Redemption in Indigo

by Karen Lord

  Nothing happened.

  He glared at it and then glared at her. ‘You are still holding it.'

  'Well, I don't know how I could be, when I'm standing over here!’ she snapped at him, frustration overcoming fear. ‘And barely standing, at that, as my feet have gone numb. If you are going to kill me, do it now before the cold does it for you!'

  He ignored her and turned the inert Stick over in his hands. Without warning, he raised it in both hands and brought it down hard over his leg. It did not break, though it seemed he could not feel pain. The bafflement and annoyance in his expression increased.

  Paama began to shiver violently. ‘P-please,’ she begged, ‘let us get off this mountain—'

  'We are not on a mountain,’ he corrected absently, still frowning at the Stick. ‘We have merely gone south ... very far south.'

  'You are killing me,’ she whispered.

  His answer was to throw the Stick back to her. She caught it clumsily with hands that felt like dead weights on the end of amputated stumps.

  'Give it to me again,’ he ordered.

  Almost vibrating with cold, she obeyed. This time, as he closed his hand over the Stick just above her gripping hand, a sudden squall of sleet drove between them and whipped up the scant covering of snow. The sun, which had been disappearing at intervals behind fast-scudding clouds, blazed out with a brightness magnified several times over by the reflecting snow, and the air sparkled with tiny rainbows.

  Paama screamed, and he flung her away from him. As she fell into the wet snow, still holding the Stick, the sleet and wind vanished, the unnatural brightness of the sun diminished, and the rainbows and sparkles disappeared.

  'What is that?’ he said very seriously, reaching out to touch the Stick again.

  Immediately the squall returned in full force and the sun beat fiercely through the swirling whiteness. Paama cowered on the ground, overwhelmed, and waited to die. Then something unexpected and immensely comforting happened.

  'Paama!'

  It was Sister Deian's voice. Somehow, even at this distance, even after all the drama of recent events, the Sisters were still watching and aware. There was still hope that she could be found. The thought made her raise her head and boldly face her enemy.

  'Stop! We cannot hold it together! You will kill us both!’ she screamed at him.

  He pulled his hand away, bringing the weird weather to an abrupt end, and stared at her. From the look on his face, Paama guessed that he had never been at a loss before.

  'I don't want to kill you. I simply want my power back. My power, my own, that which I was made to wield.'

  'Then prove it to me,’ she panted. ‘Let us leave this terrible place before I freeze to death.'

  He glanced down at her feet in their thin slippers, now soaked-through with melted snow, and finally understood. With that gesture that was now becoming familiar, he cast out his bubble of time and folded it in until they were somewhere else.

  It was like being thrown into an oven. Paama crouched in agony, clasping her hands and pressing her feet as the blood returned painfully to her extremities. Squinting up into the brightness of a noonday sun, she saw the branches of a date palm and felt grass beneath her. Sand dunes curved artistically along the eastern horizon with the austere beauty of deadliness, and the bones of some ruined town stood brokenly on the western horizon.

  'Wait here,’ the lord said abruptly.

  'No!’ she shouted. ‘Don't leave me here!'

  He said impatiently, ‘I have told you I am not going to kill you. I am going to get shoes and clothes for you, that is all.'

  'Then let me come, too,’ she insisted, panicked at the thought of being abandoned.

  He shrugged in annoyance and turned away. She got up slowly, teetering on swollen feet, and stumbled after him over the hot, hard-packed sand and gravel.

  'Where is this place?’ she asked, not expecting to be answered.

  'A desert east of the country you know,’ he replied vaguely. ‘There is treasure?’ he paused and thumped a foot down on the hard sand ‘...?own here.'

  He reached out and took her hand without warning, and they fell through the solid ground as if they had suddenly become ghosts. Paama tried to scream but found herself unable to breathe until, with a slight splash, they landed in darkness, ankle deep in gently running water. It was mildly cold and soothing to her burned feet, and the air was moist and cool on her sun-scorched face, but she could not see. He dropped her hand, and she snatched desperately at the air to find where he was standing.

