Exile's Return

by Gayle Greeno

  “Ma, Ma, I think the baby hurt himself,” he called outside, and shoved thoughtfully at his brother with his bare toe, composed his face for grief.

  No, he hadn’t intended the first death, a fortuitous accident, but after the first death it was easy. And they were better off dead because they sapped his strength of purpose, his and his grandfather’s purpose, the triumphant return to the promised land. After all, one crushed mosquitoes so they wouldn’t feed off you. His little sister, only three, conveniently wandered behind the spavined mule while Baz curried it, just happened to rub the raw gall spot that made the mule lash a hind hoof like a crazy demon. He’d cried when they buried her, his tears for the mule that his father had beaten to death in his grief. They’d needed the mule more than his sister. As for his eight-year-old brother, drowning was simple enough; Baz affixed a short length of rope to the sunken coral in the lagoon and enticed his brother to dive with him to see what it was. What the noosed end captured was his brother’s ankle, stranding him beneath the surface. The water churned blue-green, bubbles rapidly billowing, frothing, until at last they subsided, smooth and calm. Easy enough to dive to him, slide the noose free, let the body pop to the surface for the tide to bring home.

  It had taken longer, though, to decide how to separate his parents from their spendthrift, lazy, carefree life, though abruptly less carefree with three children suddenly dead. They lacked ambition, drive, the desire to get ahead. Work— whatever for? Each paltry project they undertook fell to pieces for lack of planning, follow-through, concentration. Their haphazard attempts at betterment left him writhing with shame, his grandfather cursing their feckless ways under his breath. They couldn’t manage themselves, let alone money. Each octant his grandfather carefully doled out his pension, his share from the Samranth glassworks partnership, to cover his care, his food, and shelter, and his daughter squandered it in a flash. His grandfather put it down to an excess of Sunderlies blood in his daughter and her husband, and Baz lived in terror that it had infected him as well, though his grandfather swore Baz resembled a younger version of himself. How the old man ranted and railed, wished for strength to return to Samranth and his old life.

  His grandfather had given him some cullet, glass scraps from the old works, to play with, but Baz had carefully saved them in a pouch, treasure of things past, a promissory note to the future. But he willingly sacrificed the cullet to a greater end: the removal of his parents. All afternoon in a secluded mango grove he patiently rolled a cast-iron pipe fragment back and forth over the cullet, crushing the glass smaller and finer, finer and smaller, until it resembled powdery sugar. With the side of his hand he’d gently brushed it into the folded scrap of paper salvaged from the hut. He’d hated to take it, crease it, because it announced his grandfather’s coming to the Sunderlies along with others convicted of the same crime: the premeditated murder of fifty Gleaners in Canderis. His grandfather had sounded very brave and righteous, a leader of men was Hosea Bazelon. He’d scraped the side of his hand sweeping the glass powder onto the paper, hoped the blood smears wouldn’t obliterate too much of the story, despite the fact he’d committed it to memory.

  His parents thanked him profusely for the berries he’d collected that night for dessert and the sugar so thoughtfully earned, a neighbor’s payment for chores done. Baz refused the berries, saying he was full, and his grandfather refused because they gave him the grippe, so all the more for his parents. They spooned the sugar on, spooned down the berries and sugar with greedy delight. A shame the racket they made that night as they writhed with pain, vomiting blood, doubling over with cramps. And Hosea Bazelon said nothing as he hobbled around, helping Baz clean up after them, wash and shroud the bodies. Soon after that they’d stuffed their few possessions into baskets and sacks, hailed an outrigger to sail them downriver to Samranth, the capital on the coast. Though a wide sea still intervened, he was that much closer to Canderis.

  Back in the present, back in the waiting room outside the High Conciliators’ offices, Baz squirmed, set ankle across knee and tossed his arms over the bench back, totally comfortable, at ease and immersed in the past. Those pains and privations made for pleasurable recounting since he knew the ending was happy, so right, so richly deserved. And he deserved so much more, as did the man who’d helped him rise. The number of people waiting had thinned, the slant of light at the windows showed it was late afternoon. Yes, Darl would see him soon. Good friends didn’t presume on each other, and after Darl understood what he offered, he’d never have to wait again. Darl would be as indebted to him as Baz was indebted to Darl. Eyes drifting closed, he slid into the past as gently as he’d slid back under the waves of the lagoon to retrieve his brother’s body. His cherry-red lips formed a silent giggle.

