Barsk (15 page)

The Cheetah waved the statement away. “Identify yourself, Fant.”

“Lox-Ensign Jorl. Retired.”

“Damn me, an officer? Well, then ensign-retired, let me adjust your world view. As I said, I know all about your precious Compact and I don't care. I'm authorized to ignore it, every line and provision. Which means, among other things, I am free to be here on your soggy planet, and I will detain you as I please. You can argue the legalities if you want to waste your breath, but look at your situation and acknowledge the pragmatics before you. You are my prisoner.”

“I don't suppose there's anything I can say or do to change your mind about that?”

The Cheetah laughed. “On the contrary, ensign-retired. You can make this easier on both of us. I am justifiably weary of my time on your world. Give me your word as an officer that you'll behave, and you'll avoid a visit to the brig.”

“You'd accept my word?”

“Why not? Years from now, it will make an amusing anecdote. And again, it's not like you can go anywhere. This way my people have one less isolation cell to disinfect, which should please both sides. I assume you'll also be less inclined to whine and cry than the others.”

“Others?” His trunk hung lax as he realized the probable answer to his own question.

“All in good time, Lox-Ensign. First, your word?”

“Yes, Captain, you have it. For now.”

“Amusing. Now then, step lively, back into the ship. We were returning to base when the helm spotted you, and the sooner I'm free of this damn rain the happier I'll be.”

“But why are you here, Captain?”

“Have you been retired so long? Orders, of course.”

 

THIRTEEN

LEAVING HOME

THE
previous night Pizlo had a hunch that he'd want porridge when he awoke. He acknowledged that it had been several days since he'd visited Tolta, let alone slept in the bed she kept prepared for him. He admitted that he liked the softness of its coverings, but he'd seen the unhappy look on her face when he'd last stayed over and left the stains of his recent travels upon the linens. Life was just simpler on his own; then again, there was the matter of the porridge.

He traveled to one of the Civilized Wood's popular gathering spots, empty so late in the evening, and bathed in the fountain at its center, scrubbing at the mud streaks and leaf stains on his pale skin. He lost a few scabs in the process, and these scrapes bled a bit, but he washed that away, too, and applied pressure here and there until the tiny wounds clotted and he was as clean as he was ever apt to get. He'd washed his shorts at the same time as he bathed, and as he stepped from the fountain he removed them the better to squeeze the extra water from them. Still wet from head to toe, he put on the damp shorts and then strapped his daypouch across his chest again. He hurried to Tolta's home, expecting to dry along the way. He climbed in through a window, snuck into the bed that she insisted was his, and went to sleep.

He awoke to Tolta preparing breakfast, not just hot porridge but a serving of sweet leaves and several kinds of fruit juice, too. He slid onto a bench at the table and worked his way through two steaming bowls, three servings of leaves, and full glasses of all three juices (and refills of two), all the while nodding or shaking his head in response to his mother's questions of if he was doing well and getting enough to eat and keeping himself out of trouble and staying clean and studying with Jorl.

When he finished, he glanced up to smile and thank her, but stopped without a word. His mouth fell open and the memories of things he didn't know he knew bubbled to the surface of his awareness.

“You never got to say goodbye, did you?”

“Hmm? You mean to Jorl? No, dear, I was out when he came by. He'll be back in a few days, I think. He left a note though and—”

“No, not Jorl. Arlo. He didn't leave a note. And he knew he wasn't coming back.”

Tolta bit her lip and turned away, but not before Pizlo saw the beginning of tears. Keeping her back to her son, she busied herself with the porridge's cooking pot. “No, Pizlo, he didn't leave a note. But how could he? It was an accident and—”

“It wasn't.”

Silence but for the scraping of a wooden spoon against a pot.

“Jorl says—”

“Jorl doesn't know everything!” Tolta slammed the pot down. The wooden spoon scattered across the floor. “He may act like he does, but he doesn't. He could be wrong sometimes. It happens.”

