by Anissa Gray
But that issue is closed, thought Elemak. It was closed when the Oversoul made such a fool of me. The message was clear—try to kill Nafai and you’ll only be made to bumble and fumble around like a half-wit, unable even to tie a knot. And now it wouldn’t be Nafai he’d have to overcome in order to change their destination, it would be Father. No, there was no escape for Elemak. And besides, Basilica had nothing for him. Unlike Meb, he wasn’t content to hop from bed to bed and live off any woman who’d take him in. He needed to have stature in the city, he needed to know that when he spoke, men listened. Without money, there was little hope of that.
Besides, he loved Eiadh and was proud of little Proya, and he loved the desert life in a way that no one else, not even Volemak, could ever understand. And if he went back to Basilica, Eiadh would eventually not renew his marriage contract. He would again be in the unmanly position of having to look for a wife solely in order to maintain himself in the city. That would be unbearable—this was how men were meant to live, secure with their women, secure with their children. He had no desire to break up his family now. He had stopped dreaming of Basilica, or at least had stopped wishing for it, since the only land of life worth living there was out of reach to him.
Only Meb and Dolya still had fantasies of returning. And, useless as they both were, it wouldn’t hurt the company one bit to let them go.
So as Elemak and his father were choosing the site for that night’s camp, he broached the subject. “You know that Meb and Dolya still want to go back to Basilica.”
“They have so little imagination, I’m not surprised,” said Volemak. “Some people only have one idea in their lives, and so they can hardly bear to let it go.”
“You know that they’re also nearly worthless to us.”
“Not as worthless as Kokor,” said Father.
“Yes, well, it’s hard to compete with her.”
“None of them are completely worthless,” said Father. “They may not do their share of work, but we need their genes. We need their babies in our community.”
“Our life would be much easier … a lot less conflict and annoyance . . . if—”
“No,” said Volemak.
Elemak seethed. How dare Father not even let him finish his sentence.
“It’s not by my choice,” said Volemak. “I’d let anyone go back who wanted to, if it were up to me. But the Oversoul has chosen this company.”
Elemak stopped paying attention almost as soon as Father mentioned the Oversoul. It always meant that the reasonable part of the discussion was over.
When they camped for the night, Elemak determined that during his watch, if Meb and Dolya decided to slip away, he’d make sure he didn’t happen to notice them. It would be easy enough to find the way—the desert wasn’t all that challenging through here, and they’d have the best chance of the whole journey to return to civilization. Which wasn’t that good a chance, admittedly—there would be as great a risk of bandits as ever. Perhaps more, now that Moozh ruled in Basilica and would drive rough and uncivilized men from the city. Maybe the Oversoul would watch out for them and help them get back to Basilica—and maybe not. Whatever happened, Elemak wouldn’t block their attempt, if they made one.
But they didn’t. Elemak even stood a longer watch than usual, but they never slipped out of their tent, never tried to steal a camel or two. Elemak finally woke Vas for his watch and then went to bed, full of fresh contempt for Meb. If it had been I who wanted to leave the group and live somewhere else, I would have taken my wife and baby and left. But not Mebbekew. He takes no for an answer far too easily.
At midmorning on the third day of travel, they reached the point where, to return to Basilica, they would have traveled north. Elemak recognized the spot; so, of course, did Volemak. But no one else did; no one realized that when they continued eastward instead of turning straight north, they were closing their last hope of restoring something like their old life.
Elemak didn’t feel at all sad about it. He wasn’t like Mebbekew—his life had centered in the desert all along. He had only returned to Basilica in order to sell his goods and find a wife, though of course he always enjoyed the city and thought of it as home. It’s just that the idea of home had never meant that much to him—he didn’t get homesick or nostalgic or teary-eyed about it. Not till Eiadh gave birth and he held Proya in his arms and heard the boy’s firm loud cry and saw his smile. And then home, to him, was the tent where Eiadh and Proya slept. He had no need of Basilica now. He was too strong in himself to hunger for a particular city the way Meb did.
But if this caravan was going to be Elemak’s world for the next few years, he was determined to make sure his position in this small polity was as dominant and important as possible. In the valley, where Zdorab’s garden brought in half the food and Nafai was as good at hunting as Elemak himself, there was no way for Elemak to fully emerge, secure in his position of leadership. Now, though, on camelback again, even Father deferred to Elemak’s judgment on many, many issues, and while the Oversoul chose their general direction, it was Elemak who determined their exact path. He could look back over the company and find Eiadh, her eyes on him whenever she wasn’t busy with nursing the baby. The journey was reminding her of how essential he was to the survival of the whole enterprise, and he loved the pride she took in that.
The Oversoul had told Father that if they found a good safe route and had plenty of supplies, sixty days of steady traveling would bring them to their destination. But of course, sixty days of traveling was out of the question. The babies could never endure that long a stretch of heat and dryness and instability. No, they would have to find another secure place and rest again. And perhaps another after that. And in each place, they would probably have to stay long enough to put in a crop and harvest it to feed them on the next leg of their journey. A year. A year in each place, perhaps three years to make a sixty-day journey. Yet through it all, it would be Elemak truly leading them, and by the end of it everyone should be turning to me for leadership, with Father reduced to nothing more than what he ought to be—a wise old counselor. But not the true leader, not anymore.
