The Ships of Earth: Homecoming: Volume 3 (49 page)

He help up his bloody finger. “I forgive you for this, Elemak,” said Nafai. “I forgive you, Mebbekew. If I have your solemn oath to help me and the Oversoul as we bulid a good ship.”

It was too much for Elemak. The humiliation was far worse now than it had been in the desert eight years before. It could not be contained. There was nothing in his heart but murderous rage. He cared not at all now what others thought—he knew he had already lost their good opinion anyway. He knew he had lost his wife and his children—what was left? The only thing that could heal any part of the agony he felt inside was to kill Nafai, to drag him to the sea and plunge him in until he stopped kicking and struggling. Then let the others do what they wanted—Elemak would be content, as long as Nafai was dead.

Elemak took a step toward Nafai. Then another.

“Stop him,” said Luet. But no one got in his way. No one dared—the look on Elemak’s face was too terrible.

Mebbekew smiled and fell in step beside Elemak.

“Don’t touch me,” said Nafai. “The power of the Oversoul is in me like fire. I’m weak right now, from the wounds you gave me—I may not have the strength to control the power I have. If you touch me, I think you’ll die.”

He spoke with such simplicity that his words had the plain force of truth. He could feel something crumble inside Elemak. Not that the rage had died; what broke in him was that part of him that could not bear to be afraid. And when that barrier was gone, all the rage turned back into what it had really been all along: fear. Fear that he would lose his place to his younger brother. Fear that people would look at him and see weakness instead of strength. Fear that people wouldn’t love him. Above all, fear that he really had no control over anything or anybody in the world. And now, all those fears that he had long hidden from himself were turned loose within him—and they had all, all of them, come true. He had lost his place. He looked weak to everyone, even his children. No one here could love him now. And he had no control at all, not even enough control to kill this boy who had supplanted him.

With Elemak no longer moving forward, Meb, too, stopped—always the opportunist, he seemed to have no will of his own. But Nafai well knew that Meb was less broken in spirit than Elemak. He would go on plotting and sneaking, and with Elemak out of the picture, there would be nothing to restrain him.

It was clear to Nafai, therefore, that he had not yet won. He had to demonstrate clearly, unforgettably, to Meb and Elemak and to all the others, that this was not just a struggle between brothers, that in fact it was the Oversoul who had overcome Elemak and Meb, not Nafai at all. And in the back of his mind, Nafai clung to this hope: that if Elya and Meb could come to understand that it was the Oversoul
who broke them today, they might eventually forgive Nafai himself, and be his true brothers again.

Enough power to shock them, said Nafai silently. Not to kill.

〈As you intend, the cloak will act.〉

Nafai held out his hand. He could see the sparking himself, but it was far more imposing when he saw through the eyes of others. By accessing the Oversoul he could see dozens of views of himself at once, his face a-dazzle with dancing light, growing brighter and brighter. And his hand, alive with light as if a thousand fireflies had swarmed around it. He pointed his finger at Elemak, and an arc of fire like lightning leapt from his fingertip, striking Elemak in the head.

Elya’s body spasmed brutally and he was flung to the ground.

Have I killed him? cried Nafai in silent anguish.

〈Just shocked him. Have a little trust in me, will you?〉

Sure enough, Elemak was moving now, writhing and jerking on the ground. So Nafai extended his hand toward Meb.

“No!” cried Mebbekew. Having seen what happened to Elemak, he wanted no part of it. But Nafai could see that in his heart, he was still plotting and scheming. “I promise, I’ll do whatever you want! I never wanted to help Elemak anyway, he just kept pushing me and pushing me.”

“Meb, you’re such a fool. Do you think I don’t know that it was Elemak who stopped you from murdering me in the desert, when I stopped you from killing a baboon?”

Meb’s face became a mask of guilty fear. For the first time in his life, Mebbekew had come face to face with one of his own secrets, one that he thought no one could know; there’d be no escaping from the consequences now. “I have children!” cried Mebbekew. “Don’t kill me!”

The arc of lightning again crackled through the air, connecting with Meb’s head and knocking him to the ground.

Nafai was exhausted. He could barely stand. Luet, help me, he said silently, urgently.

He felt her hands on his arm, holding him up. She must have climbed into the paritka beside him.

