Samiha's Song

by Mary Victoria

  ‘How can one person hope to See or comprehend time itself?’

  ‘We can’t. Our minds are too small. So we See in fragments or visions. We interpret patterns of growth in the Tree. They’re called Leaf-Letters. They’re like a code describing states of being.’

  ‘Good. That’s important to remember.’ Her words tickled his ear. ‘List the first five Letters for me. We’ll worry about the other fourteen later.’

  ‘The primary Letter is Search, or Kou, in the First Tongue,’ he panted, clinging to the rope with sweaty hands. He could not help wishing she had chosen another moment to question him, illusory or not. ‘A long branch with several offshoots—’

  ‘Why is it necessary to remember the names in the First Tongue?’ she interrupted. ‘Is that language magical?’

  ‘No. We use the names of the Ancients out of respect.’

  ‘Respect for prior experience. Never forget that you are far from the first person to have been a Grafter, and will not be the last. Now, list the four children of Search. The Argosian names will suffice.’

  ‘Patience, Trial, Separation and Despair.’

  He had climbed high enough by now that the fissure floor with its forest of spikes yawned perilously far below. He was ready to warrant the spikes were real enough to skewer them both, despite all the Oracle’s philosophy.

  ‘How does one interpret the meaning of each Letter and the relative importance of the children?’ she said.

  ‘Position and character,’ he answered, inching up the rope. ‘Size and shape.’

  ‘Excellent. What of the second Letter?’

  ‘The second is Samah, or Love. That’s two branches twined about each other. Love’s children are Ecstasy and Rapture.’ He paused and frowned again. ‘No, sorry: Rapture and Pain.’

  ‘Yes, I’d remember those two, if I were you. How do you tell the difference between them?’

  The cruel spikes were now dizzyingly distant. ‘You don’t,’ he muttered.

  ‘Indeed. That is one of the primary insights offered by Love. Joy and pain are not so far apart as we think. What about the third Letter?’

  ‘Knowledge. Ilim. It has twin heads. I can’t move.’

  ‘What are the twins’ names?’

  ‘I can’t move!’ he blurted, panicking. The next knot was too high: he could not reach it. He was stuck halfway up the rope, his hands damp on the rough fibres.

  ‘You’re fine,’ said the Oracle imperturbably. ‘Name the offshoots of Knowledge.’

  ‘I can’t reach—’

  ‘The children of Knowledge, please.’

  ‘Good and Evil!’ he practically shouted in frustration. And found to his relief that he could now loop his hook over the next knot.

  ‘Excellent,’ she said, as he drew himself upwards again. ‘Of course, you could also call them Life and Death, Doubt and Certainty, Beginning and End. Any paradox works.’

  ‘I’d rather do this later,’ he ground out.

  ‘And after Knowledge?’ she pressed on, relentless.

  ‘Union, Kamsala, lack of division, the circular branch that returns to itself,’ he gabbled in a rush. He was almost at the top now — only two knots remained. It was just as well. He was out of breath and his arms had begun to ache.

  ‘Its children?’

  He could not remember whether Kamsala had any offshoots. He did not care. It took all his concentration to pull himself up the last section of the rope.

  ‘None?’ he guessed, distractedly, reaching up to the next knot.

  But his hand slipped, missing its goal. His hook closed over emptiness and he swung outwards, clutching desperately at the rope. He teetered a heart-stopping moment over the abyss of spikes before managing to right himself. He re-attached the hook with shaking hands.

  ‘Not quite,’ said the Oracle. She seemed undismayed by their close brush with death. ‘Union gives birth to itself. The branch has no end.’

  ‘I wish this rope would end,’ groaned Tymon. He could not remember the name of the fifth Letter.

  ‘What is the fifth?’ she asked, inevitably.

  ‘I don’t fully recall,’ he mumbled as he pulled himself with a supreme effort up to the lip of the gallery.

  ‘What?’ she said. ‘Speak up, child.’

  ‘I said I don’t know!’ He hoisted them both onto the narrow walkway, exhaling in relief. ‘Sorry. I don’t remember.’

  He undid the robe about his waist and released her from the sling. She scrambled out and surveyed him calmly as he stood up, stretching his cramped arms.

