Passages

by Olan Thorensen

  “Maybe, but that’s unknown. Let me think.” The captain’s eyes lost focus.

  Well, he’s either making an honest estimate of what I’d have to pay, or he’s thinking of how to fleece me, thought Mark.

  When Adalan looked at Mark again, he quoted a price in Sulakoan coinage. Mark did a quick conversion to Frangelese monetary units. It was almost three times the coins remaining from what they’d left the ranch with.

  “That’s more than I have,” said Mark, his disappointment evident.

  “How much more?”

  “About three times,” said Mark, caught by momentary surprise at Adalan’s question.

  Hmmm, Mark thought. Maybe telling him how much we have isn’t such a good idea. If Gulgit is right about these people, they’re not above pirating and robbing.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Adalan. “I’m so sure my cousin Mustafa Adalan will want to talk to you that I’m willing to take you on board if we can find another quarter cargo and you pay a third of what I told you passage would cost. There’s a merchant who seems interested in our transporting his goods to Bandapara. If that works out, I expect it will be approximately a quarter cargo. I should know in a day or two. If you’re willing to pay the passage, we can leave as soon as we finish loading. If not, you can come with us when we have a full cargo.”

  “Agreed,” said Mark. “I’ll check with you every afternoon.”

  Mark returned to Gulgit on the dock. “All right, let’s find a clothing shop.”

  Three hours later, Mark was the owner of a reversible black cloak with new embroidery on both sides—the rush job made possible when he added enough coin to a shop’s countertop.

  “What do you think?” Mark asked Gulgit, holding up one side of the cloak for inspection.

  “And how is that going to help you find out if she’s from Amerika?” asked Gulgit, as he eyed the two golden arches connected at one end.

  “Oh, if she’s from Amerika she will react.”

  She’ll recognize the McDonald’s symbol unless she’s lived her life in a cave, thought Mark.

  “But just in case, I’ll also let her see the other side.” He turned the cloak around to show three symbols Gulgit didn’t recognize but almost anyone from Earth would identify: “USA.”

  “If you say so,” said Gulgit. “I suppose this means we’re going back to the theater?”

  “I am, but I didn’t know if you’d want to go again.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to go, but I’m curious to see how you’re going to communicate to the woman without talking to her. Don’t be offended, but I might not stay next to you, in case something goes wrong. Once we’re there, I don’t know who you are.”

  Mark slapped Gulgit’s shoulder. “I need to tell Maghen where I’m going, so she doesn’t worry why I’m late getting back. We should be at the theater in time not to miss Huthor if she comes tonight.”

  Haldakit changed his mind and opted not to join them, but Gulgit figured they didn’t need much Sulakoan to order drinks. The large hall was already crammed when they arrived after dark. They found two of the few remaining seats at tables with a clear view of the balcony, where Halari, Huthor, and the guards were supposed to sit if they attended.

  Because Haldakit was not present to translate, the three other men at their table quickly realized that Mark and Gulgit didn’t speak Sulakoan and thereafter left them alone. An hour and two beers later, a series of musical numbers began from instrumental groups, soloists, and a quartet that Mark thought was amazingly similar to barbershop quartets—except the lyrics were in an unintelligible language.

  He listened carefully for a familiar tune but was disappointed by each piece.

  “Nothing you recognize?” asked Gulgit, after a short skit that included a song ending that brought laughing approval from the patrons.

  “No. Nothing and no sign of Huthor appearing on the balcony—”

  A loud chime rang over the bustle that had arisen after the last performance. Talking stopped as if a faucet had turned off, then murmuring slowly began. The chime rang again, and heads turned toward the balcony.

  “Here we go,” said Mark, as figures appeared on the balcony—first came two men who oozed, “Don’t fuck with me.” Next entered an elaborately dressed man holding what appeared to be a thin chain attached to a collar around a young woman’s neck.

  “Halari and Huthor,” Gulgit said into Mark’s ear. He nodded.

