by Anissa Gray
He spoke with such simplicity that his words had the plain force of truth. He could feel something crumble inside Elemak. Not that the rage had died; what broke in him was that part of him that could not bear to be afraid. And when that barrier was gone, all the rage turned back into what it had really been all along: fear. Fear that he would lose his place to his younger brother. Fear that people would look at him and see weakness instead of strength. Fear that people wouldn’t love him. Above all, fear that he really had no control over anything or anybody in the world. And now, all those fears that he had long hidden from himself were turned loose within him—and they had all, all of them, come true. He had lost his place. He looked weak to everyone, even his children. No one here could love him now. And he had no control at all, not even enough control to kill this boy who had supplanted him.
With Elemak no longer moving forward, Meb, too, stopped—always the opportunist, he seemed to have no will of his own. But Nafai well knew that Meb was less broken in spirit than Elemak. He would go on plotting and sneaking, and with Elemak out of the picture, there would be nothing to restrain him.
It was clear to Nafai, therefore, that he had not yet won. He had to demonstrate clearly, unforgettably, to Meb and Elemak and to all the others, that this was not just a struggle between brothers, that in fact it was the Oversoul who had overcome Elemak and Meb, not Nafai at all. And in the back of his mind, Nafai clung to this hope: that if Elya and Meb could come to understand that it was the Oversoul who broke them today, they might eventually forgive Nafai himself, and be his true brothers again.
Enough power to shock them, said Nafai silently. Not to kill.
〈As you intend, the cloak will act.〉
Nafai held out his hand. He could see the sparking himself, but it was far more imposing when he saw through the eyes of others. By accessing the Oversoul he could see dozens of views of himself at once, his face a-dazzle with dancing light, growing brighter and brighter. And his hand, alive with light as if a thousand fireflies had swarmed around it. He pointed his finger at Elemak, and an arc of fire like lightning leapt from his fingertip, striking Elemak in the head.
Elya’s body spasmed brutally and he was flung to the ground.
Have I killed him? cried Nafai in silent anguish.
〈Just shocked him. Have a little trust in me, will you?〉
Sure enough, Elemak was moving now, writhing and jerking on the ground. So Nafai extended his hand toward Meb.
“No!” cried Mebbekew. Having seen what happened to Elemak, he wanted no part of it. But Nafai could see that in his heart, he was still plotting and scheming. “I promise, I’ll do whatever you want! I never wanted to help Elemak anyway, he just kept pushing me and pushing me.”
“Meb, you’re such a fool. Do you think I don’t know that it was Elemak who stopped you from murdering me in the desert, when I stopped you from killing a baboon?”
Meb’s face became a mask of guilty fear. For the first time in his life, Mebbekew had come face to face with one of his own secrets, one that he thought no one could know; there’d be no escaping from the consequences now. “I have children!” cried Mebbekew. “Don’t kill me!”
The arc of lightning again crackled through the air, connecting with Meb’s head and knocking him to the ground.
Nafai was exhausted. He could barely stand. Luet, help me, he said silently, urgently.
He felt her hands on his arm, holding him up. She must have climbed into the paritka beside him.
Ah, Luet, this is how it should always be. I can never stand without you beside me. If you’re not part of this I can’t do it at all.
In answer, all he could feel from her was her love for him, her vast relief that the danger was over, her pride at the strength he had shown.
How can you be so forgiving? he asked her silently.
I love you was the only message for him that he could find in her heart.
Nafai decided that the paritka should settle to the ground, and so it did. Luet helped him step from it, and with their children swarming around him, she led him back to the house. Over the next few minutes, all the others came to the house to see if they could help. But all he needed was to sleep. “Look after the others,” he whispered. “I’m worried that the damage might be permanent.”
When he awoke, it was near dusk. Zdorab was in their kitchen, cooking; Issib, Hushidh, Shedemei, and Luet were gathered around his bed. They weren’t looking at him . . . they were talking among themselves. He listened.
They spoke of how sorry they felt for Eiadh and Dol, and for their children. Especially Proya, who lived for the pride he felt in his father, Elemak. “He looked as if he had just seen his father die,” said Luet.
