by Lea Daley
Space between those bands never varied because everyone—from youngest to oldest—walked in perfect synchronicity. And a song of wordless anticipation spilled from each throat—captivating, hypnotic, appealing to some instinctual place deep inside me. To remain within my courtyard, I had to shut my ears to that siren song. Had to remember that Jasharians undoubtedly understood the elemental roots of music, knew exactly how to manipulate emotions aurally. Suddenly that beautiful melody seemed more coercive than compelling.
Flipping into Jashrine mode, I searched deeper for information about this festival. And what I learned was so radical I almost dropped Belladonna. ViLalah Jihar was a merging with all other humans into undifferentiated unity, a willful intermeshing only poorly approximated in the most intense sexual encounter. A planetary-wide orgy of relinquished identity, of delirious renunciation. An ecstatic surrender to the Whole. Maybe Bahji’s mother was right to keep her daughter home on this most alluring evening.
Belladonna broke my trance, squirming, threatening to unsheathe her claws. I stroked the animal rhythmically, urging her into relaxation. But when she began yowling, I stepped into the darkest shadows, wondering what would happen if I were spotted with an illicit feline in my arms. Sinking onto a bench, I waited. And waited. Finally, when the last celebrants were barely visible, I slipped out of my courtyard. Turning the opposite way, I tried to recall directions to Bahji’s house. Fortunately, my feet were operating on automatic pilot, because my head was preoccupied with all I’d just seen.
The cat was heavier with each passing moment, increasingly restless in my arms. But at last I neared Bahji’s neighborhood. Now the streets were narrower, the dwellings farther apart, a last, thin defense against the sprawling desert. These houses seemed to huddle into the black horizon, seeking obscurity. I was running out of real estate when a low call halted me: “Leslie Burke—this is the place you’re seeking.”
I slowed and turned, heart racing. Remembering belatedly that there were unknown hazards here. Hoping I hadn’t been a fool. With all Jashari caught up in the festival, I was spectacularly isolated, unlikely to be rescued should I need help. The speaker—a female—stood in shade and I could see nothing of her. “Come inside,” she said. “You’re at slightly less risk there.” Her voice—crisp and wry—was tantalizingly familiar.
I complied, stepping forward on wobbly legs. Because what could be more dangerous than carrying an incrimination like Belladonna? I recalled Bahji’s admonition and tightened my grip as I stepped into a darkness nearly as deep as the Jashrine night. The cat was twisting in my arms, using powerful hind legs to scale my upper body. A vivid reminder that my “clothing” was an illusion, no buffer against claws. “Shall I release Belladonna?”
“Do that.”
I freed Bahji’s pet, then flexed my arms, peering around the dim room. To my relief, the furnishings seemed to be of the visible variety. “It was a long walk. May I sit?”
“Of course. I’m forgetting my manners.” The woman gestured at a hulking silhouette, which turned out to be an overstuffed chair, then fell into silence. Unendurable silence.
I had to say something. “Are you Bahji’s mother?”
“Guilty as charged.” Dropping onto the couch, she murmured, “I’ve waited so long.”
In that simple sentence, I sensed a multitude of meanings. And I was certain I’d heard her voice only days before. But where? She seemed to be studying me. How she could deduce anything in such low light I couldn’t imagine. All I could tell was that she was small and thin. But on Jashari who wasn’t? Though the gloom was undoubtedly purposeful, it unnerved me. Why did everything have to be so fucking complicated? And where was Bahji?
At that moment, she burst into the chamber, a shadow among shadows, crying my name. She slapped a wall and the room exploded with light. And then Bahji was on my lap, hugging me, her wild hair flying in my face. I hugged back, while craning my neck to catch a good look at her mother.
It took me a heartbeat to place the woman’s profile. Because she was older. Her hair longer and tied back, as if she’d lost interest in keeping up with it. But the arching blade of that nose was the same, and her wiry body hadn’t changed. “Taylor? Taylor Hemingway? You’re Bahji’s mother?”
