by M. D. Hall
‘Cyrar left your father, and came to the city where I was teaching, she had no idea I was there, our meeting was pure accident. When I saw what had been done to her, I insisted she tell me everything. She agreed, on condition I wouldn’t confront Bakir, I accepted her terms, but later wished I hadn’t. When she finished her story, I wanted to go to your father,’ he stopped himself and took a deep breath, the memory of that day showing as anger in his face, ‘but I was bound by my promise, and so let it go. We stayed together, your mother and I, for almost six months when, out of the blue, she received a communication from your father pleading with her to meet him. She agreed, and after the meeting told me she had to return as her situation, Bakir called it, had come to the attention of the military authorities. It had been made clear that if she stayed with me, it would prejudice her sons’ future in the military.’
‘Why would it affect my brothers, they hadn't done anything wrong?’ Gorn asked.
‘Because, the military have their own rules, which bear only a passing resemblance to civilian codes of conduct. They have no problem with people having multiple relationships, and children born outside of marriage, Denaa is a prime example. If a serving officer has a relationship with the wife of a civilian, it isn't a problem, but if the roles are reversed they will do all they can to bring the relationship to an end. All they care about is preserving the semblance of decency.’
‘By punishing my brothers for something they hadn't done? Why not threaten my father?’
Zaran shook his head. ‘Your mother was unlikely to respond to that, and they knew exactly how to restore equilibrium. It didn't matter to them that the stability they wanted involved a brutal husband misusing his wife, as long as everything appeared to be well on the surface. I’ve no doubt something was said to Bakir to the effect that visible signs of unrest were to be avoided at all costs. The myth of life in the military being near perfect, would continue.’
‘Would they have carried out their threat? asked Gorn.
‘I really don’t know, but if I was forced to make an educated guess I’d say, yes,’ he returned to his story. ‘Your mother had no choice, she returned. As the military correctly predicted, she would put the interests of her children first.’
‘This isn't why you asked to speak to me. You're leading up to something.’
Zaran said nothing.
‘I need you to tell me.’
‘Six months after your mother returned to Bakir, you were born.’
A wave of something Gorn had never before experienced swept through his mind, touching all that he knew. The constants in his life were instantly changed, the elements that formed the essence of him, based on a lie. At once, everything made perfect sense, in a sick and twisted way. He had been punished all his life, for something that was not his fault, with those he was closest to, allowing him to think he was somehow to blame. He felt betrayed by everyone he loved and respected. How many of them knew, yet said nothing?
It was late morning and he found himself back at the home of his friends, with no idea how he had got there. No recollection of getting up from the table, or leaving the park, it was all a blank. He was about to walk on, when Ciarra came running down the sweeping entrance to the villa. She came up to him and held out her arms, he stood back. ‘You knew about Zaran and my mother,’ it was not a question.
Ciarra’s arms fell to her sides. ‘Yes, Jaron and I knew.’
‘When were you going to tell me?’
‘Never. It was for your mother or Zaran to tell you, when you were ready,’ she stepped forward and took his arm, he did not resist. She then slowly guided her friend’s son indoors, fearful that if she were to let go he would run off with no one to help him heal; Zaran had contacted them, afraid of how his son might react. She led Gorn to a large couch that he and Genir had jumped on as small children and, by placing her hands on his shoulders, made it clear he was to sit. Nothing was said.
In the last twenty-four hours, he had slept for only two. Feeling anger and betrayal, he knew it was unlikely he would sleep for many more hours. Within three minutes of sitting on the old couch, he was asleep.
Ciarra stayed with Cyrar’s son, determined to be there for him when he woke, and to let him know the truth about his mother.
As far as Gorn could tell, his sleep was dreamless, but he opened his eyes, mind made up, only to find Ciarra asleep in the armchair next to him with Jaron sitting on the edge of the couch, looking at him.
Jaron pre-empted Gorn’s question, ‘a little over eighteen hours.’
Gorn rubbed his eyes. ‘Eighteen hours?’
‘Ciarra has remained at your side, but even she couldn’t stay awake that long. I didn't think it fair to wake her, and so I’ve been here for three hours.’
‘Why would you both do that?’ Gorn was genuinely baffled.
‘Because my boy, contrary to what you might think, other than Genir, there are three people who care for you. Ciarra and I are two, the other is your father, your real father; the man who was desperate to be with you from the moment you were born, but stayed in the shadows only because your mother asked it of him.’
‘Come,’ he said, his voice brightening, ‘let’s eat,’ he looked over to his sleeping wife. ‘She won’t thank me for letting her sleep, and she’ll wake with a very stiff neck, but I think it best we leave her.’
Gorn rose from the couch, taking care not to wake Ciarra, and followed Jaron into another room where three places were laid with food and drink. While he was content to keep Jaron company, food was the furthest thing from his mind. Jaron motioned for him to sit and soon the two of them were helping themselves to what was before them. Once he started eating, Gorn found a bottomless well in the place where his stomach should have been, he could not remember ever eating as much. Neither of them spoke.
