Everyone laughed. Doctor Simon, Matty Phipps, and Isabel. Oa laughed, too, at first. But when she saw the affection in Isabel’s wonderful eyes, the easy trust on Doctor Simon’s face, her laugh died. She had to tell them the truth. It wasn’t right to pretend. She stared down at the shiny table, seeing her own dark face looking back at her.
Oa remembered a tatwaj on the people’s island. She remembered that a mother and father tried to hide their son, slip him away when it was time for the tatwaj so he could not be counted. There had been screaming and wailing. The elders sent the son to the anchens, and the mother and father were banished from the three islands. Oa’s papi had been very angry, and had made a speech before the people. Oa was little then, but she remembered how Papi had thundered, and how the mother and father clung to their son as he was pulled away, how the mother screamed as the elders rowed him away in their canoe.
The memory slipped away, and Oa came back to herself. She looked up into Doctor Simon’s lean, kind face, Matty Phipps’s ruddy smile, Isabel’s gentle eyes. They gazed back at her, trusting her, believing her to be something she was not.
Tears filled Oa’s eyes, and the others fell silent. She knew they were wondering what was wrong. Even through the rich, sugary smell of the ice cream shop, she caught the change in Isabel’s scent, the tinge of worry, of confusion.
She must tell her. And then what would Isabel do? Would she give her back to Doctor? Send her away? Perhaps she would feel she had no choice.
*
ISABEL LEFT SIMON to pore over the medicator scans. She persuaded Matty to let her take Oa for a walk, allowing her to follow at a distance, promising she wouldn’t leave her sight. She wrapped Oa in the black sweater, and a thick coat that reached the girl’s ankles. She had found boots to fit Oa’s long-toed feet. She wore her own vest and coat, and they both wore knitted hats. They walked west from the guest suites, down a winding street toward the waterfront, leaving the cramped streets of the Multiplex to walk in the broader avenues of the city.
Oa had not spoken since the ice cream shop.
Isabel kept Oa’s hand in hers as they walked, not hurrying, but keeping a steady pace down the hill, following the glimpses of Elliott Bay between the buildings. The waters of Puget Sound sparkled a cool blue in the fading light, a color that reminded Isabel of the ancient fishing villages in northern Italy, where a handful of people still lived in the old way, close to the land, shaped by it, dependent upon it. Oa’s people must have lived that way, fishing, gathering, making clothes and implements from the materials the land gave them. She let her mind follow this thread, always ending up in the same place. The fisherpeople of northern Italy stayed bound to their homeland, all but inseparable from it. If the Sikassa followed that model, then where had they gone, and why? And how could they have left their children behind?
Isabel glanced down at Oa’s hand. One of her tattoos, just a little jagged corner, showed beneath her coat sleeve. Oa’s head drooped. Isabel felt the squeeze of pity in her heart, and she pressed her lips together, chastising herself. Pity would not help the child. Action would.
They came to a park, narrow tiers of winter-worn grass descending to a wide street below. There were foamcast benches facing the mountains and the water. Rhododendron bushes rose high enough on the southern edge to block the rising evening wind. “Come, Oa,” Isabel said. “Let’s sit down here. I want to talk to you.”
Obediently, Oa sat down, and Isabel sat beside her. “Will you look at me, Oa?”
Oa’s eyes came up to hers, as deep and empty as a dark sea.
“Oa, I know something is troubling you. I think you’re afraid to say what it is.”
Oa looked away. She whispered, “Yes. Oa is afraid.”
“Sometimes I’m afraid, too.”
The girl sighed, a tiny sound beneath the whine of the wind.
“Won’t you tell me, Oa?”
The girl’s whole body seemed to shrink, as if she had suddenly grown smaller. Or as if she had grown much, much older.
Isabel tried, “Is it the medicator? Something about the medicator?” There was no answer. Isabel waited, holding the girl’s hand, wishing she could think of some way to ask, some better way. “Perhaps something happened, on the ship? Something you’re afraid to talk about?” Again there was no answer, but Isabel felt the shiver in the child’s fingers. She sensed Matty Phipps’s presence at the top of the park, on the highest tier, watching them, but not close enough to hear.