She turned to face me with a crooked grin. “Who else?” But I hardly heard her answer, because now I understood Bahji’s caution. A startling scar streaked the length of Hemingway’s face. It had faded with time, and might even have been considered dashing in some eras. But on Jashari, where the slightest freckle was repugnant, her disfigurement was jarring, almost obscene. My eyes went round with shock. Inhaling sharply, I gasped, “I’m sorry! I’m not usually this rude!”
“I’m used to it. It’s a fair index of how acclimated you are to Jashrine culture. On Earth, you’d scarcely have noticed.”
She was right, of course. Images from home flashed through my mind. Tattoos and full-body piercings were for grandmas. Mechanical add-ons—a third arm joint, the proverbial eye at the back of the head—were ordinary. The faddish excision of noses and ears increasingly common. But after immersion in the pathologically flawless esthetic of Jashari, Hemingway’s scar felt like an in-your-face act of defiance.
I was struggling to master my revulsion, and Taylor was waiting for me to regroup. Bouncing on my knee, Bahji broke through the tension. “Leslie! What took you so long? Where’s Belladonna? Come see my room!”
Glad for the diversion, I looked to Taylor for permission. As Bahji tumbled off my lap, her mother extended a hand to pull me up. Her grip was solid, her skin a little leathery to the touch. A tsunami of relief rocked me. “You’re real! Thank god!”
“So my faxim’s still in favor?”
“Chastity’s devoted admirer.”
Hemingway snorted. “That’s exactly how she’d represent me.”
Bahji, now clutching Belladonna, was out of patience. “Come on, Leslie-ahn! Let’s go to my room!”
“Don’t be too long. I’ve almost finished fixing dinner.” Which was the first hint of cooking I’d encountered since waking. Was it possible to have a kitchen here? To prepare the food you wanted, the way you liked it, when you felt like eating? Paradise!
I was creating fantasy menus when Bahji drew me through a wall and into a space like nothing I’d seen on Jashari. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Flights of steep stone steps led into a perfect replica of long-vanished Terran rainforest. Trees towered, vines coiled and draped, bright flowers bloomed. I even thought I caught the dart and swoop of tropical birds. The room—if room it was—was improbably large, the vegetation impossibly tall. And though it was impenetrable night in the world outside, sunlight filtered through that foliage.
Apparently Bahji slept in a hammock slung between the trunks of two cacao trees. That nearby stump might serve as a seat. A miniature waterfall could do triple-duty as drinking fountain, shower and the source of endless play. At the trailhead of branching paths that led farther into this splendid forest, I stumbled across a large boulder. With a quote from someone named Chief Seattle chiseled on one facet: “If all the beasts were gone, man would die from loneliness of spirit, for whatever happens to the beast, happens to the man.”
Tears sprang to my eyes. “Oh, Bahji! This is marvelous!”
“My mom made it for me. I don’t get to show very many people.”
I couldn’t bear those sad eyes. Hoping to provoke a smile, I said, “I almost forgot! I brought you a gift!”
“Really? Where is it?”
“I must have set it down when I arrived.”
Bahji dragged me back to the stairs, back to the living room. Which now seemed so conventional it was almost surreal. The light was softer and Taylor moved around a dinner table at one end, her scar nearly imperceptible at a distance. I suddenly registered what she was wearing: jeans and a flannel shirt. Timeless dyke chic. Which gave me the comforting feeling that I was back on Earth, about to break bread with an old, old friend. And I was definite
ly overdressed.
“Mom! Leslie brought me a present!”
Hemingway joined us, one fond hand on Bahji’s shoulder. “What’s the occasion?”
“We shouldn’t be the only people who aren’t celebrating, so I declared this Christmas Day.”
Taylor smacked her forehead. “No self-respecting auxobiologist should have missed the holly in your hair!” Noting Bahji’s puzzlement, Taylor filled her in. “I might not have mentioned Christmas, because almost no one observed it in my time…” Which reminded me that she and I couldn’t have inhabited the same era on Earth—not if Christmas was a dying custom and her partner was a “clone donor.” A thousand questions tormented me, but the timing seemed wrong for an inquisition. Besides, Taylor was still talking to her daughter. “…an old holiday back home. People exchanged gifts and brought trees indoors to decorate. Bahji! Maybe that’s where I got the idea for your bedroom!”
