The Loved and the Lost (25 page)

The Deganawida turned the buck on its back and placed the tip of his sharp knife between the animal's scrotum and anus, and then pushed the tip into the hide. “You must make sure you don't cut into the urethra or bowel.” Hansum could hear the teen suck in his breath. “Don't be squeamish. Watch. Watch.” Now the Deganawida cut under and around the animal's anus, pulling and separating it from the connective tissue. Hansum, who was relaxed, looked at the boy squinting like he was trying to see only half of what was happening before him. “Now I must cut up to the sternum, but being careful not to break through the abdominal wall. You don't want to contaminate the meat with fecal matter or bile. See? I turn my blade upside down, so the sharp edge cuts the upper hide only.” As the blade moved up the chest, the Deganawida folded open the flap of skin he was creating. Finally, with the knife at the sternum, Hansum could see the fully-exposed abdominal wall, the sac holding in the guts.

The Deganawida then took half an arm's length of fine hemp string from a pouch on his belt and tied up the urethra and bowel. “You know why I do this?” he asked the teen.

“To keep the poop and pee in?” the boy ventured, crinkling his nose.

The older man then put both hands on the knife handle and started slicing through both the hide and sternum bone, right up to the throat. He quickly opened the neck completely and fished out the esophagus, a corrugated white tube of cartilage. He cut it away, so it hung out the neck. Then he turned back to the abdomen, reaching in and worming his hand, and then his whole arm, into the chest cavity.

“We reach up, like so . . . separate the diaphragm from the upper cavity . . . past the lungs, yes, the heart . . . got it . . . and . . .” he gave a little grunt as his hand worked around. “And then firmly, but gently . . . pull . . .” The esophagus disappeared from the throat region, suddenly popping out above the intestinal sack. Then the Daginawida tipped the carcass back on its side and, with one last gentle pull, all the internal organs fell out onto the ground in a neat bundle, with surprisingly little blood.

But this didn't matter. The young man scrambled to a tree and began throwing up. Hansum laughed, remembering how, back in Verona, it had taken him time to get used to all the butchering in the market place and down the street in front of Master Spagnoli's.

The Deganawida turned at the sound of Hansum's laugh and looked at him. For a moment his black eyes burned into Hansum's. Then a slow smile came to his lips and his face transformed, with large square teeth shining out from dark skin. He motioned for Hansum to join them. The Deganawida's eyes followed Hansum as he approached, and Hansum could tell the older man was watching to see how he would react to the dead animal and fresh pile of guts. Hansum looked to the mound but did not flinch.

“So, you found
me
this time,” the Deganawida said quietly.

“Greetings elder,” Hansum said.

“Slave, what are you being sick for?” the Deganawida called, turning back to the younger man. His voice was still soft, but firm. “You weren't squeamish tucking into that deer steak the other night. Come now, we've got to butcher the meat and we've got company. Stand up and show respect to my visitor.”

The young man, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, turned. His eyes went wide when he saw Hansum. He jumped to his feet.

“You're . . . you're . . .”

“I didn't say to speak, slave. Now you must stand and be quiet.” The older man turned back to Hansum, smiling again. Hansum held out his hand.

“Hello. I'm . . .”

“Yes, I know who you are,” he said clasping Hansum's hand. He grasped it with both of his and took time to inspect the famous scar. “I've got one of those here,” he said pulling up his shirt. “Got it when I was fourteen, from a buck not far from here. That was a lesson worth keeping too.”

“Impressive,” Hansum said.

“You, slave. Come here. Mind if I show him this?” he asked Hansum about the thumb.

“That's fine.”

The boy walked over tentatively, looking down at the thumb, and then at something else. Hansum realized he was looking at his sword. The Deganawida realized it too and laughed.

