Pump Six and Other Stories(31)

"I burned Keli to the ground," the old man had said and his eyes had blazed as though he could see the pillage still. "I burned Heli, Seli, and Keli. Last of all I burned Keli. Its canals were no defense. Its green gardens burned in our napalm bath. Keli's women fled before us, those silly girls with long black braids and silver belts. We burned that city and taught those soft water people what it is to rule the Jai. We are not ruled by bureaucrats. The Jai control our own destinies. We are not the dirty Kai who choose slavery and have no words. We bathe every morning, charge our sonics in the afternoon, and write dust epitaphs for our enemies under the stars." He had chuckled. "We burned Keli. Burned it to the ground."

Raphel called into the haci's dimness, "Grandfather?"

The scrape of metal stopped. Then started again. Over a nearby wall, children played a game with stones, trying to knock one another's casts away from a central stake. Their shrieks of pleasure and disappointment echoed in the heat.

"Grandfather?" Raphel called again.

The scrape of metal stopped. Raphel leaned close to the doorway's curtain. Wind rustled through the courtyard, hot breeze making the curtain sway gently. Raphel strained his ears. The slow sigh of breathing came from within. Finally a voice rasped. "So, you've come back."

"Yes, Grandfather."

"Let me see."

Raphel pushed aside the curtain and slipped inside, his fingers tingling in the curtain's static. Inside, the air was cool. He tightened his scarf, pulling it close around his face as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Shapes slowly resolved. His grandfather sat near the hearth, a slumped shadow. A hook knife and a sharpening stone glimmered in his hands. The hearth was cold and black. At one side of the room the man's pallet lay on the floor, its bedding knotted and unmade. His clothing was scattered carelessly. Only the hook knives on the walls seemed cared for. Their edges shone in the dim light, prizes from men sent beyond.

The old man's shadow body shifted. The hook knife in his hand glinted. "A Pasho. A Keli Pasho."

"Yes, Grandfather."

"Your mother must be pleased."

"Yes."

The old man laughed, then coughed. "Brainless woman. Wringing her hands so her bangles always chime. Probably already seeking a match for you." He laughed again. "I suppose you think you are an important man now that you've committed the ten thousand stanzas to memory?"

"No."

The old man jerked his head toward a picture on the wall. "Why not? Your image comes before you."

Raphel turned to examine the photograph, a picture of himself wrapped in Pasho robes, standing and smiling with the head of the Keli Pasho. His tattoos were newly inscribed, still dark and clear on his skin. The elder man's were faded into the folds of his skin, as though the knowledge inscribed had settled deeply into the old Pasho's being. "I don't ask the people to revere me," Raphel said.

"And yet they do. Ahh, of course they do. The Pasho make sure of that. Your dogs go before you, spreading your pictures, telling stories of your wisdom." The old man laughed. "Everyone believes a Pasho when he speaks. The all-seeing all-benevolent Pasho. Who would beg wisdom from a Jai when a Pasho sits among them?"

"I am Jai, and Pasho. They are not incompatible."

"You think not?" The black shadow of the man coughed laughter, a harsh explosion of humor that faded into labored breathing. His hook knife glinted movement and then he was sharpening again. The sharp scrape of metal on stone was rhythmic, filling the haci. He rasped, "I burned Keli to the ground. Would you do the same? Your Pasho friends are there. Keli girls are there. I slaughtered them all. That is Jai."

Raphel squatted on the hard-packed dirt of the haci, three meters from his grandfather. He pulled his robes around him and settled to the ground, cross-legged. "No mean feat to burn a water city."

The old man glanced up slyly before returning to his sharpening. "Even water burns."

"Napalm. That weapon should have been forgotten."

"According to the Pasho. But Jai have long memories. We keep our own records and have very long memories, don't we, Grandson?"

"Keli people, also. Your name is remembered there still."

"Is it?"

"They spit when they speak of you."

The old man wheezed laughter. "That's good." He stopped his sharpening and looked up at Raphel, eyes narrowed with suspicion. "And did you spit with them?"

"What do you think?"

The old man pointed his hook knife at Raphel. "I think your skin cries out for Keli's clear pools and your fingers tingle to touch a Keli girl's silken braid. That is what I think." He returned to his sharpening. "I think your nose twitches for the scent of lilac on the thousand lakes."

"I may have studied in Keli, Grandfather, but I am still Jai."

"So you say," the old man muttered. He set down his knife and sharpening stone and turned toward a shelf beside him. His thin fingers came up with a thick glass bottle. "Will you drink?"

Raphel hastily gathered his robes and made to stand. "I should pour."

The old man laughed and cringed away. "And break Quaran?" He shook his head. "You have been in Keli too long. Keep your distance, Grandson." He uncorked the bottle and poured two clay cups of mez. The bright tingling scent of the liquor filled the dim room. The old man carefully lowered himself to the floor and pushed the cup until it sat midway between himself and his grandson before dragging his crippled body slowly back into the shadows and hoisting himself up to his seat against the hearthwall. Raphel waited the requisite ten beats of the heart, then leaned forward and pulled the clay cup close.