“My present certainly can’t compete with an entire rainforest.” But I’d found the bag under a chair, where Bahji might have kicked it as she ran to greet me. I didn’t miss Taylor’s awestruck expression when I pulled out the first thing that came to hand and dropped it to the floor—my empty memory sphere. “This is for Belladonna. She likes to play with it.” I nudged the little egg with one foot. Instantly the cat attacked, chasing the thing into every nook and cranny. With a little imagination, that tinny sound became tinkling Christmas bells.
Next I pulled out two packages covered with crude gift wrap—a simple pattern of stars and fir trees, stamped with rubber erasers. “Please forgive the paper. It was the best I could do on short notice.” When I handed Bahji her present, she traced a finger around those stylized designs. Which—I suddenly realized—she might not even recognize. Where would she have seen an evergreen tree? And though five-pointed stars were a convention back home, here, devoid of context, that symbol suddenly seemed totally arbitrary.
Bemused, I tossed the other package to Taylor. She intercepted it in midair, grinning. “I used to be an athlete, you know.”
“Merry Christmas, you guys,” I said, the long-lost phrase catching in my throat.
Taylor’s gift was a more polished portrait of Bahji, cradling Belladonna in her arms. Luck had been with me. I’d captured something of the child’s energy, her connection with the cat. In an upper corner, I’d outlined a long, narrow rectangle, then painstakingly filled it with a scrap of Jashrine calligraphy. Which read—or so I hoped—“The Harmonious Whole pales in comparison to such passionate originality.” A heretical sentiment I’d found difficult to compose.
Hemingway’s hazel eyes met and held mine. “We were right! We were right! You are the one!” But to my quizzical gaze, her upraised hand seemed to say, “Not now.”
“Can I open my present, Leslie-ahn?”
“Go for it, baby.”
The paper came off in a twinkling. “Mom, look! It’s a real book, like the ones Leslie has!”
Except The Quest of the Darkling Princess was written just for her. The story had flowed from my pen as effortlessly as if it were a fable from my own childhood. Stealing a cue from Serenghi, I’d even illustrated it. Then I’d stitched those pages together with a sewing kit…just one of a hundred archaic items Aimée had duplicated for my desk drawers.
“Listen, Mom! Listen!” Bahji ordered. “Once upon a time, in a kingdom far away, there lived a magnificent ebony cat named Belladonna, who possessed magical powers. She and she alone could command the services of a wild gypsy child known to all as Bahran’aji-ahn.” The girl lifted sparkling eyes. “Leslie! You made a book about Belladonna and me!”
“Yep.”
“Wow!” Bahji returned to the tale. “Each day the two roved far and wide through Sha’Rija, seeking adventure. None would dare to challenge them, for it was rumored that one swift scratch from Belladonna’s claws could poison an enemy unto death. One day…”
Bahji’s voice trailed off. She was lost in the plot now, reading to herself, and I watched with interest as she handled the little book. It wasn’t second nature to her, this turning of pages and puzzling out of hand printed text. But she stayed with it, mesmerized till the end.
“Oh, Mom! Belladonna gets captured by Tashyt-ci, an evil sorceress who’s jealous of her powers. She’s locked in a dark tower and can’t roam the world anymore. She’s crying out to the four corners and her sorrow travels on the wind.
“So I go on a…a quest…to find her. But the sorceress chases me, until the good fairy Elsile helps me rescue Belladonna. Then, it turns out that I’m a…princess? Is that the word, Leslie?”
I nodded.
“I’m a long-lost princess under a wicked spell. When Elsile breaks the charm, Tashyt-ci gets so mad she whirls around till she flies apart. And then we all live happily ever after!”
Taylor held out her hand. “May I read the story, sweetheart?”
“Sure, Mom.”
I watched Hemingway skim those pages. She must have noted resemblances to names besides Bahji and Belladonna’s. But when she finished, all she said was, “That’s lovely, Leslie! Let’s eat.”
Chapter Twenty
That meal was as surprising as every other experience I had in the Hemingway home. Since native Jasharians were apparently too elevated to share my animal appetites, I’d almost forgotten that food like this existed. There were stunning juxtapositions of texture. Flavors so achingly acute I almost cried. Even fresh fruit—which might have been harvested from Bahji’s bedroom. I ate every bite, then seconds, swooning with pleasure.
