by CK Collins
Ghaatasira is where Rika and Disiri first saw each other. Or not really saw. The way it happened: Rika’s family had a summer house at the lake, Ghaatasira, and Disiri’s family was a few houses over. Summer houses. (Which seems ridiculous because when is it not summer in Masalay?) He was born just a week after her and they were newborns when they first came.
Their mothers put them in these floating baby baskets that I guess everybody uses in Masalay. (Try that in America — the thing would sink from the weight of its warning labels.) The water is so beautiful there. I can picture mothers wading in to their waists, their babies bobbing up and down on the little waves.
What happened, it wasn’t only the mothers that noticed — everybody up and down the lake talked about it — the way that the water had of always bringing Rika and Disiri’s baskets together. The woven sides would touch in the current. Their little fingers would touch. If anything happened to separate them, they’d cry. Because even though they were babies they knew. They were meant for each other.
When they were too big for the baskets, they swam. So much that everybody joked (Essio jokes?) that they were going to grow gills. They made up something called the Ghaatasira Swim Club and wrote it on their clothes and wrote it on their arms and wrote membership closed. All the taboos about Lake Ghaatasira — the things you should and shouldn’t do, because it’s holy — they ignored them all. Which you could call that arrogance, or you could call it being in love.
A taboo says that no one should swim in the middle. You don’t want your legs dangling over infinity. But there wasn’t anything that scared Rika and Disiri when they were together. Too many people watching in the day, so they went at night, way way out where it’s silent and the moonlight makes you buoyant.
When Rika was seventeen, he spent a year in London. It was brutal being apart. He swam plenty, but a heated university pool might as well be a bathtub compared to Lake Ghaatasira. Disiri pined and explored. And got stronger than him.
His little exile ended finally. He was back in Masalay, and back in Ghaatasira, and their very first night together she took him farther than he was prepared to go. She played with him — swam around him, splashed him, teased him. “Look for me,” she said and dove underneath him.
He turned this way and that.
He got scared.
And then she was there, arms around his chest. Lips at his ear. “Did you look for me?”
She went easy on him after that, took her time and swam beside him. They came to the far shore, a place that the taboos say you can’t go. She brushed the wet from his face and took his hand and led him a way into the trees.
What she took him to was this tiny hidden hut. More cave than house, more dug than built, forever old. He wondered who made it. He asked how she found it. She said, “You ask too many questions.” She led him through the entry, which was root-ridden dirt. The moonlight was frail but it showed the shape of her. He started to say the place seemed too ancient for them to be in, but she pressed her finger to his lips — shhhh — and she kissed him and pressed him down and swung her wet thighs over and slid her wet hand round and led him to the place that’s most dark and ancient of all.
Afternoon
Far Karsk, Masalay
The house is a cavern after the brilliant sunshine. Tchori promptly whacks her knee on some protuberance and Carodai ducks to avoid a post. As her eyes adjust, she makes out that they’re in a crowded room of two small windows, several mats, and a circular kaylin stove.
The woman beckons Brother to sit on a low wooden dode and shows Tchori to a mat beside it. Dank heat and dung smoke and cooling sweat — she smiles through the ripple of nausea in her parched throat — aware that she’s slumping, she corrects her posture and occupies her mind by trying to make sense of the space. The roof is sloped to form a chimney for the kaylin. Two metres beyond the kaylin is a second room dodgily separated by slats. She can make out a water trough, farm implements, and a wee child sleeping on bales of something like straw. The woman pours from a metal pail into a kettle that she places on the kaylin.
Carodai leans toward Tchori and asks in Masalayan, “Were you able to follow along out there, child, when she and I were chatting?”
“Not very well, truly.”
“Recall, it’s a tricky use of the subjunctive. And lovely, don’t you think, the use of elision, such a gentle manner of speaking.”
One could say sloppy rather than gentle, but this seems a poor moment to dispute the point. “Yes, surely. Nice indeed.” Runais have a reputation for speaking in clipped, harsh tones. Which is bollocks of course — it only sounds that way compared to the flabby drawl of so many Talids — but she’ll admit that the Karskans bring a pleasing ease to the accent.
“This dear lady is called Tenthip.”
“I did catch that.”
“Her husband, a fellow called Pidaatik, evidently I met him those many years ago. When he was a lad.”
A whimper from the child and Tenthip responds in brusque Karskan. She wipes her hands on a towel slung over the kaylin and excuses herself with a bow.
“By long tradition, Pidaatik’s family has responsibility, very solemn responsibility, for maintaining a barrier thicket around the dead field.”
“I see.”
“To reach the thicket one must traverse a strictly hidutha woods, off-limits to all but consecrated men.”
“He’s to join us, yes, Pidaatik?”
“Just so. And his nephew as well, called Lidayim. It’s he who did the actual writing of the letter. We may also be joined by the masirkiyn, as my nearest peer, but I expect that he’ll defer to Pidaatik.”
The kettle has gone to boil, and the woman returns to prepare tea. Tchori whispers, “Anything I should be doing, Brother?”
