Bloodchildren: Stories by the Octavia E. Butler Scholars Page 10

  Rochita Loenen-Ruiz

  They came with their big ships, riding through the rifts in the Veil that protected the Once-country. We could not say if it was capture or salvation that came to us. They, who we called Compassionate, came for us and took us from the devastation left behind. Of the great number that was the Once-tribe, only a handful of us were left. We watched as the world we knew and loved vanished in the chaos created by the rifts. And as we departed the Once-country, we wondered if we would ever see it again.

  —From Artifact Hala’s account, “Chaos and the Once-Country”

  Hala’s joints creaked as she unfolded herself from the regeneration egg. She paused and waited for her augmentations to adjust before moving again. Consciousness thrummed through her, a constant susurrus of memories through which she could sift and select when it was time for her to stand before her audience.

  A visit to Ay-wan was in order, she thought. Hala’s inner self was always comfortingly chaotic, always thrumming with the reminder of what she was, but there was something about the chaos that disturbed her now.

  Ay-wan would know what to do. If there was anyone who would pinpoint an error in her augmentations, it would be he.

  She pondered Ay-wan briefly. When she’d arrived on Silhouette, he had been among the first to greet her. He had been old already, the lines of his face telling a story of grief and joy and inevitable sorrow.

  “They’ve assigned you to my care,” he’d said. And he’d taken good care of her all throughout the augmentations, the installation of her arrays, and the surgical procedures that the Compassionate deemed necessary.

  They’d sent him to the shapers for a complete rejuvenation five years ago, and now the skin of his face was stretched tighter than the skin of a drum. It was eerie to see him looking that way—not young, not old, more like a construct.

  Her body signaled its readiness for movement. With a sigh, she swung free of the egg and walked towards the mirror. They’d added more transmitters to her array in this most recent surgery, and she was thankful that they’d chosen to set the connectors close to where her hairline ended. It was less unsightly this way, and it allowed her the temporary illusion of ordinariness.

  “Old,” she thought as she stared at her reflection. Her hair, once compared to midnight by the young men of her tribe, still shone; but there were silver tendrils among the black, and it was impossible to hide the crinkles at the side of her eyes.

  “So what,” she said to the mirror. “Age is a badge we wear with honor.”

  In the old days, the Munhawe came into the fullness of their power in their elder years. The patient growing into wisdom, the waiting and the watching as the years passed, smoothing down the sharp-edged impatience that was youth—all these necessary things took time.

  But with the Once-country fallen into chaos and with the Compassionate dominating the worlds where the remnant of the Once-tribe were allowed succor, there wasn’t really any need to consider anything more than the roles that had been assigned to the remnant.

  She hadn’t had the luxury of time to grow into the fullness of her power. Instead, the Compassionate representative had her fitted with tiny little machines that crawled around inside her body, and an array of receivers and transmitters so she could tap into that source from which the Munhawe drew their wisdoms, their dreams, their prophecies, their healings, and the skill to carry the weight of history and legend.

  Artifact.

  That was the title they gave her along with the rest of those who had been rescued. They had all been tested and fitted with whatever augmentations the Compassionate saw fit to grant them, and then sent out to various worlds under the protection of Compassionate attachés.

  In the beginning, she’d wanted to know where the others had been sent. But the attaché had looked at her with his cold blue eyes and told her that she should be honored to be selected as Artifact representative on Silhouette.

  She’d accepted the reprimand, but she still missed her friends and wondered what had happened to the others.

  She pressed her lips together and walked towards the console that projected her daily schedules. She was to appear at a benefit tonight. Funds were being raised for refugees located in various Once-worlds. She brushed away her nostalgia and her longing and tried to flow into the role that had been impressed on her.

  No matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she reasoned with herself, she couldn’t help but feel that she was nothing more than a museum exhibit trotted out for display every now and then. A trophy belonging to the Empire, a being that should have long ago been declared obsolete, but by some miracle still walked and talked, told stories and conjured visions of a place that might just as well be nothing more than a fairytale.