  ‘The fifth is Haya: Nothingness,’ she said. ‘The non-branch. The space between.’

  ‘Of course, I remember now,’ he replied, hastily. ‘Ama, how are we going to find Laska? There are hundreds of sacks. He could be anywhere.’

  ‘Just a minute. Tymon, you mustn’t forget the fifth Letter. In a way it’s the most important one. Other Letters appear from time to time, but the fifth is always present. Without it there would be no meaning. Everything would be mixed up together.’

  ‘Alright, Ama, I’ll do my best. Now can we go?’

  ‘Pick a direction,’ she said resignedly. ‘Walk. You’ll know when you reach the right place.’

  ‘Maybe we should start by going northwards,’ he suggested, after a moment of deliberation. ‘That side is closest to the jail. I remember passing the building on the way up to the Governor’s palace.’

  ‘You’d make a fine priest,’ she observed as they set off down the galleries. ‘Your thought process is logical, but the premise on which it is based is shaky at best.’

  ‘Do you have a better idea?’ he protested. ‘You were there in my vision. Is there something I’m missing?’

  ‘I only unlocked the door,’ she said. ‘You’re the one who Saw inside.’

  ‘There’s no doubt about it, you’re a real Grafter,’ he exclaimed. ‘You sound exactly like the old Focals in Marak.’

  She gave a rueful laugh. ‘You mean, they sounded exactly like me. That’s what happens when you have a bad teacher. She won’t let you find your own voice.’

  He glanced at her in surprise. He was always forgetting that she was not actually the child skipping lightly beside him, but a much older person who had evidently mentored at least two generations of Grafters.

  ‘So,’ she resumed. ‘Perhaps we should continue the lesson. Do you remember the name of the Sixth Letter?’

  ‘Loss,’ he answered without hesitation. ‘The branch that breaks in its journey and has no offshoots.’ For the next two hours, they made a fruitless search of the dimly lit compost cloths under the north quadrant of the city. Then they moved to the eastern side and did the same, to no avail. Twice they evaded patrols of the Governor’s soldiers by slipping through the gaps in the sacks. On one occasion they had to bury themselves up to the neck in garbage to avoid discovery, much as Laska had been buried in Tymon’s vision. It must have been nearing midday in the daylit regions of the city. Tymon’s feet were sore and he was covered from head to toe in refuse. He had not eaten since the previous evening, and despite the endless, pervasive, nauseating stench of garbage, hunger gnawed at the pit of his stomach. Over the past hour a sense of frustration had crept over him. He had stopped listening to the Oracle’s explanations of the Letters and, after a while, she had stopped talking. What was the use of the Grafting, he thought, if the information it provided was incomplete? He had Seen Laska but could not find him.

  Just as he decided it was all pointless, that they would never reach the captain in time to save him, he was brought to a halt on the gallery by the sound of a dull thud. He turned to find that the Oracle had fallen into a little heap on the walkway. When he bent over her in concern he saw that she was simply asleep. The animating mind had departed from the host while Lai slumbered on, unconscious. He sat down beside her at a loss, feeling too weak to pick her up and continue.

  ‘Of all the things,’ he muttered dispiritedly. He flipped open her scanty bag of provision
s to find a packet of bark-flour, which he consumed raw, gulping water from the gourd to wash it down. Then, feeling both queasy and unsatisfied, he stood up and prepared to lift the Oracle’s body.

  But he did not have the chance. A blow hit him squarely between the shoulder blades and he fell to the floor of the gallery, the weight of a man at his back. When he managed to twist his body around to see his attacker he found himself staring into Nightside’s furious face.

  ‘Traitor Argosi,’ snarled the Saffid youth. He spat into Tymon’s eyes. ‘You kill Oracle, you sell my people.’

  ‘That’s not true!’ cried Tymon. ‘It was Jedda who—’

  He choked as Nightside clamped both hands about his throat and began squeezing the life out of him.

  ‘Please — Nightside — she’s only asleep!’ wheezed Tymon, scrabbling desperately to pry the Saffid’s fingers loose. The blood flow in his veins became constricted and a buzzing noise filled his ears.

  Nightside held him a moment longer, frowning down at the Oracle. Then he thrust Tymon away onto the floor of the gallery and squatted by the little girl, checking her pulse. Tymon sat up and rubbed his aching throat. He eyed the Saffid youth askance.

