Bhotta's Tears: Book Two of the Black Bead Chronicles

by J. D. Lakey

  “I wonder how much trouble we would be in if we did it again?” Cheobawn asked.

  “Phew!” Alain said, “Lots and lots.”

  “It would be worth it, though,” Tam said.

  “Yeah,” the others agreed fervently.

  Chapter Five

  They did not have to clean walkers as Alain had feared. Instead Finn showed them where all the tools were kept, leading them past the stacks of milled lumber and pre-made walker parts, pointing out the separate bins full of nuts, bolts, cables, guide grommets, and joint sockets. Then he pointed at the broken walker.

  “Fix that,” he said. “Then check the other walkers to make sure they are sound. I will be back after lunch to check on you.”

  Finn turned and left through the wide bay doors that faced the fields.

  “What? Do we not get lunch?” asked Connor indignantly.

  “Seems not,” said Tam, pulling the broken leg assembly out of the bed of the walker. “What do you think, Al? Can you fix it?”

  “Phtt,” Alain snorted, snapping his fingers.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Tam said. “How can we help?”

  The boys huddled over the broken walker, consulting in rapt tones about joinings and fasteners and lateral vector forces. Megan, knowing when to stay of clear of the boy’s more expert skills, found a supply of notepads and styluses and sat down to sketch weaving patterns.

  Cheobawn stared at her friends. This was all very … boring.

  When Alain pulled out a stylus and started scribbling a formula on a notepad to explain a point about vector stresses, Cheobawn wandered away to explore the shop, peering in bins and cupboards, wondering at all the shapes, bits, and bolts, trying to imagine their use. It always amazed her, the diversity of objects one could make with plasteel, wood, and fabric. One was only limited by the imagination and size of your extruder.

  She wondered if she could make a machine that would get her to the Escarpment and back as fast as possible, something like a walking cart, but with longer legs that could somehow negotiate steep inclines and rough trails. Nothing she could think of seemed feasible. If she had wings she could fly there and back again before Mora noticed or the Father’s had time stop her.

  With that vague thought in mind, Cheobawn pulled out a handful of thin, flexible plasteel struts and pivot joints and began assembling an array that resembled the skeletal supports of a flying fox’s wing. Megan came over and they talked about the make up of the membranes. Their discussion led to conjectures about the qualities of different fabrics and the possibility of weaving a wing surface out of spider silk. The design turned from daydream to real in their minds. Megan began taking notes on thread counts and loom settings.

  Lunch time came and passed. The children were distracted enough not to mind the hollowness in their bellies. But Finn came back, reminding them that breakfast had been hours ago. Unfortunately, he did not return alone. Amabel, Mora’s wife, Second on the High Council, and Master Maker of the Living Thread, was at his side with two of her apprentices in tow both burdened with lunch pails.

  Amabel was a clever woman. At first glance she seemed as soft as butter, her dark blond hair pulled back in a loose braid that draped down her back, a pale blue ribbon woven through it, her full figure disguised under layers of an unbelted underdress and jumper, all in shades of muted blues as if she thought she could hide the steel in her soul with soft cloth and pastels. Even the extra bit of fat on her pink cheeks hid the set of her hard jaw and camouflaged the intensity of the brain behind those cold blue eyes. But Amabel was no nursery Mother like Brigit. Cheobawn suspected Amabel purposefully used this disguise to trick the young and unsuspecting into trusting her.

  The boys leaped to their feet to bow deeply. Megan rose more sedately, nodding respectfully towards her truemother. Amabel ignored her daughter, her attention only for Cheobawn. Too late, Cheobawn realized she had been caught out in the open with nothing and no one to hide behind. She froze, thinking invisible thoughts.

  “Greetings, Mother,” the other children said as one, their faces and voices well-schooled in polite behavior, the boys taking extreme efforts to sound bright and obedient. It was always best to stay on the good side of Mora’s Second. Amabel wielded most of the power of a First Mother without any of the constraints of politics, diplomacy, or mercy, making her a formidable force in the day to day lives of the villagers. No one wanted to be on her bad side.

