The
Gift
pulled away from the isle, Thrasne turning from the high rudder deck to wave to her. When sight of him had faded into the River haze, down and cross stream toward the distant shore, she turned back to the house, the old woman meeting her halfway there.
‘Oh, girl, I saw he left you puncon jam. Couldn’t help but see it. I haven’t had puncon jam since my youngest daughter was born, she that’s gone now and left only the memory. Would it be ugly of me to beg puncon jam on our fry cakes tonight? I do have a light hand with fry cakes.’ For a time it was as though Joy had returned, so young she sounded, and Pamra was ashamed not to greet this enthusiasm with more spirit of her own. Though she kept counseling herself to be calm, not to consider herself injured, still she felt bereft, grieved, and abandoned, senseless though that was. She found herself blaming Thrasne, senseless though that was as well, ashamed of it and yet unable to stop. Still, faced with the old woman’s delight in having company, she assented to the scheme of puncon jam, assented to having Stodder and Bethne as guests.
These three were the entire remnant of the Strinders. There had been some younger who had gone away on the River, there had been many younger and older who had died. And now these three remained, not one among them who had ever seen the northern shore or an Awakener or a
Servant of Abricor. They knew only the island and the waters around it and the Treeci, who shared both with them.
It was some time before she met the Treeci. First there were days of walking here and there, weeding a bit of garden, checking the nets to see if anything worth eating had been caught, raking shellfish from the River to dry upon the shore, carrying the dried shells to the pier, where great, wobbly baskets bulged with this reeking harvest awaiting the next Riverboat.
‘Not many stop here,’ creaked old Stodder. ‘Let’s see, there’s
River Queen,
and
Moormap’s Fish
(Moormap died, but his daughter’s husband kept the
Fish)
and the
Gift,
o’ course, and the
Startled Wind
…’ He went on with his enumeration, Riverboats afloat, Riverboats long gone.
After their supper they sat on the rickety porch beneath the trees to watch the moons assemble before the old man and the other old woman stumped off to their own falling-down houses in the woods. Pamra stood looking after them, wondering why they did not live together. It would mean only one house to heat, less wood to cut. Far off in the trees came a plangent, bell-tolling sound, and she remembered the creatures Thrasne had mentioned.
‘Treeci?’ she asked old Joy.
‘Treeci,’ whispered Joy, face in the lamplight alive with old memories, eyes gentle as doves. ‘Treeci. Honoring the moons.’
They went next day to rake shells. Pamra, Lila, and Joy. Three Treeci came through the trees, calling in bell-like voices, then in human sounds. ‘Joy! We greet!’
The old woman waved. ‘Binna! Werf! Come meet a visitor from over the River. Her name is Pamra. And the baby, Lila.’ The Treeci bowed, acknowledging the introduction, while Pamra stared.
They were as tall as she, standing upright on legs not unlike her own, with feathered buttocks that curved as hers did into a narrow waist. The long, two-toed feet might have been human feet stuffed into feathery socks except for the
knifelike talons. Above the waist the likeness to humans was less. The arms, ending in three-fingered hands, were fully feathered with long, winglike primaries; their breasts were keeled; their large-eyed faces were full of candid intelligence. ‘Pamra,’ they said, bowing again.
She bowed in return to Binna, to Werf, then turned to bow to the third member of the group, feeling Joy’s hand tugging at her as she did so. She looked down to see the old woman shaking her head, embarrassed, whispering, ‘No, don’t bow. That’s a male. You don’t bow to them.’
‘Why?’ It was startled out of her, not really a question.
‘Shhh. Later.’
‘Are you having a pleasant visit?’ Binna asked her, taking no notice of this gaffe. The words were clearly articulated, slightly accented but in a pleasant way. Though the lower part of each Treeci face was visored by their shallow beaks, those beaks were soft and flexible, protruding little, moving almost as lips did.
‘Yes, thank you.’ They talked of the weather for a few moments, of the tides. The third, unnamed Treeci wandered to the shore and stood there, watching the water.
‘I came to tell you, Joy,’ said Werf, ‘there’s a new bed of inedible shellies just below the big rocks, beyond the frag grove. Good dye shells! They’re small now, but by Conjunction after this one, they should be good size for your gathering.’
‘That’s kind of you,’ she responded warmly. ‘Will you return with us and take tea?’
