it was very forbidden to talk – even the tiniest whisper was not allowed. But Nkemi loved all the books; she had never seen so many in all her life. There were more than the Cultural Center – more than Jara’s library – more than Aunt Ofe’s library. And it was only one of the libraries and not even the biggest, even if everyone agreed it was the best. The books were bound in all different colors; sometimes when she looked up at the shelves it reminded Nkemi of being inside the canyons at home, and she liked that very much also.
She had gone upstairs and wandered through all the rows of shelves, and Nkemi had pretended that she was home in Dkanat and exploring the canyon. And it had been fun, for a little while, only she was not in Dkanat; she was in Thul’Amat, and she could not go home to juela whenever she wanted. And then Nkemi’s chest had hurt, and grown very tight, and she had sat down on the floor and cried, very quietly, because she did not wish to break the rules. She had hugged her knees and buried her face against them, and there were wet splotches all over her pants when she had finished.
Nkemi had stopped crying, eventually. The books across the way were very nice, she thought mournfully; they had a very pretty red binding. Nkemi crawled across the floor and went to them; she traced her finger letter by letter down the spine.
“Mugroba Atlas, 2650,” Nkemi read aloud, carefully, her voice no louder than a whisper. “Western Erg, Vol 4.”
Carefully, sitting cross-legged, Nkemi pulled the big heavy book off the shelf and settled it into her lap. She sniffled, once more, wiping her face on her sleeve; she flipped it open, looking at a random page in the middle.
Nkemi had thought that there would be words; there were not words. It was a diagram, instead, or something like it, with many different lines – some straight and some dotted and some dashed. There were some shaded areas and dots, also, with words written beside them, and notes in the margins here and there, shortened words that Nkemi did not know. There was a little box in one corner too, with strange symbols and words next to them. Nkemi frowned at one of the shaded areas; it was in the middle of long curving lines. “Manatse,” Nkemi whispered the written words aloud. “Approx.”
Nkemi stared at the page a little while longer. Slowly, her eyes widened. She knew what Manatse was; it was a town which floated on the Turga, where wicks lived. Nkemi turned the book, looking at the word written sideways in the middle of the wide lines that went around the Mantse dot. “Turga River,” she whispered.
Nkemi set the book down. She understood now; it was a map. She turned the page, and there was another, and another, and another. It was a whole book of maps, all of them parts of Mugroba. Nkemi closed the book and set it back on the floor; she scooted back, looking wide-eyed at the shelves. There were so many books, Nkemi realized, slowly, all bound in red-leather; a big, matching set. She stood up, looking at them. There were many for Western, and many for Central, and many for Eastern. Dkanat was to the south, Nkemi knew, but there were not any books for south.
Nkemi breathed in deep. She took the first of the Western Atlases down and settled it on her lap. She turned it open to the middle and began to flip through, quickly, searching. At the end she found a page with a list of names and page numbers beside them. Towns, Nkemi thought, bright-eyed. She ran her finger down it; they were in order, and so she went to the places with D, first, and then S. She did not see Dkanat or Serkaih.
Nkemi set the book to the side; she stood again, and took the next one down, and settled it on her lap and began again. And then the next one, and then the next; and when Nkemi needed to, she climbed the small ladder that rested against the shelves, and took down the books which were very high and hard to read.
By the time Nkemi found it, finally, she was nestled in a small canyon of her own making, red-leather bound books piled up all around her, mostly closed – some, still, sprawled open where she had left them.
Nkemi flipped back slowly, turning the pages. The index had said to go to page 112, and so Nkemi went to page 112; she pressed hand on the sides of the pages, holding it open. At first she did not know what to make of it; at first, she was not sure. There were many lines, squiggles; it looked very different from Manatse. Sometimes they were close together; sometimes they were far apart. Nkemi traced the shape of them with her finger. She went back to the beginning of them and drew her finger down the page. There; she put her finger on the small shaded area which read Dkanat.
Nkemi’s lips trembled; her eyes began to spill over again. She turned her head to the side and squeezed them shut; she did not want to get her tears on the precious book. Nkemi wiped her eyes and her nose on her sleeve and looked back down at the page. She turned it, carefully, and there was Serkaih; there were more big curving lines, all around it, wriggled close together.
“The canyons!” Nkemi gasped aloud, and then shushed herself and glanced around. She flipped the page back, now. She could not make sense of it, not quite – there were not so many small canyons as there were lines. But they were in the right place – and there, where there were not any lines, those were the flats. There, Nkemi thought, tears trickling down her cheeks again, poking her finger against the map. There was the tree with the best sap. There was where juela had the men take the goats. There was –
Nkemi found the little hill on which she should have been watching the sunset. She set her finger on it; she smiled, then, through the tears in her eyes. She kissed her finger, carefully, and touched it again to Dkanat. “Many blessings to me,” Nkemi whispered, very, very softly, so softly that surely it was allowed even in Idisúfi. She closed the book, and hugged it to her chest, tucking her chin against the cover. Then, hurriedly, she opened it again, and found the same page, and admired the shape of Dkanat once more.
Nkemi set the book down; she crawled back through the stacks left behind, and opened her backpack. She took out a sheet of paper and a pencil, and went back to the map. If she pressed it down - very carefully - she could only just make out the lines beneath through the paper. Carefully, slowly, she began to trace the lines beneath. She would not leave Dkanat behind, Nkemi promised herself; she would carry it with her, always.
