The Glass Mountains Page 7

  “Mariska, Mariska. You’ve always known I longed to travel.”

  “But that was only a fantasy. Now your own sister is dead and you decide to leave with a strange girl.”

  “Katinka’s death had nothing to do with my new wife. You must respect Sian as part of your family.”

  “I still blame myself for your wanting to leave.”

  “You must stop it,” he said sharply. “There is no time for blame in war, only for responsibility. We must all fight for our future now.”

  “I’d rather die! I want none of the future, and if you had any sense, neither would you.”

  Sian held out her hand to me. “Come. Your parents are leaving tomorrow. You must spend time with them.”

  I turned away. But whereas before Maruk had always indulged my petulance, now he led Sian away with no further word.

  I walked toward the camp when they were out of sight. I felt jealous of the girl, who in truth seemed brave and warm, worthy of my brother.

  At camp my parents had already packed up everything they needed for their trip to Forma. They planned to go to bed early but for now listened as the other parents talked of their plans. I happened to sit next to Tarkahn, and while the others talked to each other, he spoke nonstop to anyone who happened to listen.

  “It’s true we could have tried to negotiate,” he said, “but how can you negotiate with someone who is holding a gun in their hand when you yourself are holding only a jar of sand in yours, for isn’t it an act of foolishness to think you can talk sense into someone for whom sense is the same as death, because you see in Forma if you pause to use your sense you won’t be alert enough to see that your enemies are catching up with you, and in a place like Forma everyone is bound to have many enemies, sort of like in Soom Kali, don’t get me wrong, of course the people of Soom Kali are equally barbarians, but at least they have style and flourish ... and in any case, the hotlands are the spiritual center of Bakshami, and if we must die on the way there, then so be it. But to remain here doesn’t make sense to me. We must visit the hotlands to know whether our sector is to live or die...”

  “If all Bakshami commits suicide by going to the hotlands, then our sector that we claim to love will certainly die,” said Maruk. “I may not accompany all of you as far as the hotlands.”

  While they argued over what to do, I went to sit by Ansmeea’s youngest daughter, Ansmeea the Small, who’d stopped sobbing and whose eyes had swollen so that they formed tiny hills with slits in the middle. I brushed my hand through her brown hair, which felt so thin and fine it wasn’t like hair at all. Hair was something strong and beautiful, but hers was soft. I liked the way it stuck to my fingers like the webs of woodbugs.

  “Your hair’s so soft,” I said. I wondered whether that had insulted her. “I like it.”

  She paused. “It’s like my mother’s was.”

  “No one else possesses such hair; therefore you should feel blessed.”

  Even through her slitted eyes I could now see a hopeful puppy kind of look. “Do you think?”

  “My grandfather always said such things. Every time we complained, he said we should feel blessed we had mouths to complain with.”

  “Your brother saved my life, but not the lives of my whole family. Is that a blessing?”

  “Not today, but in time you may see it is.” I tried to remember what else my grandfather had taught me. “Grandpa always told me not to let too much time lapse between what I thought and how I acted. Otherwise I might end up doing only one or the other. So you thought about Maruk’s warning, and then you acted by running. My grandfather was very old, so he must have known something. You followed his directions about thinking and acting. No harm could come of following my grandfather’s words.”

  “I don’t share your blood and don’t share your convictions.”

  “But my convictions are the same as everyone’s.”

  “I’ve lost my father to the viruses of Bakshami, my mother and one sister to the Formans, and another sister to your brother. Your convictions are a speck of sand among millions of specks of sand.”

  “You can be the sister of my sisters and brothers and me.”

  She looked away shyly and said simply, “No.” Then she got up and walked away to sit near a group of people, probably of her clan. I felt stung but didn’t dwell on it. Like many of us, she would be of age soon and must make her own decisions.

  Because no one had slept much the night before, most everybody had started getting ready for bed. There wasn’t enough bedding for all the families—or remnants of families—but we tried to divide everything equitably. I ended up with one tattered covering to share with Leisha. The grown-ups had come to no decision on what to do tomorrow. The only decision for now was to try to sleep as much as possible.

  I’d slept in the forest earlier and couldn’t sleep now. We lay unusually close together tonight, and I felt comforted by the sound of a hundred friends breathing. Tarkahna had lost two of her seven brothers. Even from across camp, I could make out her labored breathing. I hoped she felt comforted by the sound of Tarkahn mumbling in his sleep. Apparently he didn’t dream of the present, but of the past. All his mumblings concerned his toolmaking business back in our old village. I hoped my parents, too, dreamed of the past now, so that at least they would savor one more night of happiness before embarking on what would certainly be a hellish and lonely journey back. Two people and two dogs, alone in the sand. Meanwhile, unless events dictated otherwise, I would be headed for the hotlands. I would probably be of age before I would know whether my parents failed or succeeded.

  My mother rustled, and I saw her dark form slip out from under a sheet and come to sit by us. I’d slept so soundly during the walking that I’d never been wakened by her coming to make sure we didn’t die in the night. But somehow I’d known she’d continued this personal ritual of hers. Usually my mother was a person who held her back straight, but tonight her back bent into a weird shape and her head rolled from side to side as she stared straight ahead.