That will be me, by right. If I decide then that the Oversoul’s destination is the place where I want to lead the group, then that’s where I’ll lead them, and they’ll get there safely and in good time. If I decide otherwise, of course, then the Oversoul can go hang.
The Nividimu River wasn’t a seasonal river—it rose from natural springs in the rugged Lyudy Mountains, which were high enough to catch snow in the winter. But the flow was never much, and when the river dropped steeply down the Krutohn Valley and reached the low, hot, dry desert, it sank into the sand and disappeared many kilometers before reaching the Scour Sea.
It was because of the Nividimu that the great north-south caravan trail climbed steeply up into the Lyudy Mountains and then followed the river down, almost to the point where it disappeared. It was the most dependable source of drinkable water between Basilica on the north and the Cities of Fire to the south. Perhaps a dozen caravans a year passed along the banks of the Nividimu, and so it was almost to be expected that the Index would instruct them to make camp for a week in the foothills of the Lyudy Mountains while a northbound caravan with a heavy military escort made its way up the valley and then down the twisting road out of the mountains.
The worst thing about the wait was that they couldn’t make any fires. The military escort, the Index told them, was nervous and eager to find an enemy. Smoke would be taken as a sign of bandits, and the soldiers wouldn’t wait to find out otherwise before slaughtering them all. So they ate the most miserable traveling rations and sat around getting annoyed with each other, waiting for the day that Volemak told them that the Index had decided they could leave.
It was on the second day, as Elemak and Vas were hunting together—for Vas had some talent as a tracker of animals—that they lost the first pulse. Vas probably shouldn’t have been carrying one, but he asked for it, and it woul
d have been too humiliating to forbid him to have one. Besides, there was always the chance that he’d surprise a dangerous beast of prey that had tracked the same quarry, and then he’d need the pulse to defend himself.
Vas was not usually clumsy. But as he crabwalked along a narrow ledge over a defile, he stumbled, and as he caught himself, the pulse slipped out of his hand. It bounced on a rocky out-cropping, and then sailed out into space and on into a canyon. Vas and Elemak never heard it strike bottom. “It could have been me,” he kept saying, when he told the story that night.
Elemak didn’t have the heart to tell him that it might have been better for everyone if it had been him. They only had four pulses, after all, and no way of getting more—eventually they would lose their ability to recharge themselves from sunlight, which was why Elemak was so careful about keeping two of them hidden away in a dark place. With one pulse gone, now one of the hidden ones had to come out and into use for hunting.
“Why were you hunting, anyway?” asked Volemak, who understood what the loss of the pulse might mean in the future. He directed his question at Elemak, which was proper, since it was Elemak’s decision to take two pulses out into the desert that day.
Elemak answered as coldly as if he thought Volemak had no right to challenge his decision. “For meat,” he said. “The wives can’t nurse properly on hard biscuits and jerky.”
“But since we can’t cook the meat, what did you expect them to do, eat it raw?” asked Volemak.
“I thought I could sear the meat with the pulse,” said Elemak. “It would be rare, but ...”
“It would also be a waste of power that we can ill afford,” said Volemak.
“We need the meat,” said Elemak.
“Should I have jumped after the pulse?” asked Vas, nastily.
“Nobody wants that,” said Elemak scornfully. “This isn’t about you anymore.”
Hushidh watched the conversation in silence, as she usually did when there was conflict, seeing how the threads connecting them seemed to change. She knew that the lines she saw between people were not real, that they were simply a visual metaphor that her mind constructed for her—a sort of hallucinatory diagram. But their message about relationships and loyalties and hatreds and loves was real enough, as real as the rocks and sand and scrub around them.
Vas was the anomaly of the group and had been all along. No one hated him, no one resented him. But no one loved him, either. There was no great loyalty binding anyone to him—and none binding him to anybody else, either. Except the strange bond between him and Sevet, and the even stranger one between him and Obring. Sevet had little love or respect for her husband Vas—theirs had been a marriage in name only, for convenience, with no particular bond of loyalty between them, and no great love or friendship, either. But he seemed to feel something very powerful toward her, something that Hushidh did not understand, had never seen before. And his bond with Obring was almost the same, only a bit weaker. Which should not have been the case, since Vas had no reason to be closely tied to Obring. After all, hadn’t Obring been the one who was caught in bed with Sevet the night that Kokor surprised them and almost killed her sister? Why should Vas feel a strong connection to Obring? Its strength—which Hushidh recognized by the thickness of the cord she saw connecting them—rivaled the strength of the strongest marriages in the company, like the one between Volemak and Rasa, or what Elemak felt toward Eiadh, or the growing bond between Hushidh herself and her beloved Issib, her devoted and sweet and brilliant and loving Issib, whose voice was the music underlying all her joy . . .
That, she knew, was not what Vas felt toward Sevet or Obring—and toward everyone else he seemed to feel almost nothing. Yet why Sevet and Obring, and no one else? Nothing connected them except their one-time adultery . . .