  ‘You could have done that to begin with,’ he pointed out irritably.

  ‘Too many time we wait,’ snapped Nightside. ‘Too many time we check first, fight later. Enemies take all.’

  ‘What happened, Nightside?’ asked Tymon.

  He had remembered, belatedly, what the youth’s presence in the city meant. The Saffid had not been able to escape. He dreaded the answer to his question: Nightside’s tone was bitter. The Saffid youth was silent, his face twisted with despair.

  ‘When we arrive home, everyone gone,’ he said at last. ‘Governor not just search houses this time.’

  Tymon’s heart sank. ‘Where did he take them? Are they in prison?’

  ‘They’re in a Lantrian resettlement ship,’ put in a familiar, childish voice beside them. ‘Which is pretty much the same thing.’

  The Oracle sat up and held her hands out to Nightside. He took them, pressing them against his forehead as he knelt before her. Tymon could not help wondering how involuntary his teacher’s episodes of slumber really were; both her sleep and her waking seemed suspiciously well-timed. Had she had known all along that they would meet the Saffid youth in the galleries, and kept them wandering in circles until they did? Nightside spoke to her in his own tongue, a whispered catalogue of woe.

  ‘They split up for the search. He went to the market and jail while the girls visited the docks,’ the Oracle translated, for Tymon’s benefit. ‘By the time he heard that the Saffid had been sold to resettlers, it was too late. The ships had left the air-harbour. He guesses they took Dawn and Jan, too, for he could not find them. He blames himself for that. He walked through the city all night in grief.’ She shook her head sadly as Nightside’s tale came to a close. ‘Ay, Isheban. My poor child.’

  ‘Ama,’ pleaded the youth thickly, his head bowed. ‘I ask asha.’

  The Nurian term was unfamiliar to Tymon but the passion with which Nightside said it moved his whole heart.

  ‘You know I can’t condone revenge,’ replied the Oracle, gazing at him pityingly, though her voice was firm. ‘Remember, if you take things into your own hands you’ll be alone. Leave it to the Sap and you’ll have justice.’

  ‘By the bells!’ exclaimed Tymon. He could not stand by and listen to the Oracle’s dry talk of justice. ‘If I’d known what that Governor was capable of I’d have stuffed his silk robes down his gullet when I had the chance!’

  His hand went to his own neck, still smarting from Nightside’s attack. He felt as outraged as when the soldiers in Marak had arrested Oren and Noni, and as uncomfortably responsible for what had happened.

  ‘Shame you not do,’ murmured the Saffid youth.

  The Oracle cast a piercing glance at Tymon. ‘We all feel responsible,’ she cautioned. ‘But there’s a difference between what’s understandable and what’s right. Revenge is not a Grafter’s way.’

  Tymon had the urge to retort that the Grafters’ way did not seem to involve anything but dreary submission. He exhaled with impatience.

  ‘What will you do now?’ he asked Nightside. ‘Are you going after them?’

  The youth shrugged. ‘How?’ he said dully. ‘No ship. No money. No help.’ The despair in his voice was terrible.

  ‘By the Tree — by the Sap — by anything you like,’ swore Tymon, ‘I’ll find the help you need. I’ll make sure the judges in Sheb hear about this, however long it takes.’ He narrowed his eyes at the Oracle. ‘That much a Grafter can do, I hope?’

  She smiled. ‘That much we can assuredly do,’ she said.

  Nightside looked away. ‘Words very kind,’ he muttered, letting go of the Oracle’s hands to dash his sleeve across his face.

  There was a moment of heavy silence. Then Tymon thought of Laska and realised that time was slipping away. ‘Maybe I should leave you two here,’ he said. ‘While we were at the mine, Nightside, I had a vision of my friend. He’s alive and somewhere down here, in the sacks. I have to go on searching for him.’

  ‘Your friend safe. I find him last night.’ Nightside raised his head. ‘Sorry. I think about my family. I forget to say.’

  Tymon jumped up, intensely relieved and slightly ashamed of his good luck compared to the other boy’s loss. ‘How is he?’ he stammered. ‘Is he going to live?’

