The Fire of the White Fountain. Part Three.
The Twilight people, Jakka explained as he poured the warm honey wine into exquisitely carved goblets, lived in two pulses of a day, with space for sleep or work in between. The first pulse was the sharpness of morning, when the women and the young ones scavenged in the chill for fruits and other bounty along the edge of the jungle, and the fishers pushed out their boats for the days catch. The second was the pulse of evening, when the hunters left for the dying warmth of the day, stalking well fed beasts made sluggish by the approach of the cold and the dark while the fishers returned. He had left early that morning for his unauthorised hunt, sneaking out with the gatherers and avoiding the returning hunters with their burdens of meat. His father had come home to find him gone - and must have followed him, despite being weary from the night just past. In between, Mikal butted in brightly, there was work and there was play. Tonight there was to be a gathering, an occasion in which nobody left home for once, and he was to dance in the celebration. They had timed their arrival well, Jakka laughed, tousling his brother's hair with affection and making him squirm with embarrassment. For once all the tribe would be together.
Cutter sipped at the proffered drink then grinned, finding it rich and warming, almost as fine as a good mellow whiskey, although a little less alcoholic, he hoped. Sarah tasted it even more cautiously, but nodded her approval after a moment or two. Jack looked hopeful, but the pilot shook his head when Jakka glanced in the dog's direction. Beer was fine, but he suspected that this particular beverage might be a little more than Jack could cope with. They had been in the world of the Twilight for a good six hours now, most of it in this torchlit cave which, while comfortable, was not the sort of place Cutter might have chosen to pass his time in. Outside it was just past high noon, or the local equivalent of it, a time when the air grew so hot that it was hard to breath according to Jakka, who seemed to know what he was talking about. The pilot had been pondering just how the cycles of day and night worked in this place, particularly since it had no sun, and time was so compressed within it - at least, he puzzled, it might be. Lebaumitz had talked of space and time being folded within his anomaly, but how that actually compared to the passage of time outside of it was hard to grasp. Twenty years in two hours seemed an impossibility, unless the 'gate' that the equipment had punched had also punched a hole in time. Perhaps Bon Chance had stepped back in time - or perhaps the activation of the gate stretched open a hole that accelerated the difference between the two. A one way time machine. Which ever way he turned the thought it became uncomfortable, but his mind went on wrestling with it, perhaps because he was considering, somewhere at the back of admittance, that if the time difference were right, then to leave his friend in this place would be to encompass the rest of his life in a matter of hours.
"So when does this festival start?" Sarah was asking with interest.
"When the fishers come home," Jakka answered, throwing his brother an odd look. "They will sound the horns in the sea caves and that will be the signal."
"Jakka," Mikal said quietly, "Hanila des JalaHalan ouchanas."
"Cho?" his brother answered, his expression suddenly worried. "Lasanada?"
Sarah had looked up at the name mentioned within the sudden remark, and she frowned at the look it brought to Jakka's face. Mikal had shrugged ignorance at the question. "Ve na derastada," he said, then added with a wry grin, "Il ne dit pas a moi, mon frere."
Jakka laughed, although neither American thought he did so out of amusement. "Nin," he agreed. A thought flickered across his face and he frowned as he tried to pin it down. "Mikal," he considered warily, "Chea daranas favena lahoi - pro dolegan."
His brother looked slightly alarmed and scrambled to his feet. "Che wasenaga?"
Jakka shrugged. "Do it anyway," he commanded, slipping back into English with the ease of habit. The resurgence of his accent brought a brief smile to Sarah's lips. Mikal nodded, excused himself and left, with a haste that seemed at odds with his cautious nature. "I have sent him to check the markers," the remaining brother explained as his guests looked at him curiously. "Last festival someone moved them - and I only spotted it by chance."
"Markers?" Cutter queried. Jakka nodded.
"Each of the passageways are marked at the entrance - to show where they lead. They are cut into board rather then the walls, so that they can be altered if there is change. They make it possible to walk the halls without light if need arises."
The pilot frowned, trying to imagine when such a need might exist, but Sarah mouthed a silent gasp of realisation. "That's how she manages," she exclaimed, drawing the attention of all three of her company. "Ka-Tesh," she said in explanation, which only served to deepen Cutter's frown. The singer glanced at Jakka, then said, "She's blind, Jake. Quite blind."
"Au contraire," a familiar voice corrected softly, "Ka-Tesh sees much further than many in this place."
"Louie!" Cutter rose to his feet with delighted relief as the man followed his words into the room. Jenovie was sitting in the crook of his arm, her hands clasped about his neck and her head on his shoulder. She smiled shyly at Sarah from the safety of her perch then pouted a protest as her father lowered her to the ground. She let go with reluctance, and then suddenly squealed with laughter, running away from him and shaking her shoulders.
"Papa," Jakka remonstrated with a grin. "One day she will grow tall enough to tickle you back."
Bon Chance eyed him archly. "I," he said with authority, "am not ticklish." Across the room Jenovie made a face at him, and Jack barked, a deliberate twice. A wounded look chased across the Frenchman's face, only to be replaced by one of those frowns that carried stern disapproval yet implied nothing of the sort. Sarah swallowed a giggle with difficulty.
"If you say so," she murmured sweetly.
Cutter grinned, waving his friend to the comfort of the nearest padded bench. "Are you okay?" he asked, a safe, if somewhat predictable opening to what was going to be a difficult conversation. Bon Chance glanced at him, and then smiled, a little wickedly.
