Resurgence

by C. J. Cherryh

  He’d blamed his father. He’d met him only once, and the conversation had been short. Good morning. Nice to see your face. Drop me a note if you feel like it. The man had never said why he left. He did business, one job and another, on the far side of the island. Never wrote. Neither had he. No profit in opening an old scar. Nothing meaningful there . . . probably never had been. That was the deep family secret, a relationship that had lasted into a second impending kid—and his father just wasn’t interested anymore.

  So he’d gotten back from deep space, two years gone, with answers to the world’s problems, with the possibility of shaking the aishidi’tat back into order—and all he’d given his brother and Barb was a hello, I’m home and I’ve got to get to the mainland. Quietly. By smugglers’ routes. No guarantee they’d ever meet again.

  God, he sometimes thought there was more of his father in him than he liked. He’d leaned on Toby with far too little thank you. They did things like that to each other. He wished not. He’d not been available when Toby’s marriage crashed. When he’d lost the house and kids. When their mother died.

  This time—he’d rushed off onto Mospheira while Toby waited at sea, then a fast voyage back and not even a supper in peace.

  He owed Toby so much. Likely he’d never get back to their mountain. Likely Toby wouldn’t. And if they did, it wouldn’t be the same.

  It was always—thanks, brother. We’ll get together next time.

  Thanks. Just—thanks.

  Glad you have Barb. She’s changed. She’s a different person when she’s with you. Hope to God your kids figure it out, and you get them back. They’re growing up. They’ve got to figure it someday.

  But then, when you work for the government, you don’t get to tell the kids what you do, do you?

  The mountain view shifted as the track bent to the right. There were other peaks, snow-capped, even now.

  Wish you were here. Wish you could be here. Well, but probably not in this one, do I?

  He’d slipped into Mosphei’ in his thinking. Into Mospheiran thoughts, right along with the language. Relationships long past—except his connection to Toby. And Barb. He didn’t want them to slip away.

  Didn’t want them on this train right now, for very damned sure.

  A movement caught the tail of his eye, an approach drowned in the rattle and thump of the train. But then Jago was soft-footed in her arrivals and departures.

  And she had only a mild amusement for him. He felt slightly foolish, standing where he was, so much smaller than atevi, and stepped down.

  “There are mountains,” he said, by way of excuse.

  “The Daijin,” Jago said. “We are following the Daijin River, which you cannot see from that window. We shall follow it for some distance before we reach the switchback.”

  Mt. Adam Thomas had streams that fed the Straussman River. Forever in his memory was the spot where one such came down off the heights in a waterfall. In spring, it thundered. He remembered that sound. He imagined it outside, past the noise of the train.

  “One would like to see a map, Jago-ji. Might there be one?”

  “Certainly,” Jago said. “Are you worried, Bren-ji?”

  “Lost, I think. This is new territory. One needs to become aware.”

  “Yes,” Jago said, in that manner of an order taken, and with a short trip back in the car, brought a paper map which unfolded to offer details of the mountains, names, inhabited places, waystations, hunting lodges, roads, even foot tracks.

  It offered an entirely new perspective on the region, settlements and holdings scattered through the mountains, connections made by foot, apparently. Jago sat down on the bench seat by him and pointed out what she knew, which was a great deal more than he did.

  “One hopes not to have to venture into such terrain,” she said, pointing to the place where the tracks ran through a town. “But, yes. This is Hasjuran.”

  The scale was such on the inset that the buildings and streets were marked. Of streets, there were three. There was the mill, which produced cloth, the warehouse, several tanneries, a number of merchants. Numerous small buildings one took for houses. And the lord’s residence, with its outliers, but it had its front on the first of the three streets. It was nestled, apparently, in fairly abrupt terrain, to look at the topographic lines.

  “Not a large town. A very small one, by the look of it.”

  “There is, here,” Jago said, indicating a long building on the second street, “a sort of hotel, which we shall not use. Traders come to the indoor bazaar, so there is considerable traffic in and out—for a place of this size. Market days are every thirteenth day, which is likely to be a large gathering—for a place of this size—if we are there that long.”

  “How much longer?” he asked. “And how long will we be?”

  “We shall reach Hasjuran still in daylight tonight, though late. And one understands there will be an excursion from the train.”

  He was not entirely glad to hear that. “Is it safe?”

  “Not as safe as the train,” Jago said. “But that is the dowager’s decision.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Cajeiri’s tutor had thoughtfully, late in the day, sent along a set of history and geology and geography questions . . . which was a far earlier start to classwork than Cajeiri had hoped for, and none of them on the topics he had sent the man.

  What was the principal export of the Kadagidi townships?

  He quite frankly was not sure. And he was not sure, in the disappointment of his own questions being ignored, that he cared, but he was determined not to have it wrong. It might be textiles, if one considered the Atageini townships not that far removed, but he refused to put down a guess. He had been away. His tutor would expect him to fail, and would give him the lecture on observation and application. He had three books open on his desk, trying to find the answer, and was having no success.