  The Sunderlies: home of Canderis’s castoffs, the violent and murderous, the recalcitrant who could not or would not obey the nation’s laws. Such misfits faced deportation to the Sunderlies; and Canderis congratulated itself on its humane treatment of criminals, not demanding a life for a life as it had during the early settlement days. What the native Sunderlies thought of this influx of less-than-model citizens was never recorded, but since most of them lived deep in the jungle and beyond along the vast grazing plains, only those on the coast learned to adapt and thrive, interbreeding and learning lawlessness at the same time.

  A certain amount of trade sprang up between Canderis and the Sunderlies, a demand for native crafts, intricate wood inlays, metalwork, with deported convicts and their offspring serving as the merchanter middlemen. A few hearty Canderisians eager for adventure and profits came voluntarily, set up stores or manufacturies. And it was with Namrath Gilden, a voluntary exile, who’d originally partnered Hosea Bazelon in the glassworks before his grandfather had retired, sold his share. Namrath had handled the glassmaking, and Baz’s grandfather saw to the accounts, sought out profitable sales opportunities.

  Despite his recurrent fever fits, Hosea Bazelon was welcomed back as a limited partner, and Baz discovered the first real happiness he’d known. The mysteries of glass—from its liquid, flowing potentialities to its crystalline final form, strong yet fragile—captivated him and he quickly mastered its intricacies. He equally enjoyed the rigorous precision of accounting, the subtleties of salesmanship his grandfather taught him. With these distractions Baz could almost forget that they languished in the Sunderlies, postpone his desire to go to Canderis, because he’d finally realized that his grandfather could never return. That was the depth of his sacrifice for acting to save his land.

  On Baz’s fifteenth birthday his grandfather died, the first death he truly mourned—perhaps because he’d had no control over it. For the first time he felt truly empty, hollow, no one left to hate or love. Namrath had offered him Hosea’s position, but Baz had rebelled. Namrath served as an end to a need—and most of all he couldn’t bear losing his bond with glass, so malleable to his efforts. And each malleable, liquid flow expanded into a thing of wonder in his hands—so it should be with all things.

  “I don’t mind selling, but I’m not giving up my blowpipe,” he’d told Namrath, wearing his singed leather apron and his leather furnace gloves like a second skin.

  Sometimes Namrath’s features seemed to swim amongst the large pores on his face, gray-blue eyes watery under the sweatband. “Could really expand, have the orders roll in if you’d set your mind to selling, Baz. Not just the expates, but think of the natives, who don’t even know what they’re missing. Jars with ground glass stoppers to keep the moisture and bugs out of their rice and cornmeal, bottles to hold their liquor, glass ornaments to bedeck themselves.” His eyes had a greedy, faraway look. “If your grandfather hadn’t retired that first time, that’s what he’d planned to do. Too sick to do it when he came back.”

  He contemplated seizing control of the glassworks if something should happen to Namrath—his skills, his force of personality, his drive—it was possible, despite his youth. But Namrath had something else worth bartering, wheth
er he realized it or not. “I want to learn everything I can to create beauty, that’s what I truly want. You’re good, but you lack the artistry, the imagination to soar. Namrath, I’ll make you a bargain, find me a place in Canderis where I can learn, a place to stay, and a bit of money to live on until I get my feet under me, and you can have my share in the works.”

  Namrath had rolled a pontil between his palms, thoughtful, greed slackening his jaw. “Law of Return says any convict’s offspring has the right to reside in Canderis, if so desired, as long as the person doesn’t bear a grudge from the past. Don’t want to lose you, but want you to be happy,” and Baz could tell that Namrath was somehow afraid of him, in the same way he’d always been covertly fearful of Hosea Bazelon. Those here voluntarily never forgot they dealt with convicts and the offspring of convicts. “My niece just married a young man in Wexler. He’s been elected as Chief Conciliator, no less. The glassworks in Wexler won’t teach you everything, but it’ll start you learning some things you don’t know. Could write and see if Annette and Darl would board you.”