"The ways of the Twilight people are not quite what you expected, n'est ce pas, mon ami?" He sat on the empty bench, and leant back, letting the loose folds of the sleeveless robe he wore drape back as he made himself comfortable. Beneath the linen like weave of white fabric he was dressed in similar fashion to his sons; tight leggings of patterned leather laced into high boots, and a broad belt of intricate design, all laced and plaited lengths of coloured thonging. Above that, nothing but for the light robe and the intricacy of silvered jewellery. Keth had been draped in the stuff, long loops of worked designs laid over his chest and twisted bangles that reached from wrist to elbow. His son-in-law was less laden, but still oddly ostentatious in twentieth century eyes; plates of metal set with turquoise stones clasped either wrist, a design echoed at his throat and in the ring on his right hand. Intricate loops of chain draped above his breast bone, an almost unconscious echo of the tumbled silk that should have been there and wasn't, and the flesh beneath was leanly muscular and painted with scars, some old, some uncomfortably new. Cutter stared because he couldn't help it. The figure in front of him was a far cry from the urbane and polished sophisticate that he thought he knew, yet, having realised that, the man still breathed a certain elegance and dignity; the warrior fitted his role perfectly, without any sense of incongruity or misplacement.
"Hardly Parisian fashion," the French accent laughed softly, undoubtedly recognising the reason for the stare. "But practical." He glanced at Sarah, who was also staring, and smiled at her expression. "Do I disconcert you, cherie?"
"I don't understand," she said slowly, having finally worked out what she should be seeing and wasn't. "You were all torn up when we got here..."
Bon Chance nodded an amused agreement, enjoying her confusion, or at least the reasons for it. His hand brushed across the pattern of scars on his skin as he elucidated their origins. "Ku-a-Naga from this morning," he noted wryly. "Ku-a-Naga seven years back. Kekatch, Shadach, and Leekari at various times..." His fingers swept up a jagged mark on his right arm. "JalaHalan, eighteen years ago..." He laughed, bringing his hand up to run his fingers along the side of his neck in a familiar gesture. "And Madame La Guillotine in another life, another kind of hunting...." His voice trailed away, his eyes still amused but challenging. Cutter shivered, hearing the hint of self mockery in the words, the echo of old scars that were cut into the man's soul rather than his flesh. Bon Chance's life had never been an easy one, and his many tribulations had tempered him in ways that might have broken a lesser man. It could not have been easy, surviving in the Twilight, but he had done so, finding compensations where others would have identified only despair. Sarah echoed the shiver, although for other reasons. She had heard more of the tale than the pilot, and understood that causal reference to the man who had once challenged him and lost, forging an enmity that still haunted its participants. The jagged scar looked as though it had been an ugly wound.
"The fire of the White Fountain burns deep," Jakka murmured, gathering up his sister and settling both of them on another of the padded benches, "but it burns well."
That was the second time Cutter had heard that phrase, and it made no more sense this time around. His face settled into a puzzled frown. "Okay," he said with determination. "I think it's about time we had some explanations, don't you?"
Bon Chance nodded softly. "Mais oui, mon ami. It is just a little hard to know where to start. I have been here twenty years, and many things still seem - difficult to grasp. The Twilight people ask few questions of their life, since they are too busy trying to survive. They accept what they have, and are grateful for it." He paused, clearly wrestling with the best way to address what they needed to know. His next question took the pilot by surprise. "How old would you estimate Keth to be, mon ami?"
"Keth?" Cutter thought about it. "At first glance I'd say mid to late thirties, but he can't be - not if he's Jakka's grandfather."
The Frenchman smiled, a little wryly. ""AtaKeth is three hundred and sixty five years old. "
"What?" Pilot and singer chorused in startled disbelief. Jakka chuckled at their expressions.
"He is oldest among the hunters," he said brightly. "But Shalanour has seen five seasons of thunder pass, and that makes her oldest of all."
"Seasons of thunder?" Cutter echoed, even more confused by this. Bon Chance threw his son an affectionate frown.
"Once every hundred years or so," he explained, "there is a major upheaval in the weather patterns here. They refer to it as a season of thunder - a simple name for something so disruptive. We endured the last some five years back - and it lasted for several months. Not an experience I would wish to repeat in a hurry."
"Shalanour says it is better than prolonged drought and starvation," Jakka interjected thoughtfully. "One time it came late - and a quarter of the people died."
"As opposed to some ten percent or so," his father decided wryly. "Whenever it comes, food is scarce on either side of the event for some time."
Sarah shuddered. She had realised that life in this place would be harsh, but had not considered that starvation might be one of the dangers the Twilight People faced. Cutter was still wrestling with the earlier revelation. "How can anyone live that long?" he asked warily. "And show no signs of age with it."
The Frenchman shrugged. "Shalanour insists it is the Fountain," he said. "Which has remarkable properties - as you have seen, mon ami. But I am not sure. Something in this place has suspended time in a way that would be impossible elsewhere. The only kind of death known here is one of violence or deprivation. Old age is unknown - even among the lizard kind."
"But that's impossible," Cutter protested. "Isn't it?"
"You told me yourself that I looked no older," Bon Chance observed. "I have been here twenty years - and if anything I feel younger than the day I arrived. That may just be the exercise," he added, sharing a small grin with his son and daughter. Jakka laughed a second time, but offered no further comment.
The pilot shook his head in incomprehension. "Nobody gets old, and the waters of this - Fountain, can heal in minutes .... What kind of place is this?"
"The Fountain of Youth," Sarah said slowly, "is just a myth. A legend. Surely ..."
"Wait a minute." Cutter interrupted her, following another line of thought. "To us, its only been two hours, remember. Perhaps it's only been that for you, as well."
