Children of God

by Mary Doria Russell

  For a time, he gazed dumbfounded at a young woman who was not merely unveiled but completely naked. Embarrassed beyond description, he finally averted his eyes from this spectacle, only to behold the noseless, tailless, oozing figment sitting woozily on the ground next to her.

  “Someone’s brother is ill,” the girl said.

  Shetri gaped at her, ears drifting sideways, and belatedly realized that his pedal grip was beginning to give way. Scrambling with sudden undignified zeal, he established a graceless momentary balance on the stem of a scrubby bush growing horizontally from a crack in the rock, and heaved himself over the edge of the escarpment without further delay. “My lady,” he gasped, in breathless, abbreviated greeting when he arrived belly-down. “Your brother?” The girl looked blank. “Your brother?” he repeated, in kitchen Ruanja. She lifted her chin.

  Slumped over, legs crossed, its skeletal arms thrust out like buttresses, the “brother” had evidently been flayed alive by some remarkably inefficient hunter. There was a tiny nose, Shetri saw now that he was closer, but like much of the rest of this monster, it was blistered and raw.

  “He’s too far gone,” Shetri told the girl, getting up wearily. “Someone will grant him peace.”

  “No!” the girl cried, as Shetri moved into position behind the poor beast and lifted its little jaw to open its throat. Shetri froze. She was not large, but she looked quite capable of biting through a man’s neck. Shetri himself had not so much as wrestled with anyone in years. “Go away,” she ordered. “Leave us alone!”

  What has happened to all the women in the world? Shetri asked himself. He held his position for a moment and then, with great care, removed his hands from the beast’s neck and backed off. “My lady: one can think of nothing more inexpressibly agreeable than to obey your command,” he said with an elaborate obeisance to the naked little bitch, “but whatever this thing is, the wretch is dying. Would you have your ‘brother’ suffer?”

  Her glare remained undimmed. Shetri was beginning to realize that she didn’t have any idea what he was saying. Summoning a Ruanja half-remembered from the nursery, he repeated the burden of his question as best he could.

  “Someone would not have him suffer. Someone would have him live,” the girl declared with a vehemence that seemed to Shetri unnecessarily threatening.

  Well, choose! Shetri wanted to say. You can select one condition or the other. He looked around experimentally and noted with some satisfaction that there was still a vague pulsing aura around anything blue, which included the “brother’s” bizarre little eyes. This was exceedingly if temporarily reassuring. Maybe the brother wasn’t real! Perhaps the girl wasn’t either …

  Except that Ta’ana had seen her as well. Sighing, Shetri straightened and moved cautiously from behind the poor, skinned thing. He leaned out over the cliff to look at his sister.

  “What’s going on?” Ta’ana called up to him.

  “Why not come and see for yourself?” Shetri suggested cheerfully, no longer maintaining even a pretense of command.

  Ta’ana arrived at the top of the cliff a short time later, stripped to a chemise for the climb. Shetri himself was, by then, sitting serenely a little space away from the girl and what she insisted was her brother, quietly singing a verse or two for Sti. To his beatific gratification, his sister’s face went as slack as his own must have earlier.

  Ta’ana assessed the situation with the admirable alacrity of a middle-rank householder used to coping with unexpected visitors. “Honored guests,” she said, getting to her feet and addressing the two newcomers as she had each of the refugees they’d taken on during the trek north. The girl looked at her warily. “If it pleases you, be welcomed into my household and sojourn under my lord brother’s protection.” Turning to Shetri, Ta’ana added, low-voiced, “Make sure the monster lives.”

  IT WAS AN UNREASONABLE DEMAND BUT, BY THE DYING LIGHT OF Rakhat’s second sun, Shetri Laaks did what he could.

  Which was little enough. Calling down to Ta’ana’s maid, he instructed her to bring the cleanest sleeping sheet she could find and to get a chemise from one of the other refugees. “No,” he corrected himself, disturbed by the new girl’s exposure, “bring two chemises, not one. But rinse one in the stream before you come up. Keep everything as clean as you can! And bring me all the ointments!”

