Chapter 1: Home
Job 33:14-16: Indeed God speaks once,
Or twice, yet no one notices it.
In a dream, a vision of the night,
When sound sleep falls on man,
While they slumber in their beds,
Then He opens the ears of man,
And seals their instruction in...
Karat Eku Ra 1638-1639: Tu nee dlon dlon klin nebu? Dlon dlon
klin lon lon? Nayla Eku haeer gral dlon dlon ha Eku ger flatlee
baf feem fed ha ger flatlee baf Plir.
Did we not come from another world ourselves? Are we not strangers?
Yet Eku, who brought our people, is stronger than all gods, stronger
than Plir.
Purple clouds crowded the sky, threatening rain, and I shuddered
at the tension in the air. Back in the desert, I'd loved the rain,
but out here, I knew it would just leak through the tower and
make everything smell like our refrigerator had, back when we'd
had food in it. Back when I was home, not worlds away from it.
A storm would have at least muted the sound of metal clashing
on metal, the screams of wounded men, the crash of bodies against
our stone fortress. They'd been fighting forever, it seemed, but
I still couldn't ignore the noise. The enemy shot at us, but the
arrows lost altitude before they could even try their luck at
passing through our narrow windows. We were out of arrows, ourselves,
and practically out of men. We had less than a hundred alive down
there, but soldiers in dirty uniforms, crowded around the tower
as far as I could see, maybe a thousand of them. I had no idea
who ours were; I was too high up to see the faces, and the muddy
uniforms all looked the same from three stories up.
We were lost already. But here I was, safe until I starved, far
above the fighters, and the fighting. I desperately prayed that
somehow our side would overcome.
A light, strong hand touched my shoulder, startling me.
"I think this is the end, Bonnie," he said softly.
The man was as dirty as the soldiers below, as dirty as I was.
His hair was almost black with mud and grime, and his once-green
uniform had turned brown. He was so filthy he could've had purple
skin beneath all the mud, for all I knew. But I leaned against
his small frame, and took some comfort in his firm embrace.
"This can't be it," I replied.
"Not for you." The man smiled sadly. "They won't
kill you."
"They kill women and children," I said, shuddering.
"But not goddesses." I had always wanted a man to think
of me as his goddess, but for some reason I was disgusted to hear
him voice it. I pulled away, and the man quickly amended, "Not
powerful women. They don't know you won't help them.
"I'm going down to the battle," he added. When I tried
to protest, he said, "If I'm killed, we're lost--but we're
lost anyway." He knelt before me and pressed his lips to
my limp hand.
"Don't go," I murmured, but I knew from the look in
his eyes that I'd lost that battle, too. As he left me with the
wounded on the second-to-top floor of the tower, my head felt
hot, and I thought I heard thunder.
Awful coughs woke me from my sleep--terrible sounds, a noise
more like an engine turning over, than reflexes from the woman
who had brought me into the world. The coughs ended in a rasp.
I used to get up and check every time Mom stopped coughing, afraid
she'd stopped breathing, too. But she'd been survived for six
months since she'd lost her job, practically a cripple the last
two. She was still holding on. In a couple minutes she was snoring,
a noise I used to find embarrassing, but now cherished. It meant
the only thing I had to worry about for the time-being was making
too much noise and waking her. Luckily, pens aren't noisy.
I'd been dreaming about Sheshack as long as I can remember, and
had been writing about it since I was ten. The place was a verdant
land--all forest, grass, and rivers. It had all the scenery we
didn't have at home, and people too pretty and chivalrous for
this world. I mainly saw two nameless men. The skinny one--the
one who had just seemed to hug me a few minutes ago--was always
trying to comfort me, like an older brother. If I ever met him
on the street, I think I'd run away. Not because he was intimidating;
he would never hurt me. But I almost never daydreamed about him
unless we were in some sort of trouble.
The very first time I wrote about Sheshack, it was when Mrs. Hacklestein
made us compose a story about a fictional country. The words came
to me like I wasn't imagining them at all, and though I only got
a B on the assignment, I soon had more daydreams, and kept writing,
both for school, and for the fun of it. The only story any of
my teachers had been impressed by was one of the few I felt I
made up entirely; the words didn't come easily, and I worked hard
on it. I'd written that the two men were fighting over me; I don't
think I even mentioned the reason, or thought of one myself. But
my grammar was good and I'd got a green star sticker for it--green
to match Sheshack's trees. Maybe the teacher just felt bad for
me; that was around the time the divorce was being finalized.
That's probably why I fantasized about two men loving me enough
to kill for me. My father didn't love my mother enough to live
with her. He'd vanished soon after the divorce, and I hated him
for it. If he came back and tried to get custody of me now, I
think I'd run away, like a coward, just like he had.
Now I wasn't just looking for someone to love me madly. I'd settle
for a man who could take care of me, who wouldn't leave. The other
man I'd envisioned--a tall, muscular, long-haired man--could provide
for me and love me. I flipped through my book, scanning
for passages I'd circled--parts that I drew comfort from sometimes.
He held me close, and I stopped fighting. "I'll never
let you fall, Bonnie," he said in a voice as strong as his
arms.
Mom's coughing startled me into closing the book. No matter. I'd
be back in Sheshack the next time I closed my eyes. Sometimes
I found myself there while I was still awake, too. I tried to
get there now, though my body moved towards Mom's bedroom.