Bon Chance pursed his lips as if the thought had not occurred to him before. "Peu t'etre," he allowed slowly. "But that would not explain why the years pass naturally for the children ... I do not think," he decided with a small shake, "that it is a subject to be investigated too closely. The fire of the White Fountain is a miracle that can be identified, and even that is incomprehensible until seen or experienced."
"You're telling me," Cutter agreed wryly. "I didn't know what to think."
"Kill or cure," the Frenchman breathed softly. "Its judgement is never questioned. If you have the strength it will answer your needs."
"And if not ..." the pilot prompted.
"Then you do not suffer long." The answer held a hint of bleakness, of an old pain not entirely healed. Jakka hissed softly, drawing his breath in over his teeth, and Sarah swallowed hard, recalling Ka-Tesh's story and how she had said that Merresh had been too weak for the white fire. That it was able to heal was unquestionable, the fresh scars that the Frenchman carried, where before there had been open wounds, was more than proof of that. Shalanour had, perhaps, judged against using it until it was too late to do anymore than bring kind release instead of healing. Whatever the reason, its miracle had failed, and it seemed that father and son carried the burden of that failure, a loss that neither of them could, or would, forget.
Cutter was shaking his head in quiet disbelief. "This is too crazy for words," he decided. "Lost races, fountains of youth, dinosaurs... I feel like I'm in the middle of a movie. There aren't any other surprises you're not telling us about are there?"
Bon Chance laughed. "Non," he chuckled. "I do not think so, mon ami. Just harsh realities, and a people trying to survive on the edge. And it is no movie - else I would demand they roll up the credits and let me go home."
"What's a movie?" Jenovie asked in the ensuing silence. Cutter had glanced at Sarah, reading the quiet hint of anguish in her father's last remark, however much it was wrapped up in the intention of a joke. This was not a situation that could be settled by a few trite lines of dialogue and End Titles, but a very real dilemma for the man at its centre.
"Moving pictures," Sarah tried to explain, grasping at the question as a distraction. "They tell a story."
"Pictures don't move," the child protested, looking at her father for confirmation. He sighed.
"Not in the Twilight, no," he agreed slowly. "But there are many things ... Jenovie," he asked thoughtfully, "would you like to see the sunrise?"
The question earned him a series of startled looks, not least from his own son. The child frowned, clearly aware this was more than just a casual query. "Would you be there, papa? Et mama?" Jakka slid his arms around her, tightening his hug into wary reassurance, and watched his father closely. Bon Chance looked back, his eyes unfathomable in the flicker of the torch light.
"Je ne connais pas, ma petite," he admitted slowly. "Tienne mere - " He drew in a thoughtful breath and phrased his thoughts in the language of the Twilight, since that seemed to be the easiest way to express it. "Sha ravan belaku, dos du farashanarti." Jakka's expression slipped into a wary frown.
"Papa?" he questioned with suspicion, but his father shook his head sharply.
"Tomorrow," he announced, "when the day begins, Jakka will take you and Mikal, and my friends here, ko farassa Ku-a-Naga. You will go with them to the lands of the sun. If we can, we will follow."
Jenovie's eyes widened into startlement, while Jakka stared at his father in shock. "Non papa," he protested, "Tu aussi ... J'ai - "
"Enough," Bon Chance said resolutely. "There will be no arguments, Jakka. Go, find Mikal and tell him. Pack what you want to take before the gathering tonight. You must leave with the first light to reach the valley before Ku-a-Naga reclaims it in the day."
Jakka stood up slowly, cradling his sister, who clung to him. It looked as if he might protest further but, after a moment he acquiesced with a nod. "Oui, papa. Sa che favaden." He put Jenovie down and led her out of the curtained space, her eyes turned back to her father with an anxious, wounded look. Bon Chance watched them go.
"I cannot leave her," he explained bleakly. "I will not leave her." Sarah slid from her seat and went to lay her hand on his arm, offering a wordless comfort that he accepted with a pained smile. "She would never make the journey in her condition," he breathed softly. Cutter frowned, understanding the dilemma the man faced, but not his solution to it.
"Are you sure about this?" he asked carefully. "I mean, I can understand a decision to stay, but - sending your children away from you? Is that what you want?"
The Frenchman glanced towards the curtain through which the youngsters had exited and shook his head slowly. "Non," he admitted. "None of this is what I want. But Ka-Tesh has no options and - " He paused, staring pensively at the floor. "You would not know, mes amies, what it can mean to live here. To never see the sun, or count the patterns of the stars. To risk your life each and every day just for the privilege of staying alive. There are good days," he realised wearily. "Days when the hunting goes well, and there is pleasure in the skill of it; times when it is good to come home and know the warmth of welcome that awaits you. But they are hollow compensations for the other times. Times when the scavengers snatch your kill from under your hands, and the seasons bring fevers to stalk through the caverns. Times when the water we drink is bitter and the air too thick to taste; times when you lie awake and listen to your children cry themselves to sleep because there has been nothing to eat for days."
He looked up, to find his friends watching him with horrified sympathy and he laughed, the sound of it vaguely bitter and self mocking. "I exaggerate," he decided softly. "Life here can be good. But it is hard. Very hard, and harder for knowing what might lie just beyond my grasp. I dream of stupid things, craving for pleasures I can no longer remember clearly; simple pleasures mostly, like the taste of cream cheese or chocolate. I want my children to live in a world where those things exist. I want Jenovie to wear pretty dresses and to dance with handsome young men in the moonlight; for her to grow up without fear of hunger and to walk unafraid in the sunshine. I want Mikal to read real books and find the answers to all the questions he has that I cannot answer for him; to see a real ocean and to - to climb trees and make mischief, and to have a childhood, not fester in the dark until he goes out to seek death, the way Jakka did this morning." He paused, the vehemence in his words forcing him to need a deep breath. "I want them to live," he concluded shakenly. "That is all I have ever wanted for them."