  She folded her hands together in the proper form and moved from her bedroom. Her implants whispered loudly of memory, but she ignored them for now. They would quiet down as the day progressed, and hopefully she would reach the state of calm that she needed each time she had to stand before a crowd.

  Her stomach grumbled. Augmented or not, she was human and her body still desired food.

  ζ

  “So good of you to be here,” the organizer of the 19:00 hour event gushed at her. “So many entry chips sold. There’s bound to be a good audience. You’ll want the dressing room first, I suppose?”

  She had difficulty concentrating on the organizer’s four faces. Four on one, she thought. And she had a silly vision of bears piled up on top of each other as they strove to maintain balance on a one-wheeler, or wait, was it a two-wheeler? The memory did not belong to the history vaults of the Once-tribe, and it slipped through her fingers quicker than she could say fish.

  It’s not the Once-tribe’s story all the time, she thought. Artifact I may be, but it doesn’t mean I can’t have memories of my own.

  She nodded and smiled as the organizer rushed her off in a flurry of nervous gasps, fluttering fingers, and repeated bowing.

  The dressing room was bigger than her living room. A long line of mirrors fitted with muted lights greeted her. Enhancers were plugged into the sockets—all on standby. Perhaps there was another performance after hers?

  She sat down at one of the tables and unpacked the satchel she’d brought. The long length of woven cloth shone at her. Red and white threaded through with yellow, green, purple, and black—the traditional wear of the Once-tribe’s Munhawe.

  “This will be yours when your time comes.”

  Her memory of her mother wearing the same colors came back to her so vividly she didn’t see the mirror she gazed at. A year later, her mother had been dead, one of the countless victims of the bombings that took place after the Charter changes. They’d brought her back in a sealed casket, the skirt too tattered to be passed on.

  Hala pushed back the memory. She smoothed her fingers over the woven cloth. They’d had this made for her, and she could tell that the cloth had been enhanced.

  She frowned and stared at her reflection. A deep breath and the connectors beneath her skin slid into view. There was no help for it. She’d never learned meditation the right way, and without her augmentations, she couldn’t enter the veils. She’d tried and failed to do so before.

  “Are you all settled here?”

  The four-headed organizer peered around the edge of the half-open door.

  “Settled,” Hala said. “Just getting myself psyched up.”

  “Good, good,” the organizer said. Her faces smiled, and one of them whispered something to the other. “Do you want something to eat perhaps, or to drink?”

  “Ginger tea?” Hala asked.

  “It will be arranged,” the organizer said. “How much time will you need? The crowd isn’t here yet, but the primary sponsors will be in before the rest.”

  “Half an hour,” Hala said.

  It was disconcerting to watch the heads consult each other. After one of them whispered directives into a headpiece, all four nodded.

  “Fifteen minu
tes, then, to mingle with the primaries. Your tea is coming. I’ll check up on the other arrangements.”

  She watched as the organizer left. Her heads bobbed from side to side and her hands gesticulated at each other. At least the organizer would never lack for company, Hala thought. And she would never want for someone to talk to when the nights grew long and dark and lonely.

  The door to the dressing room slid open again, and this time one of the stewards came in. It was her tea, piping hot and filling the room with the sweet scent of ginger.

  “Thank you,” Hala said.

  The steward nodded and departed as smoothly as he had entered, and Hala was alone again. She sighed, lifted the cup to her nose and inhaled.

  “Ah,” she said.

  The aroma brought back memories of her childhood and the mother who brewed ginger tea each time she had to do a long reading.

  She blew on her tea and sipped at it. It was good. Better than any she’d ever had before. She wondered briefly if the kitchen had a source and if they used real ginger instead of the amalgam that was available in machines for the masses.

  ζ

  Twelve hours spent in meditation.

  Twenty-four hours spent replenishing her energy supply.

