IGMS Issue 44 (18 page)

But when she caressed his scalp with her stronger, upper left hand, Jafartha closed his pale-green eyes and sighed with a deep satisfaction. That felt wonderful. It didn't do anything to change his decision, but it felt wonderful.

Jafartha noticed the warmth of Yonhe's breath in his ear as she whispered, "If you make Kitja amputate my last good arm, I'll never be able to do this again."

Jafartha's eyes closed with disappointment. Did she really think --?

He shook his head.

"No," he said. "We have to look at the big picture. Consider the stature this will bring to our family, and the business opportunities it will create."

Yonhe glanced at him, then at her left arm as if it had already been cut off. "Losing . . . losing the right arm wasn't so bad. But this other one is all I really have. Is there no other way?"

Sixteen-year-old Kitja entered the room with a steaming cup filled to the brim with . . . something. He passed it to his mother.

"She's going to look absurd with nothing but those spindly lower arms," Kitja said.

"She going to look elegant," Jafartha said, caressing the scar at her right shoulder where their elder son, Mafirtha, had done his work. Then he gestured at the cup in Yonhe's hand. "And what is that?"

Kitja replied, "Thyne bark tea. It will make her sleep. Better that she doesn't see what's going to happen."

Jafartha had never heard of such a thing. "Where did you learn this?"

"Grandfather Boonhe taught me the basics of making herbal tea, but this particular recipe is my own."

Jafartha saw the kindness in rendering Yonhe unconscious for the amputation; the ritual was a bloody business. Nevertheless, the damned old grandfather had no right meddling with Jafartha's affairs. This was his family, not Boonhe's.

Yonhe took the cup of tea in her hand, drained it in a single swallow, and nodded toward Kitja. Jafartha didn't like the look that passed between mother and son. It wasn't mere gratitude she expressed; there was something else, something Jafartha couldn't identify. But before he could say anything, his wife slumped in her bed, passing into unconsciousness.

Kitja ritually kissed her cheeks and forehead, then placed a blue feather, one each, into her undeveloped lower hands.

Jafartha wished he would hurry.

No, what he wished was that Kitja would be more like his older brother.

On the night of the Procession of Kings four years ago, Mafirtha had proudly taken part in each step of the ceremony as prescribed in the Eighth HammerSong, culminating with the amputation of his mother's upper right arm. Mafirtha had not blinked his pale-green eyes, not once, throughout the ritual. Nor had he dawdled with tea or obscure feather rituals that had long since lost any meaning.

But Kitja was different.

Kitja was always holding back -- watching and listening to Boonhe's stupid stories; studying the intricate carvings on Jafartha's wharkbone knife; collecting herbs from the dunes behind their house -- instead of diving in and doing what needed to be done.

Kitja was just like that simka fish that followed Jafartha when he paddled his canoe over to the neighboring island each morning, and then followed him home again each evening. On a world full of islands, this damn fish had to take up residence in
his
lagoon? Jafartha wished the simka fish would either do something or leave him alone. But it merely bobbed on the surface, watching, watching, with its unblinking golden eyes, studying and questioning everything.

Just like Kitja.

Jafartha looked grimly at his son. "Only the finest, wealthiest families can afford to see the ritual all the way through. We are going to show the People -- every man, woman, and child on every island within sailing distance -- that we are still one of those families."

Kitja shook his bald head and grimaced. "Why do we have to cut off her good arm? Why not something symbolic like the useless little ones? She'll barely be able to feed herself with those puny things."

"As her youngest son, you become her good arm. It reinforces the bond that exists between you."

Kitja's lip curled, projecting a perfect blend of disbelief and disdain. "Reinforces the bond? If a bond already exists, why do I have to --"

"-- because that's the tradition, and you can't be a man until you honor the traditions. Poor families can't afford to lose the woman's productivity. We are
not
poor. Now get outside."

But Kitja didn't move. He simply watched with his brilliant, unblinking blue eyes. Studying and questioning everything. Jafartha hated Kitja's blue eyes. Yonhe had been so thrilled when those eyes turned from white to blue in the first few months after he was born. Mafirtha's eyes had turned green, the same as Jafartha's. Kitja's eyes, however . . . they were the exact same shade of blue as Yonhe's damnable father.

