Folio Two, Page Eleven (svegra mos itzkron tal-itz)
If that seems precocious for a child of seven, the sentence formula comes from Red Birds Hanging. You should see the opera next time it comes to Menarka. It has everything—ghosts, death, vengeance, betrayal—and an illegitimate heroine. That last evening with my mother before she boarded the death-train, we saw it. The ksibja part was exquisite, and my mother had promised to order sheet music for me as soon as she arrived in Galasu.
I demand my place at her funerary rites. How powerful a phrase! It means everything if you believe in the powers of the dead—whoever stops the claimant is cursed—see, the curse is that potent—to hauntings and visitations from the deceased until either both die or the claimant performs the essential component of the funerary rites. This meaning meant nothing to me at seven because I only remembered the hunted look on the villain’s face in the opera, her hair free of its bun and soaking up the blood of her husband. Had I not performed my part of the ritual, my mother’s ghost would have come after me—; witness the immediate good of my fame-lust.
The Niksubvya family did not, for the most part, believe in the folk superstitions. Our ancestors became Narahji in the chaos after the Occupation; the line was born Menashi, and the Menashi blood expressed itself in bizarre ways.
One of the advisers whispered in Deimo Manurannyi’s left ear and turned to me. The Deimo said in Tveshi, “You are not dressed for a funeral.” The word for funeral, thučela, was one I had not yet learned. I understood it from context.
“I am sorry.” It was the only thing I felt safe saying in the national language, and I didn’t want the scene I had created to worsen her opinion of me. (Keep in mind that we spoke while the crowd control officers herded the people back onto the sides of the road; it was my fault that they had run forward. Only eleven years earlier, a crowd had overwhelmed a funeral of a much-celebrated priest of Yilrega; it is unsure whether all of his remains were retrieved, or what the people did with the fragments of his body. The state now showed a documentary to students every few years about it to educate them about proper ritual conduct.) “My mother. Funeral body.”
She frowned and murmured something to the man who had whispered, Adviser Kimajoa. They sounded like snakes. Deimo Manurannyi gestured towards me; in her eyes, I saw confusion bordering on hatred.
“Deimo Manurannyi hath decided whereby you may community the funeral.” Adviser Kimajoa’s Narahji made me want to laugh. I think that he was from Iturja, and they are not as sensitive about vowel differentiation. “You maintain whereby you are the daughter to Adviser Nitannyi?”
I nodded, too afraid to laugh, and repeated, “I demand my place at her funerary rites.”
“Apologies. No one surrendered whereby Adviser Nitannyi had a child.” He moved to the side; Deimo Manurannyi nodded at me and smiled. “You have another someone’s eyes.”
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