"Oh, Louie," Sarah breathed, moved by his words. He reached to lay his hand over her sympathetic grip and found her a haunted smile.
Cutter drew in a slow breath trying to divorce the emotion in the man's words from their content and assess the reasoning that lay behind them. He could find no flaw in the argument, only a nagging self doubt that he had to express. "Do you really feel you can trust us that much Louie?"
Bon Chance considered him, his eyes shadowed in the flicker of the torch light, then glanced at Sarah who waited for the answer with baited breath. "I can accept no other choice in the matter, mon ami," the Frenchman said at last. "But, oui - I trust you that much. I can trust that you will do everything in your power to keep that gate open as long as you can and - if I do not follow - trust you to take care of those that I love." He paused, then forced a wry smile. "I include Gushie in that accounting, mon ami. He needs someone to keep an eye on him."
"I always thought he kept an eye on you," Cutter said, the note of banter in his voice uncomfortably strained. Bon Chance said nothing immediately, but his smile slid into reminiscent affection. He patted Sarah's hand much as he might have done Jenovie's.
"It is decided," he announced after a moment, his voice crisp as he banished his introspection. "We will say no more about it. Besides," he added, looking up at Sarah with a more familiar twinkle of mischief in his eye, "at ten years an hour, I will probably step out of this gate of yours right on your heels, n'est ce pas?"
Sarah smiled back, although her own eyes were haunted. She knew what he had not said - that the journey through the jungle would be far too hazardous for Ka-Tesh to face. He had probably had no intention of following them at all. Not while she remained to keep him in this place, bound by chains far stronger than any forged of steel. Her heart ached for him, choosing between his love for his children and that for his wife. He had found the strength to face that choice, rather then deny the children the chance of freedom that was offered them, and she knew she could not add to his torment by reopening the wounds that caused it. "Sure," she acknowledged, forcing herself to sound bright about it. The look that he gave her was a grateful one.
"Well," he considered, clearly relieved that the matter had been settled. "You cannot leave until first light, so you might as well enjoy yourselves while you are here. Jakka has told you we have a celebration tonight, n'est ce pas? Will you be our guests and join us?"
Jack sat up and barked twice, sending a ripple of laughter around his company. "Sure," Cutter decided with mock generosity. "I didn't have anything else planned, did you?"
"No," Sarah grinned. "I guess we'd love to come."
"Bon," their host smiled. "Then you will see the Twilight people at their best. I am afraid, cherie," he went on to say, "that there are customs and manners which must be observed. Men and women do not share public company, but Ka-Tesh will bring you down to the Fountain fires. Do you mind?"
She did briefly, a modern enough woman to object to such enforced division, but he had known that and been thoughtful enough to ask her, and she suspected that his hopeful look had more to do with Ka-Tesh's needs than a desire to maintain propriety. "No," she decided with a grin. "Be nice to share a little girl talk for once - away from all you men."
Cutter huffed indignantly and Bon Chance laughed, a little relieved. "Bon," he said a second time. "Ka-Tesh will be pleased. Jenovie and Mikal are to be with the dancers and cannot go with her. Jakka," he added, unable to resist the sudden flash of pride, "became a man today. He will be with me."
"Us," Cutter corrected with a grin and the three of them laughed, sharing a moment of company that had suddenly become very precious indeed.
The light of the fountain changed in subtle ways, reflecting, Bon Chance explained, the course of the day above it. It had been bright when they arrived, an echo of the heat and intensity of midday in the Twilight. By midnight it would smoulder only dimly, barely illuminating the distant confines of its cave. It was still crystal bright and almost blinding to Cutter's eyes as they made their way to the lower tunnels and emerged on the same level as the fountain itself, but he had spent several hours in nothing but torch light and the contrast was inevitable.
Two large fires had been built by the side of the pool in which the fountain bubbled, one at either end. Around them had been laid bundles of hide and cushions to form an informal seating arrangement flanking the open space between fires and waterside. Figures tended the flames while others moved in informal congress around them. Just as Bon Chance had indicated, the men gathered around one fire, women and children around the other. Shalanour sat in regal splendour where the two groups met, facing the open space and the tumble of the water that was her charge beyond it. Cutter was quick to note that new arrivals to the gathering came to offer her respect before they slid into the more informal groupings; he was not therefore surprised when Bon Chance led him and Jakka towards the wise woman's feet.
The pilot was feeling distinctly underdressed for the occasion. Jakka had arrived to collect him resplendent in his patterned leathers, a single drape of silver at his throat and three at his wrists, his arms painted with vivid stripes of colour and his hair bound back by a plaited leather strip interwoven with scarlet flowers. The effect was both barbaric and extremely striking, turning the young man into a wild peacock and making Cutter wonder if he would ever manage to make a civilised man out of him - or even if he would want to. Sarah had been complimentary, while questioning the need for the wickedly bladed knife that hung at his belt. Jakka had simply grinned. The boy's finery might not have been so bad, had his father not arrived to match him in splendour. Bon Chance had managed without the paint, or the flowers, but he sported a jerkin that shone in subtle patterns of golden iridescence, and his belt was an intricately woven fretwork of coloured hide and gleaming stones. Silver laced bare chest and bare arms alike, while the whole effect was topped by a drape of distinctly patterned hide that was caught at one hip and thrown back over the shoulder on the same side. He'd entered with a second skein of the same supple leather in his other hand and thrown it casually at Jakka, who'd caught it with a look of astonishment. Cutter had not needed the reverent way in which the youngster handled the fabric to identify its source; he'd have recognised the skin of Ku-a-Naga anywhere, its pattern so much a part of the startling memory that had been his introduction to this place.