They demurred, demurred again, then accepted. It had the pace and quiet predetermination of a ritual. At the house they were joined on the porch by Bethne to drink tea out of fragile old cups as they recited memories of former times, so many memories it was obvious they were more than acquaintances. Joy had brought six cups. Without saying anything to anyone, Werf filled the extra cup and carried it to the rock, where the third Treeci perched in lonely silence. The two conversed in low tones. Werf returned. No one seemed to notice. Before leaving, Werf
retrieved the cup and set it upon the table with the others.
‘We rejoice in your friendship,’ they called as they were leaving. ‘May your lives extend.’
Joy gathered up the cups. ‘If you could get me a pail of water, child, I’d get these washed.’
‘In a minute. First, tell me about the – the male. Why don’t we talk to him? …’
‘It isn’t done.’ The old woman laid a trembling hand on Pamra’s own. ‘Werf is Neff’s mother. She talks to him, you see. And his own sisters do, of course. But no one else. It just isn’t done.’
‘Cruel,’ Pamra said, remembering herself as a child. ‘It’s cruel to treat people like that.’
‘Ah, but child, they aren’t people, don’t you see.’
‘They’re people, Joy. You wouldn’t sit here drinking tea with them unless they were.’ She said this as she would have done to Delia, mistaking Joy for Delia, perhaps, without realizing it.
‘In that sense, yes, they’re people and my dearest friends, but you know what I meant.’ She turned away toward her wash basin, holding out the empty pail. ‘They aren’t human people.’
Pamra forced her feelings off her face. She was living in the old woman’s house, a good old woman, not unlike – not unlike another good old woman whom she had failed in a time of trouble. Let her not trouble this one more. As a guest, she had no right.
But she felt a sympathetic rebellion for the lonely Treeci, even as she admitted to herself the loneliness might be more in her than in Neff. The rebellion in her was the same it had been when she was eleven or twelve, the same that had led her to say, ‘I can be a Awakener.’ She did not think of this, but only of the sad Treeci. His separation spoke to her.
Among the Treeci, it seemed, hospitality must be returned. Two days later Joy dressed herself with unaccustomed attention, digging through dusty boxes in search of old finery. She found a glittery scarf for Pamra, a shiny bit of ribbon for Lila’s blanket, and they set out along the shore.
‘I suppose eventually you’ll tell me where we’re going?’
‘Well, Werf and Binna will expect us. Among the Treeci it’s considered nice to drop by in a couple of days so’s they can show hospitality. They call it returning the opportunity. Very set on it, they are.’
‘Why all this sparkle?’
‘Do them honor. You wouldn’t have noticed, not being island reared, but they were got up fine for us t’other day. Talons painted; feathers around the eyes dyed. They were making an opportunity to honor us – so they call it. Curious, I expect. About you and the baby. Not been a human baby on Strinder’s for thirty years.’
Pamra found herself lost in wonder at this, not so much at the fact of it – another race of creatures upon the world with its own habits and customs, speaking not only its own language but a human language as well, curious about human babies – no, not so much at the fact as at her ignorance of it. How could she have grown to be adult without having heard of them? Why had no one spoken of them? And if no one had spoken of the Treeci, how many other wonders in the world might there be, unspoken of?
Joy had something to say upon that subject. ‘My brother used to say all the Northshore people were so stuffed full of Awakener shit they hadn’t room for anything else. Is it true they forbid books there?’
It was true. Or true enough. There had been books in the Tower. Homiletics. Hermeneutics. Scripture. Difficult books breathing an atmosphere of dusty mystery, unenlightening. There had been no others. Without books, without travel, Pamra could explain her own ignorance. She could not really forgive it.
The Treeci lived in houses, better kept and better made than those of the human occupants of the island, and there was a teahouse set in a grove where water burbled tranquil music into a stone basin. Young Treeci, half the size of the adults, gathered on the meadow in murmuring groups. Tea was served in ceremonial fashion. Pamra watched the others to see what was proper, getting through the formal
bits with some degree of grace. When everyone had a cup, when every cup had been tasted and approved, when the nuts and cakes had been passed around and those had been complimented, then the group could sit back and indulge themselves in conversation. Joy had been right. It was curiosity. All the questions they had been too polite to ask on Strinder territory they felt empowered to ask on their own.
