Bloodchildren: Stories by the Octavia E. Butler Scholars Page 11

  It was the invitation.

  Hala’s hands twitched. She fed music into the air through her array: the song of the lover’s flute twined with the rhythm of the gongs. Her feet shifted. Bayninan’s eyes gleamed at her over the edge of the blanket.

  A lover’s dance, Hala thought.

  She looked at her old friend in wonder and allowed herself to succumb to the call of the gong. As she circled the imagined fire with the coyness of a maiden, she couldn’t help but think of how very right Bayninan was. What better dance was there to celebrate this moment? Here, in the shadow of the gods, she was reunited with the one she loved the most. Bayninan’s blanket closed around her shoulders, and she turned to accept its embrace in the way a maiden accepts the invitation of her first lover.

  ζ

  If I opened my palms to you

  Would you touch your palms to mine?

  If I reached out my hands

  Would you take them

  Would you give me the meaning to this life?

  —“Song of the Maiden,” Oral Records of the Once-Tribe

  Rain seldom came to Silhouette, but it was here now. It poured down on the glass dome and spilled over into the ground beyond the domes where Silhouette’s forest thrived in an atmosphere that was alien to and yet somehow similar to the Once-country they’d left behind.

  Their celebration dance reached its end. Bayninan’s hand was warm around her own. They clasped hands briefly before they parted and Hala stood alone again. She turned to face the wall. The crowd was at her back, and she could hear the wave of whispers. From soft wonderings the whispers grew into a crescendo of awe.

  This, she thought, is for the Once-tribe.

  She allowed her sight to blur as she accessed her array and passed through into the memory of the veils.

  Here, in the space where the dance was born, she was alone. Here was the wind and the sky and the earth beneath her.

  She paid obeisance to the sun as the song of the distant gongs coursed through her and filled the hall with their resonance. Her limbs trembled as the rhythm moved through her.

  Tong-a-lit.

  Her naked feet warmed the grey stone floor.

  Even here, so many light years away from the Once-country, her spirit was connected to the earth and the sky. To the remembered horizon filled with the majesty of mountains and the green, green gold of ripening rice. She raised her arms in a gesture of remembered welcome.

  “Come wind,” she whispered.

  Energy moved in her. It travelled through her bones, it moved through her flesh. She was aquiver with fire and lightning, bursting to the brim with the stories of beginnings.

  Her ears resonated with the voices of the tribe sisters and the et-et-du of the Once-tribe.

  The gate to the veil’s inner sanctum opened up and she walked into its familiar embrace.

  Her people had wandered the Once-country long before the Compassionate came. It wasn’t that they owned the land so much as the land owned them.

  They tended her with care, they plowed her fields and channeled her waters, they built their homes from what the land gave them and ate what the land brought forth. Season in and season out, the cycle went on in that way. Small wars were fought, alliances were made, and the Once-tribe grew as the gods meant it to. Their borders extended, their influence increased, their warriors were able hunters, and their women were strong in spirit and resilient in their minds.

  The land was fecund and green and all manner of life grew there; even the spirits thrived and made their homes in the caves hidden by falls of water, and in rocky shelters where ferns and wild orchids grew.

  There was the yell of children as they sprang from cliff into deep pools of green. Green, green, and around them, the bright smell of tiger grass and wild lilies—here the pitcher plants grew in profusion, and the maiden’s slippers swung in the wind as if waiting for the day when they would be released from the stem.

  Beyond the pools of deep green, tall trees towered into the sky, and further in—

  A voice called to her from the familiar green. A voice filled with melancholy and remembrance, summoning her and telling her to shed her fears and embrace what waited beyond the portals of this place.

  “Sacrifice,” the voice whispered.

  At the sound of that voice, she blinked and she was back again. The hall was quiet. Sometime during the performance, she had turned to face the crowd. Now everyone was staring at her, and the look in their eyes sent a frisson of fear through her.

  She had never experienced anything like this before. What had she said? What words had she chanted?

