Текст книги "Trill and Bajor "

Автор книги: Andy Mangels

Соавторы: J. Kim,Michael Martin
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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Rena

Rena awoke distressingly early the next morning, a full ten minutes before the house computer was programmed to chime. What could have awakened her? Noise from the street? Unlikely. At this hour, most of the fishermen had been out in their boats for a couple of hours, and few of them lived this far up in the Harbor Ring hills, preferring that their houses be close to the docks. Marja would already be downstairs in the bakery, which was on the other side of the house, and Rena knew from experience that Marja would have to drop one of the biggest mixing bowls or—unthinkable!—slam an oven door for her to hear it up on the third floor. So the question remained: Why was she awake?

Guilt, perhaps. Her stomach knotted as she contemplated the looming confrontation with Marja. When she had arrived, yesterday afternoon, Marja had been at services. By the time her aunt had returned home, Rena had already fallen asleep and was just now waking up for the first time in fourteen hours.

Images from night before last swam up from memory: Jacob. He might be in Mylea now. Would she see him again? Not that he would wantto see her, or she him, for that matter. To think she’d been with the son of the Emissary all that time and not known it! Thinking back, she couldn’t honestly say he’d lied outright about his identity, but he’d certainly withheld it. In retrospect, there had been clues in some of things he let slip, and the fact that she hadn’t put the details together before was now a source of embarrassment.

She remembered the single holo the newsfeeds had been permitted to take of the Emissary and his newborn daughter—the Avatar, as some believed. Many, many images had been taken of Sisko over the years, but the press had been cooperative about not taking images of his family, a privacy demand the media had no choice but to comply with. Sisko had made it clear: If one newsfeed ignored his request, all the others would be cut off. Perhaps that’s why she hadn’t recognized Jacob the way Halar had. Halar had spent most of her middle years digging through the comnet, saving every file and picture she could find, becoming an expert on all things Sisko in the process. If it hadn’t been in the headlines, Rena hadn’t bothered, being more concerned with her art and Kail. It seemed appropriate now that they were adults that their childhood obsessions still defined them: Halar was studying to become a prylar, Rena was still painting and with Kail—sort of. Or maybe neither.

Rena sagged back against the narrow bed, sighed, hauled herself up into a standing position, and wobbled across the cool wood floor to her tiny ’fresher.

After pulling her wiry black hair back into a loose knot, Rena quickly scrubbed her face, took her allergy medicine, and cleaned her teeth, not thinking about any one thing, but letting a dozen stray thoughts course through her consciousness. After the initial foundation work was completed, she worked up the nerve to look herself squarely in the mirror and was pleased to see that things could be worse. Her complexion, naturally creamy brown, masked the bags (with a little help from a little powder), but the lines around her eyes were difficult to disguise. Scrunching up her eyes, she stared at herself and recalled her grandfather’s comment: It’s not the years; it’s the distance traveled. Only last month, she had plucked the first silver hair from among the black and she could see another growing in its place. Marja had told her that her sister, Rena’s mother, had gone completely gray by thirty. Rena hoped that environment had been a factor: her mother’s life had been much more difficult than hers had been.

When she was a young girl, Marja and Topa had told her tales of her mother and father, Lariah and Jiram, so many times that they were, to Rena, like characters in a story. Their tale went like this: Her mother, Lariah, and her father, Jiram, had grown up during the Occupation. By day, Jiram had fished, like most of the men, and Lariah had worked with Topa and Marja in the bakery making Cardassian scorca,the flat bread the Occupation troops craved. “They were the bravest people in town,” Topa had told her over and over. “They could have been like everyone else and just done what they were told, but they wanted life to be better for everyone.”

“Especially me!” the young Rena would say (her recurring line).

“Especially you,” Topa would say.

No one else in Mylea had been brave enough to give up their soft lives; everyone knew how bad living conditions were in the big cities, the industrial centers, and the mining camps. No one wanted to take a risk.

But bravery was not always enough, or so the story went. One night, someone made a mistake or, possibly, the Cardassians just got lucky. Lariah and Jiram had not returned from their mission to free a group of prisoners, so baby Rena went to live with Marja and Topa. Somewhere along the line, she had learned that Topa, too, worked for the resistance, but had the sense or the luck to not be caught. As she grew older and understood things more clearly, there came a point when he would say, “They were the bravest people in town,” and she would mentally append, Except for you.