After that he'd expressed concern as to whether he would pass muster for the coming gathering and, once Bon Chance had stopped laughing, the Frenchman had pointed out that the two Americans were the most exotic thing these people had seen in twenty years. The truth of that statement was plain as the three of them made their way towards Shalanour; the Twilight people were not exactly staring, but they looked, and continued to look as Cutter's public arrival became common knowledge. Their scrutiny was an uncomfortable one, not least because he was trying hard not to stare in return. The women wore simple robes stitched with intricate embroidery and lacings of leather and flowers; the children, what few of them there were, were similarly attired. They clung to their mothers and gazed at the stranger with wide eyed alarm. Cutter tried smiling back, but earned only anxious acknowledgement for his efforts.
Shalanour greeted them with regal approval, speaking her welcome with studied tones. Bon Chance answered her with fluid skill in the liquid language of her people, his words echoed by Jakka who now wore his lizard hide drape with ostentatious pride. The Wise Woman smiled at the youngster, her wry amusement deflating his conceit without a word. Then she turned and greeted Cutter in his own tongue, bidding him welcome to the gathering and asking that he respect the customs and laws of the people, a suggestion to which he readily agreed.
On the other side of the pool the men's gathering had a clear and unspoken division to it that seemed to form by mutual agreement. Warriors clad in leather and draped with hide, Keth among them, formed one side of it. On the other were men dressed in more silvered colours and wearing a drape of net rather than skins. The pilot remembered Jakka's mention of the fishers, and had to surmise that these were the men in question, a tight group keeping themselves apart from the hunters. They also stared in Cutter's direction and it was with a distinct sense of hostility. One of them noticed that Jakka sported his new cloak and a murmur ran round the group. A warrior nudged Keth as, having paid their respects to Shalanour, the three of them moved to the appropriate fire.
Keth was a splendid figure in a shimmer of silver jewellery and violet paint. The flowers he wore were blue and purple, and he also carried the unmistakable pattern of Ku-a-Naga's hide over his shoulder. He moved forward to welcome his son-in-law with the same ritual clasp of hands he had used earlier in the day, then Bon Chance stepped aside with a small grin to allow Jakka to take his place. AtaKeth looked his grandson up and down with stern judgement, the other warriors gathered behind him with wary expectation. Cutter remembered, a little belatedly, that this was the first time Jakka had been qualified to join this elite group, and this moment was probably very important to the young man. On the other side of the fire the fishermen were watching with grim faces, among them an angular faced man with a sharp scar that ran across cheek and chin. The fishers did not wear silver jewellery, but were draped in shells and coloured stones; the man with the scar who stared with such antipathy had a string of jagged teeth hung around his neck.
"Ka jara shachansi, Jakka," Keth decided firmly. "AtaJakka," he corrected with a grin, flicking at the youngster's drape with his left hand. Jakka coloured visibly, offering his palm with deliberate practice. His grandfather completed the ritual, then dragged the boy into a hug, laughing as he did so. "Podusana," he chuckled, throwing Jakka away into the arms of the other warriors, who received him with friendly camaraderie, jostling him back and forwards among them until he finally came to rest in his father's grasp. He hung there for a moment, helpless with laughter and his face beaming with happiness at the warmth of his reception. Bon Chance smile was proud, but his eyes were haunted. He stood his son upright and solemnly offered him his hand, repeating the ritual affirmation of his right to be treated as a man. Jakka looked a little taken aback, as if suddenly realising all the implications of what he had done, and then he took a deep breath and clasped his father's hand, man to man, as proud as the proverbial peacock.
Keth laughed and turned to greet Cutter with less ritual, if similar formality. The pilot had the hang of the grip by now, which was just as well, as every other warrior seemed to want to offer it. He was introduced to a slew of blond and white haired athletes, none of them seeming to be over thirty five, and all of them keenly muscled. The last was the artist, Sheleth, who did not wear either the warrior's drape or the fisher's net. His face and skin were painted in a riot of colours and he smiled shyly as he offered his palm to the pilot. Cutter returned the gesture once again, wishing he had had time to learn a little of the complex language so that he could do more than smile and nod as the ritual was completed.
"Verer na kada, ja dousasa?" A voice sneered at him with disdain, and he turned, finding himself confronted by the scar faced fisherman and three of his cronies. The pilot offered out his hand tentatively, and the man turned his head to spit pointedly at the floor. A murmur of disquiet ran around the gathered hunters; they shuffled in to surround their guest with supportive speed.
"Ga na deair, JalaHalan," Keth said in a slightly dangerous tone. "Lasna farishanadi. Ho tarudina."
"Nin," the fisherman shot back. "Paka curus di da lashana."
"He asks by what right you stand before the fountain," Jakka murmured from behind Cutter's shoulder. Bon Chance had slid through to stand at his side, and the youth now hovered warily behind the two of them.
'Oh'' Cutter mouthed, eyeing the cause of the confrontation warily.
"Di lashana ka buris," the Frenchman announced quietly, which turned a number of heads in his direction, hunters' included. Keth nodded a satisfaction with this statement, while the fisherman glared at the speaker with a contained hate that was almost palpable.
"Garena sha cha durach," the man growled, making a sideways chopping gesture with his hand. Cutter felt Jakka bristle behind him and Keth stepped forward to place himself firmly between the two groups, putting out his hands with authority.