Ah, Luet, this is how it should always be. I can never stand without you beside me. If you’re not part of this I can’t do it at all.

In answer, all he could feel from her was her love for him, her vast relief that the danger was over, her pride at the strength he had shown.

How can you be so forgiving? he asked her silently.

I love you
was the only message for him that he could find in her heart.

Nafai decided that the paritka should settle to the ground, and so it did. Luet helped him step from it, and with their children swarming around him, she led him back to the house. Over the next few minutes, all the others came to the house to see if they could help. But all he needed was to sleep. “Look after the others,” he whispered. “I’m worried that the damage might be permanent.”

When he awoke, it was near dusk. Zdorab was in their kitchen, cooking; Issib, Hushidh, Shedemei, and Luet were gathered around his bed. They weren’t looking at him . . . they were talking among themselves. He listened.

They spoke of how sorry they felt for Eiadh and Dol, and for their children. Especially Proya, who lived for the pride he felt in his father, Elemak. “He looked as if he had just seen his father die,” said Luet.

“He did,” said Hushidh. “At least, it was the death of the father that he knew.”

“The damage from this day will be a long time healing,” said Shedemei.

“Was it damage?” said Luet. “Or the beginning of the process of healing wounds that we had only ignored for the past eight years?”

Hushidh clucked her tongue. “Nafai would be the first to tell you that what happened today wasn’t healing, it was war. The Oversoul got her way today—the starship will be outfitted, and Elemak and Mebbekew will work as hard as anyone, when they recover from this. But the damage was
permanent. Elemak and Mebbekew will always see Nafai as their enemy. And anyone who serves Nafai.”

“Nobody serves Nafai,” said Luet. “We only serve the Oversoul, as Nafai himself does.”

“Yes,” Shedemei agreed quickly. “We all understand that, Luet. This wasn’t Nafai’s batde, it was the Oversoul’s. It might have been any of us with the cloak.”

Nafai noticed that, however close she might come to the edge,
this
time Shedemei wasn’t telling that she was the one who would have had the cloak if Nafai had refused it. She would keep that now as private knowledge, between her and Zdorab. Elemak and Mebbekew, Vas and Obring—they weren’t likely to tell anybody, if they had even understood what she told them last night. She would always know that she was the Oversoul’s next choice for the leadership of the colony—that was enough for her, she was content.

“He’s awake,” said Luet.

“How do you know?” asked Issib.

“His breathing changed.”

“I’m awake,” said Nafai.

“How are you?” asked Luet.

“Still tired. But better. In fact,
good.
In fact, not even tired.” He propped himself up onto one elbow, and at once felt a little light-headed. “On second thought,
definitely
still tired.” He lay back down.

The others laughed.

“How are Elya and Meb?”

“Sleeping if off, same as you,” said Shedemei.

“And who has
your
children?” Nafai asked them.

“Mother,” said Issib.

“Lady Rasa,” said Shedemei. “Zdorab decided you’d want
real
food when you woke up, so he came over and cooked.”

“Nonsense,” said Luet. “He just knew how worried I’d be and didn’t want me to have to worry about cooking. You haven’t asked about
our
children.”

“Acutally, I don’t have to ask about anybody’s children,” he said. “I know where they are.”

There was nothing they could say to that. Soon they brought food in to him, and they all ate together, gathered around the bed. Nafai explained to them what kind of work would be required at the starship, and they began to think through the division of labor. They didn’t talk long, though, because Nafai was clearly exhausted—in body, if not in mind. Soon they were gone, even Luet; but Luet returned soon with the children, who came in and embraced their father. Chveya especially clung to him. “Papa,” she said, “I heard your voice in my heart.”

“Yes,” he said. “But that’s really the voice of the Oversoul.”

“It was your voice, when you thought you were dying,” she said. “You were standing on a hill, about to run down and throw yourself through an invisible wall. And you shouted to me, Veya, I love you.”

“Yes,” he said. “That was
my
voice, after all.”

“I love you too, Papa,” she said.

He slept again.

And woke in the middle of the night, hearing a breeze from the sea as it played through the thatch of the roof. He felt strong again, strong enough to rise up into the wind and fly.