Enough,Rena thought, unknotting her hair and trying to rake the wild locks into submission with her fingers. This was all twenty years ago. You don’t even remember them. The Cardassians are gone now.Padding back into the bedroom, she took the clothes she would wear today from the hooks on the back of the door: black skirt (or pants), black shoes, black or gray shirt (or sweater, depending on the chill in the air), and a white pullover with purple fluting. Now all she needed was her apron and the transformation would be complete. Seeing herself in the mirror, she said, “Hello, Bakery Shop Girl,” and started downstairs to help Marja.

Every late spring, the intercoastal salt marshes north of Mylea were infused with newly warmed seawater from a southerly warm current bringing along the immense schools of tiny fish that, in turn, brought the bigger game fish. At almost the same time, give or take a week, a mass of damp, cool air descended from the mountains and mingled with the warm sea air, creating a dense white fog of such peculiar perspicacity that it was renowned around the planet and treasured by artists, holographers, and, in particular, lovers.

Before leaving Mylea for university, Rena had often enough read the expression “tendrils of fog” in stories and assumed that the author had described a condition that he had seen. Now that she had been away, Rena knew the truth: Most writers didn’t know realfog. In other towns, fog was wispy and insubstantial. In Mylea, you could practically wrap it around you and wear it like a coat. In other places, fog was merely the ghost of a cloud; in Mylea, fog was like an ambassador of the ocean coming up onto land to remind it who was really in charge.

Lovers walking in Mylean fogs were almost always sure to lose themselves and wander into shadowy gardens and secluded corners. The lonely and the lovelorn claimed to feel soothed by visions of those they had lost too soon or never known. Harsh breezes never disturbed the vapors, but soft breezes would often waft through the streets, making the tendrils curl and dance like ocean waves. Even after the sun rose, the fog would linger and shroud the shops and houses in a translucent silvery veil. In Mylea, in the proper season, at the right hour, those who were open to wonder could find anything there they could possibly wish to see.

As she passed the round window on the stairway down to the bakery, Rena yawned hugely. Outside, the sky was just beginning to turn pinkish gray as the first rays of light began to rend the low morning clouds. She had seen enough early-morning fogs to know it would be a beautiful day, though she might not see much of it if Marja was in a punishing mood. “Here we go,” she muttered, and pushed open the heavy wood door that led to the main kitchen.

The heavy door creaked as Rena walked in. Marja, bent over a tray of specialty breads with a glazing brush, glanced up, waved absently, then went back to what she was doing. Except for their pale skin, the same spray of freckles over the nose, and (so Rena was told) the same laugh, the sisters Marja and Lariah could not have been more unalike. Where Lariah had been willowy and tall, Marja was broad-shouldered and buxom, her arms thick with ropy muscle. Where Lariah had been fair, Marja’s cheeks and nose were perpetually red, the result of a sensitivity to raw prusinseed enzymes, a condition that might have been eradicated if Federation medicine had been available to her in her youth. She walked with a slight limp from a childhood break that never properly healed. Rena’s father had been the dark-skinned one, and though she was built more like her mother, only the most observant could see any resemblance between her and her aunt. “Is there any tea?”

“Just put the water on,” her aunt said, still fussing with her bread.

“What do you need me to do?” Rena asked, looking directly overhead.

“If you can stay focused, glaze the buns.”

It was an old complaint. Rena rolled her eyes. “What do you mean ‘focused’?”

Marja shrugged. “No painting the buns with tinted glaze, no decorative flower patterns with the nuts and candies. No concocting experiments with the sweet bread recipes. We’re not creating art, we’re feeding people. Fofen Genn’s replicators broke down. He’s a houseful of boarders with no way to feed them. You’ll need to take down a few baskets of rolls to hold them over while he waits for the repair person to arrive.” Without actually looking up at Rena, she asked, “So did your trip purge that wandering impulse from you once and for all? I hope it did, because Kail came over every day when you were gone and I just know he’s ready to make your engagement official.”

“We’re not even unofficially engaged,” Rena said. “And he comes over here because you feed him.”

“I hope at least that you finished the design for Topa’s memorial. Every time I see him at shrine services, Vlahi from the foundry tells me he’s ready to make the mold.” Marja’s voice was sharp with frustration.