“He did,” said Hushidh. “At least, it was the death of the father that he knew.”
“The damage from this day will be a long time healing,” said Shedemei.
“Was it damage?” said Luet. “Or the beginning of the process of healing wounds that we had only ignored for the past eight years?”
Hushidh clucked her tongue. “Nafai would be the first to tell you that what happened today wasn’t healing, it was war. The Oversoul got her way today—the starship will be outfitted, and Elemak and Mebbekew will work as hard as anyone, when they recover from this. But the damage was permanent. Elemak and Mebbekew will always see Nafai as their enemy. And anyone who serves Nafai.”
“Nobody serves Nafai,” said Luet. “We only serve the Oversoul, as Nafai himself does.”
“Yes,” Shedemei agreed quickly. “We all understand that, Luet. This wasn’t Nafai’s battle, it was the Oversoul’s. It might have been any of us with the cloak.”
Nafai noticed that, however close she might come to the edge, this time Shedemei wasn’t telling that she was the one who would have had the cloak if Nafai had refused it. She would keep that now as private knowledge, between her and Zdorab. Elemak and Mebbekew, Vas and Obring—they weren’t likely to tell anybody, if they had even understood what she told them last night. She would always know that she was the Oversoul’s next choice for the leadership of the colony—that was enough for her, she was content.
“He’s awake,” said Luet.
“How do you know?” asked Issib.
“His breathing changed.”
“I’m awake,” said Nafai.
“How are you?” asked Luet.
“Still tired. But better. In fact, good. In fact, not even tired.” He propped himself up onto one elbow, and at once felt a little light-headed. “On second thought, definitely still tired.” He lay back down.
The others laughed.
“How are Elya and Meb?”
“Sleeping if off, same as you,” said Shedemei.
“And who has your children?” Nafai asked them.
“Mother,” said Issib.
“Lady Rasa,” said Shedemei. “Zdorab decided you’d want real food when you woke up, so he came over and cooked.”
“Nonsense,” said Luet. “He just knew how worried I’d be and didn’t want me to have to worry about cooking. You haven’t asked about our children.”
“Acutally, I don’t have to ask about anybody’s children,” he said. “I know where they are.”
There was nothing they could say to that. Soon they brought food in to him, and they all ate together, gathered around the bed. Nafai explained to them what kind of work would be required at the starship, and they began to think through the division of labor. They didn’t talk long, though, because Nafai was clearly exhausted—in body, if not in mind. Soon they were gone, even Luet; but Luet returned soon with the children, who came in and embraced their father. Chveya especially clung to him. “Papa,” she said, “I heard your voice in my heart.”
“Yes,” he said. “But that’s really the voice of the Oversoul.”
“It was your voice, when you thought you were dying,” she said. “You were standing on a hill, about to run down and throw yourself through an invisible wall. And you shouted to me
, Veya, I love you.”
“Yes,” he said. “That was my voice, after all.”
“I love you too, Papa,” she said.
He slept again.
And woke in the middle of the night, hearing a breeze from the sea as it played through the thatch of the roof. He felt strong again, strong enough to rise up into the wind and fly.
Instead he reached out and touched Luet, gathered her to him. She woke sleepily, and did not protest. Rather she snuggled closer. She was willing to make love, if he had wanted to. But all he wanted tonight was to touch her, to hold her. To share the dancing light of the cloak with her, so she could also remember all the things that he remembered from the mind of the Oversoul. So she could see into his heart as clearly as he saw into hers, and know his love for her as surely as he knew her love for him.
The light from the cloak grew and brightened. He kissed her forehead, and when his lips came away, he could see that a faint light also sparked on her. It will grow, he knew. It will grow until there is no difference between us. Let there be no barrier between us, Luet, my love. I never want to be alone again.
