Semper (New Eden)

by Dudley, Peter J

  I follow the line of the man’s arm to his shoulder, then look at his face. Darius. He wears a small, round hat on his dark hair, the tight curls poking out at rebellious angles. His sharp nose, chin, and lips are so different from my father’s soft features that it’s impossible to believe they are brothers. Darius’s tight-cropped beard completes a circle of darkness outlining his face. In the middle are his ice-blue eyes, intense and hard.

  With one hand he holds my mother’s glove. The other reaches out to me, palm up, drawing me to him. To them. Something looks and feels very wrong about this scene. That should be my father holding my mother’s hand. That should be my father’s hand stretched out to me. I stand motionless, locked in place, unable to face the people and unable to approach my uncle.

  We linger like that only a moment. Darius drops my mother’s hand and steps from the shadows into the sunlight. He’s sweating across his lip and forehead, but he shows no discomfort as he strides past me and stands next to the table where my father lies.

  “People of Southshaw!” His voice booms across the silent square, and I turn to see every eye fixed on him, every ear trained on his voice. “We have mourned today for the greatest Semper Southshaw has ever known.” He raises his hands out over the crowd as if to embrace all five hundred at once. “Now, it is time to celebrate his success, and—“ he turns and points at me—“his successor!”

  The words burst forth with a force and confidence that demands a cheering applause, but the silence persists. They are waiting for more. Some of them look at me. One or two stare at me with such intensity and frowning that I feel like they’re trying to will me into action. But what can I do?

  Darius is unfazed by the silence. “A great and undeniable tragedy has befallen our nation today. But we shall not be daunted!” Darius glides to the front of the dais and stands in its center, directly between the crowd and the table. For this moment, he is the only person in the entire square with his back to my father’s dead body.

  “It is tradition,” he booms, “to mourn the Semper for three days. This man, however, shall be mourned in our hearts for all our days. We—“ he turns to look pointedly at my mother, then returns to his oration—“shall honor and respect him not with three days of grief, but with a lifetime of remembrance.”

  He continues, heedless of the indignant questions forming in the faces of his audience. “Tomorrow we celebrate the ascension of our next Semper.” Darius turns and smiles at me in what he must think is a fatherly manner. To me, it looks more like the way a dog’s lips curl back in a snarl. “I hereby declare and decree that with Dane's return, the official mourning period has ended.”

  An audible gasp from the entire congregation rises, and I sense some shifting of bodies. Both the gasp and the movement are quickly stifled. “Resume the preparations for the Wifing. Rejoice in the thought that tomorrow at midday, we will have a new Semper and a new First Wife.” At this I can feel some of the grief melting away from the crowd and the excitement of the Wifing replacing it. Unbelievable.

  What had that tall man told me? Declare a period of mourning. Postpone the Wifing.

  No, it shouldn’t happen like this.

  Darius has turned it all around. I look to my father, stupidly hoping that his lifeless corpse will stand up to defend itself. I am alone, so alone that no one looks at me now. Not even my mother, whose shrouded gaze droops to her gloved hands.

  “And I, as the former Semper’s brother, will serve as steward until Semper-son is promoted tomorrow. Now, stand and greet your Semper-son, newly returned from the northern territory. Stand and cast off your sorrow. Stand and make preparations! We look to the future while we celebrate the life that graced us for too short a time.”

  Some people in the crowd rise right away. Others look around, and in twos and threes they stand, unsure whether they should. Twenty seconds later, the entire congregation is standing, and those that rose first begin to clap and shout out. Other voices join them. As if the entire mob has woken from a deep dream, they shake off their uncertainty and file out of the courtyard through the four exits.

  Hundreds leave, and within a few minutes, the entire square is empty. The grass is trampled flat and pale. The pond lies motionless, reflecting a cloudless sky. Across the square a lone figure lurks in the shadow of the open church doorway, a tall and lanky figure. He stands only a moment, then slips through the door and slinks away.