Taylor smiled at my empty plate. “Merry Christmas yourself, Leslie!”
Bahji spoke up. “All we need now is m’lor jahn. For dessert.”
My host released a heavy sigh, directing her gaze toward the ceiling. “Why does parenthood reduce us to clichés? Everything I’m about to say is something I despised hearing from my own mother: ‘Someday you’ll thank me…It’s for the best…You’ll get over your disappointment.’”
Then Taylor tipped Bahji’s chin till their eyes met. “Bahran’aji-ahn, my only child, I swear there are excellent reasons for everything I do. I wish I could explain them better now. And I’m sorry this is so difficult. Only because I know it’s the right decision, can I deny you m’lor jahn.”
Bahji gripped her mother’s hand. “I know, Mom! I know! But sometimes I just want to be like everybody else!”
“The trouble with Jashari, my dear, is that everybody is so much like everyone else that nobody is able to be anyone.”
That convoluted response made Bahji laugh, lightening the moment. The child leaped up to hug us both, then vanished into the depths of the house. Which left me alone with Taylor—and a rapidly expanding silence. I could ask all my questions now. That was why I’d come, what I’d waited for. But suddenly I was paralyzed, unable to decide which had primacy. At last I settled for something simple and immediate. “What in the world is m’lor jahn?”
“A cheap trick played on innocent children!” Taylor clenched her fists. “Shortly before this festival, every youngster on Jashari is given a bit of m’lor jahn—”
“Everyone except Bahji?”
“Yes. Except Bahji. They know better than to offer it to her. M’lor jahn’s the sweetest, most tempting dough—especially here, where the ‘cuisine’ is somewhat lacking. But it’s only a morsel. So small that even the tiniest nibble would be obvious.”
“There’s a challenge for a kid!”
“Which is a critical part of the exercise. For three days and nights, the children carry that dough everywhere in ceremonial containers. They knead it frequently. And each time, they chant a sacred appeal for perfect oneness with all others. Every vestige of uniqueness—any remnant of traitorous egotism—is channeled into that dough.”
I shuddered, remembering what I’d learned about ViLalah Jihar only a few hours earlier.
Taylor was out of her chair, pacing angrily. “Tonight, at the height of the celebration, Jashari’s young will cast
their bits of dough into huge, superheated vessels. In a matter of seconds, the mass expands dramatically. Then every child’s served a warm, wonderful slice of cake twenty times the size of the dough each was given.”
“A pretty powerful lesson in delayed gratification!”
“Which is meant to prove that oneness surpasses individuality.” Hemingway quit roaming the room, stopped in front of me. That serpentine scar seemed to glow against her skin. “So this is what Bahji craves: To be relieved of her glorious originality! To trade her human birthright for ‘a mess of pottage!’ It’s unconscionably manipulative and I won’t permit it!”
“And no wonder. I suspect she will thank you one day.”
“If I’m lucky.” Taylor seized control of her dour mood. “Enough of this, Leslie. We don’t have to cover everything tonight. If all goes well, we’ll know each other for a very long time.”
“Why the qualifier?”
“Could we defer that for a while? I’ve overloaded you as it is.”
I’d been holding my breath. Taylor might be comfortable as an old shoe, but unless Bahji was mistaken, she possessed sinister knowledge. Information I feared at least as much as I desired it. I’d cheerfully put off the hard questions, if only for tonight. “All right. Why don’t you begin at the beginning and tell me how you met Chastity?”
“With all due respect, that was hardly the beginning.” Taylor’s twinkle was back. She gestured toward the living room, where we settled ourselves on soft seating. “So Chastity and I…Right from the start, we were an absurd pairing. We met because of my work. Some PR guy thought he could boost Terre-Stream ratings by interviewing the most famous—read beautiful—clone donor alongside a distinguished geneticist. He was probably shooting for a Nobel recipient. But I’d just made a splash by regenerating an extinct plant with important medicinal properties. So he convinced the honchos to introduce us. Live. Sweet Chastity mistook me for a celebrity.”