THE FACE OF THE OLD ONE
Everyone expected that Kiti’s sculpture this year would be a portrait of his otherself, kTi. That was Kiti’s intention, too, right up to the moment when he found his clay by the riverbank and set to work, prying and loosening it with his spear. There had been no more beloved young man in the village than kTi, none more hoped-for; there was talk that one of the great ladies would choose him for her husband, an offer of Life-marriage, extraordinary for one so young. If that had happened, then Kiti, as kTi’s otherself, would have been taken into the marriage as well. After all, since he and kTi were identical, it made no difference which of them might be the sire of a particular child.
But he and kTi were not identical, Kiti knew. Oh, their bodies were the same, as with every other birthpair. Since about a quarter of all birthpairs both lived to maturity, it wasn’t all that rare to have identical young men preparing to offer themselves to the ladies of the village, to be taken or rejected as a pair. So by custom and courtesy, everyone showed Kiti the same respect they showed his otherself. But everyone knew that it was kTi, not Kiti, who had earned their reputation for cleverness and strength.
It wasn’t entirely right for kTi to get all the credit for cleverness. Often when the two of them were flying together, watching over one of the village herds or scouting for devils or chasing crows away from the maizefields, it was Kiti who said, One of the goats is bound to try to go that way, or, That tree is one that’s likely for the devils to use. And at the beginning of their most famous exploit, it was Kiti who said, Let me pretend to be injured on that branch, while you wait with your spear on that higher perch. But when the story was told, it always seemed to be kTi who thought of everything. Why should people assume otherwise? It was always kTi who acted, it was always kTi whose boldness carried the day, while Kiti followed behind, helping, sometimes saving, but never leading.
Of course he could never explain this to anyone. It would be deeply shameful for one of a birthpair to try to take glory away from his otherself. And besides, as far as Kiti was concerned, it was perfectly fair. For no matter how good an idea of Kiti’s might have been, it was always kTi’s boldness that brought it off.
Why did it turn out that way? Kiti wasn’t lacking in courage, was he? Didn’t he always fly right with kTi on his most daring adventures? Wasn’t it Kiti who had to sit trembling on a branch, pretending to be injured and terrified, as he heard the faint sounds of a devildoor opening in the tree trunk and the tiny noises of the devil’s hands and feet inching their way along the branch behind him? Why was it that no one realized that the greatest courage was the courage to sit still, waiting, trusting that kTi would come with his spear in time? No, the story that was told in the village was all about kTi’s daring plan, kTi’s triumph over the devil.
It was evil of me to be so angry, thought Kiti. That’s why my otherself was taken from me. That’s why when the storm caught us out in the open, kTi was the one whose feet and fingers Wind pried away from the branch, kTi was who was taken up into heaven to fly with the gods. Kiti was not worthy, and so his grip on the branch held until Wind went away. It was as if Wind were saying to him, You envied your otherself, so I have torn you apart to show you how worthless you are without him.
This was why Kiti meant to sculpt the face of his otherself. And this was why, in the end, he could not. For to sculpt the face of kTi was also to sculpt his own face, and he could not, in his deep unworthiness, bear to do that.
Yet he had to sculpt something. Already the saliva was flowing in his mouth to moisten the clay, to lick it and smooth it, to give a lustrous patina to the finished sculpture. But if he did not sculpt his otherself’s face, so soon after kTi’s death, it would be scandalous. He would be seen as lacking in natural affection. The ladies would think that he didn’t love his brother, and so they wouldn’t want his seed in their family. Only some mere woman would offer to him. And he, overwhelmed with clay fever, would accept that offer like any eager boy, and she would bear his children, and he would look at them every year from then on remembering that he was the father of such low children because he could not bring himself to sculpt the face of his beloved kTi.
I did love him, he insisted silently. With all my heart I loved him. Didn’t I follow him wherever he decided? Didn’t I trust him with my life again and again? Didn’t I save him time after time, when his impetuosity brought him into peril? Didn’t I even urge him to turn back, a storm was coming, let’s find shelter, we have to find shelter, what does it matter if we find the devilpath on this flight or the next, turn back, turn back, and he wouldn’t, he ignored me as if I didn’t exist, as if I were nothing, as if I didn’t even get a vote on my own survival, let alone his.
