by Ako Emanuel
“No?” he spoke out loud in his insistence.
Head shake. No.
You did not intend me any harm? His disbelief was clear.
“No-o,” she sighed, tucking her free hand close to her body, almost resigned that he should keep the other.
Then why? He pressed hard.
She seemed to struggle within herself, unwilling to answer.
“Why,” he demanded, his voice low and harsh, cold silver, undeniable, his hand tightening around hers. She heaved a great sigh, tried again to free her hand.
Talk, came the surprising answer. Then, out loud, “Talk - t’ you. Get - answers.” The reply was reluctant and an expression of pain crossed her face. He relaxed his hold, and kissed her fingers. She pulled the injured hand away and curled it protectively to her body.
“I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he whispered, his fury draining away and relief and query flooding through him like a wave of peppermint water. She drew away from the sound of his voice, and away from both mental and physical touch as if both had become abhorrent. He caught her hand to soothe away the hurt, but she snatched it back and curled into a little ball, her back to him. He felt ashamed at hurting her, and since she would not let him touch her again, he was at a loss to make up for it. Then, with a splash of inspiration, he began to sing an ancient lullaby, brightly remembered from a dim past.
“Laughed - like violet in your eyes
Streaking silver ‘cross gray skies
Laughed and loved and held my hand
Onyx eve on silver strand
“Danced - like waves on Av’o bright
Dancing upon seas of light
Swaying, moving throughout time
Singing silence without rhyme
“Loved - like mountains, green, unlit
Loving, like two halves we fit
Holding, showing without words
Things unsaid that we both heard
“Laughed - she laughed upon the sea
Danced - she turned and danced for me
Loved - we loved and we love still
Where last we lay on Avo’s hill.”
the light turned, slowly...
He watched the afterzen, languid, turn to lavish eve, melting among the shadows, the shadows lengthening and the sounds of the forest changing as Av’set drenched the sky. Av’set drenched the sky with violet, deep as Alonan seas; the green veils of morn slowly ripped away to reveal the naked sky beneath. The naked sky beneath glistened with diamond dust upon black velvet.
His chores done, he settled down, as he had always done, to absorb the eve so that he might be one with it as he slept. He was exhausted from the turn’s exertions. But this eve he found no peace in the forest sounds and smells, no solace in oneness with nature. Sleep eluded him.
“Dark the moons and bright the eve
Like onyx clasped on silver sleeve
Quiet noises, silence heard
Loud as dreams of waking birds
“Dark the eve and bright the moons
Memories fade in shading gloom
Tears untold and laughter gone
Ere the break of Av’light’s dawn
“Bright the turn and shadows deep
Tossing, dreaming without sleep
Turning cycles into dust
Take what may and come what must
“Bright the shadows, dark the turn
Things once known must be unlearned
Defeats of yore must be undone
Victories hailed will be unwon.”
He sighed, disquieted by the gloomy mood upon him.
The girl. The girl kept him from his communion with the earth, kept him from peaceful repose. He had spent an unknown amount of time watching her after interrogating her, wondering what to make of her.
So she wants to talk, eh? He was not sure he believed her. What could be so important, what could be so pressing that she would stalk him for a ten’turn and then do her best to trap him? What would send such an important unknown one out into the heart of the unclaimed lons looking for answers that he might not have? He had wondered and worried at this vein of thought until it began to come apart like a rotting leaf. After that he had simply gazed at her, absorbing the warm beauty of her, feeling his relief turning, like the march of time, slowly, inexorably, into something else.
Something that had taken root from the moment he saw her, from the moment he had beheld her. She was beautiful - the heart-shaped face, the almond eyes of piercing mahogany, the roundish spread of nose, the full, succulent mouth; the dark richness of the skin, like deep, iridescent silk; the wealth of hair, tight spirals of strands strictly disciplined into sinuous guinne of pure satin. But there was more than that. There was this thing that had been steadily growing since he had first touched her, the mists of her velvet presence washing over him and the flush of some white hot emotion or sensation that almost reminded him of the inveiglement of woman-sweet fruit, her body soft/hard and yielding and just ripening.
This thing that he could not name had been riding him since he had taken her into his home, her welfare held in his hands, her life given to him to care for like a promise of blind trust. She was stirring up feelings and emotions in him that he had not expected and was not equipped to deal with, old emotions long packed away, never again to see the light of Av. She dragged them out of him, dusted them off with her presence, and made him feel them.
No, he amended, his brow furrowing. No, she does not make me feel them, she instills them in me, inspires them, and I must choose whether to acknowledge their existence. The thing of the matter is - I have no choice.
He dropped his head and ran his hands over his arms, remembering her silken skin whispering over his as he had held her during her sickness, remembering how she had clung needfully to him and curled trustingly to him as she slept. How she had clove almost lovingly to him whenever he was close, and reached after him whenever he rose to leave the room.
He stood and paced, wanting to kick something. To cave in the head of another one of those foul beasts.
