The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter (5 page)

Again, he looked at the girls.

Of course, many times the little ambassadors came down, to this day, relaying information, or merely hovering, watching the settlement. These visits hornblower had experienced on countless occasions. No ambassadors, unfortunately, had arrived on this night, the night of the funeral, but hornblower had not given up hope that a few might show toward the end, to add to the dramatic effect.

Never mind, he thought. The horn blast had been a good one.

And, when the service was over, visiting the girls would be a solemn pleasure.

Had everybody arrived? These dullards were so slow. Punishments would be meted for tardiness.

The growing wind caused branches of the world to whip the sky. When hornblower finally did cast his eyes up to view the vista that occupied his thoughts, and to add another accent to the faded echoes of his horn’s blast, he saw—instead of the endless firmament, or mighty Anu descending, or even a cloud of his loyal ambassadors—the scruffy bower of the exile, Pan Renik. A small black void floated in the upper branches. Hornblower’s eyes were drawn to the nest, this transgression, this gall among his people. Though the construction of the bower appeared tiny against the backdrop of hea
v
en, hornblower scowled, and his momentum, for a moment, was thrown.

He cleared his throat and shifted his feet. He wanted to shout at all the people now, tell them to move forward, to hurry up, but padres should remain silent at such formal occasions—

Damn the exile!

He glanced up again.

Beyond the assembled populace were clouds, naturally, a thousand formations of clouds, sunlit by day, illuminated by the moon, or by a smattering of stars, like now, by night.

He stared at the girls a third time, but with anger. They cowered closer to their mother.

The last of the residents finally arrived, responding belatedly to hornblower’s perfect call, wiping sleep from their lazy faces.

Another padre, bellringer, gave his signal, rung on high, and the funeral began.

Chosen exemplar of the most benevolent sisters Kingu and Aspu, who were in repose and had been for as long as time immemorial, bless them, was also resting, stretched in a hammock with his youngest wife, when he felt an acidic tinge abruptly mingle in his saliva. Surprised, he sat up, choking. The burning in his throat worsened and he began to cough. His eyes watered.

A summons.

The hammock had been set up in the shade, near the pepper fields. He looked out over the gardens, toward the ridge of hills. The day was mostly warm and breezy. Pressed against him, his youngest wife remained fast asleep. The exemplar tried to suppress his coughing, so as to not wake her.

Both he and this wife had spent a great deal of the previous night awake with their infant son, who was not a good sleeper, and who cried every time he was left alone. Maybe the boy was cutting teeth?

Seven years since the exemplar had accepted the host of the benevolent sisters, bless them, into his mouth. There had only been perhaps twelve previous summonses. Most of the time, the sisters communicated by the voice of the seed he had swallowed, talking softly in his head, but on occasion they wanted him physically at their side, as a witness, when they announced to him certain plans for the village, such as how to best cull ducks, or how to forge the sharpest of knifes. Once, the exemplar had to reconnect a damaged cable that had come loose from one of the goddesses’ great flanks during a storm. (The exemplar had a hard time distinguishing Kingu from Aspu: the sisters, bless them, were
identical
.)

He hoped this summons would be for as simple a request.

Disentangling from his wife—who grumbled a complaint and moaned but did not wake—the exemplar managed to clumsily stand. He had never quite mastered getting in or out of hammocks and was satisfied with himself that he had not fallen or dumped his wife out on her ample ass. The burning in his throat had lessened but he knew this was because he had moved; if he were to lie back down again, try close his eyes, the discomfort would resume, twofold.

“Where are you going?”

“I thought you were asleep,” he said. “I’ll be back soon. The sisters are calling me. Bless them. Go back to sleep.”

“The sisters?” She rolled in the hammock, face averted, hips rising. “Mmmmm . . .”

The exemplar blinked and, watching his youngest wife, adjusted his genitals beneath his robe. He had woken with a hard-on. When he returned, maybe they could make love? Being tired made him horny. So did warm days. And breezes. And hammocks. He smiled slightly, rubbing at his face, considering, just for a second, postponing his response to the summons. But that would be foolish: who in the world would ignore the call of their goddess?

“I won’t be long,” he said. “Hold that pose.”

“Don’t even think about waking me.”

He could tell she too was smiling.

The exemplar had left his sandals at home, so he had to pick his way carefully, barefoot around the garden, heading toward the pad where the benevolent sisters lay dreaming. Keeping an eye out for snakes or thistles or anything else that could hurt his feet, he heard from beyond the trees the laughter of children, playing nearby, drifting though the walls of foliage. He was unsure if any of this laughter was from his own children, but the sounds helped relax the exemplar nonetheless.

Just for a moment’s isolation he and his wives went to the hammock. For naps, and to maybe fool around. He touched his cock again through his robe, almost entertaining the thought that being an exemplar for his community was an imposition at times like this, but the sisters could read such thoughts, bless them, so he suppressed the idea as best he could, trying to hurry, and be devout.

Beyond the row of trees, he descended a path of black lava stones, which were sharp and further slowed his progress. At the crest of a second stony slope he cursed himself for not going back to his home to retrieve his sandals; he knew he must have looked ridiculous mincing his way down to where the goddesses slept.