  She was spruced up as well as she could ever be for an Artifact who was almost a septuagenarian.

  She had prepared. Yes she had. But this question….

  “I beg your pardon?” she said, and she tapped the connector under her right ear discreetly.

  Surely there must be a malfunction.

  “I said, are you poor?” The woman who asked the question had a psychedelic array of hair plumes rigid with techno-spray, glittering under the bright lights of the dome.

  “There’s no need to be shy,” the woman went on. “We see it on the news and we read it in the pages. The Once-country is sunk in poverty and Chaos holds sway over what remains of the populace. Without the Compassionate, there wouldn’t be anything left of it by now. Want to see my display?”

  Fragrance filled Hala’s nostrils as the woman invaded her space.

  “Look,” the woman said.

  Her screen flashed and the images appeared.

  She knew what the vid was, of course. She’d seen them repeated countless times—and no matter that there was truth in the desolation shown on-screen, the Once-country was not all about mud and rain and blank-faced hopeless people living on Central City’s streets.

  “I came from a good family,” Hala said as the vid came to an end.

  “Oh.” The woman seemed disappointed. “So you’re not poor?”

  Hala shook her head.

  “But…”

  “How do you measure poverty anyway?” Hala said. “What about yourself, do you consider yourself rich or poor?”

  The woman took a deep breath and leaned away from Hala. Censure was in every line of her body.

  “Well, I never,” the woman said. “And we’re doing all these things for you and your people. I should think you’d at least be a little grateful.”

  Hala sighed as the woman left her in a puff of sweet-smelling perfume.

  “Well,” said a voice behind her. “That’s that then, and I suppose we can wave goodbye to a sizeable contribution from her. You do know how to deflate the pretentious, Hala.”

  She turned around and let out a squeal of joy.

  “Bayninan! How—Why—when did you arrive?”

  She fumbled for words not knowing what to ask first. The last time she’d seen Bayninan was when the Compassionate decreed that Hala would be sent to Silhouette. Bayninan’s protests at the selection and segregation of the blooded had been rejected.

  Hala was “blooded”—of the blood—and as a true descendant of the Munhawe she was expected to be an ambassador of goodwill, an Artifact. What flowed in the veins of the blooded was priceless, and could not be entrusted to a planet still embroiled in the Chaos. For all that Bayninan was of the warrior class, she was deemed unfit to stand as companion to an Artifact. So she had been assigned to a different planet.

  “I arrived two hours ago,” Bayninan said. “A short sleep, and here I am. Fresh and fine and happy to be here in your time of need.”

  Hala threw her arms around the taller woman.

  “I thought I’d never see you again,” Hala said.

  She pushed back the tears and the joy that threatened to overwhelm her.

  “It took a long time to get myself into the representative’s good books, and equally long to get myself enough credits to come here. I did promise I’d find you,” Bayninan said. “You do remember that, don’t you, Hala?”

  Hala smiled up at her. There was silver in Bayninan’s hair, but the arms that embraced her felt strong and sure.

  “How many years has it been?” Hala said. “I’m old and in need of a tune-up. You, on the other hand, look distinguished and very fine.”

  “You’re not old,” Bayninan replied. “You’re at the right age.”

  Hala grimaced. Trust Bayninan to pick out what Hala was most insecure about. Even when they were growing up, Hala never needed to put her feelings into words. Bayninan simply knew.

  “I’ve been the right age forever,” she said. “And look.”

  She tucked her hair behind her ears so Bayninan could see where the shapers had given her more connectors.

  “There’s a slot at the back as well,” Hala continued. “That’s for maintenance when my receptors get foggy or some such technical thing that I don’t really understand.”

  “My poor Hala,” Bayninan said. “You’ve suffered by yourself.”

  “It hasn’t been all bad,” Hala said.

  Bayninan smiled and leaned down to touch her forehead to Hala’s.

  “Well, I’m here now, and I’ll be here for as long as you need me.”