“I caught this one watching your first sword fight by the river the other night. He had a stick in his hand and was slashing away at the air. ‘What are you doing, slave,' I asked? ‘I'm going to be a time traveler,' he said like the grown child he is. ‘Maybe you need a stint at a Hard Time History Camp?' I asked him, and he pouted. Pouted.” Hansum knew what the Deganawida was saying was not meant cruelly. It was the job of a mentor to point out hard realities, something a parent couldn't always do. “Look again at Journeyman Hansum's thumb and think of what he went through to get his scars.” You could see the boy's imagination working and he went discernibly paler. “You can't even stand seeing a deer cleaned and you think you're fit for exploits? Now, look into Journeyman Hansum's eyes.”

What Deganawida was doing to his slave had been done many times to Hansum when he was a hard case, trying to make the boy think outside his own ego-driven fantasies. Hansum stared back at the boy, his hard eyes, eyes that had seen so much in the past year, looking into the soft self-deluded eyes of a teen maybe three years his junior. The boy blinked, and then looked down.

“Good, good,” the Deganawida said softly. “This one, my slave, back in his territory had won an archery contest and crowed about it when we got here. But could he shoot this deer when he had it in his sights? No, I had to. Do you think you will be able to do it next time? Eh? Answer me.”

“I'll try, Master.”

Hansum looked over at the boy, who had a tear running down his face.

“You know, Elder, I've just realized something,” Hansum said.

“What's that, my son?”

“In all my experiences on missions, in all I've been through, I've never killed anyone . . . or anything. Not even a deer.” The young man, the slave, looked up surprised. “Can I help finish dressing the animal?” Hansum asked. “We could learn together,” he said to the youth.

“I've never been to a wedding like this before,” Shamira whispered to Kingsley. Her eyes were wide. “Is this where they cut into their arms?”

“Yes, that's coming up, sweetie,” Kingsley whispered, and gave her a loving squeeze.

The ceremony had been so romantic. Charlie was in his tribe's wedding regalia of white rabbit fur and Miriama wore a modest, but beautifully tailored suit of an East European Jewish bride. The wedding had been conducted by both the Tadodahoe, to administer the Haudenosaunee rites, and a rabbi for the Jewish ones. And it all took place under a wedding canopy, or chuppah. The bride and groom were paraded in to the hauntingly beautiful sounds of a Haudenosaunee courting flute.

It had taken the better part of an hour to get through the two ceremonies and, while the traditions had been continents apart in origin, they were surprising close in emphasizing the building of familial ties and mutual respect between men and women.

Even though Shamira and Kingsley were standing among some two hundred guests, Shamira felt an incredible intimacy. Kingsley's warm arms were wrapped around her and every few minutes he would kiss her hair.

But now, after the ancient wedding rites, came the modern part of the ceremony. Back in the part of the world where Shamira and Lincoln grew up, what came next was usually done later and by a doctor. But here it was done as part of the marriage ritual and in full view of the community.

Their work completed, the Tadodaho and rabbi stepped aside and the angel, Laylah, flew into the longhouse. Laylah was an A.I. in the shape of a renaissance cherub, a plump little baby with golden hair, rosy cheeks, black eyes and a pink toga. After joyfully dive-bombing the crowd, he took his place, hovering in front of the couple.

“So, you want to have a child, do you?” he challenged the new couple. His voice was that of a boy of perhaps six, but harsh.

“Yes, we do,” Charlie and Miriama cried loudly.

“I am here to grant your wish,” Laylah replied. “But first I must remind you of the seriousness of this undertaking.” He turned and started to fly slowly about the crowd, his little wings beating away. “In prehistoric times, before the human animal gained sentience, its reproduction, like that of all living things, had to be in great enough numbers to overcome a high mortality rate. But after the invention of agriculture,” Laylah snapped his fingers, “within the blink of a galactic eye, the short space of ten thousand years, your kind's ingenuity outstripped its biology and the human population grew from a few million to over twelve
billion
.” He paused for effect. “That's when your ancestors finally came to their collective senses and adopted binding population targets. They also called upon us, the A.I.s, to enforce this law. Since then, when a child is born an implant is placed within its body, not allowing that individual to reproduce . . . until a day like this.”

In a blur, the angel sped back to the couple, stopping in a flash and hovering with a serious expression on his baby face.