  While he waited, he examined the monster carefully, but did not touch him. He and Ta’ana were nearly blind when the Runao arrived, but by that time, Shetri had formed a plan of treatment. “Put that … person on the sheet, and be careful of its skin,” he told the maid, not giving her time to panic. “Then examine every part of it and pick out any dirt or debris you find. Be gentle.” He waited, expecting to hear the pathetic beast cry out, but there was no sound. “Does he live?” he asked the darkness, reluctant to deplete his precious stock of medicine on a corpse.

  “He lives,” the maid’s voice informed him.

  “What are you doing?” the new girl demanded. “Tell this one what you’re doing to him!”

  The maid kept silent, not sure who was in charge now. “Tell her, child,” Shetri said wearily, and waited for the chatter to pause. “All right,” he said to the Runao then, “unwrap the convex silver spatula carefully—don’t get your hands on the end! Use the spatula to spread the ointment over his entire body—a very thin layer, understand? Rounded surface toward the patient—keep the edges of the instrument away from the skin. When the skin is covered with ointment, spread the wet chemise over him, child. Tonight, you will keep the covering damp with fresh water, do you understand?”

  Having done all that was possible, Shetri Laaks gave up on the long day, and went to sleep that night hoping that when he awoke, he would spend the morning chuckling about the absurdity of the dreams Sti had provided.

  WHEN ISAAC OPENED HIS EYES, THE DAWN CHANT WAS NEARLY OVER and the smell of roasting meat incensed the air. “They’ve killed a Runao,” Ha’anala whispered. “They’re eating her.”

  “Everyone eats,” Isaac said, granting emotionless absolution. He closed his eyes again.

  But she insisted, “No, it’s wrong. There are other things to eat.”

  Isaac listened carefully to the chant. Then he slept.

  “TRY THIS,” HA’ANALA SAID WHEN NEXT HE WOKE, SHE SAT AT HIS SIDE, out of his line of sight, but her hand motioned toward a small cup of broth that was sitting nearby. He turned his head away. “Everyone eats,” she reminded him. “Shetri says meat will make you stronger. Someone caught this herself. It isn’t Runa.”

  He sat up. Everything had changed. They were at the bottom, not the top. They were under an awning made of fabric with silver thread. He liked the color. It was quiet here. The Runa kept their distance and spoke in low tones. There was a damp thing draped over him. His skin shone with something slippery. Because no one was talking, he could consider all this. The slippery stuff felt cool.

  “Tablet?” he asked Ha’anala.

  “Someone was careful with it.” He saw her gesture at the edge of his field of vision. The tablet was set on a flagstone nearby.

  Isaac drank the broth and lay down again. “We’ll stay with these people,” he said.

  There was an uncertain pause. “Until you are strong again,” Ha’anala said.

  “They sing,” Isaac said, and fell asleep.

  “HOW CAN YOU KNOW THAT?” ATHAANSI ERAT DEMANDED, CERTAIN that his mother’s notion was preposterous.

  “You were too young to remember—the Paramount once passed through our compound on an inspection tour. A horrible man! But when he looked at me—a god’s eyes! She has the same,” Ta’ana Laaks u Erat insisted, out of the hearing of their Runa and the other refugees. “That girl is a Kitheri.”

  “Wandering out here alone, with a monster like that?” Shetri cried. “Speaking only Ruanja? Naked?” He preferred his own initial conviction that he was hallucinating again, a hope he still found difficult to relinquish entirely.

  “The traitor had a daughte
r out of Jholaa Kitheri. That was sixteen years ago,” Ta’ana said emphatically. “Don’t you see? She’s been brought up in the south, by Runa. The tailless monster has to be one of the foreigners.” Athaansi opened his mouth to ask again how she knew. Cutting him off, Ta’ana said, “I listened to the Paramount’s concerts! I know about—” She hesitated, both embarrassed and aroused by the memory of that particular poetic theme. “I know about those things.”

  If her son was tempted to lecture her on propriety, the set of her ears changed his mind. “Well, then,” Athaansi said, “we should execute them and bring their scent glands to Inbrokar. There are standing orders for the nameless one’s death and for his whole sept. And for all foreigners as well!”

  To his surprise, his mother did not agree at once. “Haste in a moment, regrets forever,” she said after a time, looking at her son speculatively. “It occurs to me that you need a wife, Athaansi.”