  “My Foy, Mr. Foy, the High Conciliator will see you now.” The young woman in clerical garb reached for his shoulder, as if drawn to his beauty, yes, how he knew the reaction, but he smiled and stretched, deflected her hand with his. The direct contact provided a deeper thrill.

  “Thank you.” He rose and stretched expansively, let the thin lawn shirt stretch across his chest, hint at the olive skin, the sprigs of dark chest hair beneath it. She was fumbling for the box under the bench, but he beat her to it, lifted it protectively. “Don’t tell me old Darl’s such a hard taskmaster that he makes you fetch and carry packages, too?” and watched color rise from her throat to the roots of her undistinguished, ill-cut sandy hair. “But you will lead the way, won’t you? After all, I’m a stranger, a provincial, and in need of your guidance. And perhaps later ...” he left the thought delicately unfinished as he followed her down the hall.

  “Baz!” Darl Allgood pushed away from a battered deal desk, high-stepped over piles of paper as he made his way to the door. Bazelon Foy stood stock-still, anticipating the embrace that would reassure him he was loved, for finally he’d encountered a man he respected and adored, a man who replaced a weak father, brother, and almost, even, the commanding presence of his grandfather. Arms tight around Darl’s shoulders he rocked, comforted and comforter. Darl, who saw only the good in him, forced him to be better than he thought he could be. Darl, who ignored the dark places in his heart, or spontaneously forgave them without digging at them. Absolution. Not that he needed absolution, for he’d done nothing wrong, everything was done for a reason, a righteous reason that assuaged his wants and needs. But still, if those dark places existed—as Hosea Bazelon had insisted they did in every man’s sou!—Darl Allgood turned them into light with his unaccusatory, nonjudgmental ways. Strange, when judgment was his calling.

  He hugged tighter, frightened by the thinness, the slack flesh, finally leaned back to examine the face, so careworn in so short a time. What did this job demand of this man? Overwork, no exercise, shoddy eating habits, mental distress. That burden he could ease. “I could count off more reasons than the Lady has Disciples, Darl, why it’s good to see you.” He pounded lightly on Darl’s chest with his fist. “You ran off to take this job without even saying good-bye, and I’ve had no chance to come to Gaernett to congratulate you.”

  Darl motioned him to a chair, cleared a comer of his desk, and hopped on it, perching as he was wont to do. “Things came up rather suddenly, Baz. And is it my fault that you’re such a prosperous businessman—no, artist extraordinaire—that you spend too much time away from Wexler, promoting your genius? Did I complain all those times you deserted Annette and me while you made your rounds to drum up business?”

  “I know, and I had no right to think your home and hearth would always be there to welcome me, no matter where I wandered or for how long.” Momentary panic seized him, searching, scanning. The wooden box! What had he done with it? It must have slipped from his grasp when he’d hugged Darl—had he dropped it? It sat beside the door, and he breathed a sigh of relief. It looked intact, as if he’d set it down unheeded in the emotional turmoil of greeting Darl. “I brought something for you, something to honor your new position but remind you of your past.” He flourished a circular penknife with a crescent blade and cut the ropes, pried the box open, straw spilling out. Reminded him of that secretary’s hair, just as untidy and stiff.

  Darl watched with the wholehearted anticipation of a child, and Baz adored him for that. Always curious how something worked, be it machine or mind, how things were constructed, even if he had no idea how to do it himself, always willing to listen to his complaints and joys when Baz pondered a problem at the glassworks, a new technique that had failed or shown unexpected consequences.

  The decanter’s body was a long, sleek ovoid, tapering into a graceful neck. Grape leaves etched the sides, a meandering thread of glass forming its stem, the veining of the leaves. The four balloon goblets stood pure, unadorned except for a leaf etched on the bottom of each balloon, visible only when the drink had been consumed. Darl took one with reverence, held it to the light, its sides so thin he appeared to look through air, no flaws or imperfections there to refract the light.