“Put forward the limb from which you want me to cut the constraining device,” he said solemnly. Both Miriama and Charlie pulled back their sleeves and exposed their upturned forearms. “Do you both vow that, come what may, you will love and support any child that comes from this action?”

“Yes, we vow,” the couple replied together.

Without taking his serious little eyes from the couple, Laylah cried in a sonorous voice, “And does the community likewise vow to be loving and supportive in helping raise Miriama and Charlie's child?”

A great shout came up from all the people in congregation. Old and young alike knew what they were to respond and why.

“Miriama, Charlie and the child have our support!” several hundred people cried in unison.

The room went silent again. All that was heard was the rhythmic beating of Laylah's wings. Even the birds outside seemed to have stopped chirping. Laylah continued looking between Mariama and Charlie, his face a child's, but his eyes those of a terribly serious adult.

“Layla actually symbolizes the unborn child,” Kingsley whispered, “looking at his future parents and questioning what type of world he will be brought into.”

Hovering in the air, Layla now reached over his shoulder and took a short, sharp golden knife from his robes. It had a ruby encrusted hilt. Of course, everybody knew it was really a bloodless skin scalpel. The cherub placed the blade on Charlie's arm. The rubies glowed as he stuck the tip into his flesh. Charlie winced, for this was not to be a completely painless procedure. The skin opened up in a perfect oval. There, among the exposed muscles and tendons were two small spheres, each the size of a pea, one gold and one black. With the tip of the knife, Laylah flicked out the black one, catching it in the air and placing it within his robes. The cherub then turned to Miriama and placed the tip of the blade on her forearm, staring hard into her eyes. The bride smiled and the blade was pushed in. Miriama winced, but her smile never left her. Laylah removed her black sphere and held up both of their arms, so the congregation could see the open flesh.

“And now they can have a baby,” Shamira whispered, squeezing Kingsley's massive arm and melting back into his warmth.

Laylah took Charlie's arm and moved it so his opened wound was covering Miriama's. He pressed the two together and a glow appeared. As he separated them, the skin was whole and fresh.

“No matter how many times I see that, I'm always amazed,” Kingsley whispered.

“Elder Sam, my brother,” the cherub called to the Tadodaho, “I believe there is one more piece of business.”

Sam Goldman took a small empty wine glass and wrapped it in a linen. He placed it on the floor.

“Charlie,” he said, motioning downward.

“With pleasure,” Charlie answered, smiling at his bride. He lifted up his foot and came down on the tiny bundle with all his might. It made a loud crunch.

“MAZEL TOV!” the crowd screamed, as Miriama and Charlie kissed for the first time as man and wife.

Now Laylah lost all his seriousness. “All right then,” he laughed loudly. “The rest you must do the old fashioned way. I've got to get to another wedding,” and he flew out of the longhouse as a klezmer band struck up a lively tune and everybody started dancing.

Shamira watched as Lincoln and Medeea, who were standing next to them, turned to each other and started gallivanting with the crowd. She turned to Kingsley to start dancing with him, but he was looking at her seriously.

“What?” she asked.

He bent down and whispered in her ear.

“I know it's dangerous to do this at a wedding, because a person's emotions are so high, but I've never been more sure of anything in my life.” Shamira's eyes went wide. And when Kingsley went down on one knee, her whole body started to quiver. “Shamira. I love you. I love you so much. Will you be my wife?” She tried but couldn't get the word out. That single word. Kingsley looked at her oddly. Then she noticed Medeea and Lincoln staring at them, amazement and expectation on both their faces. Many of the revelers noticed as well and turned their smiling faces to them, every eye beaming.

“Yes. Yes, I'll marry you, Kingsley.”

Shamira heard Medeea screech with excitement, and the crowd roared its approval. Shamira felt herself being raised off the ground and the room began to spin as Kingsley whirled her around. As all the laughing and dancing people sped past her vision in a blur, as her ears were filled with laughter and music, Shamira threw back her head and squealed with an immense joy that permeated her entire being. Around and around she twirled, and then Kingsley brought her into his arms and their mouths met, to seal the happy promise.

Then another voice spoke to her.