  'I cannot see!’ she wailed.

  'Stop it,’ he said, sounding more tired than annoyed.

  There was a sizzling noise, and then a flash curved up into the air and froze in a banner of slowly blossoming sparks. He had taken a firestar and thrown it up into the vaulted roof of the vast underground cavern, and now it hung there, somewhat dimmer than usual, but still giving plenty of light for Paama to see around her. Ages of water had carved out this place, and the trickle that now wet her feet was the last remnant of the ancient torrent. The desert above would soon take even that as the sand dunes on the horizon marched on and covered the date palms and the grass.

  Then, as she looked a little more closely, she saw evidence of human presence high on the banks of the underground waterway. There were edges in the ground that suggested half-buried crates or boxes, an unnatural colour sticking out of the earth that at a closer glance proved to be cloth dyed purple. She stepped up and out of the water, and there, plainly, were human bones, the long bones of a leg still dressed in the fragments of a half-decayed leather garment, the remainder of the skeleton scattered, as if carried along by random surges of water at the seasonal flood peak.

  A clinking noise distracted her from the bones. There was the djombi, very pragmatically filling a sack with gold coins extracted from one of the boxes. Its lock remained intact, but it had been driven against a rock and was split open so that its contents spilled out into the mud.

  'What is this place? Who were these people?’ she asked.

  He stiffened, and then continued to gather up coins as he answered. ‘Thieves. Mercenaries. Murderers. They raided and destroyed that place whose ruins you saw above.'

  'Why?'

  He tied off the sack and said coolly, ‘Wars are expensive. Their master had sent them out to get their own wages. The town was not his, and he did not care what happened to it.'

  'Then what happened to them?'

  He looked around the cavern. With his superior sight, the view must have been more terrible; all the bones below the mud were visible to him, and he could glance back in time to see how they had settled there, where they had swept in from, how they had been crushed by rocks and tumbled by water while still in living bodies screaming for help and for mercy.

  'I might have got a little carried away,’ he murmured.

  He seemed to feel Paama's horrified stare, for he turned to her and looked at her sternly. ‘I was assigned a very heavy duty. A request had been made that the wealth of this town would never be put to any use that would destroy human life. There was a chance of a thousand-year flood—well, such a flood will not be seen again in this region for tens of thousands of years—and the raiders happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time when the waters broke through an ancient dam. Chance again brought them and their spoil underground so that now their final tomb is within sight of the town they plundered and desecrated.

  Paama transferred her shocked gaze to the Stick. ‘Is that the sort of thing this can do?'

  'Yes. Hardly the kind of power to be placed in human hands, is it?'

  She looked at his alien eyes and the expression of mild contempt in them which had become as constant as a habit, and she felt the need to defend humanity.

  'I used it to save a boy from drowning. You used it to drown an army of men.'

  As a jibe, it failed to have any effect. He walked towards her with the sack of gold in one hand and took hold of her wri
st with the other. His gaze was not contemptuous but compassionate, as if he did not expect her to be capable of understanding, and recognised that this was not her fault.

  'I am sure that they all, boy and army, got exactly what they deserved,’ he said.

  The firestar woke up from its slow-motion death and gave one last, brilliant splutter before going out for good. Paama felt herself rising, light as air, until the ground was once more under her feet and the blinding sunlight in her face. Before she had a chance to blink twice at the searing brightness, he had released her wrist and was once more making that gathering motion of his hand that warned of another jump to another place.

  'I know now what I need to do to you to make you return my power to me,’ he remarked almost casually.

  And then they were gone again before Paama had time to begin to feel frightened at his words.

