by CJ Brightley
He took a deep breath.
“All right. Yes, let’s do it.”
I was so happy, I forgot myself completely and wrapped Rami in a hug, American style.
“Thank you! Thank you.” I couldn’t stop smiling.
“No—thank you,” he said, and he was smiling too, as bright and warm as the freshly washed sunlight streaming down, and as I pulled away, he gave my hands a squeeze. “Thank you,” he said again, then let them go.
Our first intimacy. Not like in childhood, when we could sit side by side, push and shove, even link arms, and it meant nothing.
And our last intimacy. If I had known, if I could go back—
But I didn’t, and I can’t.
August 24 (Kaya’s memoir)
Em assumes our festival cheered the Lady. I wonder. Was it what she hoped for? When we were planning, it was hard to keep her in mind. Everyone wanted slightly different things from the festival.
Nawalam, interested in politics and hoping to be the first mountain native to represent our people in parliament, wanted a pageant in which he could play a leading role.
“Remember the banners on the spears?” he said, at our first meeting. “The black, red, and green ones? We should have some of those. Mirasan, you could make something like that, couldn’t you? You and your friends?”
“I don’t really remember them, but if you drew me something...”
Mirasan was his wife. She was a few years younger than we were, probably only a toddler the year of the last festival. But Rami was shaking his head.
“Those weren’t banners; they were flags. It was the flag the separatists designed, for an independent state. We can’t have anything like that, nothing with those colors.”
“A flag? Really? I didn’t realize … but all right, if you say so,” Nawalam said. “How about just streamers, then? Streamers attached to the spears?”
“I don’t think we can even have the spears,” Rami said.
“But we have to have spears,” I protested. “They’re part of the festival. How else are we supposed to drive away big evils?”
“That’s the problem: ‘driving away big evils’ can be interpreted as a call to arms. And a procession of flaming spears never seems peaceful.”
“I understand that,” I said, “but how many changes can we make to the festival without destroying something essential?”
“We’ll still have the brooms, even if we give up the spears,” said Dinasha. “If we’re singing the old songs, and if there’s the procession, with dancing, the children will still have the real flavor of it.” That’s what was most important for Dinasha: giving the children the experience we had had when we were little. She’d already spoken to the gym teacher at the regional secondary school about teaching the dances to the girls and boys there.
“Our own songs, that’s what counts,” said Jeteman, Dinasha’s husband. It was startling, hearing his voice: it was rare for him to speak. He was always quiet back in primary school, too.
“You all learned the national language without too many scars on your shoulders, but it isn’t that way for everyone,” he continued. “It burns me up, hearing about the agents from Highland Coffee or Sunrise Fruit coming round and raising their voices and waving their hands in the faces of farmers twenty-five years their senior, just because the farmers stumble over words. The farmers complain about it to me, since I’m the head of the growers’ cooperative, but what can I do? And don’t get me started on State Security officers, or district officials. So much rudeness.” He turned to me. “You don’t feel it, working with all those lowlanders at the research station?”
“I do feel it, a little,” I admitted. “Some of the other researchers act like I’m just an intern, and one always makes me repeat myself.”
Jeteman laughed and shook his head. “And yet you sound just like one of them, when I hear you speaking to them,” he said—and I felt ashamed of my facility. “Singing in our own language, raising our voices up at night, together, in our own tongue—it’ll feel so good!” he finished. We were quiet a moment. Maybe the others were remembering, imagining, as I was.
“Rami, you think you can get Grandmother Jemenli to bless the arrow that goes into the flames?” Nawalam asked. Grandmother Jemenli was an old charm maker everyone respected whom I remembered only vaguely from childhood. She lived alone in a forested part of the mountains and rarely came into town.
“No! We can’t get anyone like her involved,” Rami said sharply. “None of the old activists.”
“You’re oversensitive,” Nawalam said, with that teasing smile I remembered from primary school.
“Nawalam, leave it,” said Dinasha, but her warning was lost in Rami’s quick reply.
“I’m not oversensitive! What we’re doing, we want it to be nonpolitical? Then we can’t bring any of those people in. It’s dangerous for us. And, and—I know it’s not what we expect, but suppose for a moment that we do end up having some trouble with the government. If that happens, then being involved would be dangerous for them, too. The government might forgive us—we’re new, we’re young. But it won’t forgive them. They have a history of being troublemakers.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be involved, then,” Nawalam said, still the ghost of a smile on his lips, but aggression in his voice.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, but Nawalam and Rami weren’t listening.
“Are you worried?” Rami shot back, locking eyes with Nawalam.
“Not at all. And you shouldn’t be either. Don’t let yourself be ruled by the past.”
“It’s Rami’s parents.” Dinasha’s cheek touched mine as she whispered the information into my ear. “They were leaders in the separatist movement. They were execu-”
She didn’t finish, because Rami was speaking, and his voice threatened violence, though all he said was “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” and that in quiet tones. It was how his words trembled with anger that made us all sit still.
They were execu-
I put my hands to my ears, even though Dinasha had leaned away and no one was speaking, but I couldn’t stifle my thoughts.