  Darius breathes deep and turns toward me. There’s a fire in his eyes, the eagerness of the dog hot on a prey’s scent. He glances from me to my mother several times, as if unsure why we are still in our places. Then he strides past me, his voice low and stern. “Make sure the body is put away before the decorators return. You have about ten minutes.”

  He sweeps into the house, and the air that follows him hits me like an avalanche. I look at my mother, but she still gazes down at her hands. Why does she ignore me? Why will she not even look at me? Have I disappointed her so deeply?

  Anger and courage rear within me. But too late, always too late. I will follow Darius and confront him. I will demand that he rescind his decree and reinstate the mourning. I will demand that he postpone the Wifing. I will demand that he not enter my house without my permission.

  My mind reels with all the things I will do, all the anger and pain crashing upon me. But like a spent candle, my feet are melted to the porch. I will do all those things, I swear it.

  The door opens again, and Darius pokes his head into the sunlight, squinting in the glare. “Come, boy. You look like shit. You can’t interview Verges in that state.”

  My mother stands slowly and shuffles toward the door, and I find myself falling in behind her. As she slips through the doorway, Darius' arm slithers around her waist. He strips off her veil with his other hand, then guides her to the right, toward the Semper’s anteroom and bedchamber. When I follow, he stops short and spins on his heel.

  “Not you. Go find your nursemaid. She will dress you.” He caresses my mother’s gloved fingers, then slowly peels the glove away. He raises her naked hand to his mouth and brushes her skin along his lips. “The grownups have… other business.”

  He walks off down the hall, pulling my mother behind him. Before the door to my father’s bedroom closes, he calls back, “Don’t forget to dispose of that corpse!”

  CHAPTER 10

  “Send in the next girl, dear.” My mother’s voice is calm and gentle, soothing even. How can she act this way to each of these stupid, useless girls? She even adds the exact same matronly smile with each one. She gives nothing away about her feelings for each of them.

  Kitta stands after her half hour interview. As she turns and walks out, I realize that watching her ass wiggle as she leaves is by far the best part of the interview. She is shapely and long-legged, and her blond hair sways in a long braid down her back, the horsetail end of which tickles the ruffle at the bottom of her blouse. Until thirty minutes ago, I never realized how much air occupied the space where her brain should have been.

  At the door, Kitta turns to flash one final smile. The first five girls did the same, with a flourish of a curtsey. Kitta, though, bows at the waist, which draws an almost imperceptible snort of derision from my mother, the first sign of favor or disfavor she’s produced in three hours. I see at once why Kitta chose to bow, however. Her snow-white blouse, expertly and intricately embroidered with cream colored roses, droops as she bows and gives me a clear, uninhibited view of her two biggest and best assets. She holds the bow a moment too long, and as she rises she fixes my gaze with her stunning blue eyes.

  I shift a little in my seat to hide my growing discomfort. Really, I wouldn’t mind watching her walk in and out a few times, as long as she bowed on each pass. And as long as she kept her mouth shut, which I know from experience and gossip is an impossibility for the poor girl.

  The door swings silent behind her and clicks shut. I have only thirty seconds or so to say what has been building inside me for three hours, but Kitt
a’s display in the last minute has thickened my tongue and muddied my thoughts. Still, I try to come out with it.

  “Mother—“

  “Now is not the time, Dane.”

  Anger that’s been rising since we parted in the hallway bursts into a fire of rage inside me. I want to yell, to scream. I want to leap out of my chair and grab her and shake her. Her husband lies dead in another room. Not even a whole day has passed, and she’s given herself to someone else. She should have demanded the mourning. She should have acted the faithful bereaved wife, not the… I can’t even bring myself to think the words.

  And his own brother! My uncle, Darius! She should have killed herself rather than follow him to the bedroom. She should have done anything but that. But she just let him peel off her glove, tear away her mourning veil, kiss her fingertips… the rage is seething inside me, and I stare hard at her as I tremble and grit my teeth. I want this all to come out in words, spoken to her, but it stays rattling around inside and my mouth stays shut.