  * * * *

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  15

  a lesson on chances and choices

  * * * *

  On the night of the firestars, all at first was bliss. Alton felt certain that he was indeed a merchant prince, for never before had he taken so much from life's table. The comfort of riches, the sweetness of love, and the beauty of his poetry ravelling out, word by perfect word—it all pointed to a divine will that had blessed him completely. He went to sleep late, crafting couplets to the memory of Neila's kisses.

  He awoke the next day in terror and confusion.

  'It is only I, my lord.'

  Bini approached the bed, breakfast tray held level as he glided smoothly over the thick carpets.

  Alton sat up and stared at the vaulted canvas ceiling and the damasked and gilded hangings about his mattress. Had he always bedded down in such luxury? His memory struggled with the vague image of a meagre, dew-damp bedroll flung over small rocks and spiky, tufted grass. Then he raised his puzzled eyes to Bini's calm gaze, and the bothersome vision disappeared.

  'Last night was truly a success, my lord. Already we have had several orders for firestars, tapestries, and carpets,’ Bini said, his voice as unemotional as ever.

  Unable to find a response, Alton watched him set the tray on a low table and pour the breakfast chocolate. The hot liquid spluttered out of the narrow spout of the pot, releasing a welcome fragrance of sweet, cinnamon-rich cocoa. Alton reached out a hand to probe a napkin-lined basket and found warm rolls and pastries tucked inside. He broke off a morsel and ate. Bini finished pouring and stepped back very slightly, hovering with the air of someone anticipating a command. Alton looked at him worriedly.

  'Bini,’ he asked. ‘Have I been ill?'

  'Why do you ask, my lord?'

  Alton rubbed his head experimentally. It didn't hurt. ‘I didn't drink too much last night, did I?'

  'I don't know what you mean, my lord.'

  'I mean,’ said Alton slowly, ‘that this all seems??nreal. I know I'm a poet. I've never had a talent for business. Why am I surrounded by prosperity?'

  Bini's level gaze did seem to flicker at that point. ‘Has my lord forgotten the legacy inherited from his illustrious godfather?'

  'N-o,’ Alton replied uncertainly.

  'The excitement of the engagement has been too much for you. A little more rest?’ Bini suggested soothingly.

  'Engagement! That memory is true and firm at least!’ He threw back the covers energetically, his face illuminated with joy, and came to his feet with a spring.

  'My lord, do you have orders for me?’ Bini asked gently.

  'Orders?'

  'For the day's work, the week's operations, the month's pre-planning. Orders.'

  Alton's spine lost some of its steely temper. ‘I??hat do I usually?'

  'You usually have breakfast, freshen up, and dress, and then I tell you what new things require attention,’ Bini said kindly. There was a hint of a twinkle about his expression, which was very odd considering that his eyes appeared as dead as ever.

  That was how Bini began to ease Alton into his new life. He lacked the puppeteer's power of his indigo counterpart, but he had something equally effective—that trickster knack, which was now turned to the benign task of fooling Alton into believing in himself. He mused at the irony; if he did his job well, Alton would never know how much he owed to chance. Illustrious godfather, indeed!

  * * * *

  Paama was utterly confused.

  They had landed on a hillside overlooking a town unknown to Paama, yet familiar enough in design and outlay that she felt she must be back in her own country, albeit in a province hours ahead of her own Makendha. Rather than murder or torture, the indigo lord's first action towards her was to hand over to her the entire sack of gold and order her to go down to the nearest town and buy for herself more suitable clothes, food, and other necessities.

  She placed the coins into her bag beside the Stick, expecting that pickpockets might not find it so easily there, and set off down the road, leaving the djombi standing alone on the hill. Once in town, she found the hour too early for the shops to be open, but not too early for her to gain entry to a guest house. The bandit gold bought a spacious set of rooms with a balcony, a light meal of fruit, and, best of all, no questions. She bathed, ate, and finally, exhausted by travelling half the world in minutes, fell asleep. Remember, she had not slept since the night before.

