Redemption in Indigo (10 page)

Alton the poet was a man setting out on a long journey for the first time. Because he did not look young, people assumed that he had been a long time at his job and must be something of a master. The reality was that premature greying had crowned him with an appearance of greater maturity than was actually the case. He truly was a poet, but a very young one who was only now testing out ways to make money from his art??f art it was. A terribly shy man, he was far too self-deprecating, an unhelpful trait in any person who aims to sell snatches of empty air shaped around vowels and consonants, or worse, bits of white paper irregularly stained with black ink.

When he had been hired by Bini, he had mistaken the majordomo for the master, but when he saw who the master really was, his worries increased. Once, he would have thought himself beyond fortunate to be in the household of a rich merchant prince, but fantasies and dreams worked well enough when unfulfilled. Now he would have to produce work worthy of his exalted position, and the muse in him fled in terror at the thought.

On reaching Makendha, he relaxed slightly. This was the kind of village that a city man like himself rarely took seriously. It was his own fault, perhaps, that he was so lulled and vulnerable when Bini called him into his tent-office to receive his first assignment.

'You are to write a love poem.'

Alton looked at him, expecting more, but Bini's face was poker-bland.

'Just?? love poem? Might I ask for whom? I mean?? don't want to be nosy, but it helps if you can imagine who??ho you're writing to??nd maybe why you're writing to them? Or is this just an arbitrary love poem?’ he stammered.

'There is a woman named Neila in Makendha. Her mother is Tasi, her father is Semwe, and she is not yet married. The poem is to be addressed to her, and it will be signed by our lord. Then you will deliver it to her, orally as well as on paper.'

Alton flinched. His penmanship had always been excellent, but his oratory was more of a challenge.

'By tomorrow,’ Bini concluded.

Deadlines were the one thing guaranteed to pour ice water all over Alton's creativity. He fished for help, something to delay the inevitable.

'I have not even seen the subject. Where will I get my inspiration?'

Bini got up from his desk and patiently led the young man out of the tent. He pointed across the pastures towards the edge of the village, where young women were fetching water from the village well. ‘Go and see. Try not to get too inspired.'

Alton set off, trying to appear unconcerned. Women fell into that category of fantasies and dreams that worked well when unfulfilled but presented all kinds of problems when brought out into the real world of trial and failure. Only his greater fear of being fired pushed him on towards the well and took his trembling legs to the edge of the group of chattering women. A few fell silent and gave him that dismissive, up-and-down flash of the eye that women could be so horribly good at. The rest ignored him.

Then one of the women turned around.

It was exactly like the master poets had written it. The air seemed to turn hollow, muting the sound of chatter to mere background warbles. The other women became like so much wallpaper, a neutral background for the vividness of the central figure. He heard a voice say:

'You must be Neila. I am Alton, poet of the household of the Lord Taran.'

This could hardly be his own voice. It rolled, it thundered boldly, it was the voice of one who knew that he would be heard. Giddy with this unlooked-for power, he continued speaking, fuelled by a rare vintage of courage.

This was not Taran's doing. Taran might have done something, perhaps if the first draft of a poem had come for his signature and had proved substandard, but he had not even heard Alton speak as yet. What Alton did was not at all remarkable. Like many men before him, he had simply fallen in love with the face of the most beautiful woman in the village, and in so doing had found his muse.

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Alton's love poems to Neila have been famous for years, as everyone knows, but if you want to sample them for yourself, or try a verse or two on your own beloved, I fear that you will have to buy the published works or attend one of the performances still running in theatres in many of the major cities. A minor writer such as I cannot afford the cost of reproducing the words of the poet dubbed Love's Own Laureate.

