Chapter Text
“Haven’t seen you in awhile, Kip.”
“Hello, Uncle.” Cliopher glances up with surprise, but the interruption isn’t unwelcome. He sips his coffee, looking out over the Bay with his legs stretched on the sand. “You don’t come to the city often.”
A grunt. “Maybe I should. Only got so many years with people.” Buru Tovo’s husband peers at Cliopher. He’s older than Tovo, Cliopher recalls, so he must be over ninety. But his gaze remains sharp as ever. “Hmm. You’re on vacation again, then?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“Not coming home for good?”
“Not yet.” Cliopher’s accustomed to that question. “It isn’t time.”
A hum. His uncle looks out at the lapping waves. “Got any plans today?”
“Nothing specific. If I wander around I’ll get dragged into something.” Cliopher smiles. In that way it isn’t much different than Solaara. Although the things he’s pressed to do usually involve a lot less clever maneuvering, and more clean labor.
“How would you feel about escorting an old man today? Thought I might visit Pau'en'lo'ai.”
Cliopher blinks. “I haven’t been there in years,” he muses. Not since Navalia died. “I’d be happy to join you.”
Well, perhaps happy isn’t the right word. But his uncle just nods. He gets to his feet and stretches. “Got something to grab, first,” he says. “Meet me at the docks in an hour, ey?”
His uncle has a boat. It’s an old and simple thing, but Cliopher can tell at a glance it’s sturdy enough. Cliopher jumps off the pier and it wobbles lightly under his feet when he lands.
Tovo’s husband is holding something. His uncle thrusts the bundle of mourning-flowers at Kip. “For you,” he says.
Cliopher should have thought to bring tokens for the dead. “Thank you.” He can leave them for Basil and Dimiter. Cliopher’s never properly mourned them.
He’s grateful – strangely grateful. He clutches the flowers to his chest. His uncle starts untying the mooring, and Cliopher only realizes then that he didn’t leave any flowers for himself. Who is he visiting, Cliopher wonders?
But he’s reluctant to hand back them back. He’s not sure why. He ends up cradling the gift, eyes burning, as his old uncle does all the work setting the boat loose.
Tovo’s husband doesn’t seem to notice, and Cliopher eventually composes himself. He gets up to help and grabs a paddle.
The little boat has a sail, of course, but there are never winds in the immediate waters around the Isle of the Dead. They have to use sheer strength to get through the last leg of the journey.
Cliopher remembers visiting this place as a child. He found the silence and stillness oppressive, stifling. Unnerving. He’d wondered how the shamans could stand coming here so often.
But it doesn’t feel like that now.
Instead the tense muscles of his back relax the closer they get to the shore. It’s peaceful here, Cliopher thinks. He’s rarely able to relax in Solaara, and even when he visits home some tension remains. But he feels like he could curl up and fall asleep right on the shore.
Maybe that’s a sign he needs more coffee.
Cliopher tries to carry the boat up the shore himself, but his uncle scoffs and insists on helping. By the time they have it stowed safe and high up the beach Cliopher sees a figure approaching from the treeline.
No one but trained shamans go behind the line of trees. Sometimes elders disappear into the forest when they feel it’s their time; they don’t return. But generally people pay their respects at the base of the trees, or sometimes here on the shore. Cliopher can see clusters of flowers and other offerings in the distance.
The figure gets closer. He’s surprised to realize this isn’t just any shaman, but the new zamà, who can’t be thirty yet. Their expression is solemn, and they wear a heavy efela that proves their right to shepherd the dead.
The zamà puts their hands together and gives them a very deep bow, as though Kip has arrived in the company of the Emperor himself. Maybe they’re more formal on this island, Kip thinks, or pay extra respects here because of the dead. He doesn’t know much about the Ela’s traditions. “Greetings, honored visitors,” the zamà says, eyes low. “Can I help you today?”
“Just bringing this one for a visit,” his uncle drawls. “But I don’t think it’s time to join the dead just yet.”
Cliopher smiles politely – he’s never enjoyed it when his older relatives joke about dying. There’s no comfortable way to respond. The zamà isn’t fazed. They just consider Cliopher a moment, then nod. “There’s a good private area a bit further down,” they say. “The tui-trees have started to bloom.”
His uncle grunts an approval, and the three of them set off. Cliopher still cradles the flowers to his chest.
The zamà’s right; the spot is lovely and secluded. There’s a little hollow field of grass encircled by the trees, with only a thin path snaking back toward the shoreline. Since the island is so devoid of fauna those trees give the place a queer, muffled quality, like the whole island is holding its breath.
Cliopher tries to remember how these visits went when he was young. “What should I do with the flowers?”
The zamà considers. “What do you want to do with them?”
Cliopher clutches them closer to his chest. Give them to Basil and Dimiter, he should say. But the words curl up and die before he can speak.
“They’re for you, I said,” his uncle snaps, before Cliopher musters the strength to suggest it. “Give ‘em back to the water when you’re ready. Not before.”
Something in Cliopher eases. That feels right. He nods, then belatedly glances at the zamà, expecting argument.
But they don’t protest. “You can stay as long as you like,” they say kindly. “This is a place for private meditation. I will keep other visitors away from this spot.”
It’s a good place. Cliopher’s always liked tui trees. He sits with crossed legs and contemplates the flowers, wondering when his tree back at the Palace will bloom.
He finally thinks to ask, “Who did you come here to mourn, Uncle?”
“One of my favorite relatives.” His uncle looks at the trees, too, as though he can see something through the clustered trunks and branches. “A bit late. But the important part is that the dead find their way here, eh? Don’t want ‘em getting lost.” A pause. “You ever think of coming back from Solaara, Kip?”