When Oa spoke, her voice was so soft Isabel had to lean close to her, close enough to feel her breath on her cheek. “Isabel is afraid?” she murmured.
“Yes,” Isabel said, not much louder. “I’m often afraid.”
“But—” The child broke off. Isabel waited. “But,” Oa began again, her eyes on her feet, “But you are a person.”
“You are a person, too,” Isabel said gently.
Oa lifted her head, and her great eyes were full of grief. “Not,” Oa said. Her lips had gone pale. “Not. Oa is not a person.”
Isabel’s throat dried. “Oa, I don’t think I understand. Why do you say that?”
“The tatwaj. Because of the tatwaj.”
“What is that? What is a—a tatwaj?” The word was strange to Isabel, and did not come easily from her mouth.
Oa pulled her hand free, and wrapped her arms around herself. She looked over the water, where the early sunset gilded the distant mountain peaks with deep rose and pale gold. Tragedy spoke in every line of her face, in the slant of her body, in the timbre of her voice when she finally spoke. “Oa is not a person.” She held herself tighter. “Oa—” she seemed to choke on the words, and Isabel saw her throat working until she blurted, “Oa is an anchen.” She put her arms around her knees, and buried her head against them.
Isabel could see that Oa expected something to happen. She had made a revelation, and she expected to be punished for it. But Isabel still didn’t understand.
*
OA DID IT for Isabel, because Isabel was so kind to her, had stood with her even though the cold legs of the spider machine brushed her arms and hands and even her bare, vulnerable scalp. Oa did it because in the ice cream shop she had heard the whisper of Raimu-ke in her ear, reminding her that she must tell Isabel, she must confess it all, and accept the consequences. But now, she thought in misery, now she had done it, and Isabel didn’t know what it meant.
She felt Isabel’s warm hand on her back, Isabel’s arms around her. Isabel gathered her up as if she were a baby, and held her tightly for a long, long time. Bit by bit, Oa’s spine relaxed. She released her stranglehold on her knees, and lifted her head. Darkness had fallen over the bay, but still Isabel kept her in the protective circle of her arms. A chill wind cooled Oa’s cheeks. Isabel kept one arm around Oa’s shoulders, and with the other hand, she pulled the collar of her coat higher against the cold.
Peacefully, Isabel said, “This is such a beautiful place. And here we are, just the two of us. Look up there, do you see the stars coming out?”
Oa followed her pointing finger. A few brave stars had twinkled to life, dodging gray wisps of cloud in a sky gone violet. A lighted ferry made its slow, majestic progress toward the city docks. Shadows hid the peaks to the west. The night sounds of the city were diminished by the wind. It did seem that they were alone, truly alone. Oa could almost imagine they were on the island of the anchens, on the great rock where the anchens sat together in the evenings, looking out over Mother Ocean, remembering.
Isabel said, “Oa, when I was a girl of about fifteen, I began to hear the call to priesthood in my heart. I tried not to, I tried to push it away, but it was still there. For a long time I kept it a secret, because I knew my parents wouldn’t like it. I was eighteen when the Priestly Order of Mary Magdalene was established, and I wanted more than anything to join. I told my mother and father, and they were just as unhappy as I thought they would be. But I had to do it. I remember my father being angry, because he thought I would beco
me something else, something he thought was more important. And my mother was sad, because she wanted me to have children. It was a very hard day, and it was hard for me to tell them.
“The difference was that my parents understood what I was saying. They understood about priesthood. And even though they were disappointed in my choice, they still loved me, and they said so.”
Oa, listening to Isabel’s calm voice, felt her eyelids droop. How easy it would be to allow her head to rest on Isabel’s shoulder, to curl up against Isabel’s slender body, safe, secure. How sweet it was to rest in the circle of Isabel’s arm. She felt a yawn start in her throat, and she made herself blink and swallow it away.
“And now, Oa, you’ve tried to tell me something just as important to you as my priesthood was to me. I know how hard it was. I know you were being brave. But I didn’t understand.” She stroked Oa’s cheek with her palm. “Important things are happening, Oa. I need to know what they are, to help you, to help the others. Could you be brave a little longer, sweetheart, and try to explain?”
