Pump Six and Other Stories(32)

"To our ancestors." The old man raised his cup to the heavens, then poured a splash on the ground. "May they not be abandoned by their descendants."

"May we always honor them." Raphel mirrored his grandfather's motions, pouring the liquor onto the ground. Its drops clustered like opals on the dirt. The white heat of the liquor burned in his chest as he drank.

His grandfather watched him drink. "Not as smooth as Keli's rice wine, is it?"

"No."

"Well, you're fortunate. The Keli sell their wine here, now. Many drink it."

"I've seen."

The old man leaned forward. "Why do they peddle their wine in the Dry Basin, Grandson? Do they not see we are Jai? Do they not understand they have no business here?"

"If it bothers you, you could sell mez to Keli."

"Mez is for Jai. Baji is for Keli."

Raphel sighed. "Do you somehow become less Jai if you drink their rice wine? Does it seep into a man and turn him all at once into something different?" He took another sip of the burning mez. "Even you have drunk rice wine."

The old man waved his hand dismissively. "Only when I sacked their water city."

"But still, it touched your desert tongue." Raphel smiled. "Did it make you Keli?"

Old Gawar flashed a hard smile. "Ask the Keli people."

"It is the same for me."

"You? You are a chained pet. I'm sure the Keli enjoyed your toothless desert bite. You're not Jai. You're one of them, now."

"It's not so. Keli people know instantly that I am Jai: my accent, my eyes, my hook knife, my laugh, my observance of the old ways. No matter how long I walk Keli's bridges or swim in their thousand lakes, I will never be Keli."

The old man made a face of irritation. "And because Keli rejects you, you believe you are Jai?"

Raphel toasted his grandfather with his clay cup of mez. "I am sure of it."

"No!" The old man slammed his cup down. It shattered, splashing liquor and leaving shards. He swept the shards away, careless of their sharp points. "You are not Jai! If you were Jai, you would not sit there talking. You would draw your hook knife and cut me down for insulting you."

"That is not Jai. That is you, Grandfather."

The old man reached for the edge of his hearth and slowly pulled himself upright, a crippled skeletal hawk of a man, eyes bright with the fires of past bloodshed. His voice, full of conviction, rasped as he clutched the hearth's chimney for support. "What I do is Jai. I am Jai." He pulled himself taller. "You Pasho want the Jai to set down our hook knives and bury our sonics so no one will hear their wail. You keep technology from us and give it to Keli. You cannot deny history. We Jai have letters, we keep our own records of the past. We know Pasho trickery. When I burned Keli, the Pasho fell like wheat under my hook knife. I stained their white robes red. Tell me that they have forgotten me. Tell me they don't seek to bury the Jai still!"

Raphel made placating motions with his hands, urging his grandfather back to his seat. "That time is past. We Jai no longer make war on Keli, nor the Pasho who happen to live there."

Old Gawar smiled thinly and rubbed at his crippled leg. "War never ends. I taught you that."

"You squat in Keli's nightmares still."

"A pity they don't learn their lesson and stay on their side of the mountains." Old Gawar chuckled and slowly eased himself back to his seat. "When we burn Keli next, we won't show mercy. The Keli accent will not poison our children's ears again."

"You can't keep the outside world from the Dry Basin forever."

"So says the Pasho. My own grandson, who comes to betray us."

"Knowledge is a Jai birthright as much as a Keli's."

"Don't feed me carrion. You come like all Pasho, with knowledge outstretched in one hand while you wait to seize influence with the other. You sit cross-legged, meditating like the ancient wise ones, and then you advise our people to sink water veins, to lend themselves to your road projects and factories, but I know your true object."

"We're building civilization, Grandfather."

"You are the death of us."

"Because Jai wells will be full, even when the dry season doubles?"

"Is that what you offer?" The old man laughed bitterly. "Water wells always full? A better breed of the red bean plant? Something to make our lives easier? To make our children live longer?" He shook his head. "I've watched your cult of the Open Eye long enough to know what Pasho are about. Even the Keli who worship you couldn't pull salvation from your tattooed fists when we attacked. We Jai slaughtered those soft water people like goats. You are not a savior. You are the death of us. Get out, Grandson. Get out of my home. Whatever you are, you are not Jai."

"Writing is the key to survival. A culture which can write, can remember, and share its knowledge widely. The First Attainment mark must always be the alphabet, the key to all other knowledge. With an alphabet, what I write today may be learned a thousand years from now, by some young student who will never know me except through my hand on paper. When all of us are dust, our learning will survive and we hope, with time, civilization will thrive again."

—Pasho Mirriam Milliner, CS 13. (On Survival)