"Mo darana shada, fulini az Shalanour," he said, jerking his head in the wise woman's direction as he did so. The hunters agreed with a hostile murmur and the fisherman frowned with irritated reaction.
"Nin," he decided after a moment, shaking his head and glaring at both the pilot and his company. "Fee sha leshni. Ched cha, JalaHalan, snaka. Se da udda, Jakka?" he added, addressing the youth directly, a note of mockery in his voice. "Feshaka fualli, chomo suna." He laughed, and turned away, the men with him chuckling at whatever joke he had just made.
Beside the pilot, Bon Chance drew in a slow breath, watching the scar faced individual with cold eyes. Keth reached over to place his hand on his arm. "He dishonours himself," the warrior murmured softly. "Do not let the taint of his hatred touch you."
The Frenchman shook his head slowly. "One day he will push too far," he decided, then found Cutter's worried expression a smile. "Do not mind JalaHalan, mon ami," he said, guiding the two of them back into the hunter's group. "It is an old business and one he should have let go a long time since." The pilot frowned, suddenly remembering the context in which he first heard the name. He gestured towards the jagged scar that marked his friend's arm.
"That JalaHalan?" he asked warily. Keth nodded.
"Cho," he answered, glancing towards the fisher's group with a hint of an old anger. "You should have spoken that day," he decided, addressing his son-in-law with exasperated affection. "It was cowardly and contemptuous, and deserving of exile."
Bon Chance shrugged, throwing Jakka a fond look as he did so. "It was my wedding day," he dismissed lightly. "And I bore him no malice then."
Keth frowned. This was clearly something he had accepted but not liked, even at the time. "He offered fair challenge" he remembered, "and you settled the matter with first blood. He yielded. It should have ended there."
"His pride was hurt," the Frenchman said. He gestured at Cutter to sit and he did so, finding he had a front row place facing the open space and the tumble of light filled water beyond. Keth sank crossed legged to a cushioned pile on his right, Jakka taking the ground at his feet; Bon Chance glanced back along the line of men to where JalaHalan now sat in haughty eminence, sighed and took a seat on Cutter's left. The pilot followed the line of the man's glance, catching the fisherman's bitter glare before it was hastily concealed.
"Pride is no excuse for attempted murder," Keth remarked, drawing a look of surprise from his grandson. "The man is a fool, and those who follow him are also fools. He dishonours the people with his desire for control and his petty revenges on those who do not give it to him."
A woman approached them, carrying a tray of sweetmeats which she offered round. Cutter took one cautiously, wondering what it might be made of and Bon Chance grinned, taking the opportunity to change the direction of the conversation. "Honey, fruit pulp and other syrups," he observed, helping himself and thanking the woman with a smile. She coloured a little and hurried on, moving down the line of hunters.
"Chuma has not yet been spoken for," Jakka said, watching the woman as she bent to offer her tray elsewhere. Keth grinned, sharing his amusement with his son-in-law.
"Are you thinking of asking?" he teased, and Jakka went a little red.
"Nin," he answered hurriedly. His father laughed, and Cutter echoed it, relaxing into the pile of cushions and savouring the sweetmeat, which was actually quite palatable. Somewhere off to one side a drum began to beat, heralding the arrival of six boys who somersaulted into the open arena and began an athletic dance. Mikal was one of them, tumbling with commendable skill in a series of leaps, rolls and jumps in amongst the other members of his troupe. They moved to the drum beat, and the men began to pound the ground along with it as it picked up speed and the boys gained momentum. It was both dance and competition, the six of them trying to gain the highest leap, the better trick; as the beat grew faster some of the men started to cheer their chosen champion as his turn came to seize centre stage. Cutter found himself leaning forward, slapping the addictive beat against his leg while giving vent to an enthusiastic 'Yah' as Mikal vaulted over three of his companions. He was quite exhausted by the time the dance ended; all six boys threw themselves into the air, tumbled over and lay flat to the floor. The drum stopped, and then the cavern echoed with appreciative cheers, the pilot's among them.
The boys got to their feet with sheepish pleasure, lining up in front of Shalanour, who considered them thoughtfully for a moment. She beckoned to first one, then another of the boys, drawing them forward to receive a gift from her hand. Mikal was the second, and he accepted his prize with a beaming smile before joining his comrades as they tumbled their way to join the women at the other end of the pool.
"Sha," Keth remarked with pride. Jakka grinned.
"I taught him that last trick," he confided, leaning over towards the pilot as he did so. "It won me the token at the last gathering. See?" He held out his hand, indicating the intricate linkage of chain that sat around his wrist. Something clicked inside Cutter's head, adding yet another piece to the puzzle that was the Twilight people and their world. The jewellery that the men flaunted was not simply decorative, but meaningful; each piece a trophy of some triumph or other, or else a gifting of significance, like the drape of patterned hide that adorned his current company. No wonder Keth carried so many pieces - in such a long life he would have had need, and opportunity, to prove himself on a variety of occasions. Which also implied... The pilot glanced at the man beside him, mentally reassessing what had been, at first sight, a somewhat barbaric flamboyance. The Frenchman was smiling a little indulgently after his younger son. The glint of metal at throat, chest and wrist undoubtedly formed a quiet history of the time he had spent in this place; Cutter wished he had the skill to read it. since he doubted he would ever know the whole tale.
"Ka-Tesh will be pleased," Bon Chance was saying, shifting to catch a glimpse of the entrance tunnels beyond the gathered women and their fire. "She and Sarah should be down by now. I wonder what is keeping them?"