  Now is not the time. The words hang in the air like an invisible shield between us. She’s only a few feet away, sitting stock upright in her dark-stained oaken chair. Her mourning veil and gloves are gone, and she is arrayed in a rich, blue dress with long sleeves. At least her graying black hair is tied with a black ribbon.

  When will be the time, I want to shout. Now is not the time to pick a wife for me. Now is not the time for her to take another man. Now is not the time for celebration. Now is the time to explain herself.

  The door clicks again and swings open.

  “Please, ma’am, may I enter?”

  Freda, the tailor’s daughter, casts a slender shadow slicing across the room from the angled afternoon sunlight.

  “Enter, my dear. You are among friends.” My mother’s voice, which fell cold and blunt on me a moment ago, returns to its gentle, welcoming hush.

  Freda curtseys, which seems oddly out of place. It takes a moment for me to realize the oddness comes not from her but from her outfit—she’s the first to wear pants instead of a dress, and I’ve never seen someone curtsey in pants before. But the slacks have blousy, flowing legs, and the move works in an artful if distracting way. I try to catch my mother’s reaction from the corner of my eye, but her smile is steady and her hands lie relaxed and unmoving on the armrests of her chair.

  Striding across the floor to the simple stool placed lonely in the middle of the room, Freda flows with grace and steadiness. The first five girls clomped across the floorboards in high heeled shoes with wobbly uncertainty. Only Kitta managed the heels and a tight fitting dress with as much ease as Freda. Kitta slinked with a sexy, feline playfulness. Freda strides to her seat with an athletic certainty. It’s not unlike the hunter’s efficiency in Lupay’s movements. But while Lupay looks compact and powerful, Freda is skinny, almost frail. She’s not particularly tall and not particularly curvy. In fact, not curvy at all. Whatever curves I’m seeing appear to be created by the clothing rather than the body inside it.

  Freda lowers herself calmly onto the stool. She does not smile. She does not fidget. She merely looks pleasantly first at me, then at my mother. Freda rests her gaze upon my mother and waits. My mother also waits. She studies Freda for three full minutes in dead silence. Binda was the first girl to break under the pressure of my mother’s silent stare. Poor Binda, thrown into a titter of giggles by her impatience and her uncontrollable desire to be selected. When her tittering began, she realized she’d lost herself and it quickly turned to weeping. The rest of her interview was meaningless, but poor Binda was the only one not to understand that.

  Freda endures in quiet composure, and I study her as she sits. Her brown hair is clean and smooth with a little frizz at the ends but otherwise unremarkable. She has green eyes, the color of the bay where I first saw Lupay. Her skin is not pale exactly but deadens the light as it hits her. It’s not unpleasant, but she’s not a girl I would bother to look twice at. Her lips are thin and pale, and her petite nose turns up slightly at the end. Her blouse is dark green, very similar to my own, and her pale hands are clasped in her lap. The overall effect is of a girl who has emerged from an ancient painting. She is very lifelike.

  I sense the timer reaching its end. Somehow I know that Freda senses it as well, but she gives no outward indication. Her slender fingers don’t wiggle. Her feet don’t tap the floor. No sniffles or little coughs erupt into the quiet.

  My mother, finally, smiles at her and takes a breath to speak.

  “Madam Semper,” Freda interrupts, “please allow me to express my deepest sympathy on your loss. It is a terrible tragedy, one which must be very difficult for you to bear.”

  My mother has been put on her heels, and I find that I like Freda more for it.

  “Well—thank you, dear. That is very kind. It has been—is—very difficult indeed.”

  Then why doesn’t your voice show it, I ask in my head. Why have I not seen a single tear on your cheek, heard a single sob, felt a single moment of weakness from you? Why, mother? Why, Judith?

  “The burden of being Semperwife must be difficult indeed, madam, if duty commands you to forego your own grief. You and Semper Linkan seemed very much in love. Even my rich imagination cannot comprehend the depth of sorrow you must feel, and the anguish caused by today’s… change in tradition.”

  My mother bristles visibly at this impetuous attack. Her back stiffens, and her hands grip, rather than caress, the armrests of her chair. Even from the corner of my eye I can see her nostrils flare and her chest raise in an angry breath.