Instead he reached out and touched Luet, gathered her to him. She woke sleepily, and did not protest. Rather she snuggled closer. She was willing to make love, if he had wanted to. But all he wanted tonight was to touch her, to hold her. To share the dancing light of the cloak with her, so she could also remember all the things that he remembered from the mind of the Oversoul. So she could see into his heart as clearly as he saw into hers, and know his love for her as surely as he knew her love for him.

The light from the cloak grew and brightened. He kissed her forehead, and when his lips came away, he could see that a faint light also sparked on her. It will grow, he knew. It will grow until there is no difference between us. Let there be no barrier between us, Luet, my love. I never want to be alone again.

Everyone expected that Kiti’s sculpture this year would be a portrait of his otherself, kTi. That was Kiti’s intention, too, right up to the moment when he found his clay by the riverbank and set to work, prying and loosening it with his spear. There had been no more beloved young man in the village than kTi, none more hoped-for; there was talk that one of the great ladies would choose him for her husband, an offfer of Life-marriage, extraordinary for one so young. If that had happened, then Kiti, as kTi’s otherself, would have been taken into the marriage as well. After all, since he and kTi were identical, it made no difference which of them might be the sire of a particular child.

But he and kTi were not identical, Kiti knew. Oh, their bodies were the same, as with every other birthpair. Since about a quarter of all birthpairs both lived to maturity, it wasn’t all that rare to have identical young men preparing to offer themselves to the ladies of the village, to be taken or rejected as a pair. So by custom and courtesy, everyone showed Kiti the same respect they showed his otherself. But everyone knew that it was kTi, not Kiti,
who had earned their reputation for cleverness and strength.

It wasn’t entirely right for kTi to get all the credit for cleverness. Often when the two of them were flying together, watching over one of the village herds or scouting for devils or chasing crows away from the maizefields, it was Kiti who said, One of the goats is bound to try to go that way, or, That tree is one that’s likely for the devils to use. And at the beginning of their most famous exploit, it was Kiti who said, Let me pretend to be injured on that branch, while you wait with your spear on that higher perch. But when the story was told, it always seemed to be kTi who thought of everything. Why should people assume otherwise? It was always kTi who acted, it was always kTi whose boldness carried the day, while Kiti followed behind, helping, sometimes saving, but never leading.

Of course he could never explain this to anyone. It would be deeply shameful for one of a birthpair to try to take glory away from his otherself. And besides, as far as Kiti was concerned, it was perfectly fair. For no matter how good an idea of Kiti’s might have been, it was always kTi’s boldness that brought it off.

Why did it turn out that way? Kiti wasn’t lacking in courage, was he? Didn’t he always fly right with kTi on his most daring adventures? Wasn’t it Kiti who had to sit trembling on a branch, pretending to be injured and terrified, as he heard the faint sounds of a devildoor opening in the tree trunk and the tiny noises of the devil’s hands and feet inching their way along the branch behind him? Why was it that no one realized that the greatest courage was the courage to sit still, waiting, trusting that kTi would come with his spear in time? No, the story that was told in the village was all about kTi’s daring plan, kTi’s triumph over the devil.

It was evil of me to be so angry, thought Kiti. That’s why my otherself was taken from me. That’s why when the storm caught us out in the open, kTi was the one whose feet and fingers Wind pried away from the branch, kTi was who was taken up into heaven to fly with the gods. Kiti
was not worthy, and so his grip on the branch held until Wind went away. It was as if Wind were saying to him, You envied your otherself, so I have torn you apart to show you how worthless you are without him.

This was why Kiti meant to sculpt the face of his otherself. And this was why, in the end, he could not. For to sculpt the face of kTi was also to sculpt his own face, and he could not, in his deep unworthiness, bear to do that.

Yet he had to sculpt something. Already the saliva was flowing in his mouth to moisten the clay, to lick it and smooth it, to give a lustrous patina to the finished sculpture. But if he did not sculpt his otherself’s face, so soon after kTi’s death, it would be scandalous. He would be seen as lacking in natural affection. The ladies would think that he didn’t love his brother, and so they wouldn’t want his seed in their family. Only some mere woman would offer to him. And he, overwhelmed with clay fever, would accept that offer like any eager boy, and she would bear his children, and he would look at them every year from then on remembering that he was the father of such low children because he could not bring himself to sculpt the face of his beloved kTi.