They hurt, those things long forgotten, rediscovered. It hurt to feel again, to slip on the silken harness of - attraction. The warm skin of - companionship. The hot, moist collar of - desire. Each feeling presented itself before sliding on painfully, claiming him with a strength and finality that frightened him. He had not known how he had hungered for the presence of another; he had not been aware of how much he had yearned to hear a voice other than his own. He had not realized his need to touch and be touched. He thought he had dealt with these demands, subdued them, extricated them. Them and others, so many others that were making themselves known, other needs without name, other feelings without number... a thousand little things that he had not missed until he had them again.
He looked up in despair at the embracing eve.
What has she done to me? What has she made of me, of my life? What will I do when she has to return to - wherever she came from? For go back she would, when she was strong enough. That went without saying. It will leave me with hot memories and a broken life that it’s taken me all these cycles to fix. It will leave me lonely - again.
Again... he had almost managed to forget in all those cycles, that there had been a time before. He had forgotten, had slipped into the timeless Now of survival, where the only things the memory had room for were those things that kept him alive and sane. Perhaps he should have left her where others could find her, left her a passing thing in his life, a curiosity, fleeting in memory. Then he would not be on the verge of remembering.
And I don’t remember. Sweet Goddesses, don’t let me remember...
A smile. A sly, teasing glance. A merry laugh. A long, relaxed, conversation. A soft/hard body and soft, warm lips... That was all that remained of she whom he would not remember.
He went outside to get the hardwood branch he had chosen for his new spear shaft. He took it to the fire pit and began carving away at it, peeling great furrows with furious sweeps of his knif
e.
And this one - will I be able to forget her, too? He knew that he could not, no more than he could have left her in the unprotected wilderness after touching her. He would not forget her - he knew her too intimately, knew her body inside and out, learning it in his struggle to save her life. He knew her mind as much as her training permitted. And he knew a deep, warm, loving place inside her that he had touched purely by accident when he had dragged her, body and mind, away from the clutching hands of death.
Why did I touch that part of her? Why didn’t I just let her go? Her fever had been so high that her brain was malfunctioning, her heart arresting, the poison destroying tissues and organs almost faster than he could heal them. He had felt her mind unraveling, her soul straining away from her body toward loving hands that beckoned. Beloved hands that promised peace. In desperation he had opened himself completely to her, reached out with all his strength and touched that glowing entity that was her with his own innermost self. It had only lasted an instant, one searing, blazing, light/dark instant of delectable contact, but it had been enough. Enough to seal her forever in the dark recesses of his mind, in the warm places in his soul. It fed the thing that rode him. He had brought her back from the brink; but after that, touching her always seemed to yearn toward that instantaneous caress of selves, that momentous sharing of souls. It reminded him of a time with that other...
His thoughts were mercifully interrupted by a dry cough and a weak request for water. He set down the mangled branch and rose swiftly in answer, filling a calabash bowl and using a touch of ‘rita to cool it. He entered the room were she was, his sleeping chamber, and lit the large standing candle.
She tossed and turned, her lips visibly dry as she whispered for water again. She was not awake, however, not really. He sidled onto the bed and leaned forward to lift her up a bit, held the bowl to her lips. She drank deeply, nearly emptying it. Then, with a murmur of thanks she bundled trustingly against his lower chest. A smile curved his lips. Her warmth swept through him with devastating effect, redoubling the rage of molten emotions and soul-depth yearning coursing through him. Without a second thought he picked her up and lay on his side, letting her stretch out along his fore-body, his arms protectively about her. She tucked her head under his chin and sighed, sounding content.
He echoed her sigh as the rush of newly discovered emotions and newly touched selves bathed him in brilliance.
What will I do when you are gone...?
the darkness turned...
Av’dawn stripped away the darkness as it turned, unwinding it in sensual twisting steps, flinging it pale green across the sky. He rose with Av, extricating himself from the desi and the loving folds of her limbs. Her arms clung, silently pleading for him to stay. He smiled, gently stayed her hands, covered her when she curled into a ball like a kitling.
He went about his morn routine, basking in the warm glow of the memory of her nearness. He managed to rouse her enough to feed her a light broth, then again a little later to give her medicine and bathe her as he always did, at midmorn. But she would not fully come awake.
At zenith he looked in on her and frowned. She needed to wake up, to come to full consciousness. Had he overdone his help when he had blocked her pain the turn before? He touched her, probed her mind, felt his influence still holding her. He carefully drew some of the influence away, draining it slowly back into himself. The spark of her grew brighter, an encouraging sign.
Ky’pen’dati, he called, come to light. You must wake up.
CHAPTER IV
beguiled, the light turned, led by darkness...
The light turned through the air and the silence, drenching the lain with the sweet presence of itself, the afterzen crushed with its perfume as the Season’s blossoms wept their scent.
The scent of afterzen surrounded Soku as she sat back in her sunken marble bath, washing her hair. She sighed with contentment, smiling. It had been a long time since she had washed it without aid.
Forgetting all troubles and losing all cares in the honey-scented water, she took great pleasure in washing the thigh-length, silken mass. Her hair was her pride and the symbol of her standing, that which marked her as Queen. For it was her hair, when guinned and arranged, that made her crown, the Dakua crown of the Doan. When guinned it hung straight to her thighs, before the intricate winding and fastenings bound it up into the standard of her Tribe, Family, and Reign, the hundred and tenth Queen of the Tribe Doan.