Keth chuckled, beckoning over another of the serving women, this one carrying a heaped basket of what looked like oysters. "Vanity," he suggested, tossing his son in law one of the large shellfish. "You know my daughters."
The Frenchman laughed, opening the oyster in his hand with a practised twist of his knife. A metal knife, Cutter noted curiously, not one of the stone bladed ones that Keth and Jakka were employing. Bon Chance passed him the open shell and reached for another of the delicacies, his eyes darting down the assembled line towards the sour faced fisherman. "One of the few things that require us to be grateful to the fishers," he remarked, opening his own oyster with the same nonchalant ease. Cutter looked down at the glutinous mass in the shell and smiled a wary smile.
"Yeah?" His friend looked up from the oyster and frowned briefly at the remark before bursting into a peal of laughter.
"Mon Dieu, Jake," he scolded with affection, "Is there really such a provincial farm boy buried under all that worldly confidence? Don't tell me you have never eaten an oyster?"
"Well," Cutter squirmed a little in his seat. "I guess I never plucked up the courage, exactly..."
Jakka was staring at him in astonishment, which made him squirm all the more. Bon Chance grinned, tipping up the shell and his head so that the whole raw shellfish slid into his mouth in one slippery instant. He held it there for a moment and then bit down, closing his eyes in a brief acknowledgement of pleasure. Cutter shuddered involuntarily, and Keth grinned. "They only distribute them at gatherings," he said lightly. "I never risked trying one until he persuaded me. I understood then why the fishers try to keep them to themselves." He too slid a slippery morsel into his throat, leaving Jakka still staring at the pilot, his oyster forgotten in his hand.
Cutter steeled himself, realising he was going to have to do this, or look a complete wuss. He tipped the shell in his hand, seeing the glutinous mass within slide backwards and forwards. "Close your eyes," the French accent suggested softly, its tones still amused. "Just savour it."
He set his shoulders, swallowed hard and poured the whole thing into his mouth with determination. The result was unexpected. It was delicious; slightly salty, and strangely tender and chewy at the same time. He bit down, and then ate it with pleasure, opening his eyes with a decidedly surprised look on his face. Three pairs of eyes were watching him expectantly. "Its - wommmdermmful," he managed around a mouthful of shellfish, which elicited a chorus of amusement from his audience.
"There is hope for him yet," Bon Chance decided, turning his expectation towards his son who, having seen the pilot manage it, set his shoulders and ate his oyster, his face screwed up with wary expectation. Like Cutter's, the expression dissolved into surprised pleasure. The pilot eyed him curiously, wondering why he had not discovered that particular indulgence before, then remembered what Keth had said. If the shellfish were only served at gatherings - other than those the fishers kept to themselves - then it was quite possible that they were also only served at the men's fire. He glanced across the open space to where the other half of the Twilight people sat, and frowned, trying to grasp the subtle complexities of this society.
The women of the people looked, like Ka-Tesh, both young and somehow fragile. They drifted around their fire, tending to the children and distributing food with subdued voices and quiet laughter. Every now and again one would lift a serving dish and cross the gulf between the fires, pausing to offer Shalanour her choice of the dainties before continuing on. One such walked past them now, extending a pottery dish filled with small flat cakes of spicy bread. He smiled thanks in her direction as he helped himself to the tempting morsels, and she stared at him with wide eyes before hurrying on, glancing back from time to time as she went. With her bare feet and bare arms, and her long white hair plaited with flowers and strips of coloured leather, she looked like a young goddess, serving the gathered heroes in Olympus or Valhalla.
"You are staring, mon ami," Bon Chance teased him softly; he jumped and coloured a little under his tan. The Frenchman smiled, glancing after the departing figure that had caught the pilot's attention. "They are a beautiful people, n'est ce pas? Sometimes I feel like an old fox in a garden full of swans and peacocks."
Cutter had to smile at the analogy. It was disconcertingly accurate in a way; Bon Chance had strength and charm, and presence, yet his was a feral elegance, and time had added experience to his face with broad brush stokes. The pilot suspected that age was something the man had always carried lightly, his appearance belying the truth of his years even before he had come to this place of eternal youth, but among these people even that reluctant surrender to maturity marked him out. Jakka, perhaps, echoed the clean lines of his father's youth; the young warrior possessed a chiselled beauty akin to that of Roman statuary. "I guess that makes me a goose," Cutter joked and the Frenchman nearly choked on his breadcake.
Ka-Tesh brushed her hair with studied attention, each long stroke lifting her fine tresses into a cloud of fine gold that glimmered in the torch light. Sarah watched her with admiration as she put down the brush to begin braiding in the lengths of coloured leather that were laid out for her hands to find. She needed no mirror; she worked with practised ease, agile fingers manipulating the twist of hair and leather into a complicated whole. The final result lifted the cascade of honeyed hair away from her face, emphasising the childlike quality of her features.
"You're amazing, you know that?" Sarah remarked as Ka-Tesh turned for her approval. The woman blushed, folding her hands over her swollen belly.
"I am what I am," she murmured, clearly embarrassed by the praise. Sarah
chuckled, reaching across to lift one of the scarlet flowers that lay on the
table beside her and tuck it into her own hair. It gave off a warm scent, a
little like cinnamon and vanilla mixed together. "Tell me," Ka-Tesh continued
anxiously, "about the world of the sun. Will my children thrive there?"
