Folio Two, Page Twelve (svegra mos itzkron tal-roh)
The advisers clustered around Deimo Manurannyi like flower petals. I caught only a flash of her copper headdress between their transparent Menarki jackets as she twisted around. The light cast shadows of embroidery on their skin, dark like henna. Compared to all of them, I was naked.
Just behind the assembly of advisers, I saw several men and women with real tattoos in many vivid colors, none of them speaking. Near them, but not too close, stood a man with red eyes whom I recognized from the Cave of the Infinities. Certainly the nuamë nuaf iča—for that was him, I am sure of it;—but why had he come to my mother’s funeral? He smiled at me and pressed his index finger to his lips. The strengthening sun had left the first blush of red on his impractical white skin. Before, I would have thought such a thing impossible, but now I know that immortality does not leave one immune to nature.
Kobeis rushed out of nowhere and grabbed my hands. The shock of human touch drew me out of the thought space, and I stopped staring at the nuamë nuaf iča for her sake. “Mama said you wouldn’t come, but I knew you’d find a way.”
I kissed the backs of her hands and tried not to look at the deliberating people. “When did she say?”
“Yesterday.”
I looked down.
“Don’t worry. The Fadehin is nice. She gave me a gum drop. It was blue, and it tasted like summer sunshine. She said so herself.” Neither of us had learned yet why our families called the Fadehin the Deimo, and Kobeis would not switch titles until her early teens when the kids at school wrote assimilator on her books in red paint. “Maybe she’ll give you a gum drop, too.”
Deimo Manurannyi suddenly seemed less intimidating. I glanced her way. “You think so?” The question didn’t demand an answer, but Kobeis bobbed her head up and down like a seed caught in the current.
The circle of advisers parted. I saw her again, and she looked magnificent. The serpents on her red mourning gown danced in cloudbreak light. The black woven cords of her wig—thousands of them, from the looks of it—flowed down just below her breasts, crinkling with metal and bells as she moved towards me. As she came close, we locked eyes, and I saw that hers were pale, yellowish amber, not dark brown like Sehìnta’s, and definitely not the variable turquoise I had inherited.
Adviser Kimajoa followed at a respectful distance, never taking his eyes from her feet. When they approached me, he said, “She hath decreed whereby you may perform the rites. Does hereby satisfy you?”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
One of the other advisers removed his transparent jacket. The tunic beneath it looked more fitting for the weather, and I’m sure he was happy to see it go. “For your dignity,” Adviser Kimajoa told me as he passed it to me.
Anumë’s experssion revealed nothing as I slipped the jacket over my shoulders and tied the sash. The tradition would hopefully position us far away from each other.
The red jacket smelled like men’s aftershave and fried amga, the blue-green fritters people sell at the docks by the fancy hotels and that permanent tourist trap carnival. It seemed appropriate that the advisers would stay there, and he had probably eaten a fried amga on the way. At least I could claim respectability now.
A priestess stepped forward from the back of the party. She knelt down and spoke softly to me, telling me everything that I needed to know. The opera had lied to me about most things, but operas seldom depict events as they actually happen. Real life rarely has the appropriate level of dramatic tension. The amount of information made me feel lost, so I asked Kobeis to stand with me so she could help with the particulars. The priestess didn’t dissuade her. “You can help with the anointing vase. One child cannot lift it. Usually, if a young mother dies, the surviving parent helps her, but in Aneti’s case ...” The use of my formal name frightened me more than anything else she said.
We had enough time while the mob quieted to go over everything thoroughly. The day had not quite blossomed in full force by the time the priestess’s attendants re-lit the censers and the chorus sounded the drums that would guide us on our crematorium journey.
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