Was that the connection? Was it the adultery itself? Was Vas’s powerful link with them an obsession with their betrayal of him? But that was absurd. He had known of Sevet’s affairs all along; they had an easy marriage that way. And Hushidh would have recognized the connection between them if it had been hate or rage—she had seen plenty of that before.
Even now, when Vas should have been connected to everyone in the company by a thread of shame, of desire to make amends, to win approval, there was almost nothing. He didn’t care. Indeed, he was almost satisfied.
“We could more easily have afforded the power to cook the meat,” said Sevet, “back when we had all four pulses.”
It astonished Hushidh that Vas’s own wife would bring up Vas’s culpability.
But it was no surprise when Kokor followed her sister and pounced even more directly. “You might have watched your step in the first place, Vas,” she said.
Vas turned and regarded Kokor with mild disdain. “Perhaps I should have learned about working carefully and efficiently by following your example.”
Quarrels like this started far too easily and usually went on far too long. It didn’t take a raveler like Hushidh to know where this argument would lead, if it was allowed to continue. “Drop it,” said Volemak.
“I’m not going to take the blame for our having no cooked meat,” said Vas mildly. “We still have three pulses and it’s not my fault that we can’t light fires.”
Elemak put a hand on Vas’s shoulder. “It’s me that Father holds responsible, and rightly so. It was my misjudgment. There should never have been two pulses on the same hunting trip. When we blame you for our lack of meat, you’ll know it.”
“Yes, we’ll start eating you,” said Obring.
It was funny enough that several people laughed, if only to release the tension; but Vas did not appreciate the joke’s having come from Obring. Hushidh saw the odd connection between them flare and thicken, like a black hawser mooring Vas to Obring.
Hushidh watched, hoping that they might quarrel just long enough for her to understand what it was between them, but at that moment Shedemei spoke up. “There’s no reason we can’t eat the meat raw, if it’s from a fresh kill and the animal was healthy,” she said. “Searing the outside a little just before eating it would help kill any surface contamination without using much power. We have a good supply of antibiotics if someone does get sick, and even when we run out of those, we can make fairly adequate ones from available herbs if we need to.”
“Raw meat,” said Kokor in disgust.
“I don’t know if I can eat it,” said Eiadh.
“You just have to chew it more,” said Shedemei. “Or cut it into finer pieces.”
“It’s the taste of it,” said Eiadh.
“It’s the idea of it,” said Kokor, shuddering.
“It’s only a psychological barrier,” said Shedemei, “which you can easily overcome for the good of your babies.”
“I don’t know why someone without a baby should be telling the rest of us what’s good for us,” snapped Kokor.
Hushidh saw how Kokor’s words stung Shedemei. It was one of Hushidh’s most serious worries about their company, the way that Shedemei was becoming more and more isolated from the women. Hushidh talked about it with Luet rather often, and they had been doing their best to deal with it, but it wasn’t easy, because much of the barrier was in Shedemei herself—she had persuaded herself that she didn’t want children, but Hushidh knew from the way Shedemei focused so intently on all the babies in the group that unconsciously she judged her own value by the fact that she had no children. And when some shortsighted, unempathic little birdbrain like Kokor threw Shedemei’s childlessness in her face, Hushidh could almost see Shedemei’s connections with the rest of the group dropping away.
And the silence after Kokor’s remark didn’t help. Most of them were silent because that’s how one responded to unspeakable social clumsiness—one gave it just a long enough silence to serve as a rebuke to the offensive one, and then one went on as if it had not been said. But Hushidh was sure that was not how Shedya interpreted the silence. After all, Shedya was not well versed in high manners, and she was also rele
ntlessly aware of her childlessness, so to her the silence no doubt meant that everyone agreed with Kokor, but was too polite to say so. Just one more injury, one more scar on Shedemei’s soul.
If it were not for the intense friendship between Shedemei and Zdorab, and the much slighter friendship that Luet and Hushidh had cultivated with Shedya, and Shedya’s great love and respect for Rasa, the woman would have no positive connection with the rest of the company at all. It would be nothing but envy and resentment.
It was Luet who finally broke the silence. “If meat is what our babies need, then of course we’ll eat it seared, or even raw. But I wonder—are we so close to the edge, nutritionally, that we can’t go a week without meat?”
Elemak looked at her coldly. “You can treat your baby as you want. Ours will always suckle on milk that has been freshened with animal protein within three days.”
“Oh, Elemak, do I have to eat it?” asked Eiadh.
“Yes,” said Elemak.
“It’ll be fine,” said Nafai. “You’ll never notice the difference.”
They all turned to look at him. His remark was quite outrageous. “I think I can tell whether meat is raw or cooked, thank you,” said Eiadh.
“We’re all here because we’re more or less susceptible to the Oversoul,” said Nafai. “So I just asked if the Oversoul could make the meat taste acceptable to us. Make us think that there’s nothing wrong with it. And it said that it could do that, if we didn’t try to resist it. So if we don’t dwell on the fact that we’re eating raw meat, the Oversoul can influence us enough that we won’t really be aware of the difference.”