“Not yet.” Cliopher doesn’t have to think about it. He can’t leave his lord. He adds, “But I wouldn’t get lost. I know where my island is.”
His uncle says, “Glad to hear it.”
They stay the entire day.
It’s not how Cliopher would have planned to spend his vacation. But he doesn’t feel any urge to leave. He feels refreshed, if anything. Buru Tovo always said he needed to learn to wait. Maybe that’s what this is. He needs to relearn inactivity, Cliopher thinks with no little chagrin.
He lets himself mourn Navalia and Basil and Dimiter, and the dead from the Fall, and Woodlark and everything else. His uncle wanders up and down the treeline, sometimes disappearing awhile. But he always comes back.
The zamà returns around dusk. “Did you need anything?” they ask his uncle.
Cliopher supposes that’s their cue to leave. “We might stay the night,” his uncle declares.
Cliopher frowns. “Can we do that?”
“It’s not unusual – many people prefer to mourn at night,” the zamà says. “Just make sure only to use the dead wood if you want to make a fire.” Then they blink, visibly chagrined. “But you’re a Mdang, you know that.” Cliopher almost smiles.
They don’t make a fire; Cliopher isn’t cold, and his uncle doesn’t suggest it. He curls up under the stars with the flowers clutched to his chest. And he sleeps and dreams of pleasant things.
They leave in the morning. To Cliopher’s surprise, the zamà is waiting for them by the shore.
Maybe the shamans have ways of knowing when people will arrive and leave, Cliopher thinks with amusement. They can’t have been waiting for Cliopher and his uncle all night – though they do look tired.
But they bow over their hands with the same reverence as before. “Did you find what you needed, ivani?”
“Eh,” his uncle says. “Still not ready to go over! This one wants to visit again, I think.”
Cliopher’s surprised to realize that he does. “You can visit any time, any day,” the zamà tells him, noticing the look. “Some wounds take a long time to heal.”
The flowers are ruffled now, dripping petals as Cliopher walks. He cradles them in his arms. “I’ll be back next year,” he decides on impulse. Not during this vacation; he wants to see his family. But he’ll come back. It’s good here, he thinks. It’s a place of healing.
His uncle nods his approval. They give the zamà their farewells, then get on the boat and take up the oars.
Cliopher leaves the flowers in his lap. While they’re still within the bounds of the island, where the winds are dead and the water still, he leans over and tosses the flowers into the water. They float down gently until they disappear beneath the sucking sea.
Cliopher’s looks up to find his uncle watching with those sharp eyes. “Thank you,” Cliopher adds, and they go home.
Cliopher thinks about Pau'en'lo'ai when he gets to Solaara.
He remembers it after long nights of Court. He dreams about the tui-flowers at midnight in his rooms, bent over his papers and industriously fixing notes for the next day’s session with his lord. Between meetings and discussions with various ministers he paces through the halls, and recalls how sweet and quiet it was there, to lie curled under the shade of the trees and smell salt on the air.
At one point he decides he must miss the sea, so he takes a rare day off to journey east. The beaches of Eastern Dair do not really resemble his home, but the oceans are all connected. He lays on the sand awhile and tries to muster that same sense of calm. It never comes.
He thinks wistfully of the damp earth and the sweet Vangavayen grass.
Is this where you stop?
But Cliopher has work to do. At the end of the day he rises and walks through the shallow water, knowing he needs to return.
Then a woman appears.
She’s old and bent with age – though he only sees the upper half of her body, the wrinkled bronze skin emerging nude from the waves. She does not seem disconcerted by this state, and something in her form and posture reminds Cliopher painfully of home. He turns to her. By instinct Cliopher bows over his hands. “Grandmother,” he greets. A powerful memory tugs at him mind. He remembers the typhoons, and Saya Ng. “Do I know you?”
“We’ve met,” she tells him. She reaches out, and Cliopher dutifully extends his arm. They wade up the beach. She leans heavily against him; her flesh is icy-cold. “Tell me your name, young man.”
It’s not quite the right question, but he answers traditionally. “I am Cliopher Mdang of Tahivoa. My island is Loaloa. My dance is Aōteketētana.”
She is not surprised by this response. But she does cluck her tongue at him. “Now, that’s not right,” she says. “You know it isn’t.”
“Grandmother?”
Her hair is long and pure white. It flows around her like sea-foam. “Oh, you’ll know one day. But it’s nice to walk with you again. Remember me and visit, young man. It’s bad manners to forget your elders.”
“Yes, Grandmother. Won’t you tell me your name?”
“Pah. You know that, too.” She pats his cheek, lets go of his arm, and turns back to swim into the sea.
Cliopher stands there awhile. It belatedly occurs to him that most people in Eastern Dair would be scandalized by this nude old woman, so he looks around. The beach is empty, though. And when he turns back to the sea the woman has already vanished.
He goes back to Solaara. Cliopher gets his mail and to his surprise finds a letter from the zamà. It’s only a brief note.
I’ll light a candle for you, they say, and they offer to hear his thoughts if he wants to discuss anything. Cliopher sets it aside. He’s never thought to relay his troubles to the shamans. But Cliopher’s been remembering the Fall lately; it might be a good idea.
“How was your day off?” his Radiancy asks the next morning.
Cliopher thinks of the old woman with her gleaming brown eyes. “Refreshing,” he says. Perhaps he'll go looking for her again sometime. “I am ready to work, my lord.”
“Very good.” His Radiancy smiles. Cliopher loves that smile, and the warm amber glow of his lord’s eyes; memories of the old woman fade and blur when he looks at the Sun-on-Earth. “Let us begin.”