The Ibutation Plantation, Isla Dzum
“Poa’xa,” Uzoji knocked on the edge of the open study door, leaning against it. Aremu was bent over his desk inside, frowning faintly at the ledger. He looked up at Uzoji, blinking.
Uzoji frowned, suddenly, looking at the other man. “Would you rather I not bring the crew here?” He asked. “We could make a stop in Laus Oma, first.”
“No,” Aremu shook his head. He set his pen down, and tucked his bare right arm beneath the desk. “I’m glad to see them well.”
Uzoji’s gaze flickered down to the ledgers, then back up to his friend’s smooth face. He nodded, then, and said nothing more about it. “Come for a walk with me?” He asked.
There was a crisp chill to the island air at night, and both men had shrugged on overcoats before going outside. Aremu walked with his wrists in his pockets, and Uzoji beside him. They went, as had become familiar, out the back door, through the grass along the cliff, down towards the beach, and then cut across the road towards the sugarcane fields, and the tsug grove beyond.
“I wanted you to see it in the light,” Aremu was saying, their conversation having wandered back to the plantation, in time. “The tsug,” he had found a grin, brilliant, boyish. “Where we've planted the kofi, the harvest is even better.” Aremu added.
“How’s the flavor?” Uzoji asked, eagerly. “Was it the right varietal?”
“I think so,” Aremu grinned, wider still. “I think you can even taste the macadamia - you’ll try it tomorrow. The next step is a full scale roasting facility for the plantation.”
The tsug trees were taller than Uzoji had expected, even after Aremu’s excitement. He stood beneath them in the moonlit shade, breathing deep. He ran his hands through the kofi bushes; he knelt to pick up a fallen nut, and held it close. He turned to Aremu, smiling. “They’re magnificent.” He said, quietly, tucking the nut away in his pocket. He did not wish to hide in metaphor or simile; there was no need.
Aremu’s shoulders trembled, and then tightened and squared. He cleared his throat, and turned away. “I think the harvest will be even better next year.” He said, gazing up at the trees.
It was a little while later, between the rows of trees, that Uzoji brought himself to it. “I have made something of a mess,” he admitted.
He felt Aremu stop beside him, falling back; he turned to look at his friend.
Aremu was frowning, watching him. He looked away, then, his jaw tightening.
“Not Niccolette,” Uzoji said, suddenly, eyes widening with understanding. “No - all is well with her.”
Aremu’s eyes fluttered closed, and the tightness drained from him. He nodded, sharply, and came forward again.
“My friend,” Uzoji said, softly, frowning. “Did it bother you so? To lie to her?”
Aremu glanced up at the screen of branches overhead, moonlight washing through the tangled of them. A patch of clouds shivered through the sky, dappling shade over shade. “Do not ask me questions to which you know the answer.” Aremu said, quietly.
Uzoji exhaled, soft and slow into the night. They walked in silence a little longer.
“What mistakes have you made now?” Aremu asked, in time.
Uzoji heard the edge of a grin in his voice, and laughed. “It’s to do with a young woman - a girl really - at Brunnhold. May I unburden myself to you, my friend?” He draped his arm over Aremu’s shoulders. He felt the other man’s left arm come up and settle over his as well.
“I should be glad.” Aremu promised.
Brunnhold Campus
And then he put it aside, because the time for doing was not the time for doubts. Because doubts were for undoing, and more than anything, Aremu knew he needed not to come undone.
Red brick rose up around him; there were houses on both sides, and the heavy curve of the thick wall behind. Aremu thought - perhaps - if he searched, and well, he could find a spot which he might be able to climb. He wanted to turn back and look; he was a good climber, and he knew how to dive and swim besides. If he shed his coat and made it to the top of the wall, then what? He did not know how deep the aqueduct was; it would be a risk. That was the most dangerous part of cliff diving in unknown waters; not the fall itself, but the water beneath, and what it might hide.
And if he made it? If he plunged through the surface and did not shatter on something below, could he swim across and climb, dripping wet up the other side? What would he risk for freedom? How much? How could he know if there were no other options left to him?
Everything, Aremu thought, a sudden, furious pulse of anger inside him. Everything, and without regret. He did not look back; what difference would the knowing make?
Aremu kept walking, both wrists resting at the edges of his pockets. The wind was heavy, whistling through the air, tugging at all his hems and seams, rustling at the leaves on the trees, as if to promise that it would bring them down, in time.
There were papers in the pocket over his heart. Once, when he could not help himself, Aremu lifted his fingertips to them and pressed, softly, and heard them rustle. He exhaled, and knew only then that he had been holding his breath. He lowered his hand, and tucked it into his pocket once more.
Aremu walked as if he knew where he went; he walked as if he belonged. Or perhaps he betrayed himself with the hunch of his shoulders, beneath the thick fabric of his coat; perhaps he betrayed himself with the careful sideways flick of his gaze, as brief as he could manage, but still irresistible when another figure passed too close in the low misty morning light.
Uzoji had described the spot, once, a long time ago, with a little laughter in his voice, mingled pride and amusement. The tree, he’d said, where he tied a handkerchief to be visible through the window, where he’d left a signal for Miss Steerpike. Aremu could not remember her first name; he had not remembered the last, but for the clippings.
If he were honest, he had not remembered it at all, not to think of. Uzoji’s death had left so many loose ends; in the months after, he had been absorbed in the plantation, in keeping it for Niccolette. When Ahura has shown him the clippings, and told him she had found them while preparing the room for Niccolette’s arrival, Aremu had not known what to do.
Except, of course, he had; he had known. Accepting that knowledge had taken time. He did not know if the news if Uzoji’s death would matter to Miss Steerpike; he did not know if she would want the clippings, so long delayed. But if he had not returned to the cycle, Uzoji would have brought them to her; and so here Aremu was. There were bonds that friendship built between men, and obligations which gladly lay upon them, and death was not the end of them.
The tree was not hard to find; Aremu had known where to look, after all. He stood beneath it, looking up at sheltering branches; he fished a handkerchief from his pocket, and tucked it in his sleeve. Aremu settled his hand against a junction, then, and began to climb. Just a little further, he promised himself; just a little further still.