“Yes,” he replies with a wink, “you can find everything delicious.”
The tea, served in clay cups, is sod but drinkable. Next comes a plate of sour curds, followed by minced mutton and a bowl of goat’s milk warm from the udder. Tchori gives elaborate thanks after each course, earning an approving nod from Carodai and a shy bow from the dear lady.
They’ve just finished the milk course when Pidaatik arrives, mortified to be tardy before a Brother of Liashe. Like others of the men, he’s dressed in traditional wrap and western shirt, this one bearing a faded emblem of the PK All-Stars. There are bows and introductions. Brother offers to relinquish the dode, but Pidaatik (of course) won’t hear of it. Tenthip brings her husband a cloth that he uses for cleaning the grass and grit from his shirt and leathery skin. An abashed gap-toothed smile and he sits on the mat opposite Tchori to take his curds and tea.
The wee one has come to the barrier’s edge. His face and arms are blotched with welts that could be insect bites or varicella. He gets a spot of milk from Tenthip and a swat for picking at the sores.
Carodai and Pidaatik chat. The drought five years ago. Pidaatik’s grandchildren. Tax collection. The goats that got sick. Even by the normal Karskan standards of distended courtesy, it feels excessive: the man is avoiding the subject that has brought them, and Carodai is reluctant to press.
Again distant wails. Horrid. An anxious expression from Tenthip and she fits a board over the primary window and lifts the kaylin grate, substituting sunlight with the orange throb of glowing coals.
“Friend,” says Carodai, finally deciding to force the issue, “it was ever so kind of you to write.”
“My nephew’s done,” mutters Pidaatik, avoiding Carodai’s eyes. “Lidayim. Good lad.”
“I see.”
“A ways to come, Brother. Coming fast as he can.”
“No undue exertion, one hopes.”
They’re through another round of tea before Lidayim arrives, winded. Deeply set, sensitive eyes and cheeks pocked by what must have been painful acne. A pleasant smile. The dode and mats already occupied, Carodai grants permission for the lad to sit directly afloor and compliments his letter-writing skills.
“You’re t
oo kind, Brother,” answers the lad with a hint of pride — and more intelligible diction than his aunt and uncle. “We’ve academy in Ti Pairdun, and I’ve read my course to graduation straight on.”
“Ti Pairdun, that’s quite a distance if I’m not mistaken. You’re to be commended for such dedication, child.”
The lad and his uncle beam.
“The other Brother has not accompanied you?”
“I’m afraid not, no. He is with us no longer. I’ve had the fortune, however, of being blessed with a most exceptional novice, so all is well.” He pats Tchori’s knee appreciatively. “Now, as to the letter — you’ve provided superb description of course — but I wonder if you and your uncle might do me the kindness of reiterating what has happened.”
Lidayim looks to Pidaatik, who shifts uncomfortably on his mat and looks down.
“My uncle begs your forgiveness,” says Lidayim after a moment. “His throat is ailing him. I will do my best.”
“I shall be in your debt. It is important, please, that you leave nothing out.”
Tenthip takes this moment to bustle over and whisper in her nephew’s ear. She straightens and smiles at Tchori, and Lidayim says, “Brother, my good aunt wonders if your novice would care to go with her into the lovely sun.”
“Ah.”
“We’ve an aaldinen grove, very beautiful, that my aunt would enjoy showing her.”
Carodai smiles warmly. “Dear lady, we are touched immensely by your consideration. And I should greatly enjoy seeing the aaldinens myself when we’ve concluded. However, I must be selfish and implore my novice to remain. I would be ever so lost without her.”
Returning his attention to Lidayim: “Now lad, let’s begin with the woman who discovered the flowers.”
Afternoon
East Anartha, Masalay
There’s some kind of roadblock and the traffic’s all backed up.
A guy in uniform walks up the lanes handing out leaflets.
Essio takes ours and scans it for a sec before handing it to Pashi. They share some snide-sounding comments in Masalayan. There’s a half-dozen pictures of men, all young and nasty looking. Pashi explains that these guys are igmaki — from the Brigades — and we’re not to give them a lift.
The minutes drag, but we have Essio’s groans and sighs to entertain us. He tries changing lanes and can’t, which makes him smack the dashboard.
Pashi’s had enough — “Callie and I are stretching our legs” — and I’m following her out of the car before he can object. The heat and glare hit me hard. Head rush, that tunnel effect. I follow the back of her blouse till we get to the side.
A bunch of stalls, and the first one is roasting meat. Not polite little bento sticks either — whole rabbit-sized critters, skinned and skewered. It’s completely barbaric and unsanitary and I really want some. Pashi’s got a look of disgust, though, that tells me she doesn’t eat varmint, and we go instead for these shaved-ice cups that are made with coconut milk. Bits of fruit that’s maybe tamarind. Not great for hunger but damn refreshing, I’ll say that.