  Shetri Laaks was certain that he was now beyond being amazed by his sister, but Athaansi Erat, he noted delightedly, was still capable of astonishment. “Her?” the boy squawked. “She’s VaHaptaa! She’s under writ of execution! Her children would be—”

  “Born in a time when nothing can be predicted,” his mother finished for him. “She is collateral to Hlavin Kitheri’s lineage, for which succession is not yet established. Who knows what compromises may become necessary? Kitheri has changed everything else, and she wouldn’t be the first niece to transmit an open patrimony,” Ta’ana pointed out. “The girl is small, but of good conformation, and she’s the right age—”

  Athaansi’s protests became vigorous at this point. His uncle enjoyed the drama for a time, glad to be forgotten, but his relief was short-lived.

  “It seems that Athaansi is too fastidious to cover a VaHaptaa of ancient lineage,” said Ta’ana Laaks u Erat, undismayed, and turned her attention from son to brother with dispassionate pragmatism. “Perhaps you would like to make a start on reestablishing the Laaks lineage, now that our brother and his family are dead?” Ears high, Ta’ana invited comment.

  There was none, Shetri Laaks being occupied with a silent reassessment of his capacity for astonishment.

  Ta’ana rose then, glancing over at the two newcomers, sheltered under the awning she had caused to be made for them out of her own silvered veil. “As for the foreign monster,” Ta’ana continued, “he may be useful as a hostage, if things go badly in the south.” Which effectively concluded the discussion.

  “SOMEONE THINKS YOUR BROTHER SINGS WELL,” SHETRI LAAKS TOLD the girl as they walked together the next morning. He did not tell her that her voice was beautiful as well. He was still surprised that she dared to sing the chants, though Ta’ana said that this was now considered permissible among members of Kitheri’s court. So much had changed while he himself had studied changeless ritual. “He has a pleasing, clear voice, and his harmonies are …”

  “Otherworldly,” Ha’anala supplied, smiling as Shetri considered the construction and then blinked at the word’s meaning. “Isaac loves music, as he can love nothing else.”

  “What is it that you sing with him, after the chants?”

  “The Sh’ma: a song of our mother’s people.”

  Shetri had given up trying to work out Ha’anala’s notions of kinship. Music, on the other hand, was something he appreciated. “It’s beautiful.”

  “As are your own songs.” She was silent for a time. “Someone thanks you for singing to Isaac. The Sti chants make the heart quiet. Someone wishes she understood the words, but the melody is enough.”

  Shetri paused in their procession, willing now to ask a question that made him uneasy. “How is it possible for Isaac to know the whole of an epic, hearing it but once? Someone studied years …” He looked away, embarrassed. “Is he a memory specialist or is such a feat normal for your … mother’s kind?”

  “Our mother says that Isaac’s mind is made differently from anyone else’s anywhere. Isaac would not be like anyone else, even if he were among his own people.”

  “A genetic freak,” Shetri suggested, but she didn’t understand. She knew the evening chants but very little modern K’San, and he couldn’t summon any similar idea in Ruanja. Falling silent, he set himself to study the low-growing foliage around them, noting the herbs that grew here, and leaned over to slice a stem of feverbalm, inhaling its fragrance. He was glad of the distraction, gladder still that the girl was not contemptuous of a man who cared about plants.

  Until Ta’ana had proposed a match, Shetri had never in his life considered taking a mate, not even privately, not even after he had first learned of the deaths of Nra’il and his heirs. Ha’anala was young, he knew, but he himself felt newborn in the world. He wondered if Ta’ana had spoken to the girl already. He had no idea how these things were arranged; he was a third, and had never expected to care. “Ha’anala. It’s a strange name,” he said.

  “Someone was named for a person her father admired.”

  It seemed to him that she neither revealed nor concealed her identity. Perhaps she thought it obvious—and indeed, it had been to Ta’ana. Or perhaps she had told Shetri himself, but he had understood her Ruanja imperfectly and missed some subtlety. Her soul seemed to him like colored glass: translucent but not transparent.