We don't need to focus on Alton's poetry, anyway. What is far more interesting is the effect it was having on Neila. She had had all kinds of unsophisticated men try to win her affection, or at least her attention, by rough, bumbling shows of their love. She had grown immune to such behaviour. She had also had suave, rich men of the world come with dazzling gifts and earnest charm, but these too had left her cold. Into this vast range of possibility strolled Alton. He had the touching gormlessness of the poor young lads, but he was backed by the wealth and authority of a rich suitor. Moreover, he brought something new and fascinating. When viewed from a certain angle, he was weak, timid, and unprepossessing. Then he looked at her and became visibly transformed into a classical hero. It made her feel incredibly powerful. Many women, by their beauty and sheer presence, have reduced intelligent men to babbling idiots or gaping mutes, but few have inspired to such heights of eloquence a man who can only be described as mediocre.

There is the secret. Show a woman that she has the power to improve you a thousand times over, and she is yours for life.

Unfortunately, Alton was not being paid to woo in his own name, and everyone knew it. Semwe frowned a lot but decided to leave it to Tasi to warn Neila about the tragic triangle that was forming before their eyes. Tasi spoke quietly and briefly, reminding Neila that in paying attention to Alton's addresses, she was in fact encouraging the mysterious, faceless lord.

Neila's own feelings were very complex. Alton made her feel deified, but the veiled stranger who had sent him had another, additional cachet. Once, as he was about to ride past her on one of the outer trails to the pasture, he slowed his horse and slightly inclined his head. She stood still, speechless and staring, as his eyes looked at her and into her as if they would burn through the veil, and burn her up, too. She saw the strange colour—another thing that stunned her—and felt bizarrely shaken when at last he turned away and spurred his horse on.

She wondered why he so shrouded himself, and she even asked Alton if he was wooing her to be the bride of a monster, but Alton, being of the albinism hypothesis party, soon reassured her—incorrectly of course—that her suitor was entirely human, albeit one who looked as if he had been dipped in milk.

There's another secret. Mystery with a touch of fear is a powerful attractor. It is an excellent aid to wooing, however it is extremely difficult, if not impossible, to maintain.

Taran made himself be patient. He realised that he had to give Alton time to prepare the ground before he stepped in, but he was also delaying a formal meeting with Neila and her family for two other reasons. First, he was trying to detect once more that delicate sense of chaos, but for some reason, he could not find anything throughout all the village of Makendha. He found a satisfactory reason—that she must have been warned about his arrival and was now hiding the power—and put that thought aside. Second, he was bracing himself to speak to humans again. Bini gave him some practice, but he was a servant taking orders from his lord. Taran could not speak to Semwe, Tasi, and Neila in the same fashion.

He tried walking about in the woods and practising, using drafts of Alton's poetry as his primer. After a week, he decided he was ready. He would have a banquet and invite the chief, some other Makendha notables, and Neila and her family.

When Alton learned of this, he became instantly depressed. He bore the invitation, written in his own hand and sealed by his lord, to Neila. It depressed him further when he saw how her eyes widened in excitement at the thought of meeting Lord Taran in his own domicile.

'Shall I tell my lord that you are pleased to accept his invitation?’ he asked coldly.

She could not miss his distant tone. ‘Alton, won't I see you there?'

'Not as a guest, but as a servant,’ he replied gloomily. ‘My lady, I have bewitched myself into believing that I was on my own errand, and not that of another man. I have injured my own heart. You are not to blame.'

'You can write a poem about it,’ his muse said shrewdly, if callously, and, leaving him there muttering new verses under his breath, she dashed off to tell her parents.

Tasi insisted that Neila have a new dress for the occasion, but there was hardly enough time to send to Ahani for a truly fashionable new outfit, so she took some of her savings and went to bribe a neighbour to give up some of the silk she had been saving for her own daughter's wedding. It was a beautiful piece of fabric, pale gold embroidered with ivory thread, and it needed only a simple cut to flatter Neila's skin and figure.

Semwe, too, was dipping into his savings and anxiously consulting with the chief on what would be a suitable gift for his daughter's rich, foreign suitor. He heard the chief's advice with some relief—not only was the suggestion within his means, but he knew exactly where a very fine example of such workmanship could be found. He sent out a message in haste, praying that there would be enough time for the work to be done.

