The unbalancing, p.11
The Unbalancing, page 11
I tiptoed out of the bedroom, got dressed, and conferred with my people in one of the nearby chambers where Terein used to have breakfast. It was hexagonal and airy, with an inlaid mosaic floor depicting sea serpents and fanciful fish, and not much furniture except for a few couches covered in summer white.
A single large window overlooked the city, and I got my first good look at it after the earthquake. The magical defenses at Keeper’s House had held. We suffered no damage, not even a fallen bookshelf in the library. The rest of the city was not so lucky. Gelle-Geu, a city of some twenty thousand, lay wounded before my eyes. I saw caved-in roofs and scattered rubble. Farther west, Lilún’s neighborhood was the best preserved of them all, so different from the others that I could easily detect it. Above the stricken city the Mother Mountain towered, her peak drowned in gray clouds.
More people were coming into the room, but not every councilor was present. Somay and Bodavar were already out, helping our people. Dorod, I assumed, was with the ships. Penár made sure that I had breakfast rollups and tea, but she, too, was eager to leave. Veruma was nowhere to be seen, and just as I was about to ask after her, Ulár edged into the room, carrying an armful of scrolls. I doubted he’d slept at all. His red-rimmed eyes shone with a feverish light.
He said, “You were right. We don’t have a year. Look.”
He had redrawn the charts completely, sometime before dawn. The scrolls were criss-crossed with thin, agitated lines, connecting with what felt like thousands of singular strands of four and five-syllable deepname tendrils jutting out of the star like a terrified person’s hair standing on end.
“What am I looking at?” I asked.
“I have no idea, Ranra, to tell you the truth. Nothing good.”
“Well, you tell me, Ulár, you charted this . . .”
He slapped another chart on top of the first. The deepname chains—the hairs of long deepnames I saw in the first chart—looked detached on this chart, disconnected from the star. Hair torn out?
“This was charted with a five-hour interval,” Ulár explained. “I worked without pause, on my own—after I was done working with Erígra, and only because they collapsed. No, don’t look at me like that, I did not make them collapse, they were exhausted. This—look here—”
He pointed at the first chart. “As I explained before, when agitation occurs, long deepnames are extruded out of the core of the dense, one-syllable and two-syllable deepnames that make the center of the star. The star, essentially, expands—there is more deepname length, but less stability. These deepnames are weak and unstable, and suddenly there is more star and the land is too close. This causes agitation to the land. An earthquake. The star then contracts.”
He moved to the second chart. “During contraction, the long deepname chains are torn out. This causes aftershocks, which travel all the way to the core of the star, making it even more agitated. Long deepnames begin to be extruded again. This pattern then repeats, faster and stronger than before.”
I said, “Like a person who’s disturbed and can’t calm down.”
Ulár frowned. “Like a big ball of deepnames which has become unbalanced for unknown reasons, and has entered an escalating pattern of unbalancing.”
“Ulár. Please.” But he was literal, and there was little I could or should do about that.
“How much time do you think we have?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps it will calm down on its own, but if it doesn’t, not a year. A few months if we’re lucky.”
“And then?”
I heard a mewling sound, and looked up from the chart to see Veruma carrying in the ginger. The cat looked indignant and worse for wear, dusty and disheveled, but the swirl on their side was still discernible, and made me smile.
“Long time no see,” I said, primarily to the cat. Veruma was not in my good graces at the moment. Her remark about the healer-keepers still stung. It was about my mother, and I had postponed thinking about it, but now seeing Veruma, I was reminded.
She said, “Good morning, Ranra. Um, I found . . .”
Ulár tugged my sleeve, getting my attention back to the charts. “And then, during the expansion phases, the star will be too large and will push the isles, disturbing or heating them. During contraction, the sea will rush in.”
“It’s not that bad.” Veruma joined us at the breakfast table, where Ulár’s charts were spread. She grabbed an egg pocket and shoved it into her mouth. The cat clawed at her chest, and she absentmindedly grabbed another pocket, tore it in half and fed him. “The city is shaken, not destroyed. Our people are working. Our losses of life are minor. And, by Bird, you all should stop moping and keep working on that method of yours that a mere two-named strong like me cannot encompass, and fix this.”
I should have said all this myself. These should have been my words. She used my tone, even. Was she saying this to spite me? Shame me?
I snapped, “Yes, yes, Veruma, just like good healer-keepers. You mentioned yesterday.”
Blood rushed to her cheeks, and she had the grace to look down. “I’m sorry, Ranra. I really shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.” But it made me feel better that she apologized.
I stretched out my hand, and the cat allowed himself to be petted, purring softly under my fingers. “Does he have a name? Has anybody found his person?”
“I asked around; many people are visited by this cat, but he doesn’t seem to have a person. Or a name. Most people agree that our cat is a he, though not all.”
“Hmmm . . .” I had no idea whether cats had gatherings and ceremonies of their own, or opinions about human language forms. but then, cats were inscrutable. We could come up with a name, at least. “Stray?” I said. “Swirly? Egg pocket?”
The cat hissed at me for daring to suggest such silly names.
