That evening, as the light died, he sang for them a poetry of wounds, of loss and of regret and of yearning; of the concentration and intensification of such hurts with each new injury to the soul; of the slackening and rarefaction of pain and sorrow in the dance of life and in the presence of children. In the midst of this, Shetri Laaks stood and stumbled blindly away, hoping to escape the songs’ pain, but when he came to rest a good distance from the pyre, he heard a foreigner’s footsteps behind him, and knew from the scent that it was Sandoz.
"Tell me," Sandoz said, and his silence was a void that Shetri felt compelled to fill.
"He doesn’t mean to hurt me," Shetri whispered. "How can he know? Rukuei thinks children are hope, but they’re not! They’re terror. A child is a limb that can be torn from you—" Shetri stopped, and tried to slow his breathing, to force it into an even rhythm.
"Tell me," Sandoz said again.
Shetri turned toward the foreigner’s voice. "My wife is pregnant, and I fear for her. The Kitheris are small, and Ha’anala nearly died during the last birth—the baby was large in the hindquarters, like a Laaks. Ha’anala hides a great deal. This pregnancy has been very hard. I fear for her, and for the baby. And for myself," he admitted. "Sandoz, shall I tell you what my daughter Sofi’ala asked me when she learned her mother was pregnant again? She asked, Will this baby die, too? She has lost two younger brothers. She expects babies to die. So do I."
He sat down where he stood, heedless of the mud and ash. "I was once an adept of Sti," said Shetri. "I was third-born, and content. Sometimes I long for the time when there was nothing in my life but still water, and the chants. But six must sing together, and I think the others are all dead now, and there is no one who can be spared to learn the ritual. I once believed myself fortunate to become a father but now—. It is an awful thing to love so much. When my first son died…"
"I am sorry for your losses," Sandoz said, sitting down next to him. "When is the new baby due?"
"In a few days, perhaps. Who can tell with women? Maybe it’s come already. Maybe it’s over." He hesitated. "My first son died of a disease of the lungs." He tapped his chest, so the foreigner understood. "But the second—" He fell silent.
"Tell me," said the foreigner softly.
"The priests of Sti are known—were known for our medicines, our knowledge of how to heal wounds and help the body overcome illness when it was fitting to do so. I could not stand to watch Ha’anala die, so I tried to help her. There are drugs to ease pain…" It was a long while before he could finish. "It was my fault that the child was stillborn," he said at last. "I only wanted to help Ha’anala."
"I, too, watched a child dear to me die. I killed her," Sandoz told him plainly. "It was, I suppose, an accident, but I was responsible."
There was lightning to the east; for a moment Shetri could see the foreigner’s face. "So," Shetri said with a soft grunt of commiseration. "I grant parity."
They listened for a time, waiting for the low rumble of thunder to reach them. When the foreigner spoke again, his voice was soft but clear in the darkness. "Shetri, you risked a great deal to come south. What did you expect us to do? We are but four men, and foreigners! What do you want from us?"
"Help. I don’t know. Just—some new idea, some way to make them listen! We’ve tried everything we can think of, but…. Sandoz, we are no danger to anyone anymore," Shetri cried, too desperate to be ashamed. "We wanted you to see that, to tell them that! We’re not asking them for anything. Just leave us alone! Let us live. And—if we could just move a little farther south, where the cranil and piyanot are, I think we could feed ourselves decently. We’ve learned ways to take wild meat — we can support ourselves without taking any Runa. We could even teach Athaansi’s people, and then they’d stop the raiding! If we could just get someplace warmer — if we could keep the women better fed! The mountains are killing us!"
Nico was singing now: "Un bel dì," the notes lifting on the night breeze.
"Shetri, hear me. The Runa love their children, as you do," Sandoz said. "This war began with the slaughter of Runa infants by Jana’ata militia. How do you answer this?"
"I answer: even so, our children are innocent."
There was a long silence. "All right," Sandoz said at last. "I’ll do what I can. It probably won’t be enough, Shetri, but I’ll try."
"GOOD MORNING, FRANS," EMILIO SAID THE NEXT DAY, AS THOUGH nothing much had occurred since his last transmission. "I’d like to speak to John and Danny, if you don’t mind."
There was a slight delay before John’s voice was heard. "Emilio! Are you safe? Where the hell have you—?"
"Listen, John, about that extra mile I was prepared to walk," Emilio said lightly. "If you and Danny don’t mind coming down here to give my friends and me a lift, I think I’d rather fly."