A small boy rode up the back roads to the hills on a mule. He was a regular visitor; he carried letters, packages, and other sundries up to the House of the Sisters and took similar cargo back down the hill to Makendha. He reached the gate, slid off the mule's back, and rattled the bell loudly.

Paama came running to the gate. ‘Hush, child, we're not all hard of hearing. What do you have for us today?'

'Mornin', Aunty Paama. Letters, and a parcel for Sister Elen.'

He dug envelopes out of a canvas bag and gave them to her and then untied the cords that fastened the parcel to the back of his rough saddle. Paama took them all and piled them up neatly. As she did so, one of the envelopes made her pause.

'Thank you,’ she said to the postboy absently, and started to walk briskly back inside.

Sister Elen was passing near the door as she entered. Paama gave her the parcel, blindly, eyes still fixed on the envelope.

'Here, this is for you.'

She put the other letters in their accustomed place on the table by the door and held out the envelope that had so held her attention. ‘And this, it seems, is for you and for me.'

Sister Elen looked mildly surprised. She took the envelope, opened it, and read the contents quickly.

'An order for the House. Your father wants us to make a travelling stool with all the traditional carvings suitable for a minor chief. He hasn't given us much time! And for you, an invitation. Your sister is being courted by a foreign merchant prince, and he is having a dinner in your sister's honour.'

Paama's eyes widened. ‘In two weeks all this can happen? Maa must be very proud of Neila.'

Sister Elen did not seem quite as excited. She was frowning as if something very worrying had occurred to her.

'What is it, Sister?’ Paama asked her.

'I am thinking of something that Sister Carmis said.'

Sister Carmis was a Dreamer. She, too, had listened to Paama's story, and then she had gone away without saying a word to anyone. No-one had told Paama what was supposed to happen after that, except that she had to be patient.

'What did she say, and why didn't she tell me?’ Paama complained.

'Dreaming is very imprecise. It is not always possible to separate the true dreams from the ramblings of the sleeping mind. We prefer to wait until there is a clear sign that a dream is significant. Be patient a little longer, Paama. I must consult with my sisters.'

Paama was left to wonder and fret and speculate for the rest of the day. When news finally came, it was Sister Jani who brought it to her.

'Paama, you must go back to Makendha and protect your sister,’ she said bluntly.

Paama looked at the expression of bleak worry on the face before her and said softly, ‘Is that all you have to tell me?'

'Sister Carmis has had a dream that is very difficult to read. There will be strife between you and a stranger, but she cannot tell what will happen in the end. Your sister must not stand between the two of you, or there could be grave trouble for her.'

'I'll go now,’ Paama said, her face grim and her eyes anxious.

'No. Wait a while. We must do all that we can to prepare you.'

'Can you teach me to use the Stick any better than the djombi did?’ Paama asked with some bitterness.

Sister Jani laughed without humour. ‘No. But we can give you such assistance as our own talents provide.'

Paama could not guess what she meant by this, but when she began to pack her belongings, the four sisters came to her, all bearing packages.

Sister Elen stepped forward first and gave her a tiny box, small enough to fit into her hand. ‘This is a brooch, but it will also allow me to Read the stranger. Be sure to wear it on your dress when you go to the dinner.'

Then it was the turn of Sister Deian. The package she gave to Paama was slightly larger than her hand. ‘This is a hairband. When you wear it, you will hear my voice behind your ear Speaking the truth about the stranger.'

Sister Carmis, the quietest of the sisters whom Paama had encountered, came forward with a large, light parcel. ‘Place this cushion under your head at night, and I will be with you in your dreams, to show you what may be, and to guard you against what must not be.'

Paama stared at the sisters and at her gifts, overwhelmed. ‘Thank you. I feel less afraid now.'

'But not less careful,’ warned Sister Jani.

Paama looked at the last package, which was so large that Sister Jani had rested it on the floor the moment she entered the room.

'And what is that?’ she said in trepidation.