Redemption in Indigo

by Karen Lord

  He glanced down the street. There was a thin spiral of smoke rising from an upper floor window in one of the deserted houses.

  'Unless you want to walk through flame, we should leave soon,’ he remarked.

  She shrugged. Fire would not harm them, but assembling a new shadow took time and energy. They began to walk away from the thickening smoke.

  'What changed?’ she asked him.

  He walked a few more pensive steps, and then answered. ‘Paama is an unusual woman.'

  There was a distant crackle of timber burning. The two looked back and saw that an entire upper storey was suddenly fully ablaze.

  'Liquor stores,’ Chance remarked, and the two continued walking.

  'Not as unusual as you might think,’ she said, replying at last to his comment about Paama. ‘There are many women like her, considered by some to be virtuous and loyal, considered by others as foolish and weak. What about Paama changed you?'

  'Nothing stopped her from trying to do what she felt to be right, not even despair. She was willing to learn, and when she felt the lesson was beyond her capacity, she was willing to simply obey.'

  'Ah, so you saw her duty,’ Patience said, sounding pleased.

  'No. Not at first. She saw her duty long before I noticed it. There are many things that I once knew but which I had forgotten, and one of them was that human duty is not very different from ours.’ He sighed, and changed the subject slightly. ‘So, what will my punishment be?'

  'Yes, I expected that. Once your despair had run out, the pride would come forward. What kind of punishment would make you feel you had properly paid your debt? What degree of severity would allow you to feel superior to others who had transgressed and been let off more lightly? Be careful what you answer.'

  He felt hurt. ‘I only speak of the correct order of things.'

  'Crime and then punishment, I know. But what is the purpose of punishment?'

  He paused for a long while to consider this. It suddenly struck him that he was being tested. ‘To restore the one who has erred to the former position of trust and authority.'

  'To wipe out the fact of your disobedience? Try again,’ she scoffed.

  He mused a while longer, feeling small and slightly panicked as he did so. ‘Payment? Restitution?'

  'And again you speak of things that will clear your debt. Suppose your debt can never be cleared. What then?'

  'Are you telling me I will never be allowed to return to my work?’ he asked, aghast.

  By then they had crossed the quarantine barrier, but the blaze was not far behind. It blew forth a hot wind that had alerted the barrier guards to the growing danger, but they were hesitant to act, debating whether saving the city from swift death by fire was worth risking a slow death by plague. As miserable as Chance was feeling, he paused for a moment with Patience to watch their agitation.

  'There is a chance that they might decide to simply restrict the fire to the quarantine area,’ Patience noted.

  'There is a very large chance that they will try and fail to do so. Look above!'

  There were glowing embers flying in the air like small firestars, each one bearing the contagion of disaster over the quarantine barrier.

  'Let us walk forward,’ Patience suggested, and the pair took one giant step through folded space into the centre of the city.

  It was still very peaceful there, the peace of a Sunday morning. There was a faint sound of music which was louder than the clatter of the scant traffic in the streets. Although it was neither his concern nor his duty, Chance felt some relief. Fewer people meant that there would be fewer to fight the spread of the fire, and it also meant fewer victims. The cloud was a smudge on the horizon, partially obscured by high buildings, but it was beginning to loom and darken the day. Curls of ash were already being chased through the dry gutters by the wind.

  Patience was humming softly. ‘Redemption by Lewis, I believe. How very appropriate. You were saying something about being allowed to return to your work? Chance, not very much has changed. You met one woman who shamed you into returning to your duty; later you will encounter hundreds of more common souls who will drive you to such frustration that you will again neglect it. Should you be allowed to return to your work?'

  Chance kept silent and let his steps drift closer to the sound of the music. It was coming from a small, domed theatre. He stopped in the portico and peered inside. The audience was hushed and intent, as devout-seeming as any congregation hearing a bishop's sermon. The vocal orchestra was a dim blur at the back of the hall, but even at that distance there was something in their faces that showed through the faintly smoky air.