‘Is the child yours?’
‘Is it a customary child?’
‘We thought it was not a customary child. We believe she is
t’lick tlassca.’
After some discussion, this term was translated as ‘wonder.’
‘Yes,’ Pamra agreed with a rare smile. ‘She is a wonder.’
‘Would Pamra stay long?’
By this time Lila lay on Werf’s lap, patting her feathery bosom with long, stretched gestures, murmuring her own legato music. Werf dripped tea into her mouth, and the baby smiled, an endless smile, like dawn.
‘Why had she come?’
Without thinking to censor what she said, Pamra told them why she had come. Not all, merely some. Awakeners were part of the reason, and the Servants of Abricor. There was a sad murmuring, a shaking of feathered heads.
‘They were kin to us one time, those fliers of the North-shore. Those you call Servants of Abricor. We remember that time in our histories. There was a time when honor could have been retained. Our tribe, the Treeci, chose the way of honor. They, those who remained, chose otherwise. There are certain words in our language which go back to that time which those on the Northshore no longer know. Words like “decency.” And “dignity.” It makes us sad what they have become.’ Werf shook her feathered head in sadness, widening the plumy circles around her eyes.
Binna changed the subject, and Pamra kept quiet, abashed at the sadness she had caused.
‘We thought you might like to see some of our dancing,’ said Binna, nodding at a young Treeci, who went racing
away with this message. In moments there were sounds of a drum and a rhythmic tinkling.
From the teahouse the Treeci watched indulgently, even proudly. On the lawn the young Treeci sat, whispering, a few going so far as to point with wingtips, as though accidentally. Looking at these youths, Pamra could not tell whether they were male or female; they had no distinguishing colors, they were merely young. Perhaps there was a stage in development in which it did not matter, for all the young ones murmured together, moved about in giggling groups, walked with entwined fingers and heads tilted toward one another.
The dancers, however, were all male. Pamra could feel it. They twirled and postured, stamped, wings wide with each feather displayed, chest feathers fluffed, those around the eyes widened into flashing circles. Their flat beaks had been rouged, their talons painted. Beside her Werf sat smiling, wing fingers tapping in time to the drums, eyes moist. Pamra followed the direction of her eyes. Werf’s son, Neff, among the dancers, magnificent in his grace and strength, the dance itself stimulating, breathtaking. Without thinking, Pamra started to say something about this, some small, complimentary remark, only to feel Joy’s fingers biting into her arm. Confused, she confronted the old woman’s forbidding eyes with wide, excited eyes of her own. This, too, was not to be spoken of. Pamra pulled her arm away. She wanted to say something, do something. Her face was flushed, red; she could feel the heat in it, in her arms trembling with the music.
Binna had been watching her. Now she said something loudly, a cutting metal sound, and the dance ended in a ragged cacophony of drum and bell. There was conversation then, apologies, a rapid murmur of polite talk covering the sudden end of the entertainment. Pamra did not understand it.
Then they were on their way home. ‘Binna apologized,’ said Joy. There was sorrow in her voice, as though she had been given news of a grave illness or death.
‘For what? I don’t understand.’
‘For the dancing. They had not realized you would be – moved by it.’
‘It was exciting! That’s wrong?’ Pamra wanted to laugh. ‘Isn’t that the object of it all?’
‘No. Never. That would be unseemly.’ This, too, was forbidden ground. Joy would not talk of it further.
Her reticence broke the fragile confidence that had been building between them. Now Pamra could not feel comfortable. Each remark had to be weighed for acceptability. There were too many areas of taboo. She began to take long walks, carrying the slow baby in her shawl, far down the shore toward the west, far into the forest toward the south, roaming the rolling island woods to pass the time and leave the old woman alone. Joy did not object. She seemed to have withdrawn from Pamra as though Pamra had been culpable of some social error that only time would dilute. Her feelings did not seem to convey disapproval so much as sorrow. It was easier for them both when they were apart.
Once or twice she encountered Binna or Werf on her solitary walks. She transgressed politeness to ask them a few things about old times and the Servants of Abricor. They were not reluctant to talk, merely distressed by it, their pain so palpable that she gave it up. What she had learned from them was already a lumpish knot in her throat, confirming her knowledge that in the Tower she had been used and lied to.