Once they had cleared their plates, for the last time, Jaron leaned back in his chair. ‘So what are you going to do now?’
‘How long did you know about my mother and Zaran, and me?’ he asked.
‘Soon after Cyrar discovered she was pregnant. Ciarra and I have always been very close to your mother and Zaran. It wouldn’t have been possible for them, either of them, to keep it from us. As she did with Zaran, your mother swore us to secrecy over your true parentage. She knew we would never mention it abroad, but she was adamant we weren’t to tell you. Later, she wished she had let you know, and intended telling you when you had established your independence. She told the three of us, that if anything happened to her, Zaran should be the one to tell you.’
Gorn asked. ‘Did he, Bakir, have anything to do with her death?’
‘Cyrar was completely alone when it happened. He was in another city…’
‘That isn't what I asked. Did he have anything to do with her death?’
Jaron glanced towards the room where his wife was sleeping, as if hoping she would appear and take away the burden of answering. When no help came from that quarter, he turned back to the persistent young man. ‘Bakir thought your mother was going to leave him for Zaran. She said it wasn’t true, but he didn’t believe her. During her last visit here, she told us of his threat to inform the Navy of your true paternity, if she ever did leave.’
Gorn interrupted. ‘He knew how she would react. She gave up her happiness for my brothers, and it was a safe guess she wouldn’t risk my career.’
‘I think you're right. Neither the military, nor the Supreme Council would be able to remove you, but your mother is…was a very intelligent woman. She knew that there are many ways to halt, or ruin a career. You would find obstacles placed in your way, and have no idea why you were being singled out.’
Something about this whole thing made no sense to Gorn. ‘He only threatened to tell, if she left him. If she stayed he wouldn’t have carried out his threat.’
‘You’re assuming Bakir was rational, he wasn’t, and your mother knew that. There had been no contact between her and Zaran, and nothing to suggest otherwise, yet Baki
r was convinced they were seeing each other. I can only imagine that something was said, or happened after Cyrar left us, to convince her she only had one option.’
Instead of anger taking control of him, Gorn’s rational mind surfaced. He let it take him to the unpleasant, but unavoidable, conclusion he now put to Jaron. ‘My mother took her own life to protect me against her husband?’
Jaron had noted the change in designation for the young man’s adoptive father. He knew that from this day Gorn would never again refer to Bakir as father. He was distancing himself from the man he may have to act against now, or at a chosen point in the future. He also knew that Cyrar’s son had decided to punish the man who had indirectly caused her death. The calculated nature of Gorn’s reaction chilled him. ‘I swore to your mother that if you asked me any questions, I would only tell you the truth, even if the answers would cause you pain. She would know that, according to custom, the surviving husband must laud his deceased wife at the remembrance ceremony. This he did, Ciarra and I were there after you left, we witnessed it. He couldn’t say anything that would tarnish your mother’s memory. The effect of his threat had been inverted. Any attempt to besmirch her character would result in a dishonour that would destroy him, and infect your half brothers.
‘While he hates you for what you represent, the product of a few short months of happiness your mother and father enjoyed together, he knows that you will be sympathetically received as the son of a woman of honour. He is powerless to do anything.’
He paused to see Gorn's response, there was none. He had to do something to halt whatever was being planned. ‘Gorn, you have every right to be angry, and no one would blame you if your first reaction was to seek vengeance on your father...’ he corrected himself, ‘Bakir, but think it through. Your mother wouldn’t want that, she wanted better things for you.’
Gorn leaned across the table and took the older man’s hands in his own. ‘I appreciate everything you have said to me. I promise I won't seek revenge against my mother’s husband. I have no feelings towards him, at all. Following the closure ceremony, I’ll rejoin my ship,’ he paused and looked through the archway to the adjoining room where Ciarra was still sleeping. ‘I can't tell you how grateful I am to you both. I wouldn’t feel right going back home when I'm on shore leave, I’ll probably use the Navy apartment I've been loaned, until I can get something more permanent. ’
Jaron was relieved, sensing no veiled animus in the young man. ‘Formal Closure is tomorrow, I know that seems too soon, but it’s already been delayed because of your deployment. Of course, we’ll be there. Ciarra told you to treat our home as your own. I can speak for both of us, when I say we would be very unhappy if, after tomorrow, you stayed away.’
The two men walked around the table and embraced, not as members of the Navy, but as family.
‘I wish,’ added Jaron, as the two walked into the next room to wake Ciarra, ‘that Genir’s commanding officer hadn’t insisted he join his ship. They aren't departing for three months, but his squadron’s engaged in some major manoeuvres, and as one of the wing men he had to be there. He was devastated.’
Gorn nodded. ‘I wondered where he was. He would have been here if he could, but we both know the demands of the Navy come first. If they say they need him, then they need him. He doesn’t…?’
‘No, he has no idea that Zaran is your father. You’ll have to find the right moment to tell him.’
They woke Ciarra, and Gorn took his leave, agreeing to meet the next day and politely refusing the offer of their flyer. Walking through the parkland, between the villa and the town, he regretted the lie he told Jaron.