The clay was growing moist, balling up and beginning to flow in his hands, but it was as much tears as saliva that moistened it. O Wind, thou tookest my otherself, and now I cannot find his face in the clay. Give me a shape, O Wind, if I am worthy! O Maize, if I am to bring you daughters to tend your fields, then give my fingers knowledge even if my mind is dull! O Rain, flow with my saliva and my tears and make the clay live under my hands! O Earth, thou deep-burning mother, make my bones wise, for they will someday belong to you again. Let me bring other bones, young bones, child bones out of your clay, O Earth! Let me bring young wings into your hands, O Wind! Let me make new grains of life for thee, O Maize! Let me bring new waterdrinkers, new weepers, new sculptors for thee to taste, O Rain!
Yet despite his pleading, the gods put no shape under his hands.
His tears blinded him. Should he give up? Should he fly up into the sky of the dry season and search for some faraway village that might want a sturdy male and never see Da’aqebla again? Or should his despair go even farther? Should he put the clay out of his hands and yet remain there at the riverbank, exposed, for the watching devils to see that he had no sculpture in him? Then they would take him like an infant back to their caves, and devour him alive, so that in his dying moments he would see the devil queen eating his own heart. That was how his end should come. Carried down into hell, because he was not worthy to be taken by Wind up into heaven. kTi would have all the honor then, and not have to share it with his low unworthy otherself.
His fingers worked, though he could not see what they shaped.
And as they worked, he stopped mourning his own failure, for he realized that there was a shape now under his hands. It was being given to him, in a way that he had only heard about. As a child, playing at sculpture with the other boys, he had been the cleverest every time, but he had never felt the gods interceding with his hands. What he shaped was always from his own mind and memory.
Now, though, he didn’t even know what it was that was growing under his hands, not at first. But soon, no longer grieving, no longer fearful, his vision cleared and he saw. It was a head. A strange head, not of a person or a devil or any c
reature Kiti had ever seen before. It had a high forehead, and its nose was pointed, hairless, smooth, the nostrils opening downward. Of what use was such a snout as this? The lips were thick and the jaw was incredibly strong, the chin jutting out as if it was competing with the nose to lead this creature forward into the world. The ears were rounded and stuck out from the middle of the sides of the head. What kind of creature is this that I am shaping? Why is something so ugly growing under my hands?
Then, suddenly, the answer came into his mind: This is an Old One.
His wings trembled even as his hands continued, sure and strong, to shape the details of the face. An Old One. How could he know this? No one had ever seen an Old One. Only here and there, in some sheltered cave, was there found some inexplicable relic of their time upon the earth. Da’aqebla had only three such relics, and Da’aqebla was one of the oldest villages. How could he dare to tell the ladies of the village that this grotesque, malformed head that he was shaping was an Old One? They would laugh at him. No, they would be outraged that he would think they were foolish enough to believe such a nonsensical claim. How can we judge your sculpture, if you insist on shaping something that has never been seen by any living soul? You might have done better to leave the clay in a shapeless ball and say that it was a sculpture of a river stone!
Despite his doubts, his hands and fingers moved. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that there must be hair on the bony ridge over the eyes, that the fur of the head must be long, that there must be a depression centered under the nose and leading down to the lip. And when he was through, he did not know how he knew that it was finished. He contemplated what he had made and was appalled by it. It was ugly, strange, and far too large. Yet this was how it had to be.
What have you done to me, O gods?
He still sat, contemplating the head of the Old One, when the ladies came soaring, swooping down to the riverbank. At the fringes were the men whose sculptures had already been seen. Kiti knew them all, of course, and could easily guess at what their work was like. A couple of them were husbands, and because their lady was married to them for life, their sculptures were no longer in competition with the others. Some of them were young, like Kiti, offering sculptures for the first time—and from their slightly hangdog expressions, Kiti could tell that they hadn’t made the impression that they hoped for. Nevertheless, the clay fever was on all the males, and so they hardly looked at him or his sculpture; their eyes were on the ladies.