"You have to pull yourself out of this," she muttered. She thought about her mother, and how depressed she had been after their father died. She had sat around for days after the funeral, refusing to eat or sleep or cook for her seven children. As the oldest, Nahoa was forced to take on her responsibilities, and for the first time she had gained a real appreciation of the work her mother went through, willingly, every day. This experience had also made Nahoa suspect that she never wanted children. And then, a month after her mother had fallen into her depression, she abruptly levered herself up from her chair and, quite matter-of-factly, began making dinner. She never smiled quite as much, afterward, but she seemed to have recovered.
"Your father wouldn't have wanted me to die for him," her mother said one day years later, when Nahoa asked her. "And I still had all of you. So I decided that the best thing to do was keep busy. The pain doesn't go away, exactly, but ... it's easier to ignore."
That, Nahoa realized, was exactly what she had to do. She blew her nose on a nearby bedsheet and tossed it into the center of the room with the other dirty clothes. Then she straightened up the bed and piled the food trays on top of one another-pausing to eat some cold bread pudding and fried spiced tubers from the night before. Of course, she knew that she didn't have to do this. In fact, the maids would probably be appalled, but she hardly cared. After the main rooms had been cleared, she decided to get started on the wardrobes. Kohaku's, to her surprise, had a huge pile of dirty clothes on the floor. She had assumed the maids cleaned it, but perhaps he had given instructions for it not to be disturbed. She slowly sifted through the pile, smelling the clothes and deciding that most had to be cleaned. They had a strange, musty smell about them-damp and almost metallic. A shirt at the bottom of the pile was by far the dirtiest-stiff and crackly with some hardened substance. She brought it out into the light to see the stain more clearly.
She let out a brief scream of surprise before swiftly stifling it.
The shirt was covered with blood.
After her initial frenzied panic subsided, she became aware of two things. First, that the blood-still a little damp on the insidecould not possibly be Kohaku's. Second, that since she didn't have the guts to confront him with it, she had to find some way to get rid of the shirt before one of the maids discovered it. Unsure of what else to do, she put the shirt inside a sacrifice bag and called for one of her maids to help her get ready to go out. She would have to go to the temple. She had been there a lot recently, to be free momentarily of this house and its frustrations. She wondered if she was gaining a reputation in the city for being a strange religious recluse.
"It's good to see you getting back to your old self, my lady," said Malie, her maid, as she helped her into her clothes. "You've kept too much to yourself lately. If I may, I don't think all of this isolation is very healthy."
Nahoa sighed. "You're right. It's hell." She tried to curb her language in formal situations, but around Malie she felt more comfortable. "But what can I do? I might be first wife, but there's no one around for me to talk to."
Malie pulled Nahoa's hair into a bun and then began wrapping a beautifully woven scarf of gold, white, and orange around her head.
"Well, you know," she said as she fastened it with a few judiciously placed pins. "Ka Nui, the cook-his sixtieth birthday is today and he's having this big celebration in the kitchens tonight. There should be plenty of food and music ... I mean, please don't be offended, I'm not trying to be presumptuous, but I thought if you want-"
"I'd love to go!" Nahoa could hardly stand the rush of grateful anticipation.
Malie smiled. "There, see? That was easy. Now take this and I'll call a carriage." She handed Nahoa a cloak dyed in orange and gold to match the rest of her outfit. It had taken Nahoa a long time to get used to cloaks, since they were mainly an affectation of the rich, but she found-to her embarrassment-that she rather liked the elaborate clothes Malie picked out for her to wear. She had an eye for flattering styles and colors.
Minutes later, she was escorted to her carriage. They spent nearly half an hour negotiating muddy streets-which had been drenched by days of late-winter rains-before reaching the fire temple. A phalanx of temple officiates, carrying large, resin-coated paper umbrellas, scurried out to greet her. They held these over her head as she climbed out of the carriage and began walking up the white marble stairs.
"How kind of my lady to honor us with another visit. Might I ask where you wish to go today?" It was the old head nun, her eyes looking positively beady below the white stubble on her shaved head. Despite the chilly weather, she wore nothing but a faded red wrap around her legs.