“Yeah, but he's not. Not about this. I know, cuz the moon told me. It said Arlo will say a proper goodbye.”

“A proper … the moon?”

“Yeah. I'd forgotten that part, but I just remembered and thought you'd want to know. I didn't mean to make you sad. Anyway, I should go. Thanks for breakfast, Tolta.”

“Pizlo, wait. What do you mean the moon told you?”

“I saw it the other night. The second littlest, Pemma. It was my third moon. It told me lots, so much that I forgot bunches but I'm remembering now. That's why I gotta go. Bye!”

With no more warning, Pizlo slid off the breakfast bench and bolted for the door. He flung it open, leaping through as soon as the gap had widened enough. He heard Tolta rushing after, but in the time it took her to reach the door and lean through, hands to either side of the frame, Pizlo had already vanished into the surrounding green.

He'd been thinking a lot about what the moon had said, and also what Jorl had told him about the aleph. It opened all doors, and he might need one himself if he was going to follow where he thought he needed to go. Even though he was only six, he felt certain he'd accomplished three things of such special merit that the traveling council would surely award him an aleph, even if they
were
usually stingy about it. Jorl had once said his was only the fifty-seventh aleph ever. If only they could be made to talk to him and acknowledge his existence. In fact, didn't his existence count as an accomplishment? Even though they acted like he wasn't there, he had heard how they spoke about him.
Abomination
was the description they most often used.
Nature's Mistake
was a close second. His kind were considered soulless, but that was silly. Who among them had ever seen a soul, anyway? His situation was biological, not spiritual. He'd read about it in one of Jorl's books, the genetic fluke of two Fant conceiving without a proper bonding. And how the resulting child most often arrived stillborn, and how most of the rest died within a year from missing organs or senses. It'd taken him days to realize his own inability to feel pain was part of that. But the unique thing was he had survived, six years now, longer than any other fluke. That had to be an accomplishment worthy of an aleph!

And he understood things. Hadn't he given Jorl directions to the place only the Dying knew? That had to count as a second one. It wasn't something he could prove though, not like his being alive, not until Jorl came back and said he'd been right. But still,
he
knew he was right.

Maybe the one about swinging on vines wouldn't count, even though he did it so well. And maybe they wouldn't be impressed by his insect collection, no matter how much better it was than anyone else's; he'd already learned that not everyone shared his enthusiasm for bugs. But the fact that he talked with all of Barsk, from the mud in the Shadow Dwell to the clouds in the sky, that had to count. Jorl had never mentioned anyone else who could do that, and he hadn't read about it anywhere. Just because he took it as given didn't mean other people wouldn't see it as special. Surely the way any of them could talk to anyone else was pretty special. Noisy and maybe pointless, but special. They chattered endlessly around him, but not much of it mattered or meant anything.

At least when Jorl talked to him, he told him stories. He liked that, the sharing of experiences. It was real. It mattered, didn't it? Wouldn't it be great if he grew up to be a Speaker like Jorl, to be able to summon people from before he was even born and listen to their stories. But … they probably wouldn't want to talk to him either. He had to think that over more; it would be awful being a Speaker but not be able to Speak. Maybe he should just focus on his aleph …

There were things to do. Pizlo didn't know where the aleph-granting traveling counsel was, but likely not there on Keslo. He'd just have to take matters into his own hands. He'd explain it to them when they met him and they'd understand. Maybe. If they talked to him. But that wasn't going to happen, not if like everyone else they pretended not to even see him. Maybe he should get something better than an aleph. Maybe he should just claim the right for himself because his entire life was one ginormous ongoing accomplishment that almost no one on Barsk wanted to admit. Or maybe that was the third special accomplishment that would earn him an aleph. Or maybe turning it down in favor of his own mark would be the third. The logic kind of got away from him, but somewhere along that line of thought he'd reached a decision: he didn't need an aleph. Didn't he already go anywhere he wanted because people wouldn't see him? No, he needed his own mark. Something no one had ever seen before, and so they couldn't be afraid of it, or deny it was real. Something they could talk to, even if they wouldn't talk to him.

