A Stranger in Olondria: A Novel

by Sofia Samatar

  Inscrutable country of the north—ravishing Olondria! Suddenly, as we pulled away on the sea, she unveiled the beauty of that coast with a limpid gesture of the light which seemed to contain a coy and voluptuous smile. A wash of blue poured over the sea that had been so thick and gray, a blue of dazzling, ineffable tenderness. And the city took on the delicate colors of a bed of roses on the brink of death, those exquisite pinks and whites. The ivory of worn seashells glowed in its walls, and the faded gold of tapestries, and another, elusive color, the gray of chalk—a frail and etiolated color, more precious to me than the rest because it seemed to contain the essential Olondrian sadness. The woman beside me sobbed with renewed despair, throwing back her head, her sunshade drooping, two bright tracks descending from under her lashes. While on the waves the Salt Coast grew still whiter, more fragile, more luminous—and at last it was only a nimbus on the sea.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Jissavet’s Alphabet

  “Ah!” my mother said. “What’s this? You’re thin. And you have a completely different face.”

  We sat in the courtyard in the soft air of the evening. The sky was a dark turquoise and the first stars already floated, detached and pale, as if they were not real stars but only reflections. It was the end of a day which I had spent on the back of a gaunt and sullen donkey I had purchased at Dinivolim, coming down through the forests and rubber plantations into the shimmering tea country, and at last to the cliffs of Tyom. My household was not expecting me; Jom saw me first, bellowed, charged, and crushed me to his heart in the front courtyard, and my mother ran out to meet me with a look of fear, her hair disheveled, her hands still gleaming with the grease of the kitchen. A servant was sent to fetch Lunre, who was away; others hurriedly prepared a reception for me, filling the courtyard with flowers. Now we sat there on cane chairs in an atmosphere of relaxed festivity which I recognized as the absence of my father.

  “I’ll soon get fat again,” I said, holding up my empty plate. A servant took it and held the cloth and the bowl for me to wash.

  “Fat again!” she said. “You were never fatter than a little mouse. And all of your fat, you carried it on your whiskers. . . .”

  “Yes, we must fatten you,” said my father’s wife, wiping her narrow hands on the servant’s cloth, smoothing her long skirt. She sat very straight in the growing darkness, not bending into the shape of the chair. The last rays of the sky shone on her high and polished plaits. Her face was a lean shadow. “How else can we find you a bride?” Her laugh clattered, an old spoon falling on metal. “Not that it stopped your foreign tutor. He’s still as thin as a cricket, and we celebrated his wedding during the Sea Days!”

  I turned to Lunre, shocked. He wore an abashed, uncomfortable smile, and I imagined that he was grateful for the darkness. “True,” he said in a low voice, in Kideti, glancing away at the trees.

  I stared at him. “But where is she?”

  He rubbed his jaw.

  My mother answered gently: “Lunre lives in his own house now, on Painted Mountain.”

  “You moved away,” I said in Olondrian, dismayed. And he answered in the same language, his hands moving in the dark like drifting leaves. “I couldn’t stay here forever, with no one to teach. I would have told you later, but . . .” He shrugged, eloquent in silence. The servants brought two braziers from the kitchen, and the reddish light revealed a demure smile on the face of my father’s wife.

  “Congratulations,” I told Lunre in Kideti.

  He looked at me, his face serious, filled with gratitude in the dimness. “Thank you,” he said. He reached and grasped my hand, then patted my arm as if to feel that I was real, was here beside him. “Jevick,” he murmured. His voice hummed out in the twilight, his same voice. I had forgotten how thin it was, ragged in the upper register. Had I described his voice I would not have said that it had that worn quality, as if its fabric was stretched, on the verge of tearing. I would have told of another voice, smoother, nobler, more restful, yet when he spoke it was this voice I recognized: this weather-beaten voice, shredded by winds like the voice of an old sailor, brought him close to me in a dazzling instant. I knew him through his voice, despite his hair, grown longer and bleached salt-white, tied at the nape of his neck in the island fashion, and despite his vest with the Tyomish designs, his drawstring trousers and leather sandals, the costume of a fisherman of the cliffs. His voice was the same, his lanky body, the way he sat with his elbows on his knees, his sad necromancer’s eyes. He played with a leaf, burning it on the coals, and the redness lit his fingers until they were incandescent with hidden blood.