  “Mother,” I said.

  “Mariska, what are you doing awake?”

  “I took a nap earlier. I’m tired, but I’m not tired.”

  “You speak like an elder—full of contradictions.”

  I got up and leaned on her and felt her arms around me. As I huddled against her I noticed that the elder and her daughter, though much older, were huddled in the same way. “Mother, you have to promise that if you need to you will not hesitate to kill anyone in your way.”

  “Mariska, it hurts me to hear you talk that way. Children should not speak of killing.”

  “I’m only saying if you must.”

  “You must not worry about me but about Jobei and Leisha. Maruk may not be with you for long.”

  “He is abandoning me, as you are.”

  She ignored that. “You must watch out especially for Jobei. Jobei’s heart is as big as the sun. There was a time in Bakshami when a heart like that needed no extra protection, but that time passed last night. Will you promise never to leave his side?”

  “I promise I will stay with him as long as to do so makes sense.”

  “Then you are saying you will not promise.”

  My mother did not scold me the way she once might have if I defied her. Instead she held me quietly, and as half-night approached she began to talk, almost the way Tarkahn did.

  “There are two things I want to talk to you about. One was brought to mind by my conversations with Ansmeea. She talked often about her late husband, who died at the peak of her love for him. She once left home for her husband. Having made that sacrifice for him embittered her. So even as she loved him more and more, bitterness tainted her love. As time passed their marriage grew more complex rather than more simple, as my own marriage has. I would wish a more simple life for you. I also have a favor to ask you. My own mother taught me that you should do everything you can for your children, but that once one of them dies, as is inevitable, you must think fir
st of your live children, then of the dead one if there is time. I loved Katinka as much as I loved anyone in the world, but now I have to think of you who are left, and only after that’s taken care of can I take a moment alone to think about Katinka. Perhaps that moment will never come, so I hope that before you have your own children you’ll take the time to do what I may never have the opportunity to.”

  “Are you saying you’ll never have a moment’s rest again?”

  “I look at the future and don’t see where rest fits into it.”

  “Shall I rest for you, too?”

  “If you think of me sometimes, and of your father, yes, perhaps you can try to find a restful spot inside of you and reserve that spot for us.”

  “I can make my whole heart restful if you want.”

  “Just a spot. We will try to return soon, but remember that as time goes on you’ll have feelings for many people to fill your heart, but if you would just promise a spot for your parents, I think that would be enough to make me feel during the next couple of cycles that the walk is not unbearable.”

  “I promise that, and more.”

  “No more is necessary.”

  When I woke it was morning, and my parents had already sneaked off.

  My brothers, sister, and I went to the edge of camp and gazed into the horizon. All day we said things like, “They’ve passed the old camp now,” or “They’re probably taking lunch now.” We sat together until evening, and then we returned to camp.

  In camp, I furiously beat sticks together all night, learning rhythms I hadn’t even known existed.

  And in this way another evening passed.

  Part Three

  1

  For the next few days I had a strange sickening feeling that was not only love for my parents but disbelief at their departure. At moments that night I wished I could learn to hate them, for though hate was new to me it already seemed familiar. The moons shone through the sparse trees, like certain metals before polishing. Damos was not quite full, but you could see the faint outline of its full form. I watched the sky and comforted myself with the knowledge that my parents watched it, too, and thought of my brothers, my sister, and me.

  That night I heard a sound I’d never heard before, that of Maruk and his new wife having sex. They did it almost noiselessly, but I knew what the soft sounds meant. In the background Tarkahn mumbled, and the elder crabbed on, her voice alternately pleading and berating, full of both wishes and bile. Jobei, Leisha, and I slept close together, Jobei shivering and hugging me so that I could feel his soft penis against my leg, and feel his chest heaving with sadness and fear.

  The next morning Jobei and I got up early and hurried to the outskirts of the forest, to maintain a vigil at the last place we’d seen our parents. Jobei told me that given the choice between possibly ending the war and keeping our parents with us, he would have chosen keeping our parents. Of course there was no such choice. But sweet Jobei felt himself dishonored because he knew that if there had been such a choice, he would have made the “wrong” one.

  Every day someone suggested the hundred of us remaining should leave the lake for the hotlands. But there was always a reason not to. For instance, we needed to dry more furrto meat, or we needed more furrto hides to make water carriers out of. Other reasons we decided not to leave were that it was too hot, or there was a possibility that it would be too hot, or it had been so hot the day before that we hadn’t rested well.

  When the memory of our parents hurt less, Jobei, Leisha, Maruk, and I spent the days practicing our rhythms, and in the evenings after dinner we would go off to our separate projects—Maruk and Sian to obsessing about adventure, Leisha to compulsively memorizing jokes that the others in camp could tell her, Jobei to tidying up and helping anyone who needed it, and I to daydreaming for hours about what my parents might be doing at each moment I daydreamed. Maruk counseled me to stop my daydreaming if I ever wanted to amount to anything. He said my body was becoming unattached from my soul, and that wasn’t the way of a Bakshami. So I started to pursue whatever occurred to me on a certain day. I’d work extra hard on my rhythms, accompany Jobei on his helping rounds, listen to Tarkahn or the elder lady, or train Artie to accomplish ever more complicated tasks. I would also watch Maruk for long periods. I saw in his face something I’d never seen before, a coldness that had once been mystery, an aloofness that had evolved from his anger.