"Not without an explanation, ace," said Danny Iron Horse.
"Good morning, Danny. I’ll explain in a moment—"
Carlo cut in. "Sandoz, I’ve had quite enough of this. Mendes will give us almost no information and I’m certain she’s lying when she does!"
"Ah, Don Carlo! I trust you slept better than I did last night," Sandoz said, ignoring the sounds of irritation. "I find that I must ask you for the loan of a lander. There’s no money in this venture, I’m afraid, but I can get a very good poet to write an epic about you, if you like. I don’t want the drone. I want the manned lander—with Danny and John—and I want it empty, except for a case of cartridges and Joseba’s hunting rifle."
"What’s the ammunition for?" Danny asked suspiciously.
"First principles, Danny: we intend to feed the hungry. The situation on the ground is not as we expected. If our information is correct, there remain only a few small enclaves of Jana’ata, and some of them are presently starving. Joseba believes the entire species may be on the brink of extinction." He waited for the clamor on the Giordano Bruno to die down. "He and Sean are determined to find the truth, as am I. want Danny and John down here as neutral witnesses. I’m afraid Sean and Joseba and I are not generating much in the way of objectivity anymore."
Frans said, "Sandoz, I’ve got a fix on your transmission site near what looks—"
"You needn’t mention the coordinates, Frans. We may be overheard," Emilio cautioned. "I need an answer, gentlemen. There’s not a lot of time to waste.’’’
"An epic, you say?" Carlo asked, self-mockery plain. "Well, perhaps I can work out something more lucrative later. I’ll send the lander, Sandoz. You can pay me back when we get home."
"Don’t tempt me," Emilio warned him with a small laugh, and they made arrangements for the landing.
N’Jarr Valley
October 2078, Earth-Relative
HA’ANALA HAD TWO DREAMS THAT NIGHT. HER THIRD CHILD—THE unnamed stillbirth—appeared at the doorway, small and fetal but cheerful, his face full of mischief. "Where have you been?" Ha’anala cried when she saw him. "It’s nearly redlight! You shouldn’t stay out so long!" she scolded affectionately, and the baby answered, "You shouldn’t worry about me!"
She roused briefly, with a sensation of tightness across her belly, but the visit from her dream son was reassuring and she drifted back to the heavy sleep that had characterized this pregnancy. The second dream was also of a dead child but, this time, she relived the last few minutes of Urkinal’s life and awoke with a start, the hiss and rattle of his tiny lungs in her ears.
Suukmel, who had moved in with her while Shetri was gone, came awake in an instant. "Is it time?" she asked quietly in the thin light of dawn.
"No," Ha’anala whispered. "I had a dream." She sat up with a graceless lurch but as carefully as she could, not wanting to wake Sofi’ala, sleeping in the nest beside her. Another gray day, she noted, peering out through cracks in the stonework. There was no sound yet from the other houses. "The children came to visit again last night."
"Someone should tie ribbons on your arms," Suukmel said, smiling at the superstition.
But Ha’anala shuddered, as much from the chill of the sunless morning as from the memory of a small rattling chest. "I wish Shetri hadn’t gone. Was Ma with you when your daughters were bom?"
"Oh, no," Suukmel said, getting to her feet and beginning the morning chores. "Ma would never have come near a birth—very unseemly. The women of my caste were always alone—well, not alone. We had Runa. Men generally had nothing to do with women and birth, apart from providing the impetus for the event. And I can’t say that I’d have welcomed an audience."
"I don’t want an audience, I want company!" Ha’anala shifted her position and rested her back against her husband’s rolled-up sleeping nest. She felt vaguely uneasy, despite the fact that they’d received good news directly from Shetri, via the Bruno. He and the others were well and would be arriving today, with the foreigners, in an extraordinary craft that could bring them home quickly and without detection. "Even if Shetri can’t stand to be here when the baby’s born, I’ll be glad—"
She stopped, face still. At last! she thought, welcoming the wave of cramp, rolling from top to bottom. When she raised her eyes, Suukmel was watching knowingly. "Don’t tell anyone else yet," Ha’anala said, glancing significantly at Sofi’ala, who was beginning to stir. "I want company, not a fierno."
"I’m hungry!" Sofi’ala whined, eyes still closed. It was the inevitable morning greeting, this time of year.
"Your father’s bringing wonderful things to eat," Suukmel told the child gaily, and smiled a little sadly when the child’s glorious lavender eyes snapped open at that news. They could hear other households awakening nearby, and the first wisps of smoke from Runa dung fires were beginning to reach them. "He’ll be here soon, but why don’t you go to Biao-Tol’s hearth and see what’s cooking there?"