  All the while there was some confusion around the apartment, as Eisi and Liedi took the new people on a tour of all the drawers and all the cabinets in the sitting room. They were welcome, he heartily welcomed them, but right now he was in a mood.

  Just go away, he wished them silently.

  Or tell me what the Kadagidi townships make, so I can go to the next question.

  Probably they had no idea. They were from Dur.

  For Dur it was notably fresh fish, fish products, and fertilizer. And a small amount of flour. They imported tin, for something. He had no idea why they used tin. But he had memorized the fact.

  Dur had always been more interesting. He wanted to visit there, and had never gotten the chance. But it was not Dur he was supposed to be thinking about today.

  He had staff at his disposal, and it was not cheating. He could send Liedi to get an answer from the librarian downstairs.

  But he needed to be sure that was the only question he was going to need answered.

  And his questions to his tutor had been outright ignored. It was where they had left off, as if none of the things that had happened to him had happened. He had wanted to know the history of Dur with Ajuri, on that border. That was important right now. But his tutor had his own ideas of what he should know.

  Possibly, he had asked questions his tutor simply did not know how to answer. That was discouraging, on its own.

  Onami appeared in his doorway, fourth of his seniormost aishid, and came to him quietly as he sat at his desk looking up imports, exports, and dates.

  “Nandi.”

  Cajeiri laid his pen down. “Nadi?”

  “One may have a solution.” Onami slipped a stack of three photographs onto his desk. They showed people in a park. And wrought iron fences, and tall trees beside an expanse of water. And flowers, and people walking about fenced and glassed-in areas. “This is Hanomiri Park, to the south of the city.”

  �
��One has heard of it.”

  “There are animal exhibits, and the whole is surrounded by a moat, which wends its way through the exhibits and prevents escape and mingling of incompatible animals. Visitors may walk through the safe exhibits with a guide. Otherwise they view through windows. There is a forest area, with trees of some age; a plains area; and a central area of stone spires, all artificial, but very well done. If a little run-down.”

  It was still interesting. “In the city?”

  “Just outside. It suffered particularly in the Troubles, as many institutions did, and they are not what they once were, but they are looking to recover public attention, and they are interested. It was a whim of your great-great-grandfather, this place, but it has suffered from lack of maintenance—and attendance. I spoke to the director by phone yesterday. He took the train personally to come to the Bujavid bearing a case full of plans never realized. He is extremely interested in Boji, and would undertake to find him the company of several young parid’ji, and a new viewing-place for them—if you do take them as a solution. I have tried to find him a place without cages, where they will indulge him as much as possible. And this has ample room, in what used to be a reptile enclosure, with trees. And an artificial river shore. There is a windowed viewing area, but no bars, and people do not come within the exhibit. He would be free to climb the trees. To dig. To do entirely as he wishes.”

  “And eggs.”

  “There would not only be eggs, the director suggested the staff might bury them for the parid’jin to find along the sandy shore, in the natural way. They hope, quite plainly, nandi, that your gift would be public, and that your involvement might attract visitors. The director extends promises that Boji will have a brass name plate on the viewing window commemorating your gift, and that he and his companions will have the very best of care, all his life.”

  Could one find a better place for an egg-loving parid’ja? There would be people for him to watch. And he was a great showoff.

  “If the place is well-visited,” he said. “He would be lonely, otherwise.”

  “He would have the other parid’ji. And one cannot but imagine that every child in the city and towns round about would want to see him. It could bring great things for the park.”

  “It seems very good.”

  “It is the best all of us have been able to find. He is spoiled, he has no fear of people, he is a consummate thief, and as long as people hand him eggs, he will not starve, but he would be lost in a real forest. The wild ones will show him how to dig for eggs. And he will certainly have the best medical care and also the exercise he greatly needs.”

  “He is very good at escaping.”

  “But there can be modifications to keep him in, as he continues to grow. The walls can be made higher, the trees can be trimmed. And he will have plenty of entertainment there—the keepers, we are assured, until the crowds come.”

  “Will you go, then, and look at this place, and be sure of everything they promise?” He wanted to go himself—he ached to go. He had never seen an animal park. But he was not asking Father for more favors.

  And now that he had arranged all this, and now that there was a place, he was not sure he wanted to do it at all. But he had no choice, really. It was just—

  He truly could not turn Boji loose in the woods.

  “I do not want to send Boji to any place that cannot take good care of him. If he will not eat, if he is unhappy, I shall wish to take him back. Will they agree to that?”

  “I am certain. Certainly if it does not work, we shall try again.”

  “Are they that run-down?”

  “That is something I shall find out, nandi-meni. I shall have a clear understanding.”

  “Do you think I shall be able to visit him?”

  “Certainly the park would be honored, nandi. One is relatively sure your father would agree, so long as you go before opening, or after hours, with all your bodyguard.”