Kitja said, "There was a time when we
were
rich. Rich with wharkbone. But you frittered that away."

Jafartha looked at the lone knife on the trunk by the door. Wharkbone knives were harder and sharper than anything else known to the People, which was appropriate, since wharks were the craftiest, most pitiless monsters in the sea. Hauling one in -- in a net, of all things -- and walking away from the experience alive, much less with all four arms intact, was rare. Single-handedly killing the beast, eating its meat, and making tools from its bones had made Yonhe's great-grandfather a legend on every island the sun ever shone on. And rich, too.

But things had been hard lately. Jafartha had chased a few high-risk trade deals, instead of pursuing many small ones (as Boonhe had advised), and when none of them went his way, Jafartha had been forced to trade away most of the wharkbone tools that Boonhe had given as Yonhe's dowry. Jafartha's relationship with his father-in-law had grown more and more strained with every piece he traded away.

Jafartha picked up his last wharkbone knife and slid it into the sheath hanging from his belt. "Make me proud. Make your ancestors proud."

Without even looking, he knew the moons were moving closer. But still Kitja refused to move.

Gripped by a fury beyond words, Jafartha seized his son between the upper and lower arms and hefted him into the air, snarling, squeezing all four hands in on Kitja's ribcage.

Equally rapidly, Kitja whirled his arms inside his father's grip and knocked all four hands aside, landing securely on his feet. He gripped his father with his upper arms and lifted him off the floor. "My arms are as powerful as yours -- if not more. Don't treat me like a child."

Jafartha seethed to see Kitja behaving so disrespectfully, but was simultaneously stunned by the display. Kitja had always been smart and had recently grown strong, too, but where had he learned the moves necessary to turn the tables so quickly?

Kitja set Jafartha down.

Strong and smart was beside the point. Jafartha wouldn't tolerate such insolence.

"Only the heads of the finest families get to be on the ruling council. I won't let your squeamishness spoil this opportunity for me."

Kitja stared at his father. "Is that what this is about? You're willing to sacrifice mother's arm so you can sit on the
council
?"

Jafartha glared back. "Councilor's descendants get a portion of the taxes levied for four generations. Four generations! I'm doing this for you, and for your children's children, and for your children's children's children."

Kitja took a half-step forward and stood with his nose almost touching his father's. "Only if the Councilor doesn't spend a single pound of it, and we both know you don't have that kind of discipline. If you did, you'd have made the dozen deals each month that grandfather advised instead of trying to make it all in one fat deal each year. I won't let
you
sacrifice mother's arm to cover up your laziness."

In one smooth motion Jafartha wrapped his hand around the back of Kitja's skull, stepped to his left and pulled his son forward, smashing his face into the wall. Kitja fell at his father's feet like a bird hit with a stone. The boy's nose and forehead bled freely.

Jafartha smiled. "One of us is going to see this ritual through tonight. I don't care who, but I do know you'll be a lot more gentle with your mother than I will. Now clean up and meet me outside. Go out there stinking of fresh blood and a cayalla beetle will eat your face for breakfast."

Jafartha turned his back on his son and walked to the trapdoor in the floor of their kitchen. He opened it and slid through, wrapping his sinewy arms around the shack's center pylon and climbing to the boulder-strewn shore. The cold wind continued to blow.

Kitja appeared next to him faster than expected. The boy wore a shirt with long sleeves to protect against the wind, while Jafartha was still in only his knee-length pants.

"Merus and Morlos are already in alignment," Jafartha said, trying to ignore the wind. "You must complete the rituals before Tynus joins them. The first sacrifice must be from --"

"-- from the sea. I know, Father. I know."

Jafartha thought:
Yes, I'm sure you do know what the sacrifices are. By now, you had better. The real question is, are you prepared to
make
them?

Ignoring his son's disdain, Jafartha asked, "Did you set your lines then? Bait any hooks? Set any traps?"

The manling gazed out toward the empty sea, upper arms crossed over his chest, lower hands clasped behind his back. "Sort of."

