Whispering Twilight

by Melissa McShane

  She had read someone’s mind.

  Chapter 9

  In which Bess discovers a new talent

  She dismissed the idea immediately. Mind reading was impossible. There were rumors, of course, but nothing had ever been proven. And she was an Extraordinary Speaker, so if anyone were to know the truth, it would be she. She must be mistaken.

  But…what else could it be? Perhaps she had imagined those contacts—but no, she had received some of those images before seeing their subjects with her natural eyes, and she did not believe her imagination was that accurate. And the fleeting, tenuous quality of the images was not at all like the usual Speaking connection. Impossible, maybe, but she could not dismiss the idea out of hand. She would need to determine what was causing those abnormal connections, but she could not imagine how.

  Her temples vibrated just before she heard Rose’s excited Bess! You will simply not believe what has happened!

  The Seer was leading her down a dark hall poorly lit by flickering torches, its low ceiling appearing to sag in the middle, the walls sloping slightly inward so the hall’s shape was trapezoidal rather than rectangular. Bess tried to walk in the exact center of the hall, keeping her eyes focused on the back of her guide’s head and pretending the ceiling was not trying to collapse on her. Rose, she Spoke, I beg your pardon, but I cannot Speak with you now. I have been captured by the Incas. Has Honoria not Spoken with you? Hearing her young friend’s excited twittering over the events of the previous night’s ball would wind her nerves to the breaking point.

  Oh! Rose exclaimed, her Voice shriller than usual. Honoria has not said anything, but I was preoccupied until just now. Oh, Bess! Are you in danger? Will they sacrifice you to their heathen gods?

  I do not believe I am in danger, nor am I likely to become a sacrifice. Bess knew some of the American Indians practiced human sacrifice, but not which ones, and she hoped the Incas were not among them. But—

  The Seer stopped and pushed through another curtained doorway without waiting for Bess. I hope to learn more now, but I cannot Speak with you and with my captors at once. Forgive me.

  Bess, there is nothing to forgive. Oh, it is so frightening and thrilling! Your parents must be beside themselves with worry.

  I have not yet had time to tell them. It has been a rather busy morning. For the first time she longed for her cell, where she might have privacy to converse with her reticulum and gain their comfort and insight. I must go, Rose. I hope you are well.

  Oh, but you should not worry about me! Never fear, Bess, all will be well!

  The connection ended with the usual hollow ache in Bess’s chest. She drew in a deep breath and followed the Seer through the doorway.

  The room was dimly lit, but the Seer lit more smelly oil lamps, and soon it was bright enough that Bess could make out her surroundings as clearly as she ever could. Her heart gave one painful thump as she realized this was the room she had perceived earlier, the one filled with pottery jars. The pallet on the floor looked thicker than the one she had slept on and had a colorful blanket piled messily atop it.

  Bess bent to examine the jars more closely. They occupied shelves and benches and were of dozens of different shapes, a few of them ordinary, but most resembling animals or people’s heads. Some had those strange clay pipes extending from their tops Bess had already discovered were made for drinking from. A mélange of smells arose from the jars, sweet and sour and minty and woody, strong enough that Bess felt like coughing to clear her lungs. She considered touching one, but decided that might be an intrusion, and she did not want to anger the Seer.

  The Seer pulled a short stool from beneath the nearest bench and set it before Bess, gesturing for her to sit. He took a seat on another stool that did not match the first and stared at Bess, resting both hands on his knees with his elbows akimbo as if he were a wrestler preparing to attack. Bess folded her hands in her lap and waited.

  “Achik,” the Seer said, pointing to himself.

  “Achik,” Bess repeated. She pointed to herself and, with only a moment’s hesitation, said, “Bess.” This did not seem the time to complicate introductions with her full name.

  “Bess,” Achik said. “Bess.” He seemed to be trying the syllable out, drawing out the S in a long hiss. He pointed at her again. “Rimaq.”

  Confused, Bess said, “No, my name is Bess.”

