Redemption in Indigo (6 page)

'Well done! And what else?'

'What??hat else?'

'You
did
show her how to use it, of course?'

'I?? was supposed to show her how to use it? Oh. Dear. Um.'

'Exactly. You have to go back.'

The life of the undying is quite busy, either through dedication or desperation. The benevolent ones are the most diligent and the most overlooked, because they work with willing people and take their images as their shadows. The person who looks and in an instant reads your soul, the ordinary type who suddenly declares a profound and wise truth—I do not mean to take anything away from these people, for they are willing collaborators in a great work, but in many such cases they have lent their shadows for that pivotal moment.

Alas, there are others, not quite so benevolent, who entertain themselves by tormenting the lesser beings, namely humans. Co-operation is not a word that you will find in their lexicon, which is why they often find it simpler to snag a ride with a passing insect or any small creature whose brain can be easily overpowered.

Some are but tricksters, turning the tiniest of choices into a dire misstep or a trigger for catastrophe. Even very powerful ones, those who have learned to make their own shadows, sometimes do nothing more than tease and tweak fates a little, just for a good laugh. I am sure that the spider of Ahani was one of that sort, wreaking minor havoc in the form of his own whimsically-crafted shadow.

Others are more malicious, turning their powers to greater degradation than mere mockery. Many of those are powerful, for such work requires an amazing level of skill in its own warped way. Why, you may ask. Simple. Not one of them, no matter how powerful, can sway a body from its chosen course. The most they can do is help it along—grease the slope, as it were.

Carefully removing memories for generations still could not erase the collective awareness that there was
something
out there, going bump in the night or whatever. Thus several names had come to be attached to these immortal beings as they wrought both mystery and mischief through all countries, cultures, and centuries of humanity. Since the story is about Paama, we will use her country's name for them—the djombi.

This particular djombi, who was of the benevolent but not very powerful type, was experiencing a special kind of difficulty. For reasons that we cannot go into right now, a more powerful djombi was using his services. Unfortunately, his superior, who had long ago forged a shadow for herself, often appeared to forget the limitations of her weaker kin. By ending his errand and giving up his shadow too early, the junior was, in a manner of speaking, stranded, like a man who has neglected to ask the cab to wait for just a moment. He had to find another willing person to help him get back into Makendha so he could teach Paama the purpose of the Stick.

He was already too embarrassed by his earlier slip to ask directly for his superior's assistance, so he slunk to the fringes of Makendha and prayed for a small miracle.

His prayer was answered??ery accurately, very precisely.

A little girl was playing at the edge of a pasture, dramatising some inner daydream with dance and song. She turned in midwhirl, caught sight of him, and tumbled over in surprise.

'What are you doing there?’ she asked, peeking up through the grass stems.

'Waiting for someone to take me into the village,’ he answered truthfully.

She narrowed her eyes and moved her head snakewise from side to side as if trying to look at a very tricky mirage. ‘I can't see you very well. Why?'

He thought for a moment; truth is harder when one lacks the necessary vocabulary. ‘I'm standing on the edge of the world. It makes things blurry.'

She got up and dusted herself off, apparently satisfied with that. ‘All right. Good-bye.'

'Wait! Will you??ill you take me with you?'

She squinted at him again. ‘Why?'

'I have to help someone discover something.’ That was all he said, but for some things, tone and expression are more potent than vocabulary, even when you are a discorporate entity standing in the interstices of time and space.

She believed him. ‘All right. Come.'

He stepped over the threshold and ran skipping towards her, a vaguely cloudy image gradually coalescing into an identical six-year-old girl.

She smiled then. Imaginary Twin was a familiar game. ‘I'm Giana. What's your name?'

The djombi thought, shrugged, and replied, ‘When I am without a shadow, I may be called Constancy-in-Adversity, though others who see me differently have sometimes named me Senseless-Resignation-to-Suffering. I am a small thing, as you can see, but my mother says I am quite powerful in my own way.'

Giana nodded. The names were too large and the concepts too weighty for her to grasp, but the last she could understand. Mothers tended to say things like that, usually just before sending you to the well to fetch water.

'Would you like to go play in dreamland until I come back?’ the djombi asked her.

Her eyes lit up. ‘Would I!'

He—or rather we must say ‘she’ now, as djombi take the gender of their shadows—took her by the hand and guided her gently to lie down on the ground.

'Now
you're
blurry,’ she told the child softly as she tucked the long grass in a nest around her.

The child smiled back with sleepy sweetness, and then she was in dreamland.

The djombi stood up and looked over the fields. In the near distance there were other people tending to their animals in the pasture, all intent on their tasks, no-one noticing the strange momentary twinning of a little girl. One figure in particular now seemed familiar—a tall girl leading a cow by a long rope, a pail of milk balanced on her head.

'Giana, come here! I'm done with the milking,’ she called over her shoulder with an older sister's offhand bossiness.

'Coming, Laira,’ cried the djombi in her little girl voice, and she ran over the fields into Makendha.

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Six-year-old Giana was being exceptionally naughty and no-one could figure out why. She would not play with her little friends, she often ran off when she should have been helping in the kitchen or fetching water, and, strangest of all, when her mother gave her a lash with the switch for her laziness, instead of crying as she would normally do, she gave her mother such a reproachful and annoyed look that the poor woman dropped the switch guiltily and edged away, feeling extremely unnerved.

Giana's Gran, who had become perceptive through years of experience, told them to leave the child alone. She said that something had got into Giana's head and they would have to wait until it went back out again. Giana gave the old lady a big hug and got a wink in return, but her older siblings muttered about how spoiled she was, and how
they
would never have gotten away with such behaviour when they were younger.