“Gogor,” said Ulár, not lifting his eyes off the chart.
The cat twisted out of Veruma’s hands, jumped to the floor and trotted toward the exit, clearly done with our strange ideas. We all looked after him, but none of us pursued him, and the room lost some of its light.
“I need to be moving,” I said. “Ulár, please continue—that is, you need to sleep—”
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong, sleep is nice and everything . . .”
I left him to his own devices. Veruma tagged along with me as I made rounds of the city, offering magical power and my reassurances to the shaken but undaunted islanders. I could see how Veruma got her good cheer, but Ulár’s words rang in my ears. Perhaps this would go away on its own, but if not . . . Perhaps there was no reason to rebuild.
No. I would make it work. We would make it work. Somay and some of our best Strong Builders were working with the townspeople now. Gelle-Geu was beautiful to me—its broken towers and unbroken spirit, its intricacy, its learning, its carefree and passionate ways. We would survive this and rebuild. Before the year was out. I’d see to it.
As we walked through the city, Veruma and I didn’t say much to each other, and it was incredibly awkward. I had no idea why she wanted to come with me, but her being here kept reminding me of her words, and of the reason for her words, and the fact that I kept delaying. At last I gave up. “I’m going to see my mother. You can come if you want, or not.”
She squeezed my shoulder. “I’ll come, of course. You’re doing the right thing . . .”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I turned away from Veruma and strode through the streets toward my mother’s house, in the raingardens’ neighborhood in the southern part of the city. The houses here, built on solid grids of deepnames and reinforced with layers of potent magic, survived the earthquake mostly intact, with damaged roofs and torn doors. My steps grew heavier as I approached, and my ears filled with noise. Nose too big—only one brow—who would want to be your friend—trusting your silly little friends more than your own mother—you think deepnames are everything, but I know the truth of you—
My mother’s house was small, made of stone, covered thickly in flowering vines. She sat in the small, shaded front yard, her hands on the potter’s wheel, turning and turning a raw clay pot. A neighbor sat on the stone stair, and another on a stoop, to keep her company. Neither the house nor my mother seemed damaged.
She lifted her eyes up at me and scowled. “Took you long enough to show any care at all about your mother’s life.”
I felt the old feelings flare in me: resentment, anger, helplessness at the sight of her. I bit my lip. Anything I could say would not make this well. Last we spoke, you said you didn’t want to come to my ascension revels. Did you think I was too ugly to celebrate?
“Adira, please,” said the neighbor who sat on the chair. “She came to see you. Please be gentle.”
“Do you want me to lie? I merely speak my mind.” My mother’s hands, wrinkled now, moved of their own accord, shaping a perfect, thin-walled pot. “What will you do to me? Call the healer-keepers at me again? Oh, please stop saving people’s lives and come right away, old Adira said something we didn’t like!”
“She was perfectly fine earlier this morning,” said the neighbor on the stoop. “It’s nice of you to come.”
My mother’s head turned from one woman to another. “You’d think with how much she crowed about the old Keeper, she’d have everything sorted in a day, but here we go. An earthquake. Job wasn’t so easy after all. Job’s not even real—how can you keep the star? Prevent earthquakes? Pfah! I told her to find a job that made sense, but she never had what it takes.”
“Shh, dear,” said the neighbor in the chair. “Ranra just wants to check in on you.”
I still hadn’t said a word. The problem with the things my mother said was that everybody was used to her. Healer-keepers had intervened when I was fifteen, but nobody wanted to do anything since then. Deep illnesses of the mind were subtle in most of their forms, untreatable even by the healer-keepers; the best we could do is keep an eye on people who were not well. Now that my mother lived on her own and did not need to take care of a child, the things she said were seen as quirks, something that did not need intervention. But I remembered living here, remembered her words and her threats and occasional violence. She always said I was a failure, and she said it still. Sometimes, I still believed her.
“Goodbye,” I said.
“Sure.” My mother’s hands moved deftly, shaping a neck for the vessel, thinner and thinner and taller and taller. It had no purpose and could soon collapse into itself, but my mother would make it look beautiful.
“It was nice of you to come, anyway,” said the neighbor on the stoop. The other nodded vigorously.
Veruma dragged me away, and I still hadn’t said anything. Once we were out of sight, Veruma put her hand on my shoulder. “She doesn’t mean any of it.”
“How do you know?” I said, a lump in my throat. “She always says those things. I always disappoint her.” And I cannot fix her. And you think that’s why I want to fix the star.
“She’s ill,” Veruma said. “Have some compassion—she cannot do anything about this—”
“She doesn’t want to,” I snapped. “If she wanted to, there would be hope—but she thinks she’s fine and right."
“Adira is not well, but at least she’s stable.” Veruma said in a soothing tone. “I’m sorry . . .”
“Everybody always protected her. What about me?” But that wasn’t even true. The healer-keepers were called because of me. It was so much easier to mend broken bones than treat the many ailments of the mind; the healer-keepers could not fix my mother, nor did she consent to be treated so. But they could separate us. I was given a house and support to live on my own, with teachers and friends and the families of my friends who visited and helped me. The healer-keepers came to check on me, and taught me how to calm my anger by breathing. I turned out fine.