  Achik shook his head. “Bess,” he said. “Rimaq.” He began opening and closing his mouth as if in speech, but no sound emerged. He pointed to her head and then to his. “Rimaq,” he repeated.

  Light dawned. “That is your word for Speaker,” Bess said. She pointed to herself. “Rimaq.”

  The Seer’s wrinkled face creased in a broad smile, and he nodded vigorously. Once more he pointed to himself. “Musquq,” he said.

  “Musquq. Seer,” Bess said.

  “Seer,” Achik said, once more making the S very sibilant. He said something in his language that was inflected like a question. Bess shrugged helplessly. If he intended to teach her his language, they might be there for a very long time.

  The Seer’s eyes narrowed. His lips thinned and went pale and tight, and Bess saw a muscle in his jaw clench. He looked as if he were exerting himself in some great physical effort. He sat like that for nearly a minute before letting out a deep breath and relaxing. He said something quietly, as if he were talking to himself, then rose and rooted around on one of the tables that held, in addition to several jars, odds and ends Bess did not recognize. The Seer came up with a short, pale brown stick and nodded. He crossed to the wall facing Bess, the one opposite the door, and drew on the wall.

  The figure he produced was alien to Bess’s eyes, curved and bulbous. It took her a moment to realize it was meant to be a human. Its eyes and lips were exaggeratedly large, and it had—Bess blushed—pronounced female breasts. Achik drew another figure, this one emphatically male. Bess controlled her embarrassment and kept her attention on Achik, who pointed at the female figure and then at Bess. “Bess,” he said, repeating the gestures, then did the same for the male figure and said, “Achik.”

  “I understand,” Bess said, and mimicked him, repeating their names as she identified each figure. Achik nodded. He then drew a complicated picture above the Achik figure’s head. It took Bess a moment to realize it was meant to be a cat. “Cat,” she said, pointing to it.

  Achik shook his head, nodded, then shook his head again as if frustrated. He drew an arrow pointing from the Achik figure’s head to the Bess figure’s head. Then he drew the picture of the cat over the Bess figure’s head and looked at Bess with his eyes wide, inviting her to understand. Unfortunately, Bess had no idea what the pictures were meant to convey. She shook her head.

  Achik drew over the arrow several times for emphasis. It clarified matters not at all. He scowled and threw the drawing stick at the table, where it ricocheted off a vase with a dull ting. He tapped his forehead, tapped the first cat, then tapped the center of Bess’s forehead and tapped the cat again.

  This time, Bess caught a flash of an image: a real cat, much bigger than she had pictured from the drawing, a dull tan spotted with darker marks. “I do not…wait.” If this was like the other images she had perceived, it had come from Achik. She understood, finally, what he had been trying to communicate: he intended Bess to perceive what he was thinking, namely, the cat. “This is what I perceived,” she said, and Spoke Achik’s image of the spotted cat into the Seer’s mind.

  Achik’s eyes widened. Then he smiled broadly and nodded. He tapped his forehead once more and furrowed his brow as if in thought. This time, Bess saw nothing. Achik’s smile fell away. He picked up a scrap of cloth and scrubbed the pictures off the wall. Bess watched him. She no longer doubted that she had read his mind; she could think of no other explanation. And it seemed Achik knew such a thing was possible. It must be something he had Dreamed. But if she understood his drawings and his actions, he believed he had to Speak to her mind for her to perceive his thoug
hts. That was definitely impossible. No one could have more than one talent, and there was no way Achik, a Seer, could send her images or words or anything else.

  No, if she were reading his mind, it was because of some quality inherent in her as a Speaker—more likely, as an Extraordinary Speaker. She thought back over the images she had perceived since waking in this place. Was it significant that she had heard no words, even ones she could not understand? All Speakers knew Speech had more than one component; most people put their thoughts into words, but those words were frequently associated with images. Someone thinking the name of a friend often pictured that friend’s face. And all the images she had seen from the natives were the sort that might be attached to the words they spoke. The golden tub, for instance, or Sapa Inca on his throne.