Now she released Oa’s shoulders. Oa sighed, relinquishing Isabel’s warmth. She looked up into Isabel’s eyes, like clear little lights beckoning in the dusk.
“Did you understand all that I said, Oa?”
Oa nodded, and looked toward the water again. The ferry had floated into its berth at the city docks. “Oa understands,” she said. She felt Isabel waiting beside her, not tense like Doctor might have been, or quick like Doctor Simon, but simply still, open, ready.
It had been so hard to say the first time. And now she must do it again. She found a strand of her hair with her fingers and tugged on it.
*
ISABEL WATCHED OA struggling, knowing there was nothing more she could do to help her. She breathed deeply, letting her body be still. Oa’s eyes flickered with reflected light, golden motes sparkling in their black depths. Her lips were moving. Isabel leaned toward her.
“Raimu-ke,” Oa whispered into the night. “Raimu-ke.”
If there was anything Isabel could recognize, it was a prayer. Oa was praying. But to whom? And for what? “Oa, who is Raimu-ke?”
Oa bit her lip, and one hand reached into the empty air, searching for a word. “Raimu-ke . . . Raimu-ke is . . . in kburi. Is an anchen.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
Oa shook her head. “No. No.” She tipped her head up, looking into the stars. “Oa,” she said carefully, “is an anchen. An-chen, Isabel.Very—” She touched her trembling lips with her tongue. “Oa is very old. More old than Isabel. More old than Doctor Simon.”
When her voice trailed away, Isabel nodded. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Doctor Simon told me this, Oa.”
Oa’s eyes went wide, and she nodded vigorously. “Yes,” she said. “Anchen.”
“And is that what anchen means, Oa?” Isabel asked. “Does anchen mean very old?”
“Yes,” Oa said again. She sighed, a sound so full of sadness that Isabel almost drew her into her embrace once again. “Oa is an anchen.Not—” Her voice caught, and she swallowed. “Not a person.”
The girl’s sorrow was as palpable as the foamcast beneath them. Isabel could bear it no longer. She took the child in her arms again, and laid her cheek against the soft curling black hair. “Oa,” Isabel said softly. “Oa is a person. A person to love.”
Oa leaned against her and began to weep, great deep sobs that shook her small body, the sobs of someone who has been holding back for a very long time. Isabel held her, and let her cry. Above her head she saw Matty Phipps watching them from the top of the tiered park. She lifted her free hand to her, and then pressed it again on Oa’s back. For long minutes she held the weeping child, and she gazed out over the peaceful bay, her mind spinning. Not a person? What could it mean?
15
“IT’S NOT JUST a language barrier, Simon,” Isabel said. She frowned, and her hand strayed to her scalp. “There’s something cultural, too. Something I can’t fathom.” They sat together at the table in her suite. Oa was in bed, asleep almost before her head touched the pillow. They had come back very late from their walk. They had eaten a late dinner, though no one had much appetite after the ice cream feast of the afternoon. Simon had already shown Isabel the highlights of the medicator scan. A half-finished pot of espresso rested between them. Simon expected it to keep him awake too late, but he hadn’t wanted to refuse Isabel’s offer.
“Tell me what happened.”
Isabel said, “It was as if she were confessing something shameful, Simon, something really awful. As if it could be her fault! Or as if she had been deliberately hiding it. She expected me to be angry. I’m certain of that. She was startled when I told her I already knew she was older than she seemed. The tattoos have something to do with it—I guess that’s obvious. But I don’t understand what it is that troubles her.”
“She’s picked up a good bit of English, though,” Simon said.
Isabel nodded. “Well, she seems to understand everything I say. But these words she uses—anchen, and tatwaj—she can’t translate them.” She sipped from her cup, and set it down. “I’m no linguist, I’m afraid. The colony would probably have spoken Swahili, which became a sort of pan-African language in their time, I believe, but blended with Bambara and Old French. I tried these words in a translation program, but I didn’t get any response. It could be idiosyncratic pronunciation, or it could be that the language mutated after the Sikassa emigrated. I can theorize that tatwaj has something to do with the tattoos. Oa was able to explain that anchen means very old, but not why that should be shameful. What written language the Sikassa had was obviously lost, which makes it the more remarkable that Oa was able to teach herself to read as much as she did with the books Matty gave her.” She shrugged, and a fond smile curved her lips. “Children are so quick with languages.”
