by Samuel Fort
Chapter 16 - The Picnic
Lilian employed Mr. Fetch to drive the three of them to the park for the picnic. Not surprisingly, Fiela insisted on sitting in the front seat, next to Mr. Fetch, in order to monitor the road for “suspicious activity.” Ben had watched as she slid a pistol of some kind of pistol - a Beretta 9mm, he thought - into a small handbag. The girl also put on a pair of designer sunglasses with black lenses, though the skies were overcast. Ben and Lilian sat in the backseat.
It was not the short ride the newcomer had anticipated, taking nearly an hour, and there were few things that could be said in front of Mr. Fetch that Ben wanted to talk about. He and Lilian tried to busy themselves with small talk, but that went nowhere since their relationship was founded on secret things and they came from two disparate worlds. Filling the void, the Peth kept the driver occupied with incessant demands that he speed up, slow down, or watch the road.
“Fiela,” said Lilian finally, “I believe Mr. Fetch can drive without your mentoring.”
“But he drives like an old woman.”
Feeling bad for the driver, who’d kept his upper lip nicely starched despite the perpetual nagging, Ben said, “Fiela, that’s enough. I think you should apologize.”
The girl appeared stunned as she looked over her shoulder. “To an…to Mr. Fetch?”
“Yes, that would be the civil thing to do.”
The Peth flinched as if she had been slapped. She faced forward and said, the words like syrup, “I’m sorry I said you drive like an old woman, Mr. Fetch.”
“Not at all, miss,” said the driver.
They continued along a twisting road and reached a heavily forested plateau that was surrounded by a brown mesh fence. A mile further down Mr. Fetch turned onto a gravel drive and the car passed between two thick, vertical wooden posts the size of telephone poles. Hanging between was a rustic sign that read, “Skyline Park Est. 1932.”
About fifty yards past the main entrance was a small parking lot adjacent to a bluff from which Ben could see for many miles. There was a hip-high concrete wall separating the parking lot from the edge, in front of which was a battery of shiny coin-operated telescopic viewers. Beyond the parking lot were trails that led to green areas with picnic tables and rusting grills shaded by interspersed cedars.
The driver brought the car to a halt in middle of the lot.
“Here we are,” said Lilian.
“It appears we’re the only visitors today,” said Ben, stepping out of the car and offering her his hand.
“That’s because the park is closed.”
“Ah.” He understood her to mean, “The park is closed to everyone except us.”
Mr. Fetch popped the trunk and pulled out two baskets with plaid napkins peeking out from beneath their wicker lids. Holding them up for display, the servant said, “Champagne, chilled shrimp, crackers, caviar, sandwiches, and beer.”
“What kind of beer?” asked Ben, offering to take one of the baskets. Mr. Fetch politely shook his head, saying, “The kind you like, sir.”
As the driver walked toward one of the picnic tables less favored by birds, Fiela opened her door and marched toward Ben and Lilian.
“May I speak?” she asked, barely controlling her temper.
“Go ahead,” said Ben, taking a step toward her.
“I had to apologize to an Ardoon?” she seethed, keeping her voice low as she glanced angrily over her shoulder at Mr. Fetch.
“You were rude,” he said.
“He is Ardoon!”
“He is a human being, same as you. He is not your servant, he is Lilian’s, but Lilian treats him civilly, as an adult should. You should treat him at least as well as she does.”
The Peth crossed her arms and pushed her sunglasses up higher on her nose. “Fine. But when I get my fetches-”
“I don’t think you should have a fetch,” Ben said. “Servants are not pets, Fiela.”
“No fetch?” gasped Lilian, as shocked as the gaping Fiela. “Mutu, she must have at least one. She cannot be your serretu and be unattended.”
Fiela appeared on the verge of tears. She said in a subdued tone, “That is…unfair. Truly.”
Ben was confused by the women’s reaction. He had merely stated an opinion, but Lilian and Fiela behaved as if he had just issued an edit. Embarrassed, he said to the girl, “Well, prove me wrong. Go help Mr. Fetch unload the picnic baskets.”
Fiela moved away dejectedly. When she was gone, Lilian said, “Now you are being too harsh. She must have a fetch.”
“I didn’t really mean…well, anyway, I don’t understand why she needs a personal attendant. There are a dozen or more servants at Steepleguard already.”
“Yet consider her new station as your serretu.”
“What does that matter?”
“Ben, you must understand that she is this day the wife of man whose authorities come from a king. She is just a degree removed from being a princess.”
“A princess?” Ben laughed, amused at the ongoing charade. “Is that what you are?”
Lilian gave him a withering look. “I am a princess. I am the daughter of a king. That I am a bastard is inconsequential, despite what Moros told you.”