  'Redemption and mercy for them, but not for us,’ he murmured.

  Patience sighed. ‘You are being so difficult.'

  They stood for a while listening to the music, much of which sounded familiar, while the sky darkened and ash spiralled down from above. Finally, the sound of snapping, crackling flame joined with the vocal harmonies, and smothered coughing began to be heard in the crowd.

  'We've stayed too long.’ Patience stepped out of the portico and pointed to the dome of the theatre. The dry wind had carried embers far in advance of the main blaze, and there was an ominous, dense smoke pouring down from the roof.

  Inside the theatre, a rumbling of worried noise began to rise above the music.

  'Time to go, I think,’ Chance said. ‘Shall we go forward, or leave?'

  'Neither. Let us go ahead a few days, then a few months to see how the city has recovered.'

  Just as the junior djombi had put his hosts into bubbles of slowed time, so did this senior pair spin around themselves a cocoon from which they, open eyed, were able to see a sudden bloom of flame and smoke, the microsecond collapse of the dome, and then a lingering haze.

  'Go straight on,’ said Chance, changing his mind. ‘I want to see it rebuilt rather than burnt.'

  They went ahead so quickly so that all outside was blurred twilight, and then they slowed to check the state of the ruined theatre. All the wood was gone, but the stone walls and pillars stood like blackened monuments to the devastation. Thus it remained for quite a while, but then at last there was evidence of clearing and cleaning. Chance and Patience watched with interest as the frame of the dome was raised and the dome itself billowed up around it as if the very shingles had feet of their own to scurry into place.

  Finally, the images beyond the transparent barrier steadied. They pulled aside the veil of time and looked out but stayed partly on the threshold of their own world.

  'Less timber,’ Chance commented, looking around at the new architecture.

  Patience was too busy examining the schedule of performances affixed to the theatre door to pay attention.

  'The tragedy of Olen and Mara, a sung play in three acts,’ she read. ‘Based on a true story of the Great Plague.'

  'Typical,’ Chance said in tones of deep depression. ‘Give them a crisis, and they must turn it into a form of entertainment. Do they really remember what happened here? People died, people killed themselves rather—'

  '—rather than live on without beauty and love. Yes. It's all here in the play's summary.'

  'Is it?’ He went to stare at the schedule, and an odd expression came over his face, as if he were unsure whether or not a smile was called for. ‘Paama's star-crossed lovers are now immortal. I wonder if that would please her.'

  'Something positive from a grave mistake,’ Patience mused. ‘Yes, I think that would please her, if she ever found out.'

  Chance did not reply. He knew that contact was limited between humans and the undying ones for good cause, but at that moment it was yet another thing to make him feel miserable.

  She noticed, of course. ‘You miss her.'

  'Time means nothing to our kind. How could I miss her?'

  'Because she is not where you are in either time or space, that is how. I think this unusual woman has done more than shame you. She has taught you something about how to be vulner
able.'

  He looked at her angrily, but she raised a hand in protest.

  'I did not say “weak". I said “vulnerable". Is that such a terrible thing?'

  He subsided, but only slightly. ‘Not terrible, no, but it is just another word used to describe the human condition.'

  She shrugged. ‘Your opinion. But we have strayed very far indeed from the topic at hand. We have to decide what is to be done with you. Restitution is beyond your ability; redemption is, in your opinion, not an option for our kind; so I offer you a third possibility—rehabilitation. You are too valuable to waste. Why not take a period of time to properly learn the lessons you have merely glimpsed over these past few days?'

  'I cannot believe it would be so simple.'

  'Of course it wouldn't be simple. It would be hardship, suffering, every kind of testing and privation. It would certainly not be a holiday. At times it might even approach restitution, but you must remember that it is not; it is a gift, a second chance.'

  Chance looked at her and considered long and hard. He had tried isolation, and it had been sterile and useless. He had tried to do as he pleased with humans, and instead of senseless vermin he had found Paama, remarkable in her own ordinary way, and very burdensome on his conscience. He found himself running out of choices.