  We spoke. We spoke of nothing, fish and fruit trees and the gossip of Tyom, an old man’s death, a number of betrothals. My father’s wife, loyal to her bitterness, made only comments whose innocence concealed their essential cruelty. She was a dagger thinly sheathed, as always, only slightly subdued by the thought that I, the Ekawi, could send her away. And only this gnawing fear, evident in her strained and watchful pose, made her pitiable and therefore bearable. Her laugh rang out unnaturally, so that Jom whimpered with distress and my mother looked at her co-wife with concern. My mother, incapable of malice, even in self-defense, who humbled herself in order to soothe the first wife: “Look at your son’s clothes,” she said, teasing, and my father’s wife, not unaware of the kindness, sniffed coldly. “Ridiculous attire,” she said. “Even his tutor doesn’t dress like that.” A smirk twisted her iron face in the moonlight.

  It was my mother’s genius, this passionate sensitivity that made her capable of knowing others better than they knew themselves. When Lunre was ready to go, we walked with him to the arch of the courtyard, a servant following with a Tyomish lamp, a bowl of oil. The light was florid and agitated, a light by which one could never read, its nervous color bouncing in all directions, lighting up my master’s smile and then, leaning against the wall, the pole which he took in his hand, grasping it firmly. It was a bolkyet, a stick in which a narrow blade was hidden. He twisted the handle, revealing a streak of white. “In case of thieves,” he grinned, snapping it closed, and my mother said approvingly: “Yes, Painted Mountain is far.” I looked at her and saw, by her earnest eyes in the transient light, by the tender curve at the corner of her mouth, that her thoughts were the same as mine: she knew that Lunre would never have occasion to use the bolkyet he leaned upon so proudly. For any islander coming upon my master in the dark, even the most brutal and wayward criminal, would flee from his spectral countenance and supernatural height and from the pallor that indicated a lack of blood. Yet I saw that, since he had moved away, my mother had flattered him for his brusque courage in going armed among the forests, and that Lunre, who would never have admitted to physical vanity, was pleased to be seen as a man to be reckoned with. This glimpse of their new lives, so full of grace and generosity, affected me like the sight of a beautiful painting, like one of those dark and melancholy paintings of Olondria in which only a tiny corner is laden with light. There they stood, surrounded by darkness under a distant moon, lit by the thick and glancing rays from the bowl, the white-haired man with his pale and gentle eyes as changeful as water, and the woman, black-haired, barefoot, lambent with smiles. Then he put his free hand on my shoulder and kissed me on both cheeks, saying in Olondrian: “Welcome, friend of my heart.” He squeezed my shoulder and turned, the servant lighting his way out to the gate, his angular shadow sliding over the path.

  “He is a good man,” my mother said when he had gone. “You should be happy that he has found a wife.”

  “I am happy,” I said.

  She linked her arm through mine, turning with me to walk back to the chairs. “My little mouse . . .”

  The words affected her suddenly; it was clear she had not expected it. I heard the catch in her voice, and she fell silent. Then she laughed tearfully: “How silly I am! And look, Jom’s taken off his vest—it’s getting colder, he’ll be chilled. . . .”

  Jom had indeed removed his vest and sto
od before the orange trees with his powerful chest and shoulders lit by the moon. My father’s wife walked toward me with her brisk, constricted steps and knelt on the flagstones to receive the touch of my hand. I touched her formidable hairstyle, which was barbed like a sea urchin, and she rose, muttered good night, and walked stiffly off to her room. We could hear her scolding one of the servants. Footsteps pattered, a light flashed. Then the house was dark, submerged in silence.

  “Jomi,” my mother said. “First One, what have you done with your vest? No, leave him,” she said to me, touching my arm. “He likes it. And he’s only happy because his brother is home. Aren’t you, Jomi. Aren’t you, my little squirrel . . .”