Ω
Gorn met his two friends at the Office of Formal Closure, where a state official would play a certified recording made by his mother, to all interested parties.
Certification was a lengthy process, and involved Cyrar recording, within the Office itself, all instructions concerning her property, as well as any other requests of a personal nature. Her instructions would be considered binding if the official was satisfied that title was established to the property being gifted, and she was of sound mind. Both matters were easy to establish, the first from official records, the second from scans taken immediately before the recording.
As well as Jaron and Ciarra, Gorn recognised his maternal grandparents. They did not speak, but each acknowledged him with a courteous nod of the head.
At the far end of the room he noticed his adoptive father, and half-brothers. Walking up to them, he smiled cordially and extended his arm, only Serkar returned the gesture. No matter, thought Gorn, the die is already cast.
There were several people present who Gorn had never met. He suspected they were distant relatives who would emerge intermittently, on occasions such as these, to see if the deceased had seen fit to remember them in some, rewarding fashion. They were the type who preyed on the dead.
The official called upon everyone to take their seats, in readiness for the proclamation. Medics were on hand as the experience had, on a number of previous occasions, been too emotionally overwhelming for some participants. With everyone seated - Jaron flanking Gorn on one side, Ciarra on the other - the lights were dimmed and a holo sphere appeared in the centre of the room and, within it, the smiling image of his mother.
Ciarra must have sensed the effect of the image on the young man, for as she took hold of his hand and squeezed it tightly, he noticeably relaxed.
The image of Cyrar confirmed that the recording was made three weeks earlier, and recited all the official requirements to confirm authenticity. Formalities over, she turned her attention to the people in the room.
It appeared to Gorn that his mother was looking directly at him, when she confirmed there would be a personal message, ‘which might fill some of the gaping holes I’ve left in your life.’
What came next surprised all there, and outraged some. ‘I hope all who were requested, were able to attend. At the outset I must inform you, I’ve broken with custom, and will make no personal statement as part of my proclamation. I have, however, prepared three personal messages to be distributed. One, as you’re now aware, to my son Gorn. Another to my oldest friends, Jaron and Ciarra, and finally to an old and dear friend who couldn’t be here today.’
Gorn could read nothing from the faces of his half-brothers. How could she leave no message for them? he thought.
The image continued. ‘The way is now clear for matters of most interest to some here, my property. Many of you will think, I was seized of very little, that all I ever owned became the property of my husband upon the sealing of our marriage contract. That isn’t the case. When we contracted, I wasn’t of dependant age and, consequently, all of which I was possessed, remained my property.
‘To my dear friends, Jaron and Ciarra, I give my summer villa on the shores of Lake Roseir. I know you have loved it for many years. For my part, I don’t know how I would have coped, without creating some wonderful memories in that beautiful place. Thank you. May you always be happy there, and remember me from time to time, as you walk along the beach towards the sunset.
‘I will now pause, as I suspect someone will need a few moments.’
As his mother had predicted, Ciarra was weeping not, Gorn knew, from the pleasure of gaining a valuable summer residence, this was of no interest to her, but rather the memories his mother had conjured. It was his turn to comfort her by putting his arm around her slender shoulders. A grateful Jaron, separated from his wife, put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.
A minute later, the image smiled. ‘Now you’re back with us Ciarra, I’ll continue. All of my remaining property, including my home, and the deposits I held, largely untouched, since the death of my beloved aunt Ceiza, I give to my son Gorn. The deposits are substantial, use them wisely my son.’
In hearing that last message, directed at him, Gorn felt his mother was there in the room, with him, not just her image and her recorded voice, but physically present, speaking o
nly to him.
Without further ado, the image disappeared.
The carrion feeders left immediately. For them, it was never about emotion, and probably the way most of their expeditions ended. They lived for the occasional opportunity when a windfall would be theirs, or a sole recipient would be in need of succour. In such circumstances, they would circle and eventually descend upon the unfortunate victim. Today they were out of luck, as it was clear that Jaron and Ciarra were the boundary they would not be able to cross.
Gorn and his friends got to their feet as the official approached them. To Jaron he gave a small obsidian box, which contained a galet bearing the personal message from Cyrar. He handed Gorn a slightly larger box which, law dictated, had to contain two galets: one private; the other providing him with details, of his holdings, together with access codes, and detailed technical advice on dealing with them. As though acknowledging the importance of its contents, he was given a bag to accommodate the box. Clearly, the official did not think such matters would occur to bereaved relatives.
The official spoke, which of itself was rare, it not being customary for them to interact with the bereaved, but it was what he said that surprised Gorn. ‘Young man, your mother was less than candid when she described the size of your holdings. They are not substantial, they are vast. You are now one of a very small group which comprises the richest people on our planet.’
The expression on Gorn's face did not go unnoticed. ‘I see that you are surprised,’ the emotionless face turned to Jaron and Ciarra, ‘I am on hand to help, should you need me. My details are on the galet.’ He turned back to Gorn. ‘In case you wonder why I should be so generous, in offering my services, I am an old friend of your aunt.’