Of course, it was not thigh length at this moment. The hair of the people of Ava’Lona, when freed from the guinne and wet so that the natural spirals of the strands asserted themselves, drew up tight to a thick round quantity. The strands, if pulled straight, actually reached her feet. Braided, they stopped at mid-thigh. Wet, the strands twisted and curled about each other, until the whole wealth of it hung to only half its full length, about the middle of her back. She loved the feel of it loose, free, and full of thick lather of the olia plant. She worked the lather into her scalp, combed through the living wealth of it with her fingers, then moved languidly to stand under the arch from which a crystal curtain of water fell, to rinse it before lathering it again.
It had been a very long time since her hair had been solely her responsibility.
She repeated the luxurious lathering four times, the ritual sweeter since she did it for herself, feeling her hair become softer, silkier and more tightly spiraled with each repetition. Finally she stood under the arch to thoroughly rinse it of all traces of the shampoo, before emerging, like some newly-born Goddess rising from the sea, from the bath, her hair a glowing, liquid black mass of near-locks. Donning a soft robe, she knelt in the last of the afterzen light and inundated her hair with thick mela’oil. Then she wrapped her head in a swath of special oil-cloth, to let the waning light of Av draw out the excess moisture and help her hair and scalp absorb the oil. She formed a picture universal the Realm over. It was a ritual as old as time, as deeply rooted in the forgotten past as the sacrament to the ancestor tree, or the game of Trade.
She used this time to think. With the edict of silence and contemplation, all Trade lorns she had planned between the end of the Bolorn and the beginning of the Salaka had to be put off. This would not affect her too adversely, and it gave her a chance to review her lists of prospective and established suppliers and buyers. Based on the information she had gathered in the turns before the Bolorn, she made tentative changes to be discussed with her Voice and Trade’Marm when talk and ‘tun were once more permitted. She worked through the political and economical ramifications of her revisions before committing them to memory. The game of Trade was a broad and intricately complex one, touching all aspects of Ava’Lonan life. Subtle, convoluted, it was a dance of politics, economics and personal interaction, a war’don’mi of wits and words, rather than with skill and swords. One’s rank among Queens often had little bearing on one’s standing in the game. Skill in negotiation of Trade agreements and winning concessions were huge determining factors. Honoring agreements made and having a record of long standing, profitable coalitions oftimes affected one’s position more than the total value of goods one had to Trade. Soku was one of the least of the Lesser Western Queens, but she was an established player of the game. At times she even stood higher than many Greater Queens with lons ten times the size of hers.
The stakes for which one played was also a great determining factor. This was based on one’s wealth and gift for Trade, one’s ability to foresee the outcome of a business venture or a new enterprise, and one’s ability to invest wisely in such ventures. As a mid-stakes player, Soku rose slowly, but steadily, holding firmly to what ground she covered. High stakes players were usually Greater Queens with much wealth but little standing, seeking to acquire status quickly. These generally had resources to spare, but were poor players or in bad repute as far as honoring their agreements and concessions.
Political affiliation also had a considerable impact upon rank in the game. This was a wildcard of sort
s, for the aspect of politics was an ever-changing entity, political parties rising and falling in popularity with seemingly little reason or rhyme. The views that one supported often played a part in deciding the terms of a concession or the conditions of an agreement.
Last of all, time and region strongly affected the position of a player. One always tried to deal generously with others of the same region; however, in other regions a value crop might be scarcer, and therefore more favorable terms might be had. Choosing where and with whom one Traded helped set precedents or trends. And time, the great unifier, often made and razed many a Trade agreement, for some goods did not have good shelf life, and the art of refrigeration had never been fully recovered after the Yo’teng.
Soku thought over the harvests of this Season. Her yoni’do herds were doing well, the calves already weaned and the younglings growing strong. They would bring good prices in the Nor’Este Territories, in exchange for thousands of hands of blugo, plantain and green banana. Her sugar apple and sou’a’sap crops were plentiful, large and sweet, fine to Trade in the Central Territories, in exchange for wines, rums and leathers. And the rich olivine, jadine, malachite and emerald mines gave forth pure, unpolished stones for which silk, salt, jasmine tea, bush tea, desi-reams, linens, cotton prints and precious metals could be Traded with in the Estern Border Territories. These were the three mainstays of the Doan: cattle, produce and precious gems. The Doan touched lesser markets with goods and crops like nutmeg and other spices, embroidered and printed silks, finished leather products and wood products. But these were mostly Traded on the local level, among the Western Territories, though on occasion they were exported further for premium prices.
Soku longed for papi’ras and stylus, but was loathe to break her pose, for tradition held that to break it was to invite the la’ja’djin, the joumbi that brought bad luck, to take the vacated spot. She held her patience and stifled a sigh, checked the wrap. It was almost dry on the outside, but not quite. She cast a baleful eye at the orange-blasted veils of approaching Av’set. She should have started much sooner; would have, had the Bolorn ended sooner, or should have put off the in-depth washing till the turn after. It was generally considered bad luck to wash one’s hair, or to be caught drying it, after Av’set.