  He bowed his head, and said humbly, ‘What would you have me do?'

  'What you are already doing. Trust in more than your own power. I have shown others the way to redemption, and I can show you.'

  He seemed sad for a moment. ‘I suppose I will have to give up the power of chaos again.'

  'Give it up for the first time, you mean,’ she laughed at him. ‘I had to take it from you by force to bring you to your senses. But yes, you will have to give up that and many other things as well. But I promise you, I will keep all these things in trust for you until you return. Are you ready?'

  He was afraid. He realised as she stared at him that she was far more senior to him than he had ever realised, far more senior than any of his kind that he had known, but that she was only now allowing him to see the full extent of her power. Still, he had little choice but to trust her. He closed his eyes and offered himself, and felt her gently wind his powers away from him like silk from a cocoon, leaving him unshielded, weaponless, and naked.

  He shivered. He had never known such weakness, such fear of annihilation.

  'What happens next,’ he whispered, still not daring to open his eyes.

  She gathered him into her arms until he felt warm again, and even safe, and then she said, ‘You must be born again.'

  * * * *

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  23

  one door closes . . .

  * * * *

  Finding Paama was embarrassingly easy. Once Kwame entered the main street and asked for the whereabouts of Ansige's house, a passerby wordlessly pointed him towards a large stone and wood structure whose open door was swarming with humanity. Some of the people appeared to be in either great distress or great happiness—it was difficult to tell which. Kwame drew nearer with some hesitation—he disliked crowds.

  There was a man sitting on the pavement a short way off from the door. His face, which bore an expression of poignant woe, was partly hidden in his hands. Kwame sidled up to him, unsure as to whether he should intrude in the man's grief.

  The man lifted up anguished eyes and thought he saw a comforter.

  'I knew this would happen,’ he said. ‘I knew it, but would he listen? Of course not.'

  'Ahh, my deepest sympathy, but can you tell me—'

  'Giving credit is no better than gambling, gambling on a man's honour, gambling on a man's good luck. But he said that it always paid to do business that way with the lesser chiefs and their kin. What did I know? I was only following orders! But he'll make this my fault somehow,’ he concluded bitterly.

  Kwame added his knowledge of Ansige to the man's words and tried a guess. ‘You are a grocer?'

  'A junior partner in a wholesale grocery company,’ he confirmed, and then his face fell into deeper depression as he added, ‘but not for much longer, I fear.'

  'I am sorry, but can you tell me where I might find Paama, Ansige's widow?'

  The grocer jerked his head towards the door, saying with a weak smile, ‘Good luck getting through. I understand only the undertaker's been paid so far, and that's because thirty degrees and eighty-percent humidity is kind to no corpse.'

  Kwame managed something between a grin and a grimace in reply and started towards the door. After a few steps, his stride faltered. It was bedlam. People were pushing each other out of the way; the moment someone shouldered their way in, they were almost trampled by someone storming out.

  'This is not my way of doing things,’ Kwame muttered to himself.

  He bypassed the entire drama and slipped down a side alley. It was walled off at the end, but there were green, leafy branches hanging over a corner of the wall, hinting at gardens beyond. He climbed the wall and discovered a small footpath that led to another road, but he ignored that, choosing instead to jump lightly down into the adjacent garden. The divisions between the back gardens were low and flimsy, so it was only a matter of a hurdle, a quick sprint from an angry dog, and a rolling dive over a fence before he was in the back garden of the late Ansige's residence.

  The gate there was shut up tightly, just as he had expected. Paama was sitting on the back doorstep with a knife in her hand and a bowl in her lap, trimming string beans. She froze and stared at him warily for a second before throwing the knife into the bowl and scrambling up hastily.

  'Sister Jani and the others sent me,’ he explained quickly, getting to his feet and spreading his hands to show he was harmless.