  “Baz,” Darl’s awe was genuine, unfeigned, and it warmed Baz’s heart, thawed the lonely place, almost erased the abandonment. “It’s peerless, absolutely incomparable. Your finest work. Breathtaking.” He rolled the stem between his fingers. “To drink from this is almost like having nothing between you and the wine.”

  “And speaking of drinking,” Baz rummaged in the comer of the box, reverently presented the bottle in both hands, “I hope you haven’t traveled so far from your roots that you no longer keep a corkscrew around. We need to toast your new position.”

  Filled glasses in hand, they sampled one of Wexler’s finest vintages, savoring it, savoring the companionship. Despite his resolve, Baz couldn’t help bringing up the subject, probing at it like a sore tooth. “I confess, in a way, I thought I might be elected Chief Conciliator in your stead. Although Elgar’s certainly competent,” he hastened to add. “Somehow I thought you... that you, well, you know, might put in a good word for me, mention my name... but I suppose you didn’t have time before you left.” The dark, liquid eyes revealed hurt, almost imperceptible betrayal. But oh, his willingness to forgive, he let it shine out of him, hopeful.

  The half-glass of wine had relaxed Darl, moderated some of his strain and worry. He played with the glass, holding it to the light, beaming at its perfect balance. “It’s not up to me to influence the voters and you know it, that would have been an abuse of my position.” He shifted, cast a sidelong glance at the younger man, assessing him. “Besides, the position of Chief Conciliator is a full-time job. I can’t believe you’d give up your art—or your commerce. It’s always astounded me how you juggle both so gracefully, not have one overwhelm the other.”

  “I’d have given it up in the blink of an eye to follow in your footsteps, be like you.” Pain, passion, and pride in the words.

  Darl sat straighter, relaxation gone, posture uncomfortably formal. “Thank you for the compliment, but you’re not like me, Baz, we’re very different people. Very different,” he emphasized as if depths existed that Baz could never plumb. Ah, try me, he wanted to cry. “You have a certain reputation for caring and compassion,” he swallowed, “most of the time. But you also unveil a temper, a consuming rage on occasion, no matter how you try to hide it. You’re impetuous, subject to strong emotion, determined to have your own way, no matter how ’oh-so-politely’ you go about it. It’s not often, but when it happens, people notice, mark the shift. And that absolutely won’t wash for a Chief Conciliator. A Chief Conciliator must be neutral, unswayed by emotion, capable of enforcing the letter of the law equitably.” He appealed to Baz, “Don’t you think you might find that a bit... taxing at times?”

  Baz had the grace to look
guilty, a simulation he’d learned to master well. “I suppose,” his reluctance clear, “because I know when I’m right, and it takes a passionate man to listen to his own heart, not be swayed by the petty proprieties that rule others.” He shrugged. “Well, you’re probably right,” and let it drop with an easy wave of his hand, as if he could dissolve it in the air, and changed the subject.

  “So, how does it stand with the Glea ... Resonants, Darl?”

  Now it was Darl’s turn to withdraw, the lines around his eyes, between his brows, deepening. “It won’t be easy, it won’t come fast,” he took a deep breath, “but we have to make them an integral part of society, accepted by all.”

  “Accepted by all?” Incredulous, Baz splashed wine as he refilled their glasses. “Accepted by none is more likely. Lady sustain and guide us, Darl, be careful about thinking thoughts like that!” Hitching his chair closer, intimate and confiding, “I travel, Darl, I see and hear what people are feeling, and it’s not acceptance, believe me. They remember trade being cut off with Marchmont; they remember their fears on discovering that Marchmont boasts Resonants. And the final straw was discovering them hidden in our midst. Best be rid of them completely, then people could breathe easier.”

  “And how do you propose we accomplish that? Resurrect your grandfather’s zealotry, Baz?” Flooded with disappointment, Darl fought it, swallowed it whole, his throat raw at the effort. “I thought, I hoped I’d dissuaded you from such ugly biases, convinced you to be tolerant and nonjudgmental until you knew a person. That’s what a Chief Conciliator must do. Do you know any Resonants?”