“I have a idea about the brooms and spears,” said Mirasan presently, breaking the silence. “What if we use plain torches, but painted with a design to represent either a broom or a spear?”
“Yes, and we could get the children to do the painting,” Dinasha said, nodding. “They’ll love the torches as much as real spears and brooms, if they get to paint them themselves. And Kaya, you should bless the arrow, don’t you think?”
“You think so? Even though I’ve been away for so long? It feels … presumptuous.”
“You’re the one who had the vision. If it wasn’t for that, we wouldn’t be planning the festival at all.”
Just a dream. It was just a dream, part of me wanted to say. But dream, vision, whatever it was, what Dinasha said was true. If I saw the blessing as a responsibility and not as an honor, I could accept the task.
“All right. Yes, I’ll do the blessing.”
And so our planning continued, as if Nawalam and Rami hadn’t nearly come to blows.
Rami walked me home that night. We shared one umbrella, just like sweethearts. The scent from evening cooking fires lingered in the air, intimate and comforting.
“I didn’t know about your parents until tonight,” I said. “Dinasha told me.”
“I never wanted anyone to know, back when we were in primary school,” he said.
“You must hate the government,” I murmured. But it wasn’t really the government I was thinking about. It was Nawalam and I, going off to school in Palem, and Nawalam angling for parliament. How could Rami stand us?
“I do hate it,” he said, so quietly, so fervently.
A dog barked at us from beneath a nearby house, as if protesting Rami’s declaration.
“Did you want this festival to be more than it is?” I asked. I had assumed that Rami’s questions and warnings were to g
uide us away from politics, but had he maybe intended them as challenges? It’s illegal, he had said to me, when I first mentioned the festival to him. Had he hoped I’d say I don’t care?
Rami shook his head.
“No. We don’t have the strength to oppose the government. They have manpower and weaponry on their side. It would just end in lives lost and more repression.”
The resignation in his voice depressed me. But then he added,
“I liked what you said: that this could be a joyful thing. If it can be just that, then that’s enough. That’s a gift. And …” he hesitated, then plunged ahead. “You’ll take me for superstitious, but—Well … we have no power, but the Lady does. I don’t mean power to magic us an autonomous state,” he added quickly. “But maybe just to remind us who we are. Restore our pride in that. And from there?” He shrugged. “Who knows?”
(From the W— State Security Service’s files on the insurgency: email records)
From: Capt. Aran
Subject: “Voice from the Lotus” a go
Date: August 24
To: Lt. Sana, Lt. Den
We’ve decided on operation “Voice from the Lotus.” Interrogations of Prisoner 116’s co-conspirators indicate that she’s the least political of the group and will be eager to prevent unnecessary violence. I’m sure you can persuade her of the wisdom of this course of action. Succeed, and we’re all heroes. Fail, and we have a police action to look forward to.
(From the W— State Security Service’s files on the insurgency: email records)
From: Capt. Aran
Subject: Re: Re: “Voice from the Lotus” a go
Date: August 25
To: Lt. Sana, Lt. Den
Any more queries on procedure or requests for clarification will be taken as insubordination. Just do what it takes to make “Voice from the Lotus” a success.
August 25 (Kaya’s memoir)
In my memory, the rest of the planning for the festival was given over to dealing with a constant tumult of clamoring questions. Who will bring brush and firewood for the bonfires at the rim of the Ruby Lake? Who can provide pitch for the torches? Can we practice dances with the younger children on the grounds of the primary schools? Can we ask families to welcome people from the eastern mountain district into their homes, so the people from the east don’t have to travel on the day of the festival? What route shall the procession take?
And as we planned and worked, we had to be so careful with our words. They had to be mild, bland, unassuming—and yet pregnant with possibilities for those who were listening. We wanted words that would speak volumes to those who wanted to join us without alarming those who didn’t, and most of all, we wanted to avoid antagonizing the regional government. It’s supposed to represent us, but it’s composed of lowlanders.
“Mr. Gana’s got wind of what we’re planning,” said Nawalam, just a week before the festival.
“Our member of parliament?” said Dinasha, making a face.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“That he hoped we weren’t planning some tribal rally up by the Ruby Lake—I think that’s how he put it. ‘Doesn’t seem like a wise career move,’ he said to me. Nawalam used the national tongue to quote Mr. Gana. His accent was perfect; if you closed your eyes, you’d have thought it was someone from the streets of Palem talking. It made me recall Jeteman’s remark to me: you sound just like one of them.
“I told him it was a cultural awareness festival, and he should come along and bring his friends,” Nawalam continued, reverting to the mountain tongue.
“Good,” I said, nodding. “Lowlanders should feel welcome. Did you know they honor the Lady too? Some of them, anyway.” I told them about the fisherman I had met when I found Sumi.
“You were smart to invite Mr. Gana,” I added. “It shows we have nothing to hide. Maybe we should be inviting journalists, too.”
“If Mr. Gana does turn up, and if this festival helps me unseat him next election, then I’ll offer him a place on my staff as a gesture of good will,” Nawalam said, leaning back on his hands, away from the red cloth on which our empty coffee cups sat. Mirasan refilled them with rich honey coffee. Nawalam sipped his and flashed his wife an appreciative grin.