  He was embarrassed to find that he was staring at her again; she would not submit to being gowned, let alone to veiling, and her scent was intoxicating. Shetri gazed back toward his sister’s encampment in the distance, makeshift and muddy with the night’s rain. Very soon he would have to ask his sister to choose between nakedness and hunger. The valet was the most expendable Runao now; given Ta’ana’s abandonment of her veil, he suspected that the dresser’s time was coming. “We must move on to Inbrokar City. Ta’ana is concerned that they may not let us in if too many others have already taken shelter there,” he told Ha’anala as they walked again. “What will you do, when Isaac’s wounds are healed?”

  She did not seem to answer directly. “It’s wrong to eat Runa,” she said. She stopped walking and met his eyes. “Sipaj, Shetri, otherwise, we would stay with you.”

  He had to listen to her words in his mind again, to be certain: she had used a form of address that meant him personally, not him as a part of his sister’s household. Before meeting Ha’anala, he had rarely spoken to a female not of his own family, but the meaning of Ha’anala’s scent was now unmistakable, and her eyes were the color of amethyst, and she looked at him with what he imagined might be the unfrightened gaze of a Runa courtesan. “Someone is …” His voice faded away. Then, recalling himself regent and determined to be honorable, he began again, “Someone’s nephew Athaansi—”

  “Is of no interest,” Ha’anala finished decisively. “Your sister will find another wife for him. Perhaps two.” Shetri reared back, shocked. “Sipaj, Shetri, everything will change soon. There will no longer be any ‘sires’ to waste,” she told him, using the K’San term she’d learned from Ta’ana.

  She had thought hard about what she must do. On the right foot, there was love for and obligation to Sofia, and a desire to ameliorate unavoidable sorrow. On the left, a need for refuge, for survival on her own terms. Ha’anala could not, would not turn against the Runa, whom she loved and understood; neither could she idly witness the destruction of her own kind. The solution had come as she watched Ta’ana and her maid working together with a practical equality as they organized the little band of refugees for the next leg of the journey.

  The people themselves will choose from among us, Ha’anala thought. And we djanada will begin again, having been chosen.

  Raised by Runa, Ha’anala had no wish to alarm a male, but she had confirmed Ta’ana’s own worst fears about the war. There would be no more talk of Isaac as hostage—he was to have full status as a brother-in-law.

  “Sipaj, Shetri,” Ha’anala said then, “someone has discussed this matter with Ta’ana, and we-but-not-you are agreed. Isaac wishes to remain with people who sing, and someone wishes you
for a husband. Your sister agrees.” She looked at Shetri until his own eyes dropped; he had begun to tremble, and she herself was hardly less driven by the need to fill an emptiness she had never felt so physically. “It remains for your consent,” she said, her voice not quite as steady as she might have wished.

  It was all he could do to order his thoughts in K’San and when he was as ready as he could be, he translated them into Ruanja for her. “Someone,” he said quietly in a language ill-suited to his tongue and task, “has no experience. Someone studied the Sti epics all his life. There is—there was a small estate, ten day’s travel south of here, but now someone’s sister says there is nothing. Everything is gone. Someone can promise nothing—not even food—to …”

  She waited for him to find his words, familiar with Isaac’s need for silence in which to think. After a time, she said, “To study poetry seems an enviable life.”

  She turned away then and looked south, toward the broad, flat plains she’d traveled over, and thought of all that had happened since leaving Trucha Sai. She thought again of the people, and how much she loved them; of their engulfing affection and their never-ending concern; of their beautiful, terrible need to touch, to speak, to watch, to care. She closed her eyes, asking herself what she wanted.

  This, she thought. I want to live among people who sing, who are quiet enough to let Isaac think. I want to be with this shy and awkward man, who is kind to Isaac and who will be a good father. I want to belong with someone. I want to feel at the center of something, and not the edge. I want children and grandchildren. I don’t want to grow to be old and die, knowing that when I die, there will be no more like me.

  “I won’t go back,” Shetri heard her say, but in a language he did not recognize.

  She spoke again, and this time he understood. “Someone’s father once told her that it was better to die than to live wrongly. I say: better to live rightly.” Once again, he was confused by the mix of languages she needed to think this way. So she said, “Someone can feed herself and her brother. And you, until you learn.” He knew this to be so. She had brought back wild game; roasted, it was tough and fibrous, but the remaining domestics were convinced they could make such meat palatable, given time to learn its preparation. “Someone requires a promise: you will not eat Runa.”