The Belter's Story (BRIGAND) (11 page)

"Of course. Not to worry." My jichan smiled benevolently, playing the absent minded elder to perfection.

She gathered my few things from around the small living area and chattered away. "Thank you for watching Utsuku on such short notice. I had a job and it was, um, important." The strain in her face looked more like distaste than important, but neither of us commented.

"Always a pleasure to be with my granddaughter." He winked at me and then bent low to engulf me in a hug, whispering softly in my ear, "My little moku..."

I knew the word was forbidden too so I never asked my mama what it meant, and Sejei never told me when I asked.

We left his home, my hand tucked tightly into my mama’s, hers white, mine gray. I could feel her relax as we left my jichan's apartment behind.

Later, before bed, my mother brushed out my hair. I loved the feel of the bristles pulling smoothly through the strands. But I could also feel her tension, her fear of things Sejei might have told me. Fear of the Gei maybe. I wondered what she say if I told her about the headaches. Would she fear me too?

I knew that children didn’t see visions of Irezi murderesses with black hair and gleaming eyes. No one else endured blood, or the headaches. If they did then I would know. I would sense their isolation, their feeling of being so — apart. But there was no such kindred spirit. I was alone with my strangeness and the wisdom of my jichan.

"I didn’t know Sejei was going to pick you up today. What did the two of you do?"

"Nothing, Mama," I answered. "We just practiced calligraphy."

I bowed my chin to my chest as she picked apart a knot. She let it go and finished braiding my hair. As she tucked me into my cot, she leaned down and I recognized the scent of the ginger lily, from the Lao Biome, and wondered why the scent would mingle in her midnight hair when it was so far down into the lowlands of Arc Valles.

She whispered, "Goodnight, Utsuki."

Just before she closed the door to my room I gathered my courage and blurted, "What does moku mean?"

She paused with her left hand on the frame of the door, and she rested her dark brown hair on her hand, canting her head to the left. "Where did you hear that?"

"School," I lied.

"You should not say it. It’s the old language. The Confed..."

"Oh. Sorry, Mama." I replied. I pulled the thin sheet up to my chin to hide my quivering lower lip.

Hani smiled and I could see the sadness in her eyes." It means, ‘reason for living’. A word you would use for someone you truly love."

I closed my eyes quickly so she would not see my tears and hid my smile with the sheet. "Thank you, Hani-amya," I whispered.

Her smile turned warm, but I could see her body tense. "I hope you don’t take Sejei’s stories too seriously. He's old and he likes to pretend. Sometimes I worry that his memory is failing him. His mind is, well, maybe more fragile than his bones these days."

"Of course, Mama." I could pretend too. Because I knew the truth.

We were warriors once.

Maybe we would be again.

Giving birth is hard. Ask my wife — or my infinitely patient writing partner both of whom, unlike me, are actual veterans of that little corner of the human condition. When she was asked about the experience, Carol Burnette once said, "Take your bottom lip… and pull it up over your head." So yeah. That sounds a hard ride to me.

"Oh please," you're thinking. "I know where you're going with this.
Writing is sooo difficult and we writers suffer soooo much for our art. You plebes just don't understand...
"

Actually, no.

Of course writing is hard. Sometimes it's no-prisoners hard. But so is just about anything that's more interesting than watching 'Cops' reruns. As Tom Hanks' character said in 'A League of Their Own', "It's supposed to be hard. If it were easy, everyone would do it."

My point, and yes I'm getting there, isn't about how hard writing can be. It's about all the completely unexpected challenges we’ve run into making up a world and then turning made up people loose in it. I've known writers all my life, so I've literally had dozens of pros tell me that their characters sometimes take on a life of their own. They have their own internal logic and they start doing stuff because that's what they do, not because they're interested in fitting inside whatever box you built around them.

That's problematic enough, but when you add a series of interlocking stories to the mix, suddenly it can become a fairly big deal when one of your characters goes off the reservation. Add to that not one, but
two
headstrong, committed, impassioned authors and all kinds of crazy shit starts to happen.

That's exactly what it felt like with this story. This has been, by far, the hardest one in the series. Not for bad reasons. On the contrary, it's been for really good ones — reasons that hugely excite Natalie and me. Reasons that led us to a deeper and more affecting story than I think either one of us expected.

So, yeah, pushing this little sucker out into the world was pretty bleeping hard, but despite all the pain and the mess, we think he's beautiful.

-
Scot Bayless, October 2015

Photo © 2015 by Jef & Lana Grey

Natalie resides in the Pacific Northwest, on five acres of land, but has yet to purchase a lawn mower or figure out how to grow anything besides weeds. She lives with her fiancé, her two children and Frankie the dog.

You can visit her at
http://nataliekfrench.com
.

Photo © 2010 by Katherine Bayless

Scot Bayless has been a force in technology and entertainment for more than 30 years. As an engineer, he designed and built experimental hardware for US and NATO military forces. As a game developer, he created multiple hit titles, including the award winning Advanced Dungeons & Dragons "Gold Box" role playing games. As a producer, he has collaborated with Steven Spielberg, Christopher Nolan, Nathan Crowley, Bruce Feirstein, Heidi Klum, and many others.

Scot makes his home in the shadow of the Oregon Cascades with his lovely wife and a swirling vortex of dogs and cats and kids.

You can find him at
http://scotbayless.com