If they wanted to, they could have seen him through his own eyes. They could watch this embarrassing display, if they chose.

Ahead, to the left of the great mountain, the dull ocean glimmered under cover of the clouds. A storm was picking up, far out over the water, angry and black. Even here, winds grew stronger. He sniffed the air. He would need to keep an eye on this weather, though the rocks that ringed the shallow crater where the sisters had instructed his ancestors to build sheltered the small community—

Like a stab in his throat, another bitter call came, a taste so sharp and painful that the exemplar groaned aloud and put his hands up to his neck.

Hurry. You need to watch us leave. What’s taking you?

He was frozen with shock. Had the sisters said what he thought they had?
Leave
?
Was leaving
possible
? The benevolent sisters, bless them, had
always
been sitting side by side, inert, on their pad.
How could they leave
?

Filling with foreboding now, regardless of the pain in his feet, the exemplar began to run.

At the northern extremity of the community, ringed by boysen-berry bushes and clusters of red flowers, the sisters rested on their massive shale slab. Looking overhead, the mountain was craggy and dark green. When the exemplar got very close to where the sisters rested, he felt movement in the ground under his bare feet, and movement—not a wind, but a tremor, a
quaver
—in the air itself.

Coming over the final ridge, he saw them. The benevolent sisters, bless them, were shimmering.
Vibrating
. Garlands that had covered them—offerings he had draped casually over the past few days—fell from the smooth backs of the sisters to the rock. He saw the garlands wither with growing heat and, as he stepped up onto the shale, felt this heat himself, radiating from the goddesses like the blast of fires. There was a loud hum, and the smell of thunderstorms.

An eye cracked half-open. Never had he seen this before. Never had he seen the eyes of the sisters. The pupil was large and black and bottomless; terrified, the exemplar dropped to his knees, lowering his own feeble gaze.

Get up,
the sisters commanded.
We shouldn’t be gone long. Are you all right? Get up!

On shaky legs, the exemplar managed to stand.

Unforeseen events have occurred
, they told him.
We’re needed elsewhere. You’ll relay the story of our lift off to the people. You’ll tell them.

“Of course,” said the exemplar. But what was lift off? What would he describe to the people?

If we haven’t returned in two days, get everyone inside the cavern and remain there. Do you understand
?

“Remain? But, but sisters . . .” His voice was as tremulous as the air and the ground. “Most benevolent sisters, may you be blessed and bless us in return,
where are you going
?”

Get everyone inside the cavern if we don’t return. Do you understand
?

He managed to nod, though all he wanted to do was weep.

When he looked up, more impossibilities unfolded: the sisters—each as big as a house—had spread out their arms, sweeping them over the perimeter of bushes, and now they hovered
over
the shale slab, a meter or so in the air. Their faces were alert, energized, their wings a blur. Muscles along the great spines bulged. They continued to watch him. They did not speak again.

Flowers that had died, and which he should have removed, and flowers that should have been replaced fresh this morning, all rolled from the shale, withering further or bursting into flame. The growing heat dried his skin and hot winds blew hair back from his face. He turned away, feeling small, ashamed of his weakness. He wanted to ask so many questions but was frozen dumbstruck as the sisters, bless them, rose even higher into the sky, turning their faces away from him at last.

Slow swells of water, as if the grotto had powers to alter viscosities of basic elements, such as thicken liquids or vanquish light, and the sound of distant dripping, had lulled the cherub into a deeper sleep. Little round face, pressed snug up against the gunwale, wings ruffled like a blanket over its pudgy torso. The creature breathed quietly. Watching the cherub in the dim lantern glow, the abductors had momentarily forgotten their recent disagreement. Adrenaline waned now, and exhaustion tugged at their nerve endings. Neither felt particularly fulfilled by their recent actions.

In the boat were a boy and a girl. A kholic and a hemo. The boy was the abandoned twin from the refuse station at Hot Gate, and the girl was his lover. After coitus in her room, they had dressed without speaking, a mood of solemnity following them from the tousled bed (he came; she did not). Leaving the room on Hanover Street, which the girl shared with three others, the couple walked to the centrum, paces apart. Nowy Solum was getting dark by then and the streets were nearly deserted.

Climbing into Jesthe by one of the tunnels in the stone foundation—which the girl had recalled so clearly from her childhood, and described in painstaking detail, with nostalgia a lump in her windpipe—was as simple to do as it once had been, yet upon entering, they both found themselves cramped and dirty and uncomfortable. Were these tunnels, wondered the girl, forcing herself forward, the tunnels of her memory? She tried to understand the difference between the tunnels of the past and the tunnels of the present but only managed to become saddened, having contemplated instead such things as time and life and her dwindling youth.

Though she had never been among the children to reach the endocarp in bygone days, nor see the fabled riches of Jesthe’s interior (let alone return with a piece of salted meat or other treasure), accessing the interior of the palace now, with this kholic boyfriend in tow, was not especially difficult. Surprisingly easy, in fact. Certainly a journey without the myth and wonder of a child’s perspective. She imagined the tunnels growing.