  The children saw the lunch pails but they were careful not to show interest. Amabel could easily refuse them a noon meal if she thought they needed to learn a lesson. The apprentices dropped the lunch pails on the nearest workbench before crossing the room to the boys. One of them collared Tam and pulled him over to the bay doors to inspect his split lip in the brighter light. The other pulled a thermopack out of the satchel she had slung over one shoulder. The healer’s apprentice ran her fingers along the thermopack’s spine to break the cell walls and mix the chemicals inside. Frost collected on its outer skin as she applied it to Connor’s swollen eye.

  Cheobawn, her stomach growling, eyed the pails. They had only brought four. Cheobawn opened her mouth to point out the mistake, when Amabel pointed a finger at her.

  “Come along, little miss,” she said in a tone that forbade argument. Without a backward glance to see if she was being obeyed, Amabel turned, retracing her path out of the maintenance shed. Cheobawn looked wildly around, hoping to find someplace to hide. Tam’s dark eyes did not miss her look of panic. He pulled his chin out of the healer’s hand and flicked a fingersign at her. Quiet, Stay, it said.

  “Where are you taking her?” Tam asked loudly. Amabel stopped and turned. She stared at him, a feline smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

  “I do not see how that is any of your business,” she said coldly.

  “Cheobawn is my Packmate. I am her Alpha. It is my right to ask after her disposition.”

  Amabel snorted, annoyance warring with amusement. “Tsk. Little leopard cub, all snarly, with your milk teeth and your little growls. Be careful where you point your claws when there are bigger claws in the room.”

  “There are rules that even the High Council must follow,” Tam said stubbornly. He was not going to back down. Amabel glared at him but he did not flinch from the Mother’s gaze. ”Pack dynamics is one of those rules,” Tam insisted.

  “Yes, but this little chit is not yet eight. You have no claim on her. If you insist on knowing, Mora wants her cuts seen to with more than spit and elbow grease. I prefer not to practice healing in the dust and wood chips, if you don’t mind. Come along Cheobawn. Finn, I will return her when I feel she is fit.”

  With that, the older woman turned and strode away, her skirts snapping around her in their vain attempt to keep up. Cheobawn had no choice but to follow.

  Do not worry, she signed at Tam, whose face was dark with suppressed anger. I will be alright. Cheobawn hoped that her face expressed more confidence than she felt.

  Chapter Six

  The fountain in the middle of the central plaza also happened to be the radius point of the great circle defined by the dome over their heads. At the northernmost point of the plaza’s circle stood the temple. The village infirmary lay just to the east of that, its placement a mirror of the Common Rooms on the opposite side, where the communal meals were served. Four great promenades radiated out from the center, marking the four compass points. The North Promenade led directly from the North Gate, through the village, under the arched courtyard of the temple spire, and into the plaza. Every village shared this architecture, if they shared nothing else. This ensured that the largest and most frequented public spaces were convenient to everyone who lived there.

  Cheobawn followed Amabel through the North Gate but when Amabel turned off the North Promenade, she paused, confused. Amabel strode away, not bothering to look back. Racing to catch up, Cheobawn found herself playing Dancing Molly behind the Master Maker as she wound her way through the gardens, apartments
, and communal spaces in a meandering path that eventually led to the fenced-in medicinal garden that grew along the back of the infirmary. The Master Maker took a small metal probe out of her pocket, inserted it into the hole in the middle of the gate’s lock plate, and turned it. There was a soft snick of metal sliding against metal and the gate swung open.

  Locks fascinated Cheobawn. In her mind, locks and their keys were magical talismans that conveyed special powers to their holders, perhaps because so few existed under the dome. Private places did not need walls and doors did not need locks when common courtesy and respect would do in their place. This garden was one of the few places that were forbidden to any but the privileged few who had keys.

  When she was little, she thought Amabel had buried treasure in her garden, like in the fairytales. She had been sorely disappointed when she found out it only contained plants. Dangerous and poisonous, to be sure, but plants all the same.

  Amabel waved Cheobawn through, locked the gate behind them, and continued with a purposeful stride up the path between the beds of innocuous-looking greenery. If stumbled upon in their natural setting, one would hardly notice these plants. Most had tiny colorless flowers except one. Cheobawn paused near a verdant plant topped with a spectacular flower with orange petals and a hot pink heart. The plant quivered under her gaze, then seemed to shrivel and turn black. She caught a whiff of the stink of rotten flesh and backed away quickly.

