Earthborn (Homecoming) (14 page)

Ilihiak laid his hands on Khideo’s head for a moment. That apparently ended the ritual, and Khideo
arose and returned to his seat. Ilihiak smiled at them all. “Act with courage, my friends, for the time is now if the Keeper is to deliver us at all.”

By evening, to Monush’s astonishment, all the people had been notified, the allotted herds had been assembled, and the guards stationed in the city were roaring drunk. Hours before dawn, in bright moonlight, the people moved with astonishing quietness out of the city, past the stupefied diggers, out into the forest. Khideo and his scouts were excellent guides, and in three days they were at the shores of the Mebbereg. From there, Ilihiak, once again the sole ruler of the Zenifi, used Monush’s services as a scout and guide—but Monush did not ask for, nor did Ilihiak offer, the kind of authority that had been given to Khideo.

When I get to Motiak, thought Monush, I will tell him that he would be wise to give great respect to these people, for even in their small, oppressed kingdom, they found a few who are worthy of authority and skilled in its use.

Edhadeya watched anxiously from her place among the women as the Zenifi passed through the river, coming out of it as new people. She saw how they shied away from the watching sky people; it made her feel sad to see how, even cleansed by the water of Tsidorek, they still kept the old prejudices they were raised with. We can wash people in the water all we want, she thought, but we can never wash their parents out of their hearts.

She was not watching for real change in these people, of course—she knew that rituals existed to point the way, not to actually accomplish anything in themselves. They provided a marking point in people’s lives, a public memory. Someday the children or grandchildren of the Zenifi would say, On the day our ancestors passed through the water, they emerged as new people, and from that day forward we welcomed the sky people as our brothers, fellow children of the Keeper of Earth. But the truth would be very different,
for in all likelihood it would be those very children or grandchildren who were the first of the Zenifi to embrace the brotherhood of angel and human. Yet their parents would not all deny what their children believed—the ritual was the marker, and in the end, it would become the truth even if it didn’t begin that way.

The women—even the waterkeepers—did not greet the people rising out of the icy water; it was the priests of Motiak who met them and laid hands on them to make them new people and give them names which were, oddly enough, identical to their old names with the addition of the title “citizen.” Edhadeya was old enough now to have learned the stories of the old days, when Luet stood as Nafai’s equal, as Chveya and Oykib stood side by side. She was also old enough to have heard the priests talk about how the old records were misinterpreted, for it was the custom among the ancients to show so much honor to the Heroes that even their wives were treated like Heroes—but it was entirely because of their husbands that these women were remembered. Edhadeya read several passages from the Book of Nafai aloud to Uss-Uss, her digger teacher-slave. “How can the priests interpret this any way but that Luet was a waterseer before she even met Nafai? And Hushidh was a raveler long before she married Issib?”

To which Uss-Uss replied, “Why should it surprise you that these male humans have to lie even about their own sacred records? The earth people honor their women; so do the sky people; therefore the middle people must deny their women.”

It seemed to Edhadeya at the time to be too simple an explanation, and now, watching the priests, she realized that most human men did not treat their wives and daughters as if they were nothing. Hadn’t Father sent the expedition to find the Zenifi solely because of her own dream, the dream of a woman? That must have made the priests’ skin crawl! And now every single man and woman who came out of the water was
proof that the Keeper showed a woman what she never showed any of these priests!

But it was not to gloat or boast that Edhadeya stood pressed to the rail of the bridge to watch the Zenifi become citizens. She was looking for the faces she had seen in her dream. Surely that family would be one of the people who came. But when the last of them passed through the water, Edhadeya knew that she hadn’t seen them.

How tragic, that the people she dreamed of should have been among the ones who died.

It was not until hours later, after the presentations of this dignitary and that one to Father, that Edhadeya was able to get a moment with Monush—though certainly not a
private
moment, since Aronha and Mon both stayed as near the great soldier as they could get without wearing his clothing.

“Monush,” she said, “how sad that they died, the people I saw in my dream.”

“Died?” he asked. “No one died. We came away from Zinom without losing a single one of the people of Ilihiak.”

“But Monush, how can you explain to me why the people I dreamed of are not among these people?”