  I don't want her wrath to come down on Freda, so I interrupt. “Thank you, Freda. It is indeed a very difficult time, and the duties of the Semper’s wife are sometimes far more serious, sometimes far more burdensome, than singing at Spring festivals.”

  My mother shoots me a quick glare which softens immediately. I see in Freda’s eyes an anger of her own. I smile sadly at them both through a haze of confusion. I had intended to rip at the wound Freda opened, but something else has happened. My mother returns her stare to Freda, and I realize that even when I was speaking, Freda never stopped looking at my mother. Without understanding what I’ve done wrong, I know that I’ve somehow trespassed into unknown territory.

  Freda remains silent as my mother puts a shot of aggression in her words. “The burden of leadership is heavy indeed, Freda. I know your mother is a kind and generous woman. I know your father to be very skilled in his work.”

  “Yes, madam Semper,” beams Freda, recovered from her anger of a moment ago. “My father made the shirt that Dane wears now, as well as my own.” It’s the first time I’ve realized that her shirt and mine are nearly identical in style, color, and shape. Hers creates the illusion of a buxom curvaceousness while mine creates the illusion of a strong, muscled torso and powerful arms.

  Freda continues before my mother can respond. “I believe I have inherited some of his skill, though perhaps not his artistry. I would be most honored if, at a later date, you would tell me what you thought of Kitta’s dress. I designed that myself.”

  “It was lovely and flattering. The dress and the girl could be said to be made for each other, I think. Clearly, you paid great attention to detail when fitting her.” The women share a knowing smile, and Freda looks a bit too flattered by the empty praise. She gives me her one and only glance, the briefest of eye-flicks in my direction, and I think she blushes momentarily.

  After six interviews, I have grown accustomed to being an unnecessary and detached observer. It is traditional that the First Wife select her son’s future bride from the ten Verges. The Semper-son has little or no say in the matter at all. Plus, during the first six interviews there was no point. My mind wandered elsewhere, and I was content to let my mother deal with nitwit girls.

  Now, though, I want to participate. “Yes, she looked beautiful in it,” I offer. I want the interview to go well. I want my mother to select Freda. I imagine it might be possible for me to survive with Freda s
ince I can’t have Lupay. “Stunning, as a matter of fact. You really did a great job.”

  Freda’s momentary blush fades to an ashen paleness, and I realize what I’ve just said. Oh god, I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. I have to recover. “But, really, your father’s work is unparalleled. I mean, just look at these shirts he made for us! This makes me look like I have muscles. You know, like Jeremy of the Scouts.” I laugh a hearty ha-ha to show that I’m joking. “And yours… they do create a masterful illusion, don’t they?”

  Freda looks uncertain and maybe a little bit sick. She and my mother continue to look at each other, neither looking at me. The words that just came out of my mouth… they hit me suddenly as I think Freda must have heard them. Did I just tell one of the Verges that she is homely compared to her stunningly beautiful competitor? Oh god, I did. I need to clarify—

  “So, my dear, as you can see,” my Mother says, “the burdens of being First Wife are indeed often difficult to bear.” This seems to help Freda recover slightly, but I don’t know why. Maybe she doesn’t like talking about clothes? She’s a seamstress. How could she not want to talk about clothes? It seems like that’s all the other girls wanted to talk about.

  “Thank you, Freda,” my mother intones in her interview voice. “Please send the next girl in, dear.”

  Freda rises in one fluid motion from the stool and nods to my mother and then to me. She glides across the floor, pulls open the door, and turns again to face us. She looks pointedly at me and then bows a deep bow, her green blouse clinging tight around her neck. My mother gives a second snort similar to the one she gave when Kitta bowed.

  Then she’s gone with the click of the latch, and I’m again feeling too stunned to raise all the questions I want to ask, all the objections I want my mother to hear. Before I can even suck in my breath to begin to speak, my mother turns to face me. “Not now, Dane. Later. We still have to speak with three girls. This is not something I want to do right now either, but as we’ve just discussed, the burdens of leadership are heavy.”