  Below her the organizer’s four heads had their eyes closed. Their mouths hung open, and the multitude of hands stretched upward, open as if waiting for some gift.

  “I—” her voice failed her, and the crowd stirred as if waking from a deep, collective dream.

  “It’s all right.” Bayninan was there again.

  Hala felt suddenly tired. As if all the energy she’d stored up had been spent and she was nothing more than an empty husk.

  “You did well,” Bayninan whispered. “Just lean on me.”

  She was grateful for the words and grateful for her friend. She stared down at the crowd. They were wearing smiles now, but all she could think of was the look in their eyes when she’d come out of the trance. Like predators waiting for the first twitch.

  She shivered and Bayninan wrapped the blanket around her.

  “Here,” Bayninan said. “A pod is waiting for us. We can go home now.”

  ζ

  Hala woke to the sound of Bayninan’s chanting. She burrowed deep in the cocoon of blankets and sheets, feeling as if she were young again and on the verge of a discovery.

  “Et-et-doh-oh-oh, hi Bugan najawitaa-aha-aan….”

  When they were younger, they followed the words of the chant, longing for the day when they would join the other chanters.

  “Learn the words,” her auntie said.

  But by then the old language was so overlaid with the new that the words to the chants might just as well have been in an entirely different tongue.

  “It doesn’t matter what they mean,” her auntie replied when Hala asked what the words meant. “Just memorize the words.”

  Hala had grown tired of it, but Bayninan had loved it. She remembered the serious look on Bayninan’s face, her dedication to the exact holding of a tone and the measured beat of the chant.

  Bayninan would have been a far better Munhawe. She would have fulfilled the duty with skill, no matter that she was not of the blood. Bayninan would have remembered the things that Hala would have forgotten without her augmentations. But the blood did not run in Bayninan.

  “I love the chants,” Bayninan had said. “But I love the hunt and the chase more than I love the movements of the dance.”

  Even when she’d been chosen, Hala had been conscious of her shortcomings. She was not a full-fledged Munhawe, and yet with the implants in her body, she could fulfill that role perfectly.

  Lulled by the warmth and by the sound of Bayninan’s voice, she fell back asleep, sinking into a dream of a bygone time. Her mother stood by the fire, stirring a pot filled with warm porridge. Her mother had no grey in her hair, and she was chanting as she always did when a great event was about to take place.

  “Coming of age,” her mother said.

  She looked up from the pot. Her smile was gentle, and she beckoned with her hand to Hala.

  “Come, inhale the spices,” her mother said. “The smoke will cleanse your spirit.”

  “It’s just porridge,” Hala said.

  “Is it?” her mother asked. “Is that all you think it is? Or is that all you will allow yourself to see?”

  “I don’t understand,” Hala said.

  “Come,” her mother said. “You must look deeper and understand if you don’t wish to die.”

  “Death,” Hala said.

  She closed her eyes and thought of death. She wondered if a d
irge would be sung for her and she wondered if Bayninan would sing the hudhud for her burial. Would the Compassionate even allow it? A three-day dirge for an Artifact from the Once-tribe, for an exile from the Once-country—pain pierced her kneecap as she fell to the ground, and her eyes flew open.

  “This is what I was telling you about,” her mother’s voice whispered through the trees.

  She was in a forest now. It was the same one in which she’d played as a little girl. Clusters of ferns rose up above her, and beyond that the fat trunks of trees and the sheltering fronds of pine and banyan.

  “Mother,” she whispered.

  “Understand,” her mother said. “You must open your eyes, Hala.”

  ζ

  “Hala.”

  Bayninan’s voice was loud in her ears, waking her once more. She blinked and rolled out of bed in a tangle of blankets and pillows.

  “What?” she said.

  “There’s a man here for you,” Bayninan said. “He says his name is Ay-wan.”

  She stared up at Bayninan. Her eyes saw her mother still, and her ears rang with her mother’s last admonition.

  “Who?” She said.