Monush looked confused. “Perhaps you remember them wrong.”

Edhadeya shook her head. “Do you think I see such a vision every day? It was a true dream—and the people I truly saw aren’t among these.”

Within a few minutes, Edhadeya was alone with Father, Monush, and two men of the Zenifi—their king, Ilihiak, and Khideo, who seemed to be Ilihiak’s most honored friend.

“Tell me of the people you saw,” said Ilihiak kindly, when Motiak had indicated he should speak.

Edhadeya described them, and Ilihiak and Khideo both nodded. “We know who it was she saw,” said Ilihiak. “It was Akmaro and his wife Chebeya.”

“Who are they?” asked Motiak.

Once again Ilihiak explained about the one priest
who had opposed the killing of Binadi, how he had fled the kingdom and gathered a few hundred supporters before disappearing to escape the army Nuak sent against them. “If you dreamed of them,” said Ilihiak, “and it was a true dream, it must mean that they are still alive. I rejoice to hear this.”

“But then that means we rescued the wrong people,” said Monush.

Ilihiak bowed his head. “My lord Motiak, I hope that you do not regret having redeemed my poor kingdom from captivity.”

Motiak stared silently into the empty air in front of him.

“Motiak,” said Monush, “I remember now that there was a brief time on the ledge of the cliff, before we passed near Sidonod, when I was confused. I had dreamed something but couldn’t remember the dream. Now I realize that the Keeper must have been trying to show me the right way, and the mischievous Jaguar must have—”

“No Jaguar,” said Motiak. “The Jaguar has no power over the Keeper of Earth.”

“But over such a weak man as myself,” said Monush.

“There
is
no Jaguar except the stupid cats themselves,” said Motiak impatiently. “I don’t understand how you missed the right way, Monush. But I do know it was a good thing to find the Zenifi and bring them home to Darakemba. It was also a good thing for them to take the covenant and give up their old hatred of the sky people. The Keeper must be happy with this, so I refuse to call this a mistake.”

Motiak turned his gaze to Edhadeya. “Are you sure you interpreted your dream correctly? Perhaps this Akmaro was asking the Keeper to send help for the people of Ilihiak.”

“He and his wife and their children were frightened because of their own captivity,” said Edhadeya.

“But a girl can hardly interpret a true dream,” said
Khideo, sounding as if he were only pointing out the obvious.

“You were not asked to speak,” said Motiak mildly, “and my daughter is like my ancient mother-of-mothers, Luet—when she dreams true, she can be trusted. I hope you don’t doubt that, my friend.”

Khideo bowed his head. “I have spent many years listening to a woman speak in a king’s council,” he said quietly. “She was the woman who saved the lives of our people, by leading our young girls out to plead with the invading Elemaki, knowing that the diggers among them would not raise their weapons against a female, but uncertain of what the bloodthirsty humans among them might do. But even
she
did not dare to interpret dreams in the council. And she was not a child.”

Motiak looked at him in silence, at his bowed head. “I see that you’re ashamed of the way I conduct my council,” said Motiak. “But if I had not heeded this girl’s dream, my friend, Monush would never have been sent, and you would never have been brought here to freedom and safety.”

Ilihiak, obviously embarrassed, said, “It was never an easy thing for Khideo to break from the old ways, even to hear my wife speak in council, though she was very circumspect. But there has been no braver war leader nor truer friend—”

“I’m not angry at Khideo,” said Motiak. “I only ask him to understand that I do not shame him, I honor him by letting him be present when I hear my daughter’s words. If he feels himself unprepared for this honor, he may withdraw and I will not be offended.”

“I beg to be allowed to stay,” murmured Khideo.

“Very well,” said Motiak. Then he turned to the whole group. “We sent one expedition, and Monush tells me that it was very dangerous—they could have been discovered at any time.”

Edhadeya, sensing where this discussion was leading, plunged in. “But they
weren’t
discovered,” she said, “because the Keeper was protecting them and—”

Father’s cold stare and the shocked silence of the other men, their eyes wide, their mouths open—it was enough to silence her even as she pleaded for the people of the dream.

“Perhaps my daughter could study the ancient stories, and learn that Luet showed proper respect at all times.”

