Redemption in Indigo

by Karen Lord

  'Waiting for someone to take me into the village,’ he answered truthfully.

  She narrowed her eyes and moved her head snakewise from side to side as if trying to look at a very tricky mirage. ‘I can't see you very well. Why?'

  He thought for a moment; truth is harder when one lacks the necessary vocabulary. ‘I'm standing on the edge of the world. It makes things blurry.'

  She got up and dusted herself off, apparently satisfied with that. ‘All right. Good-bye.'

  'Wait! Will you??ill you take me with you?'

  She squinted at him again. ‘Why?'

  'I have to help someone discover something.’ That was all he said, but for some things, tone and expression are more potent than vocabulary, even when you are a discorporate entity standing in the interstices of time and space.

  She believed him. ‘All right. Come.'

  He stepped over the threshold and ran skipping towards her, a vaguely cloudy image gradually coalescing into an identical six-year-old girl.

  She smiled then. Imaginary Twin was a familiar game. ‘I'm Giana. What's your name?'

  The djombi thought, shrugged, and replied, ‘When I am without a shadow, I may be called Constancy-in-Adversity, though others who see me differently have sometimes named me Senseless-Resignation-to-Suffering. I am a small thing, as you can see, but my mother says I am quite powerful in my own way.'

  Giana nodded. The names were too large and the concepts too weighty for her to grasp, but the last she could understand. Mothers tended to say things like that, usually just before sending you to the well to fetch water.

  'Would you like to go play in dreamland until I come back?’ the djombi asked her.

  Her eyes lit up. ‘Would I!'

  He—or rather we must say ‘she’ now, as djombi take the gender of their shadows—took her by the hand and guided her gently to lie down on the ground.

  'Now you're blurry,’ she told the child softly as she tucked the long grass in a nest around her.

  The child smiled back with sleepy sweetness, and then she was in dreamland.

  The djombi stood up and looked over the fields. In the near distance there were other people tending to their animals in the pasture, all intent on their tasks, no-one noticing the strange momentary twinning of a little girl. One figure in particular now seemed familiar—a tall girl leading a cow by a long rope, a pail of milk balanced on her head.

  'Giana, come here! I'm done with the milking,’ she called over her shoulder with an older sister's offhand bossiness.

  'Coming, Laira,’ cried the djombi in her little girl voice, and she ran over the fields into Makendha.

  * * * *

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  6

  the djombi begins to instruct paama in stick science

  * * * *

  Six-year-old Giana was being exceptionally naughty and no-one could figure out why. She would not play with her little friends, she often ran off when she should have been helping in the kitchen or fetching water, and, strangest of all, when her mother gave her a lash with the switch for her laziness, instead of crying as she would normally do, she gave her mother such a reproachful and annoyed look that the poor woman dropped the switch guiltily and edged away, feeling extremely unnerved.

  Giana's Gran, who had become perceptive through years of experience, told them to leave the child alone. She said that something had got into Giana's head and they would have to wait until it went back out again. Giana gave the old lady a big hug and got a wink in return, but her older siblings muttered about how spoiled she was, and how they would never have gotten away with such behaviour when they were younger.

  There was little connection between Giana's family and Paama's, so Giana was forced to go looking for Paama herself. She wasted an entire day trying to see her and speak to her, either out in the fields or in the court, but each time there were too many people around, or someone who could not be safely ignored was telling her to run along.

  In the meantime, there were tantalising glimpses of the potential of Paama's new gift. Giana was amazed. How could people miss the way Paama's feet stirred the dust of the trails into delicate, artistic swirls? How could they fail to notice that the long grass of the pastures combed itself into neat order when she breezed past it? One thing they did see, and that immediately, was that her skill in the kitchen had reached the level of pure magic. The scents that wafted from the house of Paama's parents made many a body slow down as they passed and break into bemused smiles of sheer bliss.

  All this in one day? the djombi thought with a mixture of worry and pride. I must talk to her as soon as possible!

  Fortunately, the next morning she found Paama washing clothes by the river. This was usually a communal task, with many women talking and singing together, but today Paama was by herself.

  Giana decided to waste no time. She marched straight over to Paama and said, ‘Paama, what is that thing on your belt for?'

  Paama stopped her work and stared at the little girl. ‘Small children must not be so informal with their elders. I am sure you have been taught better than that.'

  Of course. Giana grimaced in embarrassment and tried again. ‘Aunty Paama, what is that thing on your belt used for?'

  Paama smiled mysteriously and went back to slapping the wet cloth against the smooth stones. ‘It is for reminding me that good can come out of the worst of situations.'

  Giana was startled and pleased. Perhaps Paama did not have as far to go as she had feared. ‘Does it work for other people, too?'

  Paama appeared to consider this seriously for a moment, and then she shrugged. ‘I don't see why it would. Perhaps they have their own reminders. But, child, why are you wandering around near the river by yourself? Does your mother know you are out?'

  Giana looked around for an excuse, feeling keenly the limitations of her chosen shadow.

  'They come down to the river all the time,’ she said at last.

  She pointed downstream to where three boys were playing a variation of King of the Castle. They were wrestling, barebacked and barefooted, on a large, mossy rock, each trying to push the other into the water.