  So as not to meet people. He understood. But it was a little reassurance. He wished he could see the place in operation.

  “I might want to go more than once.”

  “One is certain the director and his staff would be delighted if you did. It is a little park, understand, fallen on very hard times. But they would like to build back. And Boji could indeed help them.”

  “If people came, you mean.”

  “Aiji-meni, if you wrote a few words explaining where he has been and what he has done, I think the park would be proud to engrave that on a plaque. You could make a difference for the little park.”

  “Have you ever seen it?”

  “I used to go, as a child. It was wonderful, to a city boy. They had a river exhibit. And a plains exhibit. And a miniature train that went to them.”

  Onami had said from the first it ever was mentioned that he might know a place where Boji could go. It began to feel like a plot. But not the bad sort.

  “Go look tomorrow. See what it would be like now. But I need to tell my father what we might be doing, first.”

  “Give me a note and I will take it down, aiji-meni.”

  “Jeri,” he said. He could not have his elder aishid calling him nandi and aiji-meni in his own sitting room. “My aishid calls me Jeri. Say that to Rieni. To everybody.”

  “I shall tell him that.”

  Cajeiri nodded, shoved the homework aside, drew out a piece of good paper and uncapped the inkwell.

  Honored Father, he wrote, please hear Onami. He has found a place for Boji. The director hopes Boji may bring visitors, and there are trees to climb. The place is Honomiri Park. Onami says it is a little run-down, but Boji could help them get more visitors. And it would be a place I could visit, would it not? I would hope I could. Onami knows this place. He will go see it, and report tomorrow.

  He simply folded this one, and gave it to Onami, unsealed.

  Onami left on that mission, and Cajeiri watched him leave.

  And looked at Boji in his cage, the very pretty brass cage that had suggested something might go in it.

  He could not describe on any plaque everywhere Boji had been, or tell all the things Boji had done.

  What could he write?

  I was lonely. Boji was my company. All my associates my own age were up in space and I had Boji.

  That was fairly pitiful, was it not? His associates finally came down to the world and were still across the straits, unreachable. He did not know but one or two cousins his own age, and they lived across the continent. His household now had thirteen people, coming and going and opening doors, and the sawing continued in the back hall, to make more room, but there was nobody his own age, mani and nand’ Bren were off across the country, and he suddenly did not know what he was going to do with a bare spot on that wall.

  They could use another cabinet, but he had no idea what they would put in it.

  There was no good keeping the cage. It was pretty, but that would be stupid.

  He could have more chairs—but chairs were fairly useless. He never had company.

  He left the desk and went over to Boji’s cage. Boji usually set up a fuss to be fed—endlessly hungry, and he was increasingly inclined to nip fingers if one teased him. But on this occasion Boji looked at him very quietly, very solemnly, and small dark fingers adjusted their grip on the brass vines. The other hand extended fingers outside, touching his fingers, curling around them for a moment.

  He had used to do that when he was smaller. He had used to do that after he had been scolded.

  He had used to take Boji out of his cage and pet him, but Boji had figured how to slip his harness lately, and they had not figured how to prevent it. If the rascal could reach a buckle, he could undo it. Ties, he had figured out long ago. He could manage most latches. He had to warn the park about that.

  Thieving, too. If it was small, if it could be lifted, it woul
d be. If it could be lifted and hidden somewhere, even better. There was a teaspoon no one had yet found.

  It was right. It was simply time, and it was right, and if it was not this place, it would need to be another.

  17

  The train moved much more slowly now, occasionally turning. And most often climbing, there was no question of it. There was little to see out the little window but gray rock and glaring white—hard to tell at times whether one was looking at a mountain or the overcast sky.

  There was the regular, if slower, thump of the track under them and, amid so much ice and snow, ample warmth, a pot of tea, a quiet, private lunch, and the time-absorbing distraction of an unfamiliar map to learn, names and byways to memorize—in case.

  There was in fact more than one map. Jago had a plan of the lord’s residence, with its outlying buildings—storehouses, workshops, kitchens and such.

  “Cenedi acquired these,” Jago said. “And we are not spreading them about.”

  Given the company in which they traveled, that seemed a good decision.

  Bren referenced one against the other, he memorized names, he followed their course on the map and took notes.

  As the day passed, the air grew thinner, until he found himself uncharacteristically a little short of breath—Mospheiran-born at close to sea level, he never minded the elevation at Shejidan, which was about 1300 meters, and he had quickly adapted to the elevation of Mt. Adam Thomas on holidays. The dowager’s own Malguri, where she annually spent time when she could, roughly quadrupled the elevation of the capital, and she had had no particular difficulty with the space station or the shuttle, but he was a little concerned for her, considering they were going to one of the higher elevations on the planet.

  Hasjuran in winter also occasionally challenged its own temperature records, vying with Malguri for the coldest place regularly inhabited. And the dowager, they were informed, did not intend to sit on the train and invite visitors in.