  ‘He has fever, but better this morning,’ answered Nightside, rising as well. ‘In safe place. I take you now.’

  He glanced at the Oracle; she nodded. He helped her to her feet as Tymon almost danced with impatience to be gone. But Nightside paused a moment longer.

  ‘One more Grafter … ?’ he asked.

  ‘Lost,’ answered the Oracle. The one word summed up all that had happened to Jedda.

  ‘Lost,’ repeated the Saffid youth. He said it with the satisfaction of one whose judgment has at last been proven right, and turned on his heel.

  They followed after him down the galleries. To Tymon’s surprise he led them away from the garbage sacks and toward the western arm of the air-harbour.

  ‘I take your friend to docks,’ their guide explained as they walked. ‘But many soldiers there. Must be careful.’

  ‘You took him to the Widow, I suppose,’ said the Oracle.

  ‘Not other safe place,’ answered Nightside.

  Without another word he began to climb swiftly up one of the ladders that led from the galleries to the quays above.

  ‘Who’s the widow?’ Tymon asked, remembering that the Oracle had mentioned the name before.

  ‘Not who: what,’ she said. ‘The Merry Widow is a brothel. We’ve had dealings with the madam there before.’

  ‘A brothel?’ he protested. ‘How’s that a safe place? You can’t trust a whore!’

  She gave him another one of her quelling stares. ‘Such prejudices do not befit a man who proposed night-marriage to his lady love, and didn’t even follow that through,’ she drawled.

  ‘How do you know about that?’ mumbled Tymon, in shock. ‘We didn’t have time to — I think a night-marriage is perfectly — anyway, I can’t see how it’s any of your business. I’m fifteen years old and a man. Samiha’s old enough to choose what she wants. This isn’t the same thing at all!’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ she said, sweetly. ‘Well. The truth is, little man, there’s no safe place. The madam in charge of the Widow owes me a favour. She’s our only chance. Now, you’ll need to give me a lift, those rungs are too far apart.’

  Tymon scowled with embarrassment. The Oracle’s needling had awoken a misgiving in his heart, long pushed to the background, that he might have done better by Samiha. He told himself she had no right to interfere, that he had done the best he could in the short time allowed him, but the excuse seemed hollow. He stifled a sigh and hoisted the Oracle onto his back again, where she clung about his sore neck like a vine.

  �
�If you’re tired, consider that of the three of us, you’re the only one who has eaten any lunch,’ she remarked, serene, as he toiled upwards.

  When he emerged from the trapdoor, gasping for breath and heaving his burden — the Oracle appeared to have tripled in weight since the ascent of the rope — he found that Nightside had chosen their entry to the air-harbour well. They arrived in the narrow space between two warehouses, tucked away from view. If the Governor’s soldiers were patrolling access points to the quays, they had forgotten about this one. No one was watching the trapdoor.

  Nightside flipped up the deep hood on his cloak, indicating that they should do the same, and led them to the rear of the buildings. Several depots stood in a row at the back of the docks, under the shadow of the western wall of the fissure. The three fugitives scrambled through the weeds and debris between the buildings and the wall, inching their way forward. When the hidden passage came to an end, they were obliged to cross the open boardwalk. But the western extremity of the air-harbour was quiet, far removed from the custom house and no one disturbed them as they crossed. They flitted across the empty quay and approached a ramp leading to a small dirigible.

  The Merry Widow evidently catered to a sailing clientele. The dirigible was now retired and clamped to struts between two jetties. The place looked deserted as they clambered on deck, sleepy in the midday sun. Strings of faded paper lanterns, the remains of some bygone celebration, hung from the mast and rigging. The gaudily decorated cabin door advertised the name of the establishment and its opening hours, as well as an improbable frieze of a lady capering in the arms of a skeleton. It was unlocked. They pushed it open and stumbled through a curtain of wooden beads into the dim, shuttered space beyond.

  ‘We’re closed,’ growled a deep voice in Argosian, as the beads clattered together.

  The woman who rose out of a pit of green and blue cushions to meet them was a formidable wall of flesh wrapped in floating blue gauze and topped by a turret of hair. Her features were painted onto her bloated face as if they might otherwise have disappeared in the acreage of her cheeks. The green of her eyelids and the disdainful purple of her lips matched the cushions perfectly.