The Memory of Earth (12 page)

It wasn’t until he was lying on his mat, still shaking even though his room was
not
cold, that he finally realized what was bothering him. Elemak had mentioned that Gaballufix was involved in negotiating the price with the Potoku. Obviously this whole plan had Gaballufix’s
support—who else but the clan chief would think he could commit the Palwashantu to such a dangerous course of action without even consulting the council? And so it was reasonable to suppose that when Elya warned about the dangerous enemies Father was making, it was Gaballufix he was referring to.

Gaballufix, whose house Elemak secretly visited today.

Where was Elemak’s loyalty? With Father? Or with his half-brother Gaballufix? Clearly Elya was involved with this war wagon plan. What else was he involved with? The dangerous people weren’t making
threats,
he had said. So what
were
they making—plans? Was Elya in on a plan to do something ugly to Father, and his hints were an attempt to warn Father away?

Just today, Mebbekew had spoken of metaphorical patricide.

No, thought Nafai. No, I’m simply upset because all of this has happened so suddenly, in one day. Father has a vision, and suddenly he’s caught up in city politics in a way he never was before, almost as if the Oversoul sent him this vision specifically
because
of this stupid provocative project of Gaballufix’s, because action needed to be taken
now
.

Why? What did the fate of Basilica matter to the Oversoul? Countless cities and nations had risen and fallen—dozens every century, thousands and thousands in all of human history. Maybe millions. The Oversoul hadn’t lifted a finger. It wasn’t war that the Oversoul cared about; it certainly wasn’t preventing human suffering. So why was the Oversoul getting involved now? What was the
urgency
? Was it worth tearing their family apart? And even if maybe it was, who decided anyway? Nobody had asked the Oversoul for this, so if they really were getting bounced around as part of some master
plan, it might be nice if the Oversoul let them in on what it had in mind.

Nafai lay on his mat, trembling.

Then he remembered. I wasn’t going to sleep on a mat tonight. I was going to try to be a real man.

He almost laughed aloud. Sleeping on the bare floor—
that
would make me a man? What an idiot I am. What an ass.

Laughing at himself, now he could sleep.

“
Where
did you spend all day yesterday?”

Nafai didn’t want this conversation, but there was no avoiding it. Mother was not one to let one of her students disappear for a day without an accounting.

“I walked around.”

As he had expected, this was not going to be enough for Mother. “I didn’t think that you
flew
,” she said. “Though I’m surprised you didn’t curl up somewhere and sleep. Where did you go?”

“To some very educational places,” said Nafai. He had in mind Gaballufix’s house and the Open Theatre, but of course Mother would interpret his words as she wished.

“Dolltown?” she asked.

“There’s nothing much going on there in the daytime, Mother.”

“And you shouldn’t be going there at all,” she said. “Or do you think you already know everything about everything, so that you have no further need of schooling?”

“There are some subjects you just don’t teach here, Mother.” Again, the truth—but not the truth.

“Ah,” she said. “Dhelembuvex was right about you.”

Oh, yes, wonderful. Time to get an Auntie for your little boy.

“I should have seen it coming. Your body is growing so fast—too fast, I fear, outstripping your maturity in every other area.”

This was too much to bear. He had planned to listen calmly to everything she said, let her jump to her own conclusions, and then get back to class and have done with the whole thing. But to have her thinking that his gonads were running his life when, if anything, his mind was more mature than his body—

“Is that as smart as you know how to be, Mother?”

She raised an eyebrow.

He knew he was already overstepping himself, but he had begun, and the words were there in his mind, and so he said them. “You see something inexplicable going on, and if it’s a boy doing it, you’re sure it has to do with his sexual desires.”

She half-smiled. “I do have some knowledge of men, Nafai, and the idea that the behavior of a fourteen-year-old might have some link to sexual desire is based on much evidence.”

“But I’m your
son,
and still you don’t know me from a pile of bricks.”

“So you
didn’t
go to Dolltown?”

“Not for any reason
you’d
imagine.”

“Ah,” she said. “I can imagine
many
reasons. But not one of the possible reasons for you to go to Dolltown suggests that you have very good judgment.”

“Oh, and you’re the expert on good judgment, I imagine.”

His sarcasm was not playing well. “You forget, I think, that I am your mother and your schoolmistress.”

“It was you, Mother, and not I who invited those two girls to
that family
meeting yesterday.”

“And this showed poor judgment on my part?”

“Extremely poor. By the time I got to the Open Theatre it was still several hours before dark, and already the word was out about Father’s vision.”

“That’s not surprising,” said Mother. “Father went directly to the clan council. It would hardly be a secret after that.”

“Not just his
vision
, Mother. There was already a satire in rehearsal—one of Drotik’s, too, no less—that included a fascinating little portico scene. Since the only people present who were
not
family were those two witchgirls—”

“Hold your tongue!”

He immediately fell silent, but with an undeniable sense of victory. Yes, Mother was furious—but he had also scored a point with her, to get her this angry.

“Your referring to them by that demeaning
manword
is offensive in the extreme,” said Mother. Her voice was quiet now; she was
really
angry. “Luet is a seer and Hushidh is a raveler. Furthermore, both have been completely discreet, mentioning nothing to anyone.”