Rena winced, recalling her destroyed sketchbook. “No, Auntie. I’m going to have to start over. But I promise I’ll have it done before next week.” She looked more closely at Marja, noting the tension in her shoulders. She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I was leaving for Kenda. I contacted you as soon as I could—”

Marja held up a hand to shush her. “After all these years, I should be used to your bouts of wanderlust. But I have to confess this last disappearance surprised even me. Not even a week after Topa’s passing. I know he asked you to go on his behalf, but there’s work for the living to be done, Rena.” She tsked. “And then on the heels of abandoning Kail at the shrine—”

Rena blurted, “I never agreed to go to the vedek with Kail!” Closing her eyes, she gritted her teeth and counted backward until she’d regained emotional control. She was so tired of having this discussion. “I left school for Mylea. Told my professors I wasn’t coming back because I was needed at home. Isn’t that enough?”

“Enough? Your parents gave their lives so that Mylea could be preserved and Rena asks if she’s done enough?”

Rena let Marja’s words hang in the air, restraining herself from pursuing an argument. She suspected that her aunt lashed out from her own pain. Marja had buried her grief deep inside her: she missed her father terribly. That Marja was frustrated with her inability to commit to Kail wasn’t new. Though it was pretty close to the same conclusion she had recently come to about herself, Rena did not feel like giving her aunt the opportunity to stand with her hands on her wide hips and lecture her further.

“Kail wants me to go to Yyn for the Auster pageant next week.”

“Good,” Marja said shortly.

A buzzer saved both women from having to pursue the matter. Marja tapped a series of commands into the kitchen controls that unlocked and opened the ovens. Dozens of wire racks loaded with bun-filled trays glided out into the open air, accompanied by clouds of yeasty steam.

Marja lifted a few of the buns to check for readiness. “Give these a minute to cool and we can pack Fofen’s order.”

Without being told, Rena went to the rear of the kitchen to the pantry and retrieved the handmade rustic reed baskets and long lengths of coarse linen they had always used to pack the bread. Ten years ago, Rena, as a little slip of a girl, would help Topa and Marja deliver these baskets to market or to the Cardassian barracks. As she and Marja plucked the rolls off the trays, Rena wondered if Marja had similar memories. Once the baskets were filled, they loaded them onto a two-wheeled pull-cart that Rena would tow, a splintery wood handle gripped in each hand, across the hill to the boardinghouse.

As Rena wheeled the cart down the passageway to the courtyard, she passed by Topa’s old bedroom, finding his door propped open. She saw through her grandfather’s window that the sun was now high enough in the sky to shine down through the mist and make it the same colorless color and density as the spray of flour that pops out the top when the sack is first cut open. He would love a day like today.

Once outside, Rena squatted down by the cart wheels to make sure the axle had been repaired since the last time she’d used it.

“Excuse me?”

Startled, she jumped up. “Yes? What? Sorry…what?”

A tall figure stood in front of her, silhouetted against the mist, its hand extended to touch her shoulder, but not touching her. “I’m sorry,” the figure said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Fofen sent me down to see if the bread was done—”

At the same time, both of them realized the other’s identity and startled, taking long steps in opposite directions.

“Jacob,” Rena managed to squeak out. To see him now, emerging from the mist, an otherworldly apparition…Rena struggled to shake off the shock.

“Uh. Yeah. Rena,” he sputtered. “I should have thought to ask if this was your family—I mean I had no idea that this bakery was yours—I, you know, ummm…”

The slap-slap-slap of leather soles on the wet rock pavement sounded; Rena and Jacob’s heads pivoted toward the lanky figure emerging out of the fog.

“Hey Jacob! Genn just heard from Marja. The bread is on its way….” Fofen Parsh’s voice trailed off as he saw the pair. He looked from Jacob to Rena, then back again. Smiling shyly at her, Parsh dropped his eyes and said, “Rena—nice to see you again. Sorry I missed Topa’s funeral. He was a great old guy. If you ever want to talk, I’m always—”

“Thanks, Parsh,” Rena said, cutting him off. Avoiding further eye contact with Jacob, she stepped out from between the handles and offered the cart to the two men. “One of you want to take this up? I’m sure my aunt could use my help, since the customers will be arriving soon.” She crossed her arms over her chest, thrusting out her chin.

“You’d better believe Marja can use your help,” Marja boomed from behind.

Rena jumped visibly.