Her words were as unbending as steel. She meant what she said, the man realized. He sensed that he had come to a fork in the road of their relationship. At this moment he had the option of either dismissing her claim as ludicrous and going home or playing along. Recalling how the man named Moros had ridiculed Lilian’s father, and her, the night before, Ben was suddenly ashamed of himself.
“Yes, you are a princess,” he said politically, “but it is unclear to me what Fiela is. Or what I am.”
This response seemed acceptable. Lilian’s expression softened and she put her arm beneath his, leading him toward the picnic table.
“Fiela, as my adopted sister, is a duchess, though also a princess based on her marriage to you.”
“Then what am I?”
“Ah, a good question. You are not a king, yet you wear a king’s ring, and are married to a woman who merits the title of princess but is not allowed to claim that title in public. You, sir, are something of an oddity.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that, actually.”
Lilian smiled. “At this point your kingdom consists of Steepleguard and its grounds and your subjects are your hotel staff, Fiela, and me. It is a rather smallish kingdom but it is more than you had yesterday, is it not? Which brings me back to the topic of Fiela. Do not be too hard on her. She will take it very badly.”
“Why? We hardly know each other.”
“Yes, but be mindful of her status as serretu. Her primary function is to please you. The fact that she is Peth-Allati will magnify this desire because she will also want to protect you. You may find her behavior intrusive and unnecessary. But this is our world. If you send her away or refuse her help, she will blame herself. If you truly wish to make her happy, indulge her as best you can. And you must allow her a fetch to tend to her domestic needs. You don’t want her to grow a unibrow and moustache do you?”
The researcher laughed. “I’d dare anyone to say anything to her about it.”
“Still...”
“Okay, fine. But I’ve got a question for you. It’s trivial but it interests me, as a linguist. What do you and Fiela speak when I’m not around? English or Agati?”
“Why do you ask?”
“It’s subtle, but when Fiela speaks, and sometimes even you or Ridley, the English is…well, not wrong, but a little different than normal. I’m talking about how you structure your sentences and the words you use. Fiela uses words like ‘truly’ and ‘shall’ that are rarely used by anyone else. It’s as if she learned English from reading Jane Austen novels.”
Lilian nodded. “Most Nisirtu speak the lingua franca of their host region and passable but not expert Agati. Only scribes and their students default to Agati, which is to the Nisirtu what Latin was to an educated man in
medieval Europe. Fiela and I, though, were raised by Ridley, a scribe, and so were compelled to speak in Agati during many of our formative years. That is the language of our thoughts. Perhaps when we speak English the words are unconventional. I hope it does not bother you, this variation.”
“I find it charming, really.” Ben kicked a stone out of the path. “Don’t say anything to Fiela about that.”
“As you wish.” Giving him a sideways glance, she said. “You know she has something of a crush on you.”
“Lilian, she is-”
“Twenty-two years old. Ten years younger than you. Is that so much?”
“That’s not my point. When I’m done studying the tablets and this façade is over, she’ll need to move on. I don’t want her to get too worked up by the whole ‘serretu’ thing, because I’ll ultimately need to rejoin my ‘Ardoon’ peers and it’s pretty clear to me that she wouldn’t care to live amongst us slaves.”
“Ah,” said Lilian, looking at the sky. It was clear she wanted to say more.
“What now?”
“Let’s walk to the overlook. There’s something we need to discuss away from Mr. Fetch.”
The two of them deviated from the trail and walked over tall, whispering grasses to the terrace with the concrete wall and chromed viewing machines.
“This is a spectacular vista,” Ben said.
Putting her arm around him, Lilian said, “It has been my favorite since I was child.” A moment later: “Ben, you do believe, I hope that the Nisirtu are capable of doing things that are unimaginable to many. You’ve seen the scripts and the results.”
He nodded. “I can’t deny that you appear to be capable of amazing things. Things I can’t explain, yet.”
“Good. It is my hope that, in time, you will acknowledge the authority of the Nisirtu, and the power you have received through my father. When you do, you might rule all the lands you see below us, and beyond.”
Ben chuckled at the woman’s hubris. “I don’t think so.”
She let another moment pass. “Even if it meant protecting the survivors of your own kind? The Ardoon?”
That got his attention. “Survivors? I don’t understand.”
A cool, fragrant gust of wind made the two sway in rhythm. Nothing was said until the wind had subsided. Then, Lilian turned toward him and took his hands in hers.
“Ben,” she said quietly. “It’s all going away.”
“What is?”
“All of it.”
Ben stared at her, uncomprehending. She ran her thumbs over his knuckles and said soothingly, “Mutu, I’m sorry, but soon, Denver will be in ruins. Every city of the world, great and small, will fall with it. This civilization is at an end. The apocalypse is here. It is scripted.”
She released his hands and wandered back to the picnic table alone.