Jafartha looked in the same direction as his son but didn't see anything. He had no idea what the boy was looking at or talking about, but he was going to wait, too -- wait for his son to do something decisive.

Father and son stood side by side, each staring silently, motionless, at the same red ocean. Jafartha breathed deeply, inhaling the spiced scent of the sea. There were no words for his disappointment as Kitja stood there, doing nothing.

Abruptly Kitja strode to his canoe, which had been resting well above the beach at sundown, staked. Now the canoe pitched in four restless feet of water, an agitated beast eager to escape its bonds.

When Jafartha caught sight of what was in the reed cage that was bobbing next to the canoe, he broke into a run, splashing through the water.

"Kitja!" he cried out, seizing the cage with his lower set of hands. He transferred the cage to his upper hands and gazed into the golden eyes looking wonderingly back at him. "Kitja," he repeated. "You actually caught one!"

The boy studied the fish, nodding with sad satisfaction. "My theory was right: the best bait to catch a simka fish is no bait at all. Tempting-looking treats make it suspicious; the lack of bait makes it curious."

Jafartha was thrilled; he had wanted to kill this fish for years. "The first sacrifice must be from the sea . . ."

"Yes. But why a simka fish?" burst Kitja. "Why not a fish we eat every day? I can catch one right now."

Jafartha's face pinched fiercely. "You set the trap. Are you going to dishonor the Kings by refusing what they've offered?"

Jafartha saw horror in his son's eyes as the legendary wharkbone blade was slipped from the sheath and handed to him. Sloshing around in the seething surf, waves threatening to steal the knife from him, Kitja rocked back and forth with the water. Staring into the reed cage.

He wavered far too long for Jafartha, who smacked the back of Kitja's head, pointed at the cloudless sky, and growled. "
Before
Tynus joins them."

The third, smaller moon was nearing the face of Merus and moving fast.

Inching the tip of the knife closer to the wide-eyed fish, Kitja froze at the edge of the cage. He looked over his shoulder at his father, but moved not at all.

Running out of time and patience, Jafartha grabbed his son's wrist and thrust the blade between the reed slats, piercing the fish directly between its eyes. Golden ichor trickled down to the water, floating in a glowing mass until the next wave washed it away.

Suddenly Kitja was more animated. As the fish's breathing reduced to short, labored puffs, the boy, with near-surgical precision, removed both of the eyes and threw them as far as he could out into lagoon.

"What was that?" demanded Jafartha.

"The eyes of a simka fish are the eggs for the next generation. But they must be released before it dies, or else the eggs die, too. Simka fish have few natural enemies, and their eyes usually fall out on their own, once the fish gets past a certain age."

A lifetime spent near the sea and Jafartha never knew that. About to ask, 'Where did you learn this?' he stopped himself. Jafartha knew precisely where Kitja had gotten his information.

Angrily, Jafartha said to his son, "Do you think you can make this next sacrifice in a more decisive fashion? A more manly fashion?"

Kitja took a step closer to his father. "I'll do whatever's necessary." His words were delivered quietly, but so hard, so fierce, they gave Jafartha a chill.

What was the boy up to?

Even more defiantly, Kitja added, "Back in the house, you called me 'squeamish.' I'm not. I just don't like this. Mother deserves better."

For a moment Jafartha wasn't sure if his son was referring to the ceremony or to Jafartha himself.

Without waiting for a reply, Kitja walked off through the still rising surf and climbed up one of the shack's outer pylons and onto the flat-topped roof. Jafartha followed.

On the roof Kitja pointed at another reed cage, similar to the one that had been tethered to the canoe. "I heard you up here after dinner, Father. Setting the trap. I guess you didn't think I could set one properly."

That was his son: always watching, always analyzing.

On a more positive note, there was a mature cayalla larva in the cage. Perfect, Jafartha thought. Air and land -- two sacrifices in one. Good fortune; it would save precious time.

Three hand-lengths long and angry, the creamy, wrinkled larva buzzed louder as father and son approached the cage. Lacking the ability of the adult beetle to spit its toxic, dart-like teeth, the larva was still dangerous. Its teeth had plenty of venom, even if they were temporarily stuck in its mouth.