There was little connection between Giana's family and Paama's, so Giana was forced to go looking for Paama herself. She wasted an entire day trying to see her and speak to her, either out in the fields or in the court, but each time there were too many people around, or someone who could not be safely ignored was telling her to run along.

In the meantime, there were tantalising glimpses of the potential of Paama's new gift. Giana was amazed. How could people miss the way Paama's feet stirred the dust of the trails into delicate, artistic swirls? How could they fail to notice that the long grass of the pastures combed itself into neat order when she breezed past it? One thing they did see, and that immediately, was that her skill in the kitchen had reached the level of pure magic. The scents that wafted from the house of Paama's parents made many a body slow down as they passed and break into bemused smiles of sheer bliss.

All this in one day?
the djombi thought with a mixture of worry and pride.
I must talk to her as soon as possible!

Fortunately, the next morning she found Paama washing clothes by the river. This was usually a communal task, with many women talking and singing together, but today Paama was by herself.

Giana decided to waste no time. She marched straight over to Paama and said, ‘Paama, what is that thing on your belt for?'

Paama stopped her work and stared at the little girl. ‘Small children must not be so informal with their elders. I am sure you have been taught better than that.'

Of course. Giana grimaced in embarrassment and tried again. ‘Aunty Paama, what is that thing on your belt used for?'

Paama smiled mysteriously and went back to slapping the wet cloth against the smooth stones. ‘It is for reminding me that good can come out of the worst of situations.'

Giana was startled and pleased. Perhaps Paama did not have as far to go as she had feared. ‘Does it work for other people, too?'

Paama appeared to consider this seriously for a moment, and then she shrugged. ‘I don't see why it would. Perhaps they have their own reminders. But, child, why are you wandering around near the river by yourself? Does your mother know you are out?'

Giana looked around for an excuse, feeling keenly the limitations of her chosen shadow.

'
They
come down to the river all the time,’ she said at last.

She pointed downstream to where three boys were playing a variation of King of the Castle. They were wrestling, barebacked and barefooted, on a large, mossy rock, each trying to push the other into the water.

Paama gave them a glance. ‘And why should you try to copy them? Big boys don't play like little girls, and what they are doing is far too dangerous for you to even think about.'

'It looks as if it might be too dangerous for them, too,’ said Giana calmly, still looking down the river.

'They can all swim,’ Paama said with a dismissive shrug.

She continued swinging the wet cloth and slapping it down. Fine droplets of water spun off from the fabric as it arced through the air, catching the sunlight and scattering tiny rainbows around her. Giana's attention was caught by the display. With the Chaos Stick at her belt, Paama was unconsciously selecting the most appealing options that chance had available. There were uncanny patterns in the water and the light, patterns that appeared to be unnatural and contrived but were merely very very rare, requiring just the right combination of angles for sun, water, and wind.

'She truly is a natural,’ sighed Giana to herself while Paama slapped and scrubbed at the clothes in a manner that would have seemed completely mundane and ordinary to the untutored eye.

'About the Stick,’ she began again, wondering how to go about explaining the science behind the Stick to one of Paama's limited education.

There was a sudden commotion. One of the boys had tumbled into the water and was bawling loudly. The little girl jumped at the sound and forgot the rest of her sentence.

'They can all swim,’ Paama repeated, not even bothering to look up.

'Even with a broken wrist?’ Giana wondered aloud.

Paama jumped up to stare at the drama downriver. One boy remained standing on the rock, pointing at his friends and yelling. Another boy was swimming towards the unfortunate one, who floundered and splashed while clutching his right hand in his left. Panicked with pain, he lashed out with his feet at the boy who was trying to save him, catching him a solid blow that pushed him off and spun him away.

'No. He'll drown them both,’ Paama breathed. She dropped the washing and began to run down the river bank.

'Paama! You can't reach them in time! Use the Stick instead!’ Giana called out, running after her.

'What stick?’ Paama shouted back.

Giana began to babble in her haste to take advantage of this unplanned situation. She tried to explain about the different possibilities in the universe, about the chance that seems improbable but that, once it is possible, might still happen. And what if there were a type of focus or control for the quantum fluctuations that determine whether a situation is Go or No Go? One could use it to select the unlikely and encourage the serendipitous. One who had the knack of getting the best out of bad situations. One like Paama.

'What? What?’ Paama yelled distractedly.

Giana was ready to scream herself, but she was too out of breath from making her short legs keep up with Paama's.

'Just use the Stick!’ she gasped.

'You're right. We do need a stick, but there isn't one big enough!’ Paama said, looking around in desperation.

They had drawn level with the boys in the water. Paama danced sideways along the bank, keeping in line with them and in pace with the slow current, but hesitant to risk diving in and struggling to bring one wildly flailing body to land.

'If only there were a branch or snag that they could hold on to,’ she wailed.

There are any number of trees that grow on the banks of rivers, and it is in the nature of trees to occasionally lose a limb to age and decay. Time and wind cooperated to bring to breaking strain the dying branch of an overhanging tree several metres downstream. The branch tore free with an awful creaking and cracking and fell with a sloshing splash into the river, immediately lodging firmly against the rocks. The boys drifted into it and clung fast. Giana stopped short, stunned by Paama's words and their effect.

'Thank God,’ gasped Paama.

Then the third boy rushed up and helped Paama drag the stricken youngster out of the water. His would-be rescuer, who was still curled over from that hard kick, was able to pull himself out onto the bank without help. Giana stood for a moment, hands limp at her sides with relief, watching as they sat or sprawled on the grass and fussed over the injured boy. He was sobbing and coughing from the pain in his wrist and the water he had swallowed while screaming, but he was too loud to be anything but alive. She came up to them, put her arms akimbo, and looked down at them critically.

'Well, I suppose that wasn't too bad, though it was a bit??uch. A more subtle use of the currents, perhaps, or—'