  Achik finished wiping down the wall and returned to sit opposite her. His wrinkled face looked despondent. Bess tried to imagine a way to test her theory. She needed Achik to speak of something with a visual component.

  “What are these?” she asked, sweeping her hand to indicate the rows and clusters of pots.

  Achik began speaking. Bess closed her eyes and let her mind relax, seeking the pliable state in which she Spoke to her reticulum or received her friends’ Speech. An image came to mind, hands grinding a bowl full of tiny red seeds into paste. Bess opened her eyes and saw Achik pointing at one of the pots. She grabbed his hand, making him jerk away and say something in an irritated tone, but she ignored that and Spoke the image to his mind.

  Achik gasped. He gabbled out something, touching the pot. Then he scrunched up his face again.

  “No,” Bess said, once more taking his hand. “You cannot…” How could she explain it? She searched the table until she found the writing stick. At the wall, she drew two figures, not nearly as elegant as Achik’s, and wrote BESS and ACHIK above each, guessing at the spelling of his name. She once more drew the arrow from his head to hers, then crossed it out. Then she drew several arrows radiating from the Achik figure’s head in all directions, none of them touching the Bess figure.

  Achik watched intently. Bess drew a circle above the Bess figure’s head and within it drew several of the short arrows. That earned her a confused look from Achik. Frustrated, Bess drew a third figure and scribbled lines radiating from the Achik figure’s mouth toward the third figure. “You speak, and I overhear,” she said, cupping a hand behind her ear.

  Slowly Achik took the writing stick from Bess. He wiped away the arrows and drew a cat above the Achik figure’s head with an arrow pointing toward the third figure. Then he drew the cat over the Bess figure’s head and said something that sounded like a question.

  “Oh, I do not know…I think you understand, but I am so confused,” Bess exclaimed.

  Achik began speaking in a conversational tone. “I do not understand,” Bess said. Achik held up a hand for silence and kept talking. To Bess’s astonishment, images came to mind—a little stone building with a thatched roof, a young woman with dark hair braided down her back, holding an infant, a field of low-growing plants—and, faintly, the sound of words she could not understand. She stood frozen in place. Mind reading. Why it was suddenly easy for her to perceive Achik’s thoughts, she did not know, but the time for introspection was later.

  She Spoke the images to Achik, who smiled and gestured for her to sit. Bess’s stomach rumbled, and the smile vanished. Achik asked her something and pointed to her stomach.

  “I am very hungry,” Bess said.

  Achik grimaced. He made a “stay there” gesture with both hands and left the room. Bess sat and stared at the pictures on the wall. Something had changed in her, that her talent had taken on a new dimension. Or…perhaps it was just that she had never before been in a place where she could not communicate, did not speak the language. Surely she could not be the only Extraordinary Speaker to develop this talent.

  She almost Spoke to Clarissa to ask her if she knew about it. Then she changed her mind. The reason mind reading was a persistent rumor was how frightening it was. No one wanted to believe someone might perceive their innermost, secret thoughts. If Bess revealed this to Clarissa…well, it was unlikely her dear friend would hate her for it, but suppose she accidentally revealed it to the world? Just imagine how others would treat Bess! Worse, suppose some powerful person or organization, or the government, figured out how to use Bess in their schemes? She might end up a prisoner for the rest of her life. No, she needed to keep this secret until she understood it better.

  Rose, she Spoke, feeling full to bursting with secrets and desiring an ordinary conversation, are you there? Do not fear for me, I am quite well.

  The response came immediately, as if Rose had been waiting for this communication. Oh, Bess! How are you to escape?

  I do not know yet. I hope they will take me to…to Lima, I suppose, or some other European settlement. They seem uninterested in harming me.

  The curtain swung, and Achik reappeared, followed by two women bearing trays from which emanated the most delicious smells. Oh, food, Bess told Rose. I must go now. I will Speak to you again soon.