Simon drew breath, but then he released it without comment. She needed no reminder. Isabel knew perfectly well what the issue was. And perhaps childhood should not be measured only by years of life. Perhaps the failure of Oa’s body to mature meant that her mind, also, would not acquire the attributes of maturity. Along with the wisdom of age, after all, came a certain rigidity, a loss of receptivity. Old dogs and new tricks, he thought, smiling. Oa could never be called an old dog.
“Simon.” He looked up, and found Isabel regarding him with her slender dark brows lifted. “What’s amusing you?”
“I’m just thinking that we may have to reassess how we determine maturity,” he said lightly. “Because Oa may be old, but she’s still a child. An old child.”
That brought on one of Isabel’s glorious wide smiles, her eyes alight, the lines of her face smoothing. “That’s it exactly, isn’t it, Simon? That’s it. Oa is an old child!”
*
ASH WEDNESDAY ARRIVED as they waited for the board of regents to reconvene. Isabel had called the cathedral on the hill above the Multiplex, the Cathedral of St. James, offering to say the Mass in the absence of a resident priest. She was informed in a chilly tone that the bishop was sending an itinerant priest from another city. The receptionist didn’t say, A real priest, but the implication was clear. Isabel shook her head as she put down the wavephone. Marian would have been furious. Eighteen years . . . She thought of her sister priests, their discipline, their devotion, their self-denial. Centuries of tradition stood in the way of their full acceptance.
Isabel went to stand by the window, looking out over the roofs. Oa came out of her bedroom to stand beside her, letting her little hand creep into Isabel’s as she often did now. The skin of her palm was delicate and warm. Isabel smiled down at her. “Good morning, Oa.”
Oa nodded solemnly. “Good morning, Isabel.”
“Did you sleep well?”
Another nod. “Oa sleeps well.” And after a little pause, “And Isabel sleeps well?”
Isabel did not smile at the error. “Yes. I slept well, thank you.”
And Oa said, “Thank you.”
&
nbsp; “It makes me happy, Oa, to hear you speak so well. I’m proud of you.”
Oa flashed her white smile.
Their breakfast arrived, and as they sat down together, Isabel said, “Today is an important day for me, Oa. A day when I go to church to pray and to reflect on life, and death, and rebirth. It’s called Ash Wednesday.”
“Ash Wednesday.”
“Yes. Would you like to go to church?”
“Oa goes with Isabel?”
“If you like.”
“Yes. Oa likes to go to church. With Isabel.”
*
THE CHURCH WAS different from anything Oa had yet seen on Earth. As they walked in through its tall doors, a bell was ringing with a deep, sweet tone that Oa felt in her bones. The floor was cold and hard, and the ceiling arched high, dim and smoke-stained and echoing. At first she thought there were people standing on shelves set into the walls, and then she realized they were not real, but carved figures wearing long robes and holding curious things in their hands. Little lights flickered below them like tiny lamps. Like the candle Isabel lit every morning for her prayers.
Oa followed the arch of the roof with her eyes, up and up and up, to a circular window set into the very center. Soft light came through the window to fall on an ancient, chipped table. Oa flared her nostrils, and they filled with the spicy fragrance of some burned herb, and the peaceful scent of an old, much-loved place.
She looked up at Isabel and whispered, “Oa likes it.”
Isabel smiled. “I like it, too.”
There were more people in the church than Oa had ever seen at one time, more even than at the tatwaj, when the people of the three islands all came together. She stared, openmouthed in wonder at the variety of them. She saw skin in every shade between Isabel’s pale one and her own dark one, even one or two as dark as Oa, who wore their curling hair short, or wound into elaborate shapes. There were men, women, a few children, who looked at Oa and Isabel curiously. Oa peered shyly past the curtain of her hair, holding fast to Isabel’s arm. Several people smiled and nodded at the two of them. Some glanced at Isabel’s white collar and Magdalene cross, and they narrowed their eyes and turned away. One very young woman, with a baby on her hip, grinned at Isabel and said, “Hi, Mother.” Isabel returned her greeting.
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