  Halari raised both hands to acknowledge the audience, which broke into cheers. Holding the chain high, he gestured to the woman as if presenting her. She showed no response, just stared straight ahead.

  Mark squinted his eyes, concentrating on the woman. Once again, he wondered what the aliens had done to make his eyesight better than he remembered in his previous life. By staring at a fixed point, it was as if he were focusing a camera. The first time he noticed the effect, he thought it was physical focusing, but later he wondered whether it was his brain processing images better. Whatever it was, he still couldn’t make out more details, other than the impression she was a young woman, probably in her twenties, with a small build and dark hair.

  Suddenly, the balcony lit up. Mark swiveled his head and found that the light source was three sets of lanterns surrounded by mirrors, each apparatus serving as a crude spotlight. He turned back to the balcony and concentrated.

  “Oh, my God!” he exclaimed.

  She looked Asian. Mark tried to dampen his sudden rush of exuberance, as his memory searched for images of people he’d seen at the various harbors—where people from different parts of Anyar mixed in crowds. He’d seen a diversity of shapes and shades but none of Asian descent.

  “What is it, Kaldwel?” asked Gulgit.

  “I think she’s Chinese or maybe Korean or Japanese . . . hell . . . I don’t know,” he answered without thinking.

  “She’s what?”

  “Uh . . . maybe from different parts of Amerika.”

  “Well, try your cloak, and see if she responds.”

  Mark took the cloak off the back of his chair. He couldn’t just wave it around to catch Huthor’s attention. He reached to put a hand on the corner of Gulgit’s chair and draped the cloak over his outstretched arm until the double arches faced the balcony. He cursed when he had trouble arranging the cloth using one hand, and Gulgit helped. When it was as taut as they could make it so the symbol was clear, Mark looked back at Huthor.

  CHAPTER 38

  RECOGNITION

  A hundred and fifty-nine feet away and fifteen feet above the main floor, Heather Chen stared placidly over the heads of the room full of patrons. It was a routine she had experienced hundreds of times previously. On cue, she would rise to stand at the balcony railing and sing or play the foralong, the mandolin-like stringed instrument characteristic of this culture. Some nights, Halari wouldn’t deign to let her entertain the audience. Other nights, he would let her perform for up to an hour. It was one of the few ways he knew to control her behavior. For those minutes, she came as close as she could to pretending she was still on Earth and sharing her music.

  She didn’t know his mood tonight. They had come to an understanding within the first months since her life turned upside-down. She would create and perform music for him to make him richer than he already was. In return, Murkolar wouldn’t bring her to Halari’s bed at night, and she was given a degree of freedom, as long as she was accompanied by two guards.

  On her good days, she told herself she was treated far better than most slaves. Her quarters, clothes, and food were better than all but the wealthiest citizens of Iskadon. She had a few almost friends among the other slaves and even a few of Halari’s servants, and there were times when the music let her pretend.

  Then there were the bad days. For a time, she feared those days would become more frequent than she could bear, and in despair, she would look for a way out, such as jumping from the top floor of the tallest building she could reach. Those fears had subsided when she seem
ed to attain a degree of acceptance, and the frequency of bad days didn’t increase more than every other week—sixdays by the customs of Sulako.

  The chain attaching her to Halari tugged slightly at her slave collar—the gilded one he made her wear in public. While at his home, she either wore a plain leather one or none if he was in a good mood or wanted to reward her for some reason. The chain was light, hardly more than something to hold charms on a bracelet. It was made of tiny silver links, except every fifth link was gold. He wanted everyone to admire the fact that he was wealthy and Huthor belonged to him.

  A light hit her eyes, causing her to close them, grimace, and turn her head away. It was one of the spotlights in this theater/tavern. Other places where Halari had her perform either had no such added lights or they were less annoying. Occasionally, he took her to other sites or to the estates of powerful, rich Sulakoans. However, she performed here the most often because it was owned by Halari.

  A second light source hit her, and then a third. Her eyes adjusted, and she opened them, looking away from the light sources—the best direction was down into the audience she would otherwise avoid looking at.