  Her little squirrel, her little mouse. When she spoke to us her voice overflowed with love, a love that was naked, glowing, transparent, the same pure ardor that poured from her eyes when she looked at us, that lit up the curve of her cheek, inexhaustible, never flagging in strength. This love existed only to give itself, an eternal fountain. And now, it seemed to me, that my father was dead, she was free to bestow her love without the fear of being mocked or of exposing us to the danger of his jealousy. Moonlight fell in the courtyard, a white rain, immobile, diaphanous. Jom put his hands into it and rubbed his face. He went through all the motions of washing, scrubbing his hair and the definite, vivid contours of his bricklayer’s physique. Soft moans escaped from him, and his laugh which was quiet and strangely flat, devoid of all but the most private emotion. A laugh like the chuckling call of a dove. He was still far from me, so far, whitening in the moonlight like a statue.

  The following morning I rode to Painted Mountain.

  My mother had described the secluded spot where Lunre had chosen to live. I rode up through the vivid and varied greenness of Tinimavet, the dark green of the mango trees, the yellow-green of the coffee bushes. The canna lilies, not yet in flower, had leaves of a cool and opaque green; the papayas, throwing their white trunks toward the sky, were crowned with a green that was almost blue. Lunre’s house stood alone at the end of a dusty path, its thatched roof sheltered by an enormous flame tree.

  I dismounted in silence, my satchel a weight on my shoulder. The house was small, isolated, looking across the valley, surrounded on all sides by trees and dwarfed by the heavy arms of the flame tree kindling its myriad torches in the shadows. It was strange to see my master emerge smiling from the doorway, stooping to pass underneath the hanging thatch. He clasped my hand and greeted me in Olondrian, and the daylight showed how tanned with the sun he was, how white his hair.

  “A beautiful morning,” he said. “As always, here on the edge of the valley! Often I stand here, just looking out, just looking . . .” And he put his hands on his narrow hips and squinted over the valley where the sunlight poured on the misty green of the farms. “Beautiful!” he repeated. “Sometimes I can see all the way to Snail Mountain. Ah, but come—come in.” He motioned me toward the open door, wearing a bashful, unfamiliar smile. I ducked inside and he followed me, pulling shut a door of unfinished bark.

  “A shame to cut off the view,” he said. “But Niahet says it lets in the flies.” The room was dim and cool, with screens of woven reeds on the windows; but even in the poor light I caught the anxious glance he darted at me, his sudden firmness of purpose in saying “Niahet.” I did not know what to do with myself and stood holding my satchel in front of me while Lunre urged me repeatedly to sit down and finally seated himself on one of the woven mats on the swept earth floor, hunched and awkward, all gangly arms and legs. It was clear that he was not yet accustomed to sitting on the floor, but he managed to make himself comfortable by leaning against the wall. I sank down on the mat across from him, my back to the door, the satchel beside me. “So, here I am,” he said.

  He smiled at me, his teeth white in the gloom. Flecks of sunlight clung like gold dust to the screens in the three windows. Aside from the mats there was no furniture in the room but the old sea chest, its blue paint peeling, set against one wall. A few books were stacked on top of it and, I saw with a curious throb of the heart, a simple jut, veiled to the waist, its spraddle-legs fashioned of copper. It must belong to the wife. It presided over my master’s books in squat, enigmatic silence: one external soul watching the others.

  “Welcome,” said Lunre, cracking his slim knuckles in the old manner but with an overattentive air, a suppressed agitation, and I knew that he was nervous and sought my approval, that for him this visit of mine was of the most profound importance. The brilliant green of his eyes was flecked with shadows of uncertainty, bits of flotsam dulling the flashing waters. And his gaze was no longer quiet and direct: it moved, glancing here and there, at the bare walls or the attenuate streaks of light.

  “Ah, Niahet,” he said abruptly. His voice was unusually loud. She came in, pushing the curtain aside with her shoulder, holding a wooden tray. She was not beautiful, nor very young, though she was twenty years younger than he. She knelt before me with practiced grace.

  “Hot date juice in the morning,” Lunre said, still in that strange loud voice, and switching into his accented Kideti. “I know it’s unusual, but I find it so—I like it so much.”