Pizlo never wandered the walkways of the commercial areas of the Civilized Wood during the day when other people constantly came and went. But sometimes he went there deliberately, like when he wanted to play a game of making people dodge out of his way. He'd walk slowly from point A to point B. He'd do it with his eyes tightly closed, and trust to their need to get out of his way without acknowledging the fact by so much as a muttered complaint. Other times he went just after dawn, when the shops were closed and he could press his face against windows and gaze through the creeping diffused light at stuff that ordinary folk needed in their lives.

Today he had come with purpose. The light filtering through the trees was at its brightest and the concentration of Fant about their business there the greatest. He'd burst in on a balcony at the far end of a cul-de-sac, emerging from the wall of sculpted foliage and dropping onto the boardway. His arrival startled several Eleph who quickly averted their gaze as he began walking toward a store. A path opened for him more surely than it would have even if he'd born with an aleph. Either behavior was burned-in at a cultural level, but this one left every Fant breathless with a shared shame. Pizlo had never understood, but was grateful for the response today. Today he needed stuff.

Five stores did business in this cul-de-sac and Pizlo knew them all. The closest was a bookshop that he'd gone to with Jorl once to pick up some texts he'd special-ordered. Pizlo had waited outside without his teacher asking, and Jorl had surprised him with a present when he'd emerged, a pack of five bamboo inksticks. A cobbler kept a store next to the bookshop. Fant rarely wanted or needed shoes, but were hard on them when they did and the owner did a steady business weaving new shoes, repairing old ones, or carving new lasts when he was between customers. Beyond that was a physician's office, which held no interest for Pizlo, though it had two doors, a main entrance on the cul-de-sac and a second, more discreet exit onto the main boardway. Going the other way around from the balcony was a consignment spirit shop where Fant could bring the best of their own distilling and put them up for sale, or acquire the efforts of others. Every ten days they did tastings and samplings, but otherwise there were never more than two or three Fant in the shop at any one time. The last venue sat on the other end of the cul-de-sac and wrapped around onto the side of the boardway much as the doctor's office did. This was Suliv's shop, part grocery, part whatever-else-you-needed. It was also Pizlo's destination.

The boy pushed open the door and paused on the threshold. A stiffened piece of bark above the entrance made a sharp click-clack sound, announcing his arrival and perforce the shop's owner, two clerks, and assorted patrons glanced his way. And then, just as swiftly, acting as with one mind, they averted their gaze, resuming their earlier conversations and actions as best they could. Pizlo didn't care. He helped himself to a wicker basket by the door and began wandering up and down the aisles, skirting past people before they could stiffen at his approach or attempt to dodge him. The thing he needed most was also the oddest item on his list, and if Suliv's didn't have it, Pizlo had no idea where he would get one. He could read pretty well, much better than regular children his age, or so Jorl had assured him, but he'd never seen the word
emergency
printed before, either by itself or alongside other words, and it took him several passes in front of the object of his desire before he recognized it as what he needed. Once he had added it to his basket, Pizlo knew the rest would be easy.

Moving more quickly now, he pulled down an assortment of food from the shelves, some fresh and some dried. He selected three expandable mesh bags, and when he reached the limits of his basket he began filling the bags. He also chose a small bottle of dye of a deep indigo hue, staring at it for a long time, though midway through his eyes drifted closed as he listened intently to the bottle's silent whispering.

Pizlo plopped himself down in the aisle, opened the bottle and dipped the little finger of his left hand into the solution to the first joint. He pulled it out and inspected the vivid color that had already penetrated that bit of skin. Satisfied, he tucked his chin down and began painting a series of crude circles in a series of four rows, re-dipping his finger as necessary. First one, then three, then two more, and finally one. Three of the circles he filled in, blue from edge to center; the other four he left open. Having bathed and scrubbed just the night before in the fountain, his pale skin gleamed cleaner than it had in some time, and the contrast of dye against the white flesh drew the eye.