  ζ

  Colorful clothing is worn by the upper class, including the Munhawe, the Mama-oh, the Mumbaki, and the Chief of the Once-tribe. Belts carved from the teeth of the wild boar or from the crocodile are also an indication of class status. The white woven blouse with colorful embroidery is a later addition to traditional wear. Before the coming of the Compassionate, the women of the Once-tribe adorned their upper bodies with intricate beadworks. Breasts were displayed with pride.

  The elder poet Sunyang wrote of the breast that sustains the life of the young.

  “A woman’s breasts are her adornment

  Honorable and pure

  They are the expression of the woman’s modesty

  For they are also the fountain of life.”

  —From Artifact Hala’s talk, “Life in the Once-tribe”

  It was the same spiel and yet it was different somehow. Bayninan was here. Her heart leapt and sang, and her joy in their reunion manifested in a projection of goodwill.

  “A beautiful poem,” the organizer said.

  Her words pulled Hala from the haze of joy. She was on the podium, and the first sequence of her presentation was over. Beside her, the organizer beamed while the audience nodded and murmured to each other.

  “Yes,” Hala said. “The poem is lovely.”

  “And you agreed to show us a dance,” the organizer prompted.

  “Indeed,” Hala said.

  How could she have forgotten? She had intended to show them the communal dance, but her heart cried out for something more.

  “It will be a celebratory dance,” Bayninan said from beside her.

  “Oooo….” the organizer said. She clapped her hands and her heads bobbed with excitement.

  Hala stood there, her eyes riveted on Bayninan.

  “Where will you find the garb of a warrior?” she choked out the words.

  “I brought my brother’s gear,” Bayninan said. “It will do just as well as my own.”

  Was there a tinge of sorrow in Bayninan’s voice? Hala wanted to ask her why she had Lakay’s clothes with her, but before she could speak, the organizer swept Bayninan away.

  “You must prepare,” the org
anizer twittered. “How exciting and how fortuitous that you arrived on this day.”

  ζ

  Hala listened to the organizer’s excited announcements. She’d thought she had taken all the shock she could take in a day. But here was Bayninan looking every bit the warrior. The loincloth revealed the muscled length of her legs; her breasts were barely covered by the warrior’s vest. A blanket was slung around her shoulders, and the ivory of her belt bore the yellow sheen of age.

  “I never thought I’d see you wearing this again,” Hala said.

  “Two women in skirts cannot dance the dance of blanket-sharing,” Bayninan replied. “For tonight, let me be your warrior.”

  Was this Bayninan? Hala wondered. She watched as her friend walked with an easy gait to the other side of the podium. She bent down and picked up a shield and a spear. There was a smile in her eyes when she turned to look at Hala, who stood there staring at her.

  “Well?” There was the lift of the eyebrow and the sardonic twist of the mouth.

  She’d never seen Bayninan like this before, never thought of what it meant for Bayninan to be one of the fighting women of the Once-tribe.

  ζ

  First, the warrior dances to show off his prowess for his chosen one. He leaps and jumps around the fire and with his gestures, he lets the chosen one know that he has hunted for her, he has fought for her, and he has triumphed for her.

  —Acts of Courtship, compiled by Munhawe Sunyang Chulipa

  It was the courtship dance. Even as her lips spilled out the words, she could not stop staring at Bayninan.

  In Bayninan’s hands, the prop became a weapon. She thrust at the ground in rhythm with the gongs. It was like watching the rite performed as it was in the days when the Once-tribe still was its own. The Warrior leapt and spun and landed in a crouch, her eyes were fierce beneath the hooked beak of the bird’s head she wore as a headdress. Bayninan was the warrior now, and when Hala met her eyes, she couldn’t explain why she suddenly felt as if she were prey.

  Thrust and retreat. Bayninan’s muscles gleamed like polished mahogany beneath the domed lights. There was the flex and the give, and she drew the blanket from around her shoulders to shake it out.