  'How do I know that?’ she challenged, hesitating on the threshold.

  'Sister Carmis dreamed me. And I see you're still wearing your headband, but I don't see the brooch.'

  Paama slowly relaxed, or at least became less tense. ‘I should have sent a message to them when I got here,’ she admitted. ‘But first I was taking care of Ansige, and then this?'

  Shifting the bowl into the crook of her elbow, she rolled her eyes to indicate the noise of the ongoing mayhem at the front of the house.

  'That's Ansige's lawyer they're tearing apart. I had to give him a good portion of my gold before he would agree to settle the debts and the estate for me. I've done what was expected of me, and I don't want to do any more.'

  'Didn't your husband leave you anything?'

  'Anything that wasn't already collateral for a greater debt? No. I suppose they will have to sell off the house to pay off everything. No matter. I wouldn't have wanted to stay in it anyway.'

  'Will you be coming home, then?’ Kwame asked.

  Paama's mouth twisted. ‘I must stay for the funeral at least. That's the last of my duty. Then back to the House of the Sisters to tell them my news and to Makendha for my sister's wedding. After that, who knows?'

  Kwame nodded. ‘I know. Sometimes grief can only be cured by wandering. I have done it myself. Then again, I have often wandered for the sake of wandering, so I suppose it would be hard to tell the difference.'

  She smiled. ‘Wandering for the sake of wandering. I like the sound of that. But tell me, young man, do I look grieved?'

  He paused and examined her. ‘You look tired ... a bit fed up, which is understandable given the descent of the vultures ... and a little bit sad, but not as if bereaved, though. As if you are missing something. Or someone.'

  She did not lose her smile, but whatever humour or cheer there had been in it seemed to fade out, as if a cloud had dimmed the world.

  'Something or someone indeed, and possibly both,’ she replied. ‘And neither of them are Ansige or anything to do with him. I left him more than two years ago, and there was plenty of time for me to finish my grieving then.'

  She seemed to shrug to herself, as if pushing an old burden off her shoulders. Then she looked at him sharply. ‘How did you
know to find me here? As you have already noticed, I had to set aside the brooch a while ago.'

  'I guessed,’ he said simply. ‘I asked questions, I made assumptions and I acted on them. I believe the Sisters thought I was very impulsive, though.'

  She raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘It was a very good guess. Did the Sisters tell you why they thought I might be elsewhere?'

  Kwame shook his head, amused at the memory. ‘I think they tried, but getting information out of them was like extracting gold from ore—a lot of labour and time, and why bother to do it when you know there's a store just around the corner? I figured that if I was wrong, I had at least eliminated the obvious, which is the first duty of a tracker.'

  She smiled again, this time with more brightness. ‘I'd say that chance brought you. The obvious would not have helped you in this situation.'

  Then, without warning, she began to cry.

  There are a few men in the world who are unmoved by tears from a woman. Kwame was not one of them, but at that moment he wished very much indeed that he were. He came up to her, without a handkerchief, without anything useful and soothing to say, and patted her arm with clumsy concern.

  She started to laugh through her tears, which unnerved him even more.

  'I am so sorry. It's just that I've had a very??trange time recently. Are you a good listener? I don't even know your name, but it would help if I could talk to someone.'

  He smiled. ‘My name is Kwame, and in my type of work, one has to be a good listener.'

  She sat on the doorstep again, set the bowl in her lap and absently returned to her previous work as she told her tale. Kwame leaned against the door post and watched her as she talked. She told him the whole story of how the Stick had been given to her and how her life had been transformed thereafter. From time to time she glanced at him anxiously to see if disbelief or scorn was showing on his face. Kwame did not have to dissemble. It was no hardship for him to keep his face calm—except for when he looked stern at the cruelty of the indigo lord; awed at the story of the bandit treasure hid beyond human reach; sad at the plague deaths; stirred at the sailors’ courage and the general's integrity; and amused at the naughty little boy who learned how terrible a thing it can be to be beside oneself.