  It was the usual throng. Mainly men because Sulakoan society placed women at home with their husbands, other family members, or their masters if they were slaves. However, she picked out scattered women’s faces. Some she recognized as accompanying men, probably from other realms on the planet—traders or other foreigners in Iskadon for some reason. They originated from places named Rustal, Jahmnor, and other countries whispered about by slaves and servants.

  Her eyes roamed over the familiar—then froze. Her eyes widened, her breath caught, her throat tightened, and her grip on the chair’s arms made the wooden joints creak. She stared at a table on the other side of the room. A table with five men, two of whom stared back at her. One man had an arm on the adjacent chair, a coat or a cloak hanging from the arm. On the garment was a design . . . one so familiar and so alien. She felt her heart throbbing.

  It’s just a chance similarity, she told herself. Two arching lines that connect.

  One of the two men turned to the other.

  “She sees it,” said Gulgit.

  “Yes!” replied Mark with relief and vindication. “Now I’m positive she’s from Amerika, but let’s see the reaction to the other side of the cloak.”

  Heather’s eyes never left the table. It was too far away to make out details, but both men were good-sized, especially the one who appeared to be younger. He held what she now recognized as a cloak as he gathered it.

  Wait. What’s he doing? Are they leaving?

  She fought the despair that threatened to wash over her. The first year in Sulako she couldn’t stop herself from looking for signs, any sign, that might indicate other survivors from the plane she had boarded in San Francisco. The aliens had refused to confirm whether there were other survivors or if they were to be cast onto this same planet. For a year, she had hoped, prayed, and finally thought she had abandoned the possibility. Until now? It would be agony if her hope were dashed again.

  No. They aren’t leaving. They’re doing something with the cloak. Oh. He’s just turning it over, for some reason.

  Her head spun. Only the chair’s back and her hands fastened to its arms kept her from collapsing.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered.

  Halari turned to her. “Are you ill, Huthor? You’re so pale. Do you need a healer?”

  She took a deep breath and started to talk, but the words caught in her throat as if they were wedged there. She let one hand release the chair and covered her mouth to cough and clear her throat.

  “No, Master, I’m fine. It’s only that the lights are so bright, they made me dizzy for a moment.”

  “Well, if you’re ill, we can go.”

  She wanted to scream, “No, no, not now!” Instead she said, “Really, Master, I’m fine. I’ve been looking forward to performing this evening. Haven’t I been obedient? Please, Master, let’s stay.”

  She knew he relished her behaving subserviently, something she strove to ration when she wanted something badly or needed to placate his worst moods.

  Halari’s smile was an expression she was too familiar with. She wanted to vomit.

  “Yes, you have, Huthor,” he said, patting her on the shoulder with the same gesture he used on his dogs. “Very well, we’ll stay.”

  “Thank you, Master,” she said, glancing away before any glimmer of her true feelings leaked into her expression.

  When she looked back at the table, the cloak with the letters “USA” was still there, as were the two men. The owner of the cloak raised a hand to touch his beard. In the middle of a stroke, his fingers closed and the thumb pointed up. The “thumbs-up” gesture.

  She forced herself to slow her breathing and relax her tense muscles.

  Be calm, she thought. Think. Think. Whoever he is, he wants to communicate but must know how closely I’m guarded. What can I do?

  She casually lifted her arm, as if to push hair out of her eyes. As her hand moved out of Halari’s sight, she returned the “thumbs-up.”

  Oh, God. Please let him understand that I recognize where he’s from.

  “She’s got you spotted,” said Gulgit. “Now what do you do?”

  “I’ve got to let her know that I’m at least looking for ways to free her. First things first.”

  Mark closed his fist near his chest, except for the index finger he pointed at himself. He then turned to point to the balcony and repeated the alternated directions twice more. Next, he flattened both hands and made a swiping motion, one hand over the other.

  It took all of Heather’s willpower not to shout or even quiver. Him. Me. Leave.