We sit on this rail that’s got partial shade. She asks if I want to try my dad again. I tell her yeah and she helps me with the country code — lame that I can’t remember it, just a few digits — but all we get are clicks and dial tone. She gives it a go herself. Same result. I thank her for trying.
She finishes her ice and tosses the cup onto a trash pile. Mine’s turned mostly to liquid. I don’t know how it’s going to come out, but I say, “I was wondering, do you happen to have, just with you, any pictures of Rika? And maybe Disiri?”
She looks startled, me touching something I shouldn’t. But she recovers quick, gives me a polite smile and pulls a wallet-size picture from her purse.
I angle it against the sun glare, and Disiri is where my eyes go first. So beautiful, and I feel this right-away ache. I can’t explain it, but she looks familiar in a way that Rika doesn’t. It’s like I know every inch of him and I’ve never met him.
They’re standing on some rocks, holding hands, water behind them and the edge of a sail. “Is this the lake?” I ask. “Ghaatasira?”
She shakes her head: “The Nova Coast, that is.”
“Okay.”
“They’ve a house there. Naught of fancy, east of nowhere. But Disiri you know, ever a soft heart for misfits.”
“Thanks for letting me look,” and I hand it back.
She tucks it back in her wallet. Sad and angry both. “You know what happened, do you, yeah?”
“He told me. I’m really sorry.”
“Not your fault,” she answers terse. We’re quiet a second. I toss my cup. I can feel what’s coming. “Callie, what is it that’s taken you to Ghaatasira then?”
I give an abbreviated version of what happened at the train station and after — leaving out the parts where I’m extra stupid. She says the Masalayan Rail Authority has become appalling since parliament did something-or-other having to do with quotas. And says I was lucky to survive that truck, they’re notorious for drunken wrecks.
“Yeah, well, we did finally make it. It was crazy there.”
“Horrid business.”
“And then me meeting Rika, it was . . . kinda just one thing leading to another.”
She starts to question me about that but decides she doesn’t want to know. “Where did you stay?”
“There was this, like, hut. Really old — way out on the other side of the lake.”
“The far shore?”
“Yeah, I guess. He used to go there with Disiri.”
She shakes her head, incredulous that she didn’t know about it. And pissed too. “You should have gotten out of there — before Hilm Hivaa took over, before you got sick.”
“Yeah, no, you’re right. I don’t know, it was just . . . it was like gravity, the force of gravity, if that makes sense.”
Which of course it doesn’t. She folds her arms and looks away.
“He’s going to be fine, Pashi, I know he is. And the baby, I mean, the baby is going to be beautiful.”
She smiles. A little.
* * *
The truck took forever, bouncing on crap roads, and so much dust. My butt went numb and I really had to pee. Sometime in the late afternoon, we stopped for gas and for using the facilities (also known as the grass).
When we got going again, out came a jug of iirik, which is like kerosene but not as smooth. The singing started then too, and me not knowing the words was a problem that the iirik fixed real well. After every song, they’d clap me on the back and give me another swig from that jug.
We wound uphill for what seemed like a long time. The woods got denser, the road got more jammed and pretty soon there wasn’t any moving. Everybody just piled out and I followed them.
The road was basically one huge tailgate party for like half-a-mile. Blankets and tents and all kinds of stoves and music playing on old-school boom boxes. Somebody handed me a stick of meat that tasted pretty amazing. I kind of wandered. When there were breaks in the trees I caught sight of the lake, way down below us, and it was beautiful. I was up at the front eventually. These chain-link fences and barricades and rows of barbed wire, big lights on poles, soldiers on the other side in riot gear. Two rows of them with scary guns and scarier dogs, but to me they looked nervous and jumpy. The crowds on my side were singing and shouting all kinds of taunts across the barricade. A bottle crashed against the fence, and this bright-as-day searchlight swung my way. What happened then was so fast and weird — I think some officer must have seen this skinny white girl trapped with rioting Talids and thought I needed rescuing — before I knew it these two big soldiers were hoisting me over to their side of civilization. That made for more taunting and them barking questions at me and then there was a bottle breaking and a commander on a bullhorn and soon I wasn’t so interesting anymore.
I kind of just drifted behind them all and soon I was walking away. Into town. Unfazed by anything at that point. And it was a grea
t place, very cute, like a European village that ran away from home with a knapsack full of quaint and landed in Asia.
The whole place was buzzing. Not in a honey-making way — buzzing like a hive that’s been hit with a stick. People with business seemed to be scurrying all over, strapping stuff to cars, loading up trucks, making heaps of what couldn’t fit, angry and unbelieving. In one kind of central square, I saw this big reader-board counting down the hours — 01 days, 19 hours, 07 minutes, like that — until Hilm Hivaa took control of their town.
I headed toward the lake. The noise from the barricades got less and less and then overlapped with music from the beach until the sound system was all I heard and I kept walking that way. There was a Talking Heads song, I remember. Then “Hey Ya!,” some Christina Aguilera crap, “Baba O’Riley,” and on like that — somebody’s iPod on shuffle.