"Wait—" Ha’anala called as Sofi’ala ran out to join the other children, who spent their mornings dashing around the village, peering into pots, hunting for the most abundant or tastiest meal available. "Sipaj, Sofi’ala! Don’t be a nuisance!" Suukmel chuckled at that, but Ha’anala insisted, "She is! She is a nuisance! And I hate the way she orders the other children around."
"You see yourself in her," Suukmel told her. "Don’t be hard on the girl. It’s natural for her to try to dominate them."
"It’s also natural to defecate whenever and wherever the urge arises," said Ha’anala in riposte. "That doesn’t make it acceptable behavior."
"But even the Runa children resist her! It’s good training," Suukmel parried. "They all gain strength."
They spent the morning jousting like this, enjoying the mental combat, but the tempo and strength of the contractions were constantly on their minds. "They should be quicker now, and stronger," Ha’anala said, when all three suns were up, the brightest a flat, white disk burning through the cloud cover overhead.
"Soon enough," Suukmel said, but she, too, was concerned, watching with some dismay as Ha’anala curled up in her nest and fell silent.
By that time, Ha’anala’s daughter had worked out what was going on, and Suukmel turned her attention to reassuring the child and greeting the guests who began to gather, alerted by Sofi’ala’s anxious wail. Though the Jana’ata considerately withdrew after conveying their good wishes, the house was soon crowded with Runa, who brought enthusiasm and encouragement and food for the assemblage, along with the warmth of their bodies and of their affection. Like the Runa, Ha’anala believed a birth was an occasion for festivity and seemed happy for the distraction, so Suukmel did not drive the visitors off.
If the contractions did not quicken, they did at least increase in intensity and Ha’anala welcomed that, despite the pain. In the midst of an endless discussion of what might hurry the labor along, a boy ran in with news of the lander and soon they all heard its horrifying noise, the room emptying abruptly as the crowd moved off to witness this astonishing arrival.
"Go on—see what it’s like!" Ha’anala told Suukmel. "Tell me about it when you come back! I’ll be fine, but send Shetri!"
"Orders, orders, orders," Suukmel teased as she left for the landing site at the edge of the valley. "You sound like Sofi’ala!
Alone at last, Ha’anala rested as best she could, surprised by how tired she was so early in this labor. She listened as the roar of the engines abruptly ceased, heard the buzz of conversation indistinct in the distance. Days seemed to pass before Shetri came to her; despite all she wanted to ask him, the only words she spoke aloud were, "Someone is cold."
Shetri went to the door and shouted for help. Soon Ha’anala was lifted to her feet and, though she stopped and squatted now and then, hit by another contraction, she was able to walk slowly to a place where game in miraculous quantity was spitted and roasting over smoky fires. Smiling at the spontaneous carnival that had erupted, her eyes sought out the foreigners in the crowd. One was close in size to Sofia, the others as tall as Isaac, but with none of his wandlike slenderness. Dark and light; bearded and hairless and maned. And the languages! High K’San and peasant Ruanja and H’inglish—as hilariously mixed in the confusion of the cooking and greetings and stories as Ha’anala’s own speech had been when she’d first met Shetri.
"They are so different!" she cried, to no one in particular. "This is wonderful. Wonderful!"
Cheered by warmth and the prospect of rapprochement with the south, Ha’anala knelt heavily, bearing down with a will, certain that this was the moment when the new child should be brought into light and laughter. She felt instead a tearing pain that made her scream and silenced the others, so that only the hiss of fire and the distant warbling of a p’rkra could be heard. When she could breathe again, she laughed a little and assured everyone wryly, "I won’t try that again!"
Slowly the merriment and conversation resumed, but she could smell Shetri’s anxiety and this worried her. "Tell me about your journey!" she commanded affectionately, but he was frightened and made an excuse to help the foreigners distribute meat, sending Rukuei to sit behind her like a Runa husband. Suukmel came as well, and Tiyat, with her youngest riding her back. Content to have her cousin’s arms around her shoulders, Ha’anala leaned back against his belly, his legs drawn up around her own, his cheek resting near hers, and listened as Rukuei sang of his adventure in a spontaneous poem with the rocking rhythm of a steady walk. She was genuinely interested in the story, and drifted along, buoyed by the tale, laughing when Rukuei made comedy out of the fright he had been given by the little foreigner Sandoz.