"To the high sacrificial fire," Nahoa said tersely. Over her many visits to the temple, Nahoa had grown to hate the head nun. She didn't quite know why, but something about the way she would stare until Nahoa was forced to turn around and meet her eyes, or the overly solicitous way she asked about very private aspects of her life, made Nahoa thoroughly distrust her.
They walked through the main hall of the temple and climbed the stairs to a chamber on the left, where none but the most important visitors were allowed. The nun opened the door to an octagonal room with small fires burning in niches on all eight sides. In the center of the chamber roared a massive bonfire that was never allowed to go out except on solstice eve. Nahoa sat in front of it cross-legged and pulled back the hood of her cloak.
"You have an offering for the great fire?" asked the nun, uncomfortably close to her ear. To Nahoa's dismay, she had settled herself directly to her right.
Nahoa simply nodded and gripped the white sacrifice bag carefully.
"May I ask you what-"
"No, you may not," Nahoa snapped.
The nun's lips crept infinitesimally upward. "I apologize. I forgot my place." But she looked decidedly unapologetic.
Your breasts look like desiccated plums, Nahoa thought to herself. Firmly ignoring the nun, so as not to encourage her further, Nahoa stared into the fire. She longed to get rid of the filthy thing in her lap, but she hesitated. The fire spirit had selected Kohaku to be Mo'i, but would it condone ... ?
She couldn't finish the sentence, even to herself. Yet, what else could it be, with all that blood? She wished she could believe that it was the blood of some animal or something else entirely innocent, but she knew it wasn't true. It was human blood, and any human who had lost so much of it was either dead or dying.
Suddenly, she couldn't handle touching it any longer. With an averted gaze, she tossed her burden into the fire. It crackled and hissed as it burned, and for a brief moment the air filled with the pungent smell of burning blood. Before it dissipated, Nahoa caught the nun's sharp look and bit back a curse.
She bowed her head and began mumbling the prayers she half remembered from her childhood. Eventually, she just fell silent, willing the old hag to leave her alone.
"How have you been feeling lately?" Her oily whisper made Nahoa shudder involuntarily.
"I'm fine," she said.
"Oh? Your appetite hasn't changed at all then? And how about mornings, my dear? You never feel sick in the morning?"
Panic gripped her. For the past three days she had vomited violently into the chamber pot in the morning, only to have her nausea clear up later in the day.
"I feel fine, I told you." Nahoa knew her tone was less than convincing.
The nun nodded slowly. "I see. Well, the changes should be happening soon enough. It's still relatively early, after all."
"What's relatively early?" Nahoa hissed, painfully aware of the guards at the door. She was terrified that she knew what this horrible woman was referring to.
"Why, don't you know? I've heard that you're already three weeks late, but you asked for the rags anyway. Now, isn't that a funny thing for a Mo'i's first wife to do? I'd almost think you were trying to hide it, that you were scared, that you didn't know what to do." She leaned in so close that Nahoa could feel her hot breath on her ear. "Are you afraid of him, Nahoa? Do
you regret marrying the one-hand Mo'i? Are you afraid of bearing his child?"
Nahoa slapped her. She didn't flinch. "I love him."
"Yes, but do you trust him?"
"I don't have to listen to this," Nahoa said, standing up. "I'm leaving."
"We can protect you here, my lady. You and the child."
Nahoa put her hands to her ears and stalked out the door.
That night at the cook's party, Nahoa struggled to forget what the head nun had told her. At first everyone had treated her with awkward deference, but after the wine and amant loosened them up, they were very welcoming. She laughed and danced and stuffed her face like she had back on the ship. She found that she had a taste for pickled carrots and rice, even though she hadn't enjoyed them since she was a child. Still, the nun's words were never far from her mind. Much as she hated to admit it, the old hag had been right: she was pregnant, and she had been denying it to herself out of fear. She simply wasn't sure who it was she had married, and her misgivings had doubled since her discovery of the bloody shirt. She didn't believe Kohaku would ever hurt her, but his unpredictability was terrifying.