“You are strong. You took care of yourself,” said Veruma. “I’m sorry I said what I said earlier, it was cruel of me . . .”
“You already apologized.” I said gruffly. “The star is nothing like my mother. I’m not responsible for my mother, but I am responsible for the star. We can do this. We can heal the star together.” I had been so certain earlier, but now my mouth felt bitter.
“I trust you,” said Veruma, and that made me feel even worse.
Lilún
Ranra was gone when I woke up, groggy and disoriented, in her bed. The light creeping through the blinds was bright; it had to have been at least mid-morning. Hours later than my usual, except that I rose late those days, it seemed. With thoughts came memories, flooding me with the ash and bitterness of yesterday’s earthquake. I had to check on Semberí.
Shaking fatigue from my stiff limbs, I dressed and left in search of Ulár. I had promised him to continue our work—but he, too, had succumbed to slumber, sprawled like a tall, skinny cat on a rigid, carved couch in one of the side rooms. A real cat—the familiar ginger—sprawled by his side.
“Ulár?” I whispered.
He waved his hand in the general direction of the cat and muttered, “Go away, Gogor,” without opening his eyes. The cat yawned with a deliberate slowness, but did not otherwise move.
I stole a pastry from the refreshment tray on the side table and snuck out, wiping my hand on my pants. People seemed scarce in Keeper’s House, and I made my escape without too many conversations. Outside, the late spring sun shone crisp and bright. Named strong and magicless people alike milled in the streets, clearing stones and debris, cheering each other on with songs and offers of honeyed dough pockets and quince wine. The named strong called on their magic to move the rubble, and someone released a deepname firework of a large, silvery dancing dragon that snapped around at clouds. This was a work of a three-named strong—two of them, to be precise—I spotted a second firework, a long sea serpent of deepname light, that was making circles in the air farther west. Somay and, if I wasn’t mistaken, Bodavar. My spirits lifted despite myself, but I hoped this wouldn’t turn into a spontaneous party, and I felt a bit guilty to have escaped Ulár.
Semberí’s hill was open to me, but the sea lapped against the rocks here with a particular vehemence. From far above me on the hill, I could hear a plaintive, desolate voice singing. I sped up, trying to catch the words.
I carried a piece
of rotten fruit when I walked on water
my hands were occupied
my mouth was full of murmuring the wave
The voice faded, as if the singer was walking away; but the lilt of it, the ancient pronunciations, were unmistakable. Semberí—I had no idea they could sing—could a ghost even sing? My blood thumping in my ears, I ran up, catching a glimpse of the song, then losing it again.
The star I cradled kept me fed
I lost my death as I walked on water
I lost it all except the rotten fruit
At last I emerged in the grove and stopped myself, panting and bent with my hands on my knees, in front of Semberí. I had no idea why they sang, or what, and I wanted to know, and I wanted to compliment them, but for now, I was wheezing. When I managed to straighten at last, my ancestor’s visage was ice-cold, as if every tatter of their ghostly garment was frozen— but the hole of their mouth moved, shaping their song again.
The grove that grew a thousand years
and never knew my death—
They clamped their mouth shut—or rather, their mouth just dissolved in the white film of their face, so that for a long moment they were mouthless.
“I didn’t know you could sing.” This was about the last thing I should have said, but I just blurted it. Talking to people was never my strength, not even to my own ancestor.
Semberí’s face formed a new mouth, round and overly large. Within it, darkness gaped. They ignored my clumsy question. “The grove that grew a thousand years. That scans better than nine hundred and ninety-nine years, doesn’t it, Erígra?”
Semberí liked to speak in riddles, but I thought I could begin to unravel this one, and it made me cold all over. “What happened?” I asked, already guessing the answer. “What happened, nine hundred and ninety-nine years ago?”
“You know the answer.” Semberí said, cold.
“The Birdcoming,” I whispered.
“Yes, the Birdcoming. It’s been ninety-nine years and nine hundred more since my star hung, suspended, motionless, waiting its turn by the side of its restless dark sibling the Orphan, Star of Despair, waiting for the Starcounter and Ladder to finish their courting.” Semberí looked angry, and hurt.
“In a year, on the anniversary of the Birdcoming, the star will remember its worst day, the endless dance, the churning closeness of the Orphan Star by its side. It will remember all and despair. It is remembering it even now—in the throes of nightmares,” said Semberí. “You must attend to the star and learn how to heal it.”
“Not me, Semberí. Ranra said she would heal the star, if we all . . .”
“Ranra, Ranra!” The tone Semberí took was mocking. “She is no healer. Has she even read a book about healing? Tended to a tree? This needs a gentle touch. The work needs someone patient, slow-growing, to figure this out after almost a thousand years, before the anniversary . . .”
I had heard or sensed this before, in my reverie on this very hill, in the words of my poem. I pushed it aside. Semberí disliked Ranra for some reason, and Ranra was the one leading us. “She has a plan. It’s a good one, and we’ll all take a part in it—let me bring her to you,” I pleaded. “Talk to her, see what you think for yourself when you hear the plan.”