  “Please don’t annoy my plants,” called Amabel over her shoulder. Cheobawn scampered to join Amabel, who waited impatiently as she held the back door to the infirmary open.

  “I didn’t touch it. Honest. It just got …” Cheobawn turned to look at the rotting plant. Her words died, forgotten. The orange flower with the pink heart stood tall and unblemished. “Oooo, did you see that?”

  “Every day,” Amabel said dryly. “Get inside before the whole world sees you.”

  Cheobawn slid into the dark interior, puzzled by Amabel’s words. Was the Maker breaking the rules about locks and keys by letting Cheobawn in the garden?

  When her eyes had adjusted to the light the room revealed itself. Cheobawn hissed in surprise. She was in the heart of Amabel’s domain. The room contained banks of complicated machinery and equipment whose use she could only guess at. One wall contained glass fronted cupboards full of neatly labeled bottles and boxes. Another wall contained doors set with pressure and temperature gauges both mechanical and electronic, as if Amabel could not trust either so settled on both. Cheobawn sidled closer to glance at the dials. The numbers made no sense. Surely it was impossible for something to get that cold?

  “What do you …”

  “Never mind that. Come along,” Amabel said, her hand on the handle of the door that led further into the heart of the infirmary. Amabel waited for her and then put a hand on Cheobawn’s shoulder to hold her in place while she opened the door. The Maker stuck her head out into the hall, looked both ways and then pulled Cheobawn after her as she strode quickly down the hall and in through another door.

  Cheobawn nearly laughed but managed to hold it in. Was Mora’s Second reduced to sneaking about in her own laboratories like a kid trying to evade her nestmother? Cheobawn suddenly had an image of Amabel as a young, mischievous girl bent on being naughty. If it were not for the frightening place in which she suddenly found herself, Cheobawn would have enjoyed this moment more.

  The second room was as surprising as the first. They stood in a birthing room, but unlike any Cheobawn had ever been in before. The birthing chair was familiar enough, but it was hung with what only could be called restraining straps. Nor was this the only difference. Instead of soft chairs, calming art work, and piles of fluffy towels and gowns, the room was as sterile and utilitarian as Amabel’s laboratory. Some of the same laboratory equipment lined the walls of this room, bizarre mechanical sentinels to whatever ritual Amabel preformed in here.

  Cheobawn balked and tried to back out.

  “None of that,” Amabel said, pushing her towards the table. “Hop up and let me get a look at what you have done to yourself this time.”

  Cheobawn looked around the room, her mouth gone dry. A frightening thought suddenly occurred to her. By coming in by the back way, no one knew she was here in this room. Amabel could do whatever she pleased without interference. She watched Amabel’s back as she put on a white apron and gathered swabs and antiseptic on a plasteel tray. Cheobawn wondered what would happen if she started screaming.

  Probably nothing. Even if someone heard her, no one would question Amabel’s right to do what she thought was best. As the village’s resident Maker of the Living Thread, Amabel was the primary source of health care. She was also the Master Geneticist making her the arbiter of all procreation within the village. No baby was born in Home Dome that did not have the mark of Amabel’s approval on it. And marked they were. Cheobawn thought the Windfall tribe lucky that Amabel had never felt the need to visibly mark her progeny. They all could have auburn hair and green eyes like Alain’s natal tribe.

  Cheobawn swallowed her panic. Even if she could get someone to listen to her protests, what could she say? She was hurt and Amabel was a healer. What could be more innocent?

  There was just one small problem. Cheobawn was fairly certain Amabel hated her. Well, perhaps hate was a strong word. Offended. The Maker was offended by Cheobawn’s existence in her well-ordered world.

  The fact that Cheobawn had failed the first and simplest test of her psi ability on her Choosingday when she was three had been catastrophic on so many levels. The entire village thought her Bad Luck to be toxic, tainting them all by association. The Fathers thought her presence caused contention among the Mothers, a thing, in their view, not to be tolerated. Mora and the Coven stood as a wall between her and the village, but Mora could not protect her from Amabel.