  My parents had made us believe we were the center of the world. Now I was forced outside my selfish world, and so I noticed people in a new way. I’d known Tarkahn my whole life. But here in camp I noticed much that I’d never seen before. For instance, in spite of all his talking, he was a good listener. I’d known he was polite and that when someone else wanted to talk, he would lower his voice so that others could hear. But I didn’t know he lowered his voice so he, too, could hear the other person. And unlike most people, who can only either talk well or listen well at any given moment, he could be thinking hard about what he was saying while at the same time thinking hard about what his interlocutor was saying. It was quite a talent.

  I also watched Ansmeea sometimes. I noticed how she grew angry over the slightest provocation, often even over circumstances—which couldn’t be changed.

  The elder lady intrigued me. She actually seemed to have the seeing and knowing powers, but she was cunning. I suspected she’d denied her powers so she hadn’t had to make the trek alone to the hotlands years earlier, only to come back before her death. My grandfather had muttered something once about her being a cheater, but we’d thought he was just being cantankerous. Whenever she spoke, which she did often lately, the elder lady never segued gracefully between subjects. Instead she leapt wildly from subject to subject, so that it was said only the very witty or the very witless could keep up with her in conversation. She and Tarkahn had formed a friendship.

  He respectfully called her Elder, and she disrespectfully called him his childhood nickname, Tak-Tak.

  “Now the secret to training your dogs well,” he might say, “is that you have to press and rub them softly near their genitals, because in this way they learn that they can trust you...”

  “Tak-Tak, pervert,” the elder would reply. “I knew it even when he was a boy.”

  “...well-trained dog is one of the foundations for survival in the world...”

  “Pipsqueaks! I’m surrounded by pipsqueaks!” the elder would then exclaim. Next she might pounce through the air with surprising and thrilling agility and land right where I would have been sitting if I didn’t move. “So what if a spouse’s habits annoy you! For example, maybe he makes chewing noises after he drinks water, yes, that’s very annoying. And maybe he doesn’t smell so good, I can see where that might be a problem. But maybe he also works hard. Did you ever think of that?” She would grab her head with both hands, as if her head pounded with pain. “Oh, when I think of the time I’ve spent worrying over fools!”

  And Tarkahn, who’d been mumbling in a respectful and appropriately soft voice, would jump in. “The subject of fools is always an interesting one. There are many questions, like whether a fool is a brave person with no common sense, or whether a fool is a person with common sense and no courage. Which one is the bigger fool is a question that...”

  And so on.

  As a new season approached, the air became no cooler, except perhaps only slightly at night. We didn’t miss any of the blankets that had burned in camp. Yet some people said that as long as winter neared we ought to stay at the lake, because it might get uncomfortably cold after dark or it might start to rain as we traveled. These people said we should wait until we were sure it wouldn’t rain much before resuming our trip to the hotlands. But the opposition said that when winter ended the others would say we should wait until it started to rain. The rift grew between those wanting to stay and those wanting to leave, with those wanting to leave becoming more and more frustrated. We held a vote, and staying won out. That’s what I voted for. But one evening, thos
e who wished to leave called a meeting at which they announced they planned to depart the next day. All who wanted to come should come and all who wanted to stay should stay. “If you’re coming, be ready at sunrise, because that’s when we’re leaving.”

  And because the rest of my family chose to go, I left, too. That’s the way war is. Yesterday’s decision means nothing as circumstances change. As the sun rose the next morning, about sixty of us set off. Fifteen belonged to the Ba Mirada clan. We took enough water but not enough food to last us until the next lake, but we hoped to run into game along the way. As we left, Tarkahna and I stared longingly at the camp. But it was time to leave.

  Despite her protestations, the elder was tied to a sled and forced to come with us to the hotlands. But she’d said the sled hadn’t been constructed that could take her where she didn’t want to go, and on the fourth night she disappeared, never to be seen again. I tried to remember how many people had disappeared from my life, but I couldn’t count them all. That, too, is how war is.

  Maruk left in the middle of the night eleven days after we started off. I had been begging him to stay and threatening to follow him. But the day before he left had been a brutal one, astonishing in the hallucinatory viciousness of the heat. I could barely keep my head up as he kissed my cheeks and ears over and over, whispering that he was going to Soom Kali for adventure, and then on to Artroro to raise a family. A family, indeed! It did not matter to me in the slightest if I died, or lived to raise a family. And yet there was something in all of us that made us go forward. On the same day that Maruk left it was as if he had already left so long ago the memory had faded. Whenever I felt Maruk creeping into my heart, I felt too tired to walk. So I put the sorrow out of my heart. Love became secondary to survival. I would not have thought it possible that anything might be more important than my honored brother; but I would not have thought many things possible that had already come to pass.