She wondered if she should just try to get rid of the baby, but she had seen enough disasters back in her village to make her wary. After all, who could she trust? She was the Mo'i's first wife, and if she entrusted her need to anyone, she could never be sure if the potion she drank was to eliminate the baby or them both. Many women desperately envied her position, and wouldn't hesitate to get rid of her if given the chance.
Malie plopped down beside her on the bench, her face flushed from dancing.
"Are you tired, my lady?" she asked. "Would you like me to take you back upstairs?"
Nahoa forced a smile and shook her head. "No, I'd like to stay here. I'm not a very good dancer, that's all."
Malie looked at her critically. "Maybe it wasn't wise for you to come, in your condition. You should sleep for the-"
Nahoa's knuckles went white as she gripped the table, but she was spared hearing the end of Malie's sentence. Two drunk, laughing men careened into the bench, sending something fluttering into her lap. As Malie stood up to berate them for their bad manners, Nahoa looked down.
It was some sort of pamphlet, printed on cheap, rough paper and bound with twine. "The left hand of freedom," she read on the cover. "A reasonable and incontrovertible argument for the ruling of this great city by its own people through direct and unbiased elections." Elections? Could this writer possibly be arguing for the elimination of the Mo'i? But didn't they know that it would be impossible to control the fire spirit and Nui'ahi without the trials? She flipped to the first page.
"As the disappearances continue without any effort made by authorities to track down those responsible, the argument that they are in some sinister manner connected with our tyrannous Mo'i, Kohaku One-hand, grows more plausible daily. How can this brazen violation of our laws be tolerated? Because the Mo'i-he whom the law ought to first govern-is considered above the law. Let us be free of these centuries-old superstitions. Let us cease our fear of the fire god and the sleeping Nui'ahi! Who of my readers truly believes the sleeping giant will awaken without a Mo'i? Who truly believes-"
Malie snatched the pamphlet from her lap and handed it to the taller of the two men with a sharply reproving look. He smiled awkwardly at Nahoa before tucking it into his pocket. Nahoa couldn't help but notice the crusted dirt beneath his fingernails and his dirt-smeared breeches. A gardener?
"Deepest apologies, my lady," he said. Under his thin veneer of friendliness, she thought she heard deep unease. "That was just a bit of rubbish I'd been meaning to throw out. Hope I didn't offend ..."
Nahoa shook her head. It was obvious the man was lying, but she didn't know what to make of the situation. "Of course not," she said.
"So go on, then," Malie said angrily at the two men. "You've imposed on my lady enough already."
They backed away awkwardly. It occurred to her that four months ago she would have been one of them-there would have been no awkward gulf of status. They would have willingly shown her that pamphlet and perhaps even explained what it meant. By marrying Kohaku, she had irrevocably separated herself from her old life.
A part of the wall by the massive stoves began to detach itself, a movement that made the musicians suddenly stop playing and everyone else grow still. The wall slid into the piece above it and a teenaged boy with lopsided ears emerged.
The boy grinned a little. "One-hand has returned. No more disappearances for a few days, at least."
The tall man with dirt-crusted fingernails took a few long strides toward the boy and hauled him the rest of the way out of the hole. "We have a guest," he said softly, pointing to Nahoa. "You see? Our friend Malie saw fit to bring her to our small get-together."
It sounded like an accusation.
"Come, my lady," Malie said, standing up. "You should get some rest. I think you've been through more than enough."
For all her exalted position, Nahoa had never felt more powerless. They didn't want her here. She nodded silently and avoided the hundred eyes that followed her as she walked from the room.
She knew that Kohaku was in their rooms even though she couldn't see him anywhere. He was probably up in the aerie-he spent a lot of time there recently, especially after his nightmares. She slowly climbed the circular stairs that began in the middle of the front parlor, traveling through a dark hole before emerging into the delicate glassed-in bubble that formed the aerie. Kohaku was there, as she had suspected, looking out over the city.