  Paama gave them a glance. ‘And why should you try to copy them? Big boys don't play like little girls, and what they are doing is far too dangerous for you to even think about.'

  'It looks as if it might be too dangerous for them, too,’ said Giana calmly, still looking down the river.

  'They can all swim,’ Paama said with a dismissive shrug.

  She continued swinging the wet cloth and slapping it down. Fine droplets of water spun off from the fabric as it arced through the air, catching the sunlight and scattering tiny rainbows around her. Giana's attention was caught by the display. With the Chaos Stick at her belt, Paama was unconsciously selecting the most appealing options that chance had available. There were uncanny patterns in the water and the light, patterns that appeared to be unnatural and contrived but were merely very very rare, requiring just the right combination of angles for sun, water, and wind.

  'She truly is a natural,’ sighed Giana to herself while Paama slapped and scrubbed at the clothes in a manner that would have seemed completely mundane and ordinary to the untutored eye.

  'About the Stick,’ she began again, wondering how to go about explaining the science behind the Stick to one of Paama's limited education.

  There was a sudden commotion. One of the boys had tumbled into the water and was bawling loudly. The little girl jumped at the sound and forgot the rest of her sentence.

  'They can all swim,’ Paama repeated, not even bothering to look up.

  'Even with a broken wrist?’ Giana wondered aloud.

  Paama jumped up to stare at the drama downriver. One boy remained standing on the rock, pointing at his friends and yelling. Another boy was swimming towards the unfortunate one, who floundered and splashed while clutching his right hand in his left. Panicked with pain, he lashed out with his feet at the boy who was trying to sav
e him, catching him a solid blow that pushed him off and spun him away.

  'No. He'll drown them both,’ Paama breathed. She dropped the washing and began to run down the river bank.

  'Paama! You can't reach them in time! Use the Stick instead!’ Giana called out, running after her.

  'What stick?’ Paama shouted back.

  Giana began to babble in her haste to take advantage of this unplanned situation. She tried to explain about the different possibilities in the universe, about the chance that seems improbable but that, once it is possible, might still happen. And what if there were a type of focus or control for the quantum fluctuations that determine whether a situation is Go or No Go? One could use it to select the unlikely and encourage the serendipitous. One who had the knack of getting the best out of bad situations. One like Paama.

  'What? What?’ Paama yelled distractedly.

  Giana was ready to scream herself, but she was too out of breath from making her short legs keep up with Paama's.

  'Just use the Stick!’ she gasped.

  'You're right. We do need a stick, but there isn't one big enough!’ Paama said, looking around in desperation.

  They had drawn level with the boys in the water. Paama danced sideways along the bank, keeping in line with them and in pace with the slow current, but hesitant to risk diving in and struggling to bring one wildly flailing body to land.

  'If only there were a branch or snag that they could hold on to,’ she wailed.

  There are any number of trees that grow on the banks of rivers, and it is in the nature of trees to occasionally lose a limb to age and decay. Time and wind cooperated to bring to breaking strain the dying branch of an overhanging tree several metres downstream. The branch tore free with an awful creaking and cracking and fell with a sloshing splash into the river, immediately lodging firmly against the rocks. The boys drifted into it and clung fast. Giana stopped short, stunned by Paama's words and their effect.

  'Thank God,’ gasped Paama.

  Then the third boy rushed up and helped Paama drag the stricken youngster out of the water. His would-be rescuer, who was still curled over from that hard kick, was able to pull himself out onto the bank without help. Giana stood for a moment, hands limp at her sides with relief, watching as they sat or sprawled on the grass and fussed over the injured boy. He was sobbing and coughing from the pain in his wrist and the water he had swallowed while screaming, but he was too loud to be anything but alive. She came up to them, put her arms akimbo, and looked down at them critically.

  'Well, I suppose that wasn't too bad, though it was a bit??uch. A more subtle use of the currents, perhaps, or—'

  'Shut up,’ said the uninjured boy, getting up and shoving roughly at her shoulder.

  She staggered back and stared at him, appalled at such rudeness.

  'Stop that,’ Paama snapped. ‘Both of you, make yourselves useful and go up to the village and get help.'

  The boy trotted off immediately. Paama turned her full attention to Giana. She seemed increasingly irritable now that the crisis was over.

  'And you, little girl, don't come back down to the river unless your mother is with you. Can you imagine if it had been you in the water? You might not have been so lucky.'

  'But—'

  'Don't answer back. Do you want me to tell your mother what a disobedient little girl you are? Now go!'

  Giana went.

  * * * *

  The evening's debriefing was depressingly short.

  'How are the lessons going?'

  'I don't mean to be difficult, but explain to me again why Paama needs to be taught how to use the Stick when she seems to be playing it so well by sheer instinct.'

  'Don't make me mention any names.'

  There was a contrite silence, and then, ‘I know, I know. I'm a little stressed. I have had to face some challenges because of the nature of my chosen shadow.'

  'Be direct. Remember, you don't have to take away her memories. But no-one else must find out.'

  'I know,’ muttered the junior djombi morosely. ‘I know.'