“Genn’s repair people aren’t available until after midmeal. In addition to our usual orders and what we need for drop-ins, Genn needs bread for meat and cheese bundles.” Marja stood beside Rena, scrutinizing both of the young men from their boots to their hair. “You’re looking well, Parsh. Being back in Mylea doesn’t agree with Rena, but it agrees with you.”

Rena inhaled sharply, flushing with embarrassed fury.

Squinting, Marja jabbed toward Jacob. “And this other fellow?”

Parsh, who had always been a little afraid of Marja, stammered an introduction.

Marja pursed her lips, studying Jacob for a long moment before turning to him with a sniff. “You’ll be coming back for the next order, Jacob?”

Jacob stood up straighter. “I expect so, ma’am.”

“Bring the cart back with you. It’s not like I can transport your food up the street.”

Parsh assumed Rena’s former position between the cart handles. “Why don’t you just stay here a little longer, Jacob, and wait for the next batch? I can handle this myself.” Lacing his fingers together, he stretched in an obvious attempt to show his muscles.

Rena rewarded Parsh with a tight-lipped smile.

Rena and Marja watched the young man dissolve into a curtain of fog before Marja pulled Rena toward the bakery. “Nice enough boy,” Marja said. “If Kail weren’t available, I’d tell you to accept Parsh.”

Rena refused to rise to Marja’s bait in front of Jacob. No need to give her aunt more ideas.

Marja pressed in the alphanumeric combination that unlocked the bakery’s business door, kicked the doorjamb into place, and raised a hinged section of counter, allowing her to step into the staging area. To Rena, she handed over trays of pale green nut puddings in fluted pastries, cookies erupting with candied fruit, and whole cakes frosted in a multitude of colors, the bakery’s signature, a series of white, interconnected ovals, etched into the surface. Jacob asked Marja what he could do to help. She tossed an apron over the counter, shoved a bucket with cleaning solution at him, and told him to start wiping fingerprints off the windows and doors. The trio worked in silence until another buzzer from the kitchen announced that the next batch was baked. Marja excused herself, leaving Jacob and Rena alone in the storefont.

“Why hello, Jacob Sisko,”Rena said under her breath. “Makes sense that the son of the Emissary is moonlighting as a steward to ladies in distress.”

“Talked to Kail lately?” Jacob retorted.

“Not today. But if you stay around a little longer, I’ll introduce you when he stops by for his morning pastry.” Rena unfastened the display cases mounted in the street-facing windows and started arranging the showy dessert pastries.

In his efforts to reach a particularly smudged windowpane, Jacob stood behind Rena and reached over her shoulders to spray the cleaner. Crouched down, Rena stepped back to survey her work and bumped into Jacob’s chest. The pastry tray she’d been holding tipped, sending a dozen mousse-filled puffs skidding down the polished surface; her heart plunged to her knees. She shifted the tray’s angle, preventing the pastries from splattering on the floor. She steadied her nerves before saying, “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove.”

“I’m just a hungry man who came searching for his morning meal,” Jacob said, retiring the cleaning bottle to the bucket.

Marja appeared carrying a smaller bread basket on each of her hips. “You two. Take this to Fofen.”

A protest would reveal more about her connection to Jacob than she wanted her aunt to know, so she accepted Marja’s basket without complaint and started out the door to Fofen’s, Jacob following by her side.

In spite of the strain between them, Rena was surprised how easily she slipped into the cadence of Jacob’s walk, just as she had when they hiked for the River Road. She stole a glance at him and wished there were a way they could start again. Starting over long before yesterday would work, too, back when she left secondary school and marrying Kail had seemed to fit perfectly into her life. But she had to remind herself of her commitment to Topa. Live for Bajor. Live for Mylea. Don’t let our ways pass into history. Give them to my grandchildren, he’d said.

Only a nudge from Topa’s paghcould have served as a greater reminder of her obligations than hearing Kail’s voice through the fog. Rena gathered that he was discussing solstice at Yyn with Parsh.

As they came into sight, Kail smiled broadly. “My woman has brought me food. Excellent.” He reached into the basket and took a roll. Rena slapped his hand; in response, Kail placed a peck on her cheek. She wished he’d make less of a show of their relationship. Poor Parsh looked on wistfully; he’d been soft on Rena since they were schoolchildren, and Kail’s displays merely reinforced what Parsh would never have with Rena. When they were younger, Rena had found Kail’s possessiveness endearing. Now it seemed a little cruel. Or maybe she was being overly critical because of her frustration. After Kenda, I should have stayed gone.