  “A man,” Bayninan said. “He said his name is Ay-wan. He says you called for him.”

  Was it her imagination or did Bayninan put more emphasis on the word “man”?

  “I know him,” Hala said quickly. “Send him in.”

  ζ

  Of course, there is the business of death and the dying

  But before that comes the litany of grief

  —Rituals of the Once-tribe, compiled records

  “It’s the augmentations,” Ay-wan said.

  He had spent the good part of an hour testing her reflexes. He sat opposite her now, his connector plugged into the slot at the back of her neck.

  She tried to gauge his thoughts, but ever since his change it was as if there were a curtain pulled over his emotions.

  “What’s wrong with them?” Hala asked.

  Ay-wan sighed and disconnected himself.

  “You’re breaking down,” he said. “It’s not unexpected but still….”

  Hala pushed her hair back into place and breathed out in a huff.

  “So impatient,” Ay-wan murmured. “Your augmentations are deteriorating faster than they should. They’re meant to last longer than human years, but the way yours are going they’ll be corrupted in less than a year.”

  “What does that mean?” Hala demanded. “Speak in words that I can understand.”

  “You’re dying,” Ay-wan said. “And you’ll be dead before year’s end unless we take out your augmentations.”

  “Dying…” Hala’s voice trailed off. She stared at Ay-wan willing him to change his diagnosis.

  “We can always remove them,” Ay-wan said. “They’re not connected to your life support systems.”

  “But—” she couldn’t finish.

  Without the augmentations she wouldn’t be the Artifact anymore. She wouldn’t be able to access the knowledge that she needed to access. She would lose her ability to chant and to sing and to speak the old language. Would she even remember the steps of the dance once they were taken from her? A chilling thought came to her. Who would she be if she lost the ability to function as the Artifact?

  “It’s not an easy choice,” Ay-wan said.

  His fingers rubbed at the edges of his face. The skin there was pulled tight like skin over the surface of a drum.

  “When you had your change,” Hala asked. “Was it easy or difficult?”

  Ay-wan turned towards her.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  She met his gaze, and she flinched at the pain and the loneliness in his eyes.

  “I am the last of my people,” Ay-wan said. “This is the suffering I undertake in memory of what once was.”

  ζ

  There have been some side-effects noted. Hallucinations and hysteria are common to those given augmentations. The stronger the blood that runs in the Artifact, the stronger the reaction.

  —“Augmentations and their Side-Effects,”

  Medical Journal, Suguran Foundation

  “One more appearance this week,” Hala said.

  Twice this week, she’d hibernated inside the regeneration egg.

  Twice, she’d given Bayninan a lie.

  “It’s what I always do before and after an appearance,” she’d said.

  She didn’t know if Bayninan believed her, but she saw the sadness in her friend’s eyes.

  “Where are we going?” Bayninan asked.

  “You don’t have to go,” Hala said.

  Bayninan’s lips formed a grim line.

  “Didn’t I make myself clear already?” Bayninan said.

  Hala avoided Bayninan’s eyes.

  “I’m not a child,” she said. “Not an invalid. I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “Foolish,” Bayninan said. “Who told you that I look at you as a child or an invalid?”

  Hala turned away from Bayninan.

  “Do what you want,” she said.

  Her vision blurred and she caught herself before she stumbled. Behind her, she heard Bayninan mutter a curse. Then Bayninan’s arms were around her, steadying her and helping her over the threshold.

  “Why won’t you share with me?” Bayninan said. “Whatever it is, you’re not alone anymore.”

  For a moment, she was tempted to tell Bayninan. How easy it would be to let this warrior be her strength. She flinched and pulled away from Bayninan’s hands.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “It’s just a temporary glitch. Nothing that can’t be resolved.”

  ζ

  She faced herself in the mirror, willing herself to be calm. For tonight, she’d chosen to put on the clothing she’d received on the day of her birth. The skirt had been woven by one of the foremothers—the patterns more intricate than the patterns on the skirt she normally wore to such gatherings. There were no enhancements in the cloth, but it wasn’t as if she needed enhancements in her clothing when her entire body hummed and bristled with the arrays installed by the Once-rule.