  * * * *

  The morning after, Paama was sweeping her doorstep when she looked up and saw the little girl from the river. She was walking alone, despondently kicking at dust with her bare toes. Paama's heart softened.

  'Child, come here,’ she called.

  The girl came up to her and looked up into her face with a surprisingly anxious expression. Paama remembered how many times she had scolded her the day before and was instantly contrite.

  'The boys will be all right. They have been warned not to play in the river again until they are older. So, you see it's not just you.'

  The girl didn't seem satisfied by this news. She said sorrowfully, ‘I didn't go down to the river to play. I went to see you.'

  Paama was surprised and touched by the earnestness in the child's tone but did not know how to respond to it. Then she found something to say.

  'I have just finished baking small cakes. Would you like to come in and have some?'

  The small face lit up. ‘Yes, thank you!'

  When they got inside, she seemed slightly dismayed that Paama's sister and mother were also in the kitchen, but after a few of the cakes were inside her, she was much more cheerful.

  'May I come back and see you tomorrow?’ she asked Paama with the directness of innocence.

  'Yes, once your mother agrees,’ Paama said.

  'She will now that Gran has spoken to her. I think that mothers worry far too much about their children, don't you? It's very stifling.'

  Paama raised her eyebrows, but Tasi and Neila looked at each other, smiled, and shook their heads fondly. The child was so precocious—an endearing trait at six, but Paama silently hoped that Giana's mother would shake it out of her before six more years were past.

  * * * *

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  7

  a senior djombi misses something dear to him

  * * * *

  We are going to leave Paama and Giana for a while, because there are other things happening elsewhere that we should examine now lest they surprise us later on.

  Picture a hall. The roof is vaulted timber with winged creatures carved into the beams that arch overhead. It is like looking into the bottom of a boat, most likely the Ark, given the presence of the creatures, and yet perhaps not, since no such beasts ever survived the Flood. The floor is cold stone, dark and light, like an oversized chessboard. There are pillars, also of stone, that lend a solid, reassuring support to the descending arc of the roof. The stone of the pillars glitters faintly, as if hewn of some unpolished gem.

  Beyond the pillars are more pillars, presumably supporting similar roof structures, a whole fleet of upturned boats to the right and to the left of this main enclosure. If there are walls, I cannot see them to give you any report of them.

  It is supposed to be majestic, the hall of a high lord. Instead, it is empty, sterile, and cold, speaking not of present pomp, but of ultimate futility. It proclaims that all is vanity.

  There is a throne. The throne is unoccupied.

  Now that you have that scene firmly in your heads, I can bring in the villain.

  No, Ansige was not the villain of the story. He was the joker, the momentary hindrance, the test of character for Paama's growth and learning. He was the unfortunate, but not the villain. You may have felt sorry for Ansige, you may have laughed at Ansige, but you will not laugh at this person.

  I have mentioned previously the three different categories of undying ones. Never assume that these categories represent boundaries that are never crossed or lines that cannot be redrawn. It is not the known danger that we most fear, the shark that patrols the bay, the lion that rules the savannah. It is the betrayal of what we trust and hold close to our hearts that is our undoing: the captain who staves in the boat, the king who sells his subjects into slavery, the child who murders the parent.

  The djombi are like the human creatures they meddle w
ith, apt either to great evil or great good, and sometimes they switch sides.

  This one was the unknown danger. He had switched sides. He had started with benevolence, with the belief that there is a fine potential in humankind waiting only to be tapped. He now viewed the whole stinking breed as a pest and a plague. We may view him as a villain, but he would see us as cockroaches.

  He had made for himself a very striking shadow. During his days of borrowing shadows, he had noted how responsive the human creature could be to a messenger clothed in classic beauty. As he became more powerful, he was careful at first, making his image handsome enough, but not too handsome to excite envy, and always being careful to add that slight signature difference that underlined his alien nature. Then he did less of walking with the creatures and more of observing and influencing from a distance, and he discovered that a form closer to the ideal obtained better results for his brief visitations. Even then, if he had only realised it, he had started to slip, caring less and less about the people he was supposed to be helping, and focusing much more on the respect and admiration that he felt was his due right as a superior being. When at last he became cynical, he set his form and features to the zenith of perfection, and then, instead of choosing a subtle mark, he made his skin deep indigo—a stark and utter setting apart that provoked as much of horror as of awe, mingled as it was with that unearthly beauty.

  Clothed in white linen like a chief, he walked the broad aisle of his hall. There was no smile on his face, and it looked as if there had not been one in some time. Occasionally, a muscle by his jaw twitched as if he chewed on bitter and painful thoughts, but his walk was slow and peaceful. Then he passed a pillar, and the control was abruptly abandoned. He lashed out at the innocent stone, striking a shard of square-faceted crystal from the smooth side of the pillar. The hall shivered at the blow.

  He was angry, he was more than angry, he kept telling himself how angry he was, but the truth was that he was ashamed. He had not had reason to question himself and his deeds for a very long time, but now others had dared to judge him and, apparently, find him wanting. They had taken away that aspect of his power of which he was most proud, his ability to balance the forces of chaos.