“Oh, have you watched them every second since—”

“I said to hold your tongue.” Her voice was like ice. “For your information, my bright, wise,
mature
little boy, the reason there was a portico scene in Drotik’s satire—which, by the way, I
saw,
and it was very badly done, so it hardly worries me—the reason there was a portico scene was because while your father was going to the clan council, I was at the city council, and when
I
told the story I included the events on this portico. Why, asks my brilliant son with a deliciously stupid look on his face? Because the only thing that made the council take your
father’s vision seriously was the fact that Luet believed him and found his vision consonant with her own.”

Mother
had told.
Mother
had brought down ridicule and ruin upon the family. Unbelievable. “Ah,” said Nafai.

“I thought you’d see things a little differently.”

“I see that there was nothing wrong with having Luet and Hushidh at the family meeting,” said Nafai. “It was
you
who should have been excluded.”

Her hand lashed out across his face. If she had been aiming for his cheek, she missed, perhaps because he reflexively drew his head back. Instead her fingernail caught him on the chin, tearing the skin. It stung and drew blood.

“You forget yourself, sir,” she said.

“Not as badly as you have forgotten yourself, Madam,” he answered. Or rather, that was how he
meant
to answer. He even
began
to answer that way, but in the middle of the sentence the enormity of her having struck him that way, the shock and hurt of it, the sheer humiliation of his mother hitting him reduced him to tears. “I’m sorry,” he said. Though what he really wanted to say was How dare you, I’m too old for that, I hate you. It was impossible to say such harsh things, however, when he was crying like a baby. Nafai hated it, how tears had always come so easily to him, and it wasn’t getting any better as he got older.

“Maybe next time you’ll remember to speak to me with proper respect,” she said. But she, too, was unable to maintain her sharp tone, for even as she spoke he felt her arm around him as she sat beside him, comforted him.

She could not possibly understand that the way she nestled his head to her shoulder only added to the humiliation and confirmed him in his decision to regard her as an enemy. If she had the power to make him cry because of his love for her, then there was only one
possible solution for him: to cease loving her. This was the last time she would ever be able to do this to him.

“You’re bleeding,” she said.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

“Let me stanch it—here, with a clean handkerchief, not that horrible rag you carry in your pocket, you absurd little boy.”

That’s all I’ll ever be in this house, isn’t it? An absurd little boy. He pulled away from her, refused to let the handkerchief touch his chin. But she persisted, and dabbed at the wound, and the white cloth came away surprisingly bloody—so he took it from her hand and pressed it against the wound. “Deep, I guess,” he said.

“If you hadn’t moved your head back, my nails wouldn’t have caught your chin like that.”

If you hadn’t slapped me, your nails would have been in your
lap
. But he held his tongue.

“I can see that you’re taking our family’s situation very much to heart, Nafai, but your values are a little twisted. What does the ridicule of the satirists matter? Everyone knows that every great figure in the history of Basilica was darted at one time or another, and usually for the very thing that made her—or him—great. We can bear that. What matters is that Father’s vision was a very clear warning from the Oversoul, with immediate implications for our city’s course of action over the next few days and weeks and months. The embarrassment will pass. And among the women in this city who really count, Father is viewed as quite a remarkable man—their respect for him is growing. So try to control your embarrassment at your father’s having come to the center of attention. All children in their early teens are excruciatingly sensitive to embarrassment, but in time you will learn that criticism and ridicule are not always bad. To earn the enmity of evil people can speak very well of you.”

He could hardly believe she thought so little of him as to think he needed such a lecture as this one. Did she really believe that it was
embarrassment
he feared? If she had listened instead of lecturing, he might have told her about Elemak’s warning about danger to Father, about his secret visit to Gaballufix’s house. But it was clear that in her eyes he was still nothing but a child. She wouldn’t take his warning seriously. Indeed, she’d probably give him another lecture about not letting fears and worries take possession of your mind, but instead to concentrate on his studies and let adults worry about the
real
problems in the world.

In her mind, I’m still six years old and I always will be. “I’m sorry, Mother. I’ll not speak to you that way again.” In fact, I doubt that I’ll ever say anything serious or important to you again as long as you live.

“I accept your apology, Nafai, as I hope you’ll accept mine for having struck you in my anger.”

“Of course, Mother.” I’ll accept your apology—
when
you offer it and
when
I believe that you mean it. However, as a matter of fact, dear beloved breadbasket out of whom I sprang, you did not actually apologize to me at any point in our conversation. You only expressed the hope that I would accept an apology which in fact was never offered.

“I hope, Nafai, you will resume your studies and not allow these events in the city to disturb the normal routines of your life any further. You have a very keen mind, and there is no particular reason for you to let these things distract you from the honing of that mind.”

Thank you for the dollop of praise, Mother. You’ve told me that I’m childish, that I’m a slave of lust, and that my views are to be silenced, not listened to. You’ll pay serious attention to every word drooled from the mouth
of that
witch
girl, but you start from the assumption that anything
I
say is worthless.

“Yes, Mother,” said Nafai. “But I’d rather not go back to class right now, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” she said. “I understand completely.”

Dear Oversoul, keep me from laughing.

“I can’t have you out wandering the streets again, Nafai, I’m sure you can understand that. Father’s vision has attracted enough attention that someone
will
say something that will make you angry, and I don’t want you fighting.”

So you’re worried about
me
fighting, Mother? Kindly remember who struck whom here on your portico today.

“Why not spend the day in the library, with Issib? He’ll be a good influence on you, I think—he’s always so calm.”