Throwing a thick, muscled arm around lanky Parsh’s bony shoulders, Kail squeezed him good-naturedly, coaxing a pained flush in his pale cheeks. “I was just extending an invitation to Parsh to join our group next week. He’s never been to Yyn before.”

Rena rolled her eyes. “Parsh isn’t the only one.”

When Jacob materialized beside Rena, Kail scrutinized him, probably comparing the newcomer with himself. Rena made her own comparison, deciding that two men couldn’t be more different. Kail, with his ruddy, clean-shaven complexion and shoulder-length curly blond-brown hair, evinced the strength of an arena wrestler, while darker Jacob stood taller than Kail but had a ropy muscularity that suited him for springball.

“Of course you haven’t been to Yyn, or we’d have had our wedding night already.” He winked at her.

Jacob looked genuinely puzzled, so Parsh explained the custom that on solstice night a couple need only take one of the thousands of Auster’s candles lighted at the ruins to be granted the privileges of married couples. The “blessing” lasted only until morning, in accordance with the legend. Rena felt Jacob’s eyes on her as Parsh explained, in his usual delicate terms, that the tradition typically resulted in a host of births in late fall.

“Why doesn’t Jacob join our group?” Parsh asked. “He’s not Bajoran. He’s a writer. He might find a story at Yyn. Besides, Halar would enjoy his company.”

Without moving his eyes from Rena’s face, Jacob nodded. “I’d like that. Count me in.”

The prospect of spending solstice caught between Kail’s expectations of sex and Jacob’s mind games pushed Rena too far. She shoved her basket at Parsh and announced that Marja needed her back at the bakery immediately. Kail called after her as she marched back up the hill, but Rena ignored him. If he cared about her feelings, let him prove it. Let Jacob prove it, too. Through the bakery doors and down the hall past Topa’s room, she blew past Marja, and stomped up the stairs to her room.

“We’ll have customers soon!” Marja called after her.

“I’m working on Topa’s memorial,” she said, and slammed her bedroom door. Once inside, she threw herself down on the floor and pulled her art supplies—charcoal, pastels—out from beneath her bed. Then she cast them aside and settled on paints. No amount of searching uncovered a canvas or even a large sheet of hardcopy, so she yanked the plain sheet off her bed and tacked two adjoining corners to the wall with hairpins shoved deep into the plaster. Stretching the sheet out the rest of the length of the wall, she affixed the remaining corners similarly. The rising morning temperature started making the attic room uncomfortably warm. Rena didn’t care. She peeled down to her chemise and started painting.

She didn’t think about strokes or composition or colors as she laid down a thick layer of black-green, the color of Mylea’s ocean churned up by a storm. Blue—Topa’s eyes—came next, followed by angry reds and gashes of yellow. Flecks of paint stuck to her eyelashes: she brushed them aside with her forearm, leaving a rainbow of smudges on her skin. If Marja had called her, Rena hadn’t heard. The shadows lengthened with the changing light. If she felt hunger pangs or thirst, Rena ignored them. She knew only the demands of her brush and the shifting kaleidoscope of emotions pouring out in colors on her wall. At last she came to the browns—the warm, soothing brown of soil, soaked with water, peaty with leaves and dried moss. The color of her father’s skin, the color of Jacob’s skin, the color of her own. And when the last dab of paint left her palette, in the dimming of the day, she collapsed, weary, on the ground, and scooted back against the opposite wall to see what she had created. She had no idea what had been born of her brush, she only knew that she couldn’t go on without it being poured out of her body into something outside of herself. Jacob’s words returned to her. She cursed aloud. Why in the name of the Prophets did it keep coming back to Jacob?

…You weren’t screaming about preserving Bajor, you were screaming like someone who was having her soul—herpagh —torn out of her. Tell me again that you need to give up your art….

She removed the duranjalamp from her knapsack and lit the flame. She watched the firelight shadows leap and flicker over her painting. She began the benediction to honor the dead.

“Ralanon Topa propeh va nara eshuks hala-kan vunek.”

But I want to honor you, Topa.She buried her face in her hands. Prophets show me the way that I might do both.