"You again?" he said, his voice so bleak it shocked her. Before, at least, he had always been happy to see her. Nahoa's heart squeezed.
"I ... I'm sorry-"
Kohaku abruptly turned around. He looked surprised. "Oh, Nahoa. I didn't know it was you."
He smiled a little and walked over to embrace her. Who else did he think would come up here? The same person he spoke to at night, when he thought she was asleep? She kissed his chin, breathing in his smell of fresh rosemary-scented soap. His hair hung damply down his neck. She wondered why he had bathed before he saw her-had he needed to wash off someone else's blood?
"I missed you," he said softly.
"Where the hell were you? I didn't know what to do, I was so lonely..."
He kissed her, moving his hand slowly under her shirt. She had known he wouldn't answer. She abandoned her confusion and sense of betrayal and surrendered herself to him, allowing him to apologize in the only way he was able. Their lovemaking no longer contained the innocent joy of the first few weeks after their marriage, but they still had passion ... they still had love. She didn't understand why, but she knew that she loved him more than reason. If whatever horror he had become involved with eventually overcame him, she wondered whether she would be dragged down too. Would she destroy herself for the sake of his love?
With a muffled groan, he exploded inside of her, gripping her waist like a man about to fall from a cliff.
"I'm pregnant," she said as they lay in bed together. "I think ... I think it would be better if I got rid of it, but I don't know-"
No!
His strangled bark made her words stop unformed in her throat. She looked over at him, surprised to see his expression of horrified misery.
"Not you too," he said, more softly this time, gripping her hand. Two tears fell from his eyes onto her neck. "I couldn't live ... not if it happened to you too."
"If what happened? Kohaku, what the hell ... ?"
He lay back down beside her, staying silent for so long she was actually startled when he began to speak again. "I haven't told you much of my past, have I? I'm sorry for that-I just never wanted to burden you with it. I ... I once had a sister. She was beautiful and pure and utterly selfless-but she was naive, and I didn't watch her closely enough. If I had ... maybe if I had..." He gulped air like he was fighting back tears. After a brief moment, he continued. "For years, without my knowledge, she had been carrying on an affair w
ith a man named Nahe, one of the most senior professors in the Kulanui. She was in love with him, but he was only using her. One day, she got pregnant. Instead of taking responsibility for the child, he gave her something he said would get rid of it. She was dead the next morning. Afterwards, just to cover his own tracks, he had me thrown out of the Kulanui ... so I wandered the streets, and then I decided to sacrifice myself to the fire spirit and just end it all. You know the rest, I think."
Nahoa caressed his cheek with a trembling hand and planted a soft kiss on his forehead. "It's okay," she whispered through her tight throat, "I won't do anything. I'll keep the baby, I promise."
She fell asleep curled up against him, his hand on her belly.
The next day, after heaving a good portion of her dinner into the chamber pot, she discovered that Kohaku was gone-not on some mysterious errand, but apparently inspecting a section of the southeastern docks that had flooded after a storm two weeks ago. Kohaku's confession last night had made her see his recent actions in an entirely different light. He was tortured by far more than she had realized. And yet, she sensed that he had gained a sense of catharsis by telling her about his past. Perhaps if she could learn more about what he had been doing so secretly, she would be able to ease his pain even more. She could not help but think that his desire not to burden her with his problems had led to all of the confusion between them. She idly stuffed herself on the overwhelming portions heaped on her breakfast tray while she thought of what to do. In fact, she was so busy thinking that she ended up polishing everything off, even though she could hardly countenance it. Her stomach felt full, but twenty minutes later she suddenly had a desperate, uncontrollable craving for rice and pickled carrots. She was wondering if she should send down to the kitchen for some when the obvious solution to their troubles hit her. Of course! She remembered how the boy had emerged from that strange hidden door in the kitchen the night before, saying that Kohaku had "returned." If there was any information to be had about what her husband was doing, she would probably find it in there. Of course, she could hardly go exploring with so many eyes on her, so she called down to the kitchen anyway. She would wait until night, after the kitchen had shut down and she could (she hoped) sneak around unnoticed.
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