Edhadeya had read the ancient stories already, many times, and she distinctly remembered that there were at least a few occasions when Luet showed that she thought her visions were more important than
any
kind of courtesy. But it would not be wise to contradict Father. She had already said too much—after all, most of the men here thought it improper for her even to be present at a council of the King. “Father, I should have confined my pleadings to a time when we are alone.”

“There is nothing to plead,” said Motiak. “I obeyed the Keeper’s dream and sent Monush and his men. They found the Zenifi and brought them home, and it seems plain to me that they had the protection of the Keeper all the way. Now if the Keeper wants me to send another expedition, he must first send another dream.”

“To a man this time, perhaps,” said Khideo softly.

Motiak smiled wanly. “I don’t presume to tell the Keeper of Earth which of his children’s minds should be the receptacle for his messages to us.”

Lesser men might have withered; Khideo managed to bow his head without seeming to give way at all. It seemed to Edhadeya that he might not always be content to bow to other men.

“Edhadeya, you may leave us,” said Father. “Trust in the Keeper of Earth. And also trust in me.”

Trust in Father? Of course she did—she trusted in him to be kind to her, to keep his word, to be a just king and a wise father. But she could also trust him to ignore her most of the time, to allow custom to keep her in the women’s part of the house where she was supposed to give respect to a jealous witling like
Dudagu Dermo. If ail women were like Edhadeya’s stepmother, the customs would make sense—why should men have to waste time listening to
her?
But I am nothing like Dudagu, thought Edhadeya, and Father knows it. He knows it, and yet out of respect for custom he treats me as if all women were equally worthless. He gives custom more respect than he gives me.

As she worked angrily on her pointless weaving in her room, Edhadeya had to be honest enough with herself to admit that Father treated her with more respect than she ever saw other men treat women—and that Father was criticized for it, too. Now that Monush had come home with the Zenifi, who really did need saving, everyone admitted that Motiak had not been foolish to listen to his daughter. But then, in front of everyone, Edhadeya had insisted that Monush brought back the wrong people. It was a stupid thing for her to do. Why spoil a triumph? There would have been chances to talk to him privately. She just wasn’t used to thinking politically, that was all.

But it was hardly
her
fault if she didn’t understand about politics, was it? It wasn’t
her
decision to keep her out of court except on women’s days, when she was trotted out for display, to smile at the simpering ladies who drifted in like down from a baby duck. She wanted to scream at them that they were the most worthless creatures on earth, dressed in their fine clothing and never deigning to dirty their hands with work. Be like the sky women! Be like the earth women! Accomplish something! Be like the poorest of the middle women, if you can’t think of anything else to do—learn a skill that isn’t just decorative, have a thought of your own and sustain it with an argument!

Be fair, be fair, she told herself. Many of these women are smarter than they seem. They learn their light manners and display their beauty to help increase their family’s status and honor in the kingdom. What are they supposed to do? They aren’t the daughter of an indulgent king who lets his daughter strut around
as if she were a boy, standing on the roof with that mad child Mon who wants to be an angel. . . .

I like to be with Mon, because he doesn’t condescend to me. And why shouldn’t he want to be an angel? He doesn’t talk about it, does he? He doesn’t make wings out of feathers and string and try to jump off the roof, does he? He isn’t insane, he’s simply as trapped in his life as I am in mine. That makes us friends.

Friends, a man and a woman. It was possible. You’d think to hear some people talk that a human man had more in common with an angel man than with a human woman.

Edhadeya thought back to her dream. She knew she thought of it too much. As she discovered more and more in the dream, she couldn’t trust her new conclusions; it was obvious that she must be adding her own needs and desires and ideas to the one vision that the Keeper had given her. Still, she was sure, thinking back to the sight of that family, that the father thought of the mother as his equal or even—yes, she knew it!—his superior in at least some ways. He thought she was braver than he was, that was certain. Stronger. And he would admit it. And both parents valued the daughter as much as they valued the son. Even though they lived as slaves among the diggers, this was the great truth that they would bring back to Darakemba if only they could be liberated. For they would have the courage to preach this idea to everyone. That Akmaro was not diminished by his respect for Chebeya, and they did not honor their son Akma any less just because they honored Luet as much.