“Why wait for the election? Maybe we can persuade him to resign at the festival,” said Mirasan, returning his smile. “I hear he’s not comfortable among crowds of mountain people.”
“Make sure he only speaks to you in the mountain tongue,” Jeteman said, “and with proper deference.”
We all laughed, but I could see uneasiness in Nawalam’s eyes, and it dawned on me that if Nawalam did get elected, he wouldn’t necessarily try to change the language laws. Nawalam’s primary concern was Nawalam.
The evening of the festival, as everyone was gathering for the procession, Mr. Gana did actually show up, to plead with us to call the whole thing off. But even if we had wanted to, how could we, at that point? The crowd pressed round as eagerly as swarming bees, bodies jostling one another, sweaty from the fields and the cardamom plantations, and on top of odors of hard work was the sharp scent of the pitch on the torches, not yet lit. We couldn’t disappoint them. But oh the wretchedness in Mr. Gana’s voice as he spoke to Nawalam! The handkerchief he mopped his forehead with was soaking.
“Mr. Gana cares about what happens to us,” I said to Rami, moved.
“He’s frightened at the thought of what might happen to him, if there’s trouble here,” Rami replied, jaw set.
“We’re holding the festival,” Nawalam insisted. “The Lady spoke to Kayamanira in a dream and asked for this.” He turned to me. “Isn’t that right?”
“It is,” I said, my voice not much more than a whisper. I cleared my throat. “It is,” I said again, this time in a loud, clear voice, and to my astonishment, a cheer went up.
And so we left Mr. Gana behind. We climbed the barren sides of the Ruby Lake, lit the bonfires, set red flames and sprays of sparks swaying and reaching, like dancing arms. I spoke the necessary words, took an arrow fletched with crows’ feathers, slit my palm with its tip, and bloodied it. Then Nawalam shot it into the Ruby Lake. Dinasha, Rami, Mirasan, and Jeteman lit the first torches and put them in the hands of those closest to us.
We heard helicopters overhead, and I think we sensed what was coming, but still the ripple of lit torches widened as people passed the fire one to the next. We chanted the customary words, then shifted to song, and the girls and boys from the regional high school stamped their feet and started to dance, and the younger children who had watched their big brothers and sisters practicing for weeks joined in, and the parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles who could still remember the steps did too, and we danced back down the gravel and scree and into the world of greenery, ready to bless and shield the first fields.
Where the path to the rim of the crater joins the road, though, State Security Service vehicles had formed a barricade, and men were fanned out from the vehicles, weapons drawn. Warning shots were fired and a voice over a megaphone called out our names and told us to surrender, because we were under arrest.
I won’t write more just now. I don’t like recalling those next hours and days. If I start to, the memories spring to life too real, too vivid. My heart races, and I tremble.
6
Jiminy
August 30 (Em’s diary)
Dad brought home a letter from Clear Springs Prison today. It said Jiminy got hurt in some fight and was in the infirmary a few days. Dad told Ma when he handed her the letter. Then he went right back out, off with Uncle Near in his sailing skiff. Ma read the letter, but not out loud, even though Gran and me were right there too. When she was finished, she folded it up and stuck it in her pocket without saying a thing, and then she fetched her bag of old clothes and started cutting up a pair of Jiminy’s jeans for patches for mine and Tammy’s. Cutting up his clothes! I know Dad can’t forgive Jiminy, but I don’t understand about Ma. Don’t she know that’s bad magic?
>
I’ve been setting out Sabelle Morning’s cup every night so it can catch the dawn light, for Jiminy, but that’s not good enough. I need to go see him.
Thinking about Jiminy makes me think of my pen pal, since she’s in prison too. Jiminy has to stay in prison for five years. I wonder how long Kaya has to stay in that house hanging over the Ruby Lake. If the government is pretending it’s an honor, then does that mean she won’t ever be able to leave?
And however long she’s stuck there, she can’t have no visitors, not unless they come riding in by helicopter. Somehow that makes me want to visit Jiminy even more. Nobody who’s able to have visitors should be left all alone.
September 3 (Em’s diary)
I woke up extra early this morning, thinking about Jiminy, and couldn’t fall back asleep. I checked on Sabelle Morning’s cup and asked the Seafather for good luck. I made me and Tammy lunches and convinced Tammy that we should go by the Oveys first, before stopping at the Tiptoes for Clara, instead of the other way round.
“Small Bill probably won’t even be up yet,” she grumbled. “He probably ain’t even coming.”
Small Bill does skip school a lot. Ma never lets me or Tammy skip, unless we’re sick, but the mothers and fathers who grew up in Mermaid’s Hands don’t fuss about going to school the way Ma does.
The water was not quite knee high as we waded over. We had our shoes tied together by their laces and slung around our necks so we didn’t have to try to fit them in our backpacks. Tammy was making hers bang together as she walked and singing something to herself.
“Look, it’s fairy-wing color,” I said, pointing out at the open bay. It was, too: all pink, tinged with gold, with sparkles on the top of each ripple and swell.