  I kept my eyes lowered. My face was hot.

  “Ah, thank you,” he said as the woman turned and knelt before him and he took his cup of date juice from the tray. I sat holding mine: its smell was heavy, dark, nostalgic, it reminded me of childhood fevers and sleep. The woman rose. I realized that I knew her, only by sight, as one knows almost everyone in Tyom: she was the daughter of small farmers, the pudgy one, the quiet one. Her brother worked as steward on a neighboring estate. She did not speak to me, of course, though Lunre gazed at her hopefully, and also, I noticed, with a mild affection. She went out with her back erect, planting her solid, bare feet on the floor, her heels glowing like yellow soapstone.

  “A wonderful,” Lunre said. His voice was hoarse and would not rise. He cleared his throat. “A wonderful woman,” he said.

  I sipped the sticky drink. My courage almost failed me; like Lunre, I did not know where to look. Here he was, married to an illiterate islander, having discovered a richness in the soil of Tyom. Once you have built something—something that takes all your passion and will—it becomes more precious to you than your own happiness. There was no way to begin, so I began clumsily.

  “Thank you for lending me books for the journey,” I said. “But you might have suggested Leiya’s autobiography.”

  He raised an eyebrow, maintaining his smile though his gaze was very still. “Ah?”

  My laugh clattered. “A joke. Of course you wouldn’t have sent it with me. You knew it was banned, like her other books. The Handbook of Mercies, for example. I had a chance to read that one, while I was away.”

  He set his cup down on the tray and sat with his head bowed, frowning at it. When he raised his eyes, the pain in them went straight into my heart.

  “I gathered from Sten that something had happened to you,” he said quietly. “Something I may not have prepared you for. I am very sorry.”

  “Don’t,” I said. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t want to complain. I just didn’t know how to say—I met someone. She gave me something for you.” I clawed at the satchel, tore it open, and pulled out the two pink packages tied with string. “She gave me these. She asked me to bring them.”

  Lunre looked at the packages. He blinked at them. He touched them. For a moment he seemed not to understand their significance. More than this: it appeared that he did not know what the letters were, what writing was, that he had forgotten how to read. Then, without warning, his breath caught and his face went pale to the lips. He grasped at the packages with feeble fingers. And as I stared, my heart pounding, I heard him groan: a low and terrible sound, ghastly and grating, a sound to chill the blood.

  He groaned. He clutched his side as if I had stabbed him, crumpling so that his head lay on the mat beside the fatal letters. His cries desecrated the homely innocence of the little house, profaned th
e green tranquility of the hill. They were ugly, bestial, appalling, their anguish obliterating all kindness, all decency. His hair was against the letters, his hands covering his face. When I crawled to him and took his shoulders, he fought me. “No. You have done enough,” he shouted, thrashing in my arms.

  “Hush. Hush,” I said. I did not release him until his first torment had passed. Then I lowered him gently to the earthen floor. The woman, Niahet, did not emerge; I imagined her pacing her humble kitchen in an agony of fear.

  “Hush,” I said. He lay on the floor, still shaking, and I placed my hand between his shoulder blades in quiet authority. I willed him to endure the pain with a wisdom born of the desert, of the winter, of the evenings of the dead. Yet tears rolled down my cheeks, and my heart struggled. It seemed to me that I was a servant of death, that desolation followed wherever I passed. I remembered Tialon’s brave despair, the bodies burning in the Night Market, Olondria lying under the threat of war. I had drawn that line of destruction across the north, and now I had brought it home with me to Tyom, to Lunre’s house. A curse, I thought. A curse. And then I seemed to hear the angel’s voice. Stop, Jevick. It’s over now. It’s finished.

  “I shall never be able to speak of it,” Lunre whispered.

  “I know.” The glinting screens on the windows wavered; I blinked to clear my vision. “You do not need to speak of it. But you will read the letters.”

  “I can’t. I can’t go back.”

  “I know. But you will read.”

  Then he sat up slowly like an old man and drew his knees in close. A superstitious terror in his face. He stared at the letters before him on the ground. “I never thought this would happen to me. It’s like looking at a noose. . . .”