  Amabel took every opportunity to remind her that she was a broken thing in need of fixing. This was not just her childish fantasy. The Maker used any excuse to poke her full of holes, taking tissue samples for study. Was she hoping to find out where she had gone wrong? Perhaps. But one thing was very certain. Every encounter with Amabel became a bitter reminder to Cheobawn that she was a Black Bead, set apart, outside the norms and standards of the tribes.

  Amabel added a syringe to her tray. Cheobawn tried to be brave. She tried to hold her ground. But her heart failed her. She backed away only to be brought up short against the side of one of Amabel’s electronic sentinels.

  Catching the movement out of the corner of her eye, Amabel turned, anger flashing across her face. She followed Cheobawn, cutting off her escape towards the door.

  “We do not have time for foolishness. Get up on the table. You will not like it if you resist me.”

  Cheobawn believed the threat. She sidled around Amabel and crawled up on the table, using the stirrups as a ladder.

  “Take off your tunic and let’s have a look.” Amabel said, filling her syringe from a vial of amber fluid.

  “What is that?” Cheobawn asked, her voice nearly failing her.

  “A broad based nephrotoxin just in case you picked up any one of twenty spores that can grow inside the human body and come out in all sorts of nasty ways. Dirty open wounds are a serious business.”

  But poking Cheobawn full of holes was not the only torture Amabel had on her agenda. As proof of Cheobawn’s suspicions, Amabel opened a box and pulled out a wire reader. Cheobawn mentally sighed. What was the Maker looking for? It was not like her genetic code had changed from the last time Amabel had read it.

  Cheobawn lifted her chin obediently. Amabel used the end of a fingernail to depress a switch on the side of the reader, a tiny machine no longer than the first joint on her thumb, before she placed it on Cheobawn’s omeh. The machine latched onto the plasteel cord. Cheobawn felt it vibrate slightly as it oriented itself before beginning its long crawl around her collar. Embedded in the 23 hair thin wires woven into her omeh was Cheobawn’s own unique genetic code, recorded at
the moment of her birth and knotted around her infant throat by her truemother, the High Priestess, and the Maker of the Living Thread in a sealed room high in the Temple tower during her naming ceremony. Babies sometimes did not come out of that room, judged wanting by the Goddess or the Mothers or Amabel’s finer esthetics. Cheobawn was convinced that Amabel regretted letting Cheobawn leave that room when it was her turn to be judged. Cheobawn suspected that Mora’s need of a Truedaughter outweighed Amabel’s need for logic and order, else she would not be sitting here.

  While Amabel waited for the reader to finish, she pulled out a lancet, grabbed Cheobawn’s hand and poked the tip of her finger, blotting the resultant beads of blood on a strip of paper. Cheobawn looked away to stare at the wall. The reader clicked softly around her neck while the village ambient whispered inside her mind, a comforting presence even here, deep within the bowels of Amabel’s logic.

  When Amabel had taken all the blood she needed, she fed the paper into one of her machines. The Maker studied the data that streamed across its small screen, then scowled, perhaps displeased at what she saw.

  The reader hiccuped and stopped. Amabel retrieved it. Returning to her machine, she plugged it into a slot. Another steam of data filled the screen. Amabel grunted.

  “Someday, little chit,” the Maker said softly, tapping a fingernail on the screen, “you will have to tell me how you do that.”

  “Do what?” Cheobawn asked, hoping, for once, that Amabel might share her secrets.

  “What? Oh, never you mind,” Amabel said, rising from the work station. She swabbed a point on the inside of Cheobawn’s elbow and then picked up the syringe full of amber fluid. “Hold still.” Amabel said as she jabbed the needled in. Cheobawn watched the plunger depress, sending the medicine into her bloodstream, proud that she did not flinch or cry out.

  Amabel noticed the long scratch down the back of Cheobawn’s arm and grunted in annoyance. “Most little girls have enough psi sense to stay out of trouble. Why is it that you don’t? You re-earn that black bead with every scratch, you know. Your mother is not pleased. Must you forever disappoint her?”