Sarah drew in a deep breath. She'd thought that might be coming. Ka-Tesh
had collected her with a shy smile, her earlier unhappiness seemingly banished
as if it had never happened. She'd hugged both her children before they left
for their appointed places, and had stroked the patterned drape of Jakka's cloak
with motherly pride as he displayed it for her approval. Bon Chance had reached
to buff her cheek with the back of his hand, an oddly ritual gesture of affection
and Sarah had not missed the anxious way in which she had snatched at his fingers
and held them for reassurance. He had laughed then, a soft, affectionate laugh
that spoke volumes, retrieving his hand to lay it briefly over the swell of
her abdomen. It was not for duty that he had chosen to remain with her, however
much that might account for the turn of his thoughts, but for love. It was clear
in the way he looked at her, the quiet, exasperated regard of long term partners
for whom time had only improved and not dulled the relationship. The singer
had wondered, briefly, what sort of life they might have shared had her sister
lived, but had found no answers in her speculations.
The question of Bon Chance's decision had haunted her as she watched him lead his son and the pilot down towards the gathering. It had not been easy for him, choosing to give up his children, but what of Ka-Tesh, for whom the choice was made? Was she willing to lose them, even if it meant he would stay with her? The expected question had been long in coming and now it had been asked, Sarah was unsure how best to answer it.
"I think so," she offered guardedly. "I mean - we'd look after them, and - " She took a deep breath and focused her uncertainty into a promise she knew she could try to keep. "Ka-Tesh, I promise you - they won't starve, and they won't be hunted. They'll be able to learn many things and make their own choices concerning their lives as soon as they are old enough to do so."
Close by her feet Jack barked, two sharp barks of certainty as if he were also offering the same promise. The woman nodded slowly, her face still troubled. "And will Jenovie be happy?" she queried. "Will she still have flowers and other little ones to keep her amused?"
"Oh yes," Sarah laughed despite, or perhaps because of the earnestness of the question. "Everyone in the Monkey Bar will spoil her. And she'll be able to pick her flowers herself, without looking over her shoulder or worrying about the time. She'll have pretty dresses and ribbons for her hair, and dolls to play with - and I'll teach her to swim, and take her shopping, and - oh, all sorts of things."
Ka-Tesh smiled wanly at the singer's sudden enthusiasm. "And will there be a strong hunter to speak for her?"
"I expect so," Sarah decided, considering her companion with sympathy. "More than one if she grows up as pretty as her mother has. That's if Jakka judges them good enough for her of course. " This time the mother's smile was one of genuine amusement, a reaction to the flippant joke that had so much truth in it.
"He will take care of them," Ka-Tesh realised. "He is a man now, and knows his responsibilities." She sighed and levered herself to her feet. "We should go down," she said. "We will miss the dancing otherwise."
Sarah followed her from the cavern, only pausing to lift a torch from a wall sconce as she passed. Ka-Tesh had no need of light; she stepped into the passage, her right hand stretched to meet the contours of the wall and walked with studied steps along what had to be a familiar route by now. The singer kept back a little way, allowing the woman to make her own pace. The torch light flickered off the painted walls, filling the branching tunnels with shadows and movement. They passed several openings, Ka-Tesh pausing to slide her fingers over the carved posts that marked them before moving on. Sarah soon realised that she would be lost within minutes. The tunnels curved and twisted, branching and dividing into a labyrinth of passages and caverns. The surface on which they walked sloped up, then down, then up again, sometimes cut into shallow steps where the incline grew too steep.
Her guide started with confidence, but after several twists and turns, Ka-Tesh began to hesitate, checking the message of the markers with growing anxiety. Sarah, who had been absorbed in the intricate patterns painted on the wall, did not immediately realise that something might be wrong. Jack, whose company consisted of racing off into side passages to investigate interesting scents, reappeared at her feet and whined for attention.
"Something up?" she asked, glancing down at the dog in surprise. Ka-Tesh halted ahead of them and drew her hands to her mouth in anxious terror.
"I am - lost," she announced, her voice quavering. Sarah immediately stretched her pace to join her.
"What? I thought everything was marked?"
"It is." The woman was shaking, her confidence abandoned and her self insecurity surfacing with panic. "I followed them. I know I followed them. But this is wrong. We should be there by now. "
Sarah glanced round with a frown. They were stood in a narrow passage, the expected paintings sparsely spaced and the floor rough rather then worn smooth by constant use. The slope of the passage was up, rather than down, and they had not passed a lit torch for some time. "Jakka sent Mikal to check the markers," she said worriedly. "Could someone have moved them since?"
"I don't know." Ka-Tesh was close to tears. "Who would do such a thing? Why?"
"To make you late," Sarah considered grimly. "To spoil the gathering for your family. This is an act of spite, isn't it? I bet there's someone down there laughing his socks off." She glowered at the nearest wall, which didn't help anything but made her feel better. She hated practical jokers, and this one had had malicious intent. "Okay," she decided, putting her arm around her companion's shoulders. "Let's be sensible about this. We need to get you back to a tunnel you know, right?"
Ka-Tesh nodded slowly, still shaking a little, despite the comforting touch. Sarah's frown deepened into anger. The woman was obviously not up to coping with this kind of situation, which wasn't surprising given her condition. Whoever had had this bright idea deserved a lesson in consideration. A strong lesson.
"So we retrace our steps," the singer decided firmly. "That can't be too hard. Can it?"
Jack barked twice, which made her wince a little. "Okay, wise guy," she told him firmly. "You lead the way if you're so clever."
He whuffed and sat down to think about it for a moment. Sarah glowered at him, feeling Ka-Tesh shiver under her arm and, after a sideways look, Jack slowly got up and began to patter back down the passage. The singer sighed with quiet relief and began to lead her companion after him.
Then the torch went out.
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