  She brushed her hand over the horsehair that encircled her waist. She could feel the patterns woven into it—subtle figures embossed with skill in the same dark color as the band. Ivory buttons yellowed by age ran along the length of the belt and dangled down to where the edges of her skirt met and folded over each other.

  It was the mark of her class. Out of deference to the Compassionate, she’d donned a vest, but over that, she wore a heavy necklace of bamboo beads and precious bloodstone. She had never worn it before, and perhaps it was a sign of her augmentations’ breakdown because when she’d picked up the necklace, it had burned her. An image came into her mind, very sharp and very clear, of her mother wearing the same necklace, her eyes closed and her lips moving as if in prayer. Then it faded away. The feeling was like touching the edge of a memory that belonged with the piece. There was a message waiting there, she thought.

  “The pod is here.” Bayninan’s voice broke into her thoughts.

  She unclenched her hands and pulled herself away from the haze that beckoned.

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  She met Bayninan’s gaze. Was it only a few days ago that she’d been filled with such joy at their reunion? Why couldn’t she dredge up even the slightest bit of that emotion now?

  “I suppose you don’t want me to be your warrior tonight,” Bayninan said.

  There was regret in Bayninan’s smile.

  Hala shook her head, her fingers reaching up to touch the deep red of the blood stones.

  “Not tonight,” she said.

  ζ

  Ay-wan’s words haunted her while she shook hands and greeted political dignitaries from Silhouette’s neighbor worlds. There were the ambassadors, clustered together in a circle, their wives dressed in sparkly costumes made up of tiny particles drenched in silver shine or platinum flair.

  This suffering I undertake. Ay-
wan’s words ghosted around her, overlaid with sorrow. As if the man who had spoken them wanted to say that given a choice, given descendants, he would have chosen something else.

  She smiled and shook hands with the Consul from the Once-place named Siargao. A circlet of many-colored stones revolved above his head. An independent island, Siargao had been given the ultimatum to ally themselves with the Empire or risk destruction. There were tales of a hidden power in Siargao, but it had put up no struggle and had signed the treaty.

  “Ah,” the Consul said. “So, you are the much-spoken-of Artifact. One of those rescued from the Chaos that plagued the Once-Country, so the Compassionate attaché says. You will honor us with a dance perhaps. Maybe a telling or a showing of what it was like in your country before the Chaos took it?”

  Hala smiled and murmured something noncommittal. It would not be good to offend one of the Empire’s political allies. How she acted here would influence whatever privileges the Once-tribe had wrestled from the Compassionate.

  “Never let it be said that we are not kind.” Hala turned at the sound of the Compassionate attaché’s voice.

  The smile on his face was hard as glass. All his teeth showed, and chills shot down her spine.

  “Artifact Hala,” the attaché said. “You’ve laid a good basis for our work here.”

  She couldn’t bring herself to make a civil reply. She tried to speak polite words.

  “You will give us a good performance tonight, won’t you?” the attaché continued.

  She opened her mouth, her mind flailing about for words.

  “I—” she said.

  “Yes?” There was a curious look on the attaché’s face.

  “I do this for the Once-tribe,” she said. “In memory of the Munhawe and the Mama-oh who are lost to us.”

  ζ

  In memory….

  The words wrapped themselves around her like an embrace. The air around her seemed to coagulate into a hazy curtain through which she could see colors and hear snatches of words, music, and laughter.

  And then, the gongs were pounding in her ears…

  “Artifact,” a voice pierced through the haze and she blinked and looked up into the face of the blue-haired representative from a place whose name she couldn’t remember.

  What he thought when she simply looked at him, she didn’t know. Perhaps he thought she had gone into a trance induced by her boosters. She felt his hand at her elbow, knew he was moving her to where she was more visible.