  I pray I’m not imagining it, but I think he’s gesturing that he and I leave. Escape.

  She repeated the acknowledgment with a brush of her hair and a thumbs-up. He responded the same, then both of his hands moved to his abdomen, and he rotated them inches apart, as if winding thread on a spool.

  Move along? She thought. He’s giving a “move along” gesture like you’d give someone who’s talking too much and not getting to the point or for someone to speed up whatever they’re doing. Does he mean he’s leaving? Talking about my escape? What?

  Gulgit had watched Mark’s movements out of the corner of his eye. “I assume you’re using gestures someone from your homeland would understand. Do you think you’re getting across to her and about what?”

  “I’m trying to tell her I want the two of us to get the hell out of here and prompting her for ideas. I know. How is she supposed to answer? I haven’t got that far, but sometimes it’s best not to expect to know everything and to let other people surprise you with their ingenuity.”

  “Master, instead of performing tonight, I’ve suddenly gotten some ideas for new songs. If I don’t write down those ideas, they often are gone before I can record them. I don’t have any ink and paper with me, but surely someone here has them. I believe some of the ideas are very good, and I would hate to lose them.”

  Halari frowned. “You have to perform so people can see us. Otherwise, why should I bother to appear?” He paused, about to accuse her of trying to avoid performing. Then he relented, knowing how much she looked forward to sharing her music.

  He turned to one of the guards. “Chingoto. Go check if Lamalonee has ink and paper Huthor can use. Hurry. Don’t be gone long.”

  Halari turned to Heather. “You can do your scribbling in your barbarian scratchings between singing and playing.”

  “Thank you, Master.” You creepy asshole was unspoken.

  “Look,” said Mark. “She’s signaling again. Maybe she’s got an idea. I hope so because I’m short of them. I guess we’ll just wait and see what happens.”

  “There goes one of the guards,” said Gulgit.

  Mark started wondering whether he could handle one guard. From this distance and the way he observed them moving, he didn’t relish dealing with both at the
same time. Risking was one thing, but taking on these two together he put into the unacceptable category.

  “There he is,” said Gulgit, nodding to the left corner of the main floor. The guard was talking with a man sitting behind a counter elevated from the surrounding tables. “I’ll bet that’s whoever is managing this place.

  “What’s that he’s got?” asked Mark, when the guard headed back toward stairs he assumed led to the balcony.

  “I can’t tell,” said Gulgit. “He’s holding his hands too low, and people are in the way.”

  Less than a minute later, the guard reappeared in the elevated booth and leaned down to say something to Halari, who nodded. The guard then held out both hands to Huthor.

  “She’s up to something,” said Mark, excited. “I think he gave her paper, and I’ll bet there’s also a quill and ink.”

  “You may be right,” said Gulgit. “She looked this way once he handed it, or them, to her, and now she’s got her head down like she’s doing something in her lap.”

  “Lamalonee signaled,” said Halari. “The other performers are about finished for now. You’ll have to play and sing, and then you can scribble more until it’s your turn again.”

  Heather sat the sheets of paper, the ink jar, and the quill on the floor to one side. She picked up her foralong to check the tuning of the six strings.

  “Shit.” murmured Mark. “I think it’s time for her to perform. She seems to be doing something with a stringed instrument.”

  Gulgit grunted.

  The spotlights darkened, except for one light shining on a man at an elevated podium. He stood up.

  A bell sounded, and the crowd quieted. The man said something neither Mark nor Gulgit understood, presumably in Sulakoan, and then pointed to the balcony. The three spotlights once again focused on Huthor, who was now standing.

  The crowd quieted as she began strumming the instrument. When she went into a melody, appreciative murmurs spread throughout the room. Then the room quieted again just as she began to sing. It took only a few bars for Mark to recognize it was the song he’d heard at the stall near the harbor. He began silently mouthing the words to “Let It Be” by the Beatles and smiled when the song’s refrain was “Happy Birthday.”