  Achik gestured for Bess to sit on the floor, and the women set their trays down before her. There was a bowl of thick red soup or stew, a pile of little round cakes speckled with green and brown, another bowl with some kind of porridge, and a large mug filled with a clear yellow liquid that did not smell like water. The red soup tasted of tomato, which Bess had learned to enjoy in India, and was filled with chunks of potato with an unusual texture. The cakes were dry, but deliciously spicy, another culinary delight England had not yet adopted. She was not fond of the porridge, but washed it down with the beverage, which tingled as if slightly alcoholic.

  Achik watched her eat, but made no move to join her. When Bess pushed the trays away, sated, the women collected them and left in silence. Achik stood and cleaned off the wall again. Then he said something in a deep, solemn voice. He began drawing another human figure, but this one was larger than the others and more ornate. Bess returned to her stool and watched him closely. His artwork had the look of a ritual figure, even less representative than the first two. Finally, he laid down the drawing stick and pointed to the figure. “Sapa Inca,” he said.

  It was certainly elegant enough to represent an emperor. “Sapa Inca,” Bess agreed.

  Achik drew a second, smaller figure beside Sapa Inca. “Achik,” he said, pointing at it. He then drew the now-familiar figure of the cat above Sapa Inca’s head and made marks suggesting the Sapa Inca figure was speaking to the Achik figure. Then he pointed at Bess and at the cat. “Bess,” he said.

  It only took Bess a moment to realize what Achik had in mind. Her skin went cold. “You want me to read Sapa Inca’s mind for you,” she said.

  Chapter 10

  In which Bess learns she is not the only one with a secret

  Achik could not possibly understand her words, but he nodded as if he did. He tapped the picture of the cat again and spoke at length. Bess heard him in a daze. She had only just considered the possibility that someone might want to use her for exactly this purpose, and now it had come true. “No,” Bess said, standing and shaking her head for emphasis. “I will not.”

  Achik’s voice cut off mid-syllable. His eyes narrowed. “Bess,” he said, and pointed at the Sapa Inca figure’s head with some force.

  Bess caught a glimpse of Sapa Inca himself, sitting on the golden throne. She shook her head again. Achik tossed the writing stick at the table once more, and Bess heard it rattle off into a corner. He took a few steps forward until his face was only inches from hers. He was shorter than she was, but his presence was such that Bess felt overtopped by him.

  She swallowed her fear and refrained from backing away. “I realize you cannot understand my words,” she said, “but I refuse to be a part of whatever plot you have in mind.” As she said this, she Spoke images to Achik’s mind: herself standing in the garden of her parents’ house, the grey stone building of the Carteret Seminary, the
indistinct image of the Mary Peirce.

  Achik’s jaw tightened. He spoke again, low-voiced, curt words that gradually increased in volume until he was shouting. Bess stood her ground, though her heart was racing and her palms had begun to sweat. Then he stepped backward, turned, and stabbed his finger toward the drawings on the wall. “Bess,” he said. “Rimaq. Wasi.”

  “I do not understand.” Rimaq meant Speaker, but wasi she did not know.

  Achik threw up his hands in a gesture Bess would call exasperation if he were English. He crouched and crept across the floor, grunting when he came up with the writing stick. He drew a square with a vertical rectangle in the middle. “Wasi,” he said, pointing at it. Bess stepped forward to examine it more closely. It almost looked like…

  Achik drew the same exaggeratedly female figure over the square. “Bess. Wasi,” he said.

  Bess traced the outline of the square and rectangle. “House,” she said, light dawning. “This is a house.” She Spoke the image of herself in her parents’ garden to him again, expanding it to include what little she could perceive of the manor.

  Nodding, Achik said something too fast for her to make out individual words. Then he pointed at Sapa Inca’s picture again. “Rimaq,” he said slowly, “Uyarinki. Rimanki. Wasi.” With each word, he added a gesture: cupping his hand behind his ear for uyarinki, using his hand to pretend to speak for rimanki while pointing at himself with his other hand, and pointing once more at the house picture for wasi. She caught a glimpse of a city with Spanish architecture, hemmed in by the ocean, and guessed it was Lima.