  She did not sleep well or long, for she did not know how long a time she would have before the djombi appeared again. As soon as she saw the first shutters opening, she flew down to the shops. First she bought strong sandals suitable for walking long distances, and then, remembering the snow, she also bought a pair of boots. Both sets of footwear looked ridiculous with her dress, so her next purchases were clothes for travelling, different suits for different climates. By then she was so tired that she returned to her room and fell asleep again.

  Her dreams were troubled, filled with the anxieties of her recent experiences. She dreamed she was walking home to Makendha from a far country, and every time she came within sight of her house, the djombi appeared and whisked her back to the other side of the world with a flick of his fingers, forcing her to start the weary trek again and again. After the tenth repetition of this scene, she gave up in disgust and opened her eyes, feeling less rested than when she had first laid down her head.

  She was sure she was still dreaming. There was the blue-skinned djombi on the other side of the room, sifting through her purchases with interest. To see an odd and inhuman being doing such an ordinary thing was so incongruous that she forgot to be afraid of him.

  'So many things needed,’ he commented, knowing that she was awake without looking at her. ‘The sun scorches you, the rain drenches you, the rocks tear at your feet, and the wind scours your face. Who would be human?'

  He gently threw aside a handful of clothing and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘I have figured it out. I cannot take the power of chaos from you, because in your secret heart you believe it is better entrusted to your hands than mine. I cannot blame you. I came to you in disguise, I tried to take it from you by violence, and you judged me by those deeds. I was wrong. I did foolish things because I feared the interference of those who unjustly stole my power. So, let us begin again.'

  Paama sat up slowly, moving as cautiously as if facing a lion who had just declared his intention not to pounce, but to have a friendly chat instead.

  'Put on your boots and gather your things together. We are leaving. They will be after us soon, but I want enough time to present my case to you fairly.'

  'Where are we going?’ Paama asked with renewed anxiety in her voice.

  'For now? Just a place,’ he replied indifferently. ‘Damp, slightly cold this time of year. We will not be there long. We must keep moving.'

  Paama packed her new clothes into a neat bundle, all except for the boots and a grey woollen wrap. Those she put on, and, after leaving a few coins on the bed for the housekeeper, she stood nervously beside the indigo lord.

  'What about you?’ she asked
as she examined his linen tunic and blue skin with doubt.

  'No-one will see me if I choose not to be seen,’ he said.

  The feeling of moving from one space to another was almost pleasantly familiar by now. Paama watched his hand as he did it and wondered how it was accomplished. Then the sight of their destination drew away her attention once more. A light but persistent drizzle was falling when they arrived, giving a sense of overwhelming greyness to the land, sky, and everything in between. They were standing in the middle of a narrow, muddy street in a town. On either side, the buildings were fairly tall but irregular in their architecture and alignment. There was an uncanny quietness and a feeling of midafternoon in the featureless light.

  'What is the name of this place?’ Paama asked, squinting against the raindrops and pulling the wrap over her head.

  The indigo lord, who was managing to keep himself and his clothes dry with his usual effortless power, paused before replying. ‘Names are very important for humans, aren't they? How do I translate for you the name of this town as it seems to me, the true name that tells of its history and people and lands and weather and??verything? Names have some meaning to humans, but names are all meaning for us, and we cannot translate them in a way that you will understand.'

  'Do you have a name I could understand?’ she asked and was surprised to hear the snappish irreverence in her tone.

  It seemed to surprise him, too, but he rallied.

  'No, I do not,’ he replied haughtily. ‘I will know when you are speaking to me, and you will have no reason to speak to anyone about me, so no name will be needed.'

  'Then, O nameless one, tell me why you have brought me here.’ She was beginning to understand why she was speaking so carelessly; she was tired of being frightened and growing increasingly angry that he had kidnapped her and was keeping her from her home.

  He looked even more morose than usual. ‘There is a plague in this town. That is why it is so quiet; this is a quarantined area. Only those who are dying remain here.'