I was lost in my thoughts and stepped on an empty cassette case,
cracking it, and almost cutting myself. I yelled curses at the
idiot who hadn't cleaned up the hallway, until I realized that
person was me. So I quietly cursed the neighbors. They'd given
us all these awful cassettes, when they upgraded to CDs. Mom appreciated
them, and even I'd found a few I kind of liked--some dance music,
and some classical. But I felt really poor, listening to old tapes.
Mom also collected magazines our neighbors had finished with,
and bundles of them lined the walls of the living room. Their
presence made our two bedrooms, tiny kitchen and living room seem
all the more cramped. Mom was always in bed, but Frieda and I
stepped on each other's toes quite a bit in the remaining 500
square feet of space. Frieda sometimes made me feel more useless
than the broken cassette case I pitched.
Mom was sitting up in bed, and she took the glass of water I offered
her. We'd all given up on making her bedroom cheerful; in fact,
I couldn't bear to touch bloodied Kleenex, so I rarely even cleaned
the room. She had some old plastic flowers by her bedside now,
and some of her old magazines. She smiled at me, but she didn't
mean it--hadn't meant it for months.
"Bonnie, I'm feeling better today."
Mom was lying. She was thinner than me now, and her skin was always
dry, her eyes so tired-looking I wondered if she really wanted
to close them forever, and was just staying here for me and Frieda.
I'd seen corpses on TV pinker than her, and my grandfather had
looked better at his own funeral.
"I'm glad," I said, trying to sound cheerful, but I
guess I came out sarcastic, judging from Mom's look--a desperate,
silent plea for me to pretend everything was OK. "Can I turn
the fan on? Aren't you hot?" I asked quietly.
Mom wasn't, but it was over 100 outside, and I would've traded
my best pair of shoes to get in a swimming pool for a few hours.
And that's where I was, fully dressed. Not in my clothes, but
weird ones, blue and green, and heavy. Long black hair streamed
in the water beside me--not mine, but a man's. I knew the man
well; he had piercing green eyes, and a strong jawline. Though
he was just imagined, I'd already started to love him. He even
looked strong in the water. I was sure he could lift me, Frieda,
and Mom without thinking twice about it. Maybe he could even juggle
us, if we all stayed very still so he could balance us. But even
though I was daydreaming, even though I should've had free rein
over what this imaginary man did, I couldn't picture it.
We weren't in a pool after all, but a pond, almost a lake (although,
to someone born and raised in the desert like I was, anything
larger than a swimming pool seems to be a lake). I wasn't much
of a swimmer, but I could've swam across the water, to the bright
trees along the shore, or at least halfway, if the man hadn't
restrained me.
The man's shoulders were clothed in blue and green, like mine
were, in three-quarter length sleeves. At least we wouldn't get
sunburned. We swam, but not very far, and when the weight of my
wet clothes started to drag me down, the man helped me float.
"Be careful, Bonnie," he murmured, and then he told
me he loved me.
At those words, I was floating on the inside too.
"Bonnie!" Frieda's voice stung like a jellyfish, waking
me. I was still in front of Mom, sitting like I'd just fallen
asleep. That must've scared Mom pretty good.
"It's the heat," Mom coughed. "Look how red her
cheeks are."
Frieda hauled me up. Maybe that's where I'd imagined the man from;
Frieda was nearly as strong as he had seemed, though not nearly
as pretty. Her jaw was every bit as square, and her eyebrows bushier.
"All I asked was for you to make a salad, and you can't even
do that?"
I shouted back at her, but Mom had a coughing spell, probably
faked. We stopped arguing anyway. Mom sometimes cried, or said
how ashamed she was of us, and neither of us could stand that.
And we couldn't bear to imagine the last thing she ever saw being
us fighting.
"I'll help you make supper," Frieda said slowly. It
wouldn't help; everything I made tasted like it'd been left on
the counter for three days, no matter how I tried. "Can you
clean a little tomorrow?
"I'll grow my hair and go to work for you," I shot back.
"We can trade places, if you're so good at cleaning."
"Don't be stupid," Frieda said. "You're too young--the
state doesn't think you're mature enough to work. And I agree
with them for once."
I nearly said something sarcastic about the difficulty of flipping
burgers, but I managed not to. Besides, with my luck, every burger
I flipped would make everyone who ate it sick, just like the chili
I'd made with leftover pot roast and the swollen can of beans
from the back of the cupboard. Frieda missed work and I was stuck
home for three days. If Mom had been up to eating that day, she
probably would've died of food poisoning.
I pulled the salad out of the refrigerator, lingering in the air
that came out from the open door. There was a cool breeze in my
face, and a cold meal in front of me, as colorful as a bowl of
Play-Doh, and maybe as salty. I would've tried to eat it no matter
what it tasted like, to keep from offending the cook, or the two
men...
Of course I had lettuce in my mouth when Frieda caught me.
"What's wrong with you?" she asked. "Are you a
rabbit?"
I said something mean back, and she did the same. Then Mom coughed
from the bedroom, so we argued more quietly.
"What's gotten into you?" Frieda hissed.
"Nothing," I said. After a pause, I said, "I'm
sorry," and I wasn't lying, exactly. It was true when I added,
"I've just been worried about Mom. I'd rather think of anything
else."
Frieda's right eye lost its twitch, that special annoyed flutter
that only I could give her. "I know," she said softly.
"But worrying isn't going to help anything." I almost
forgave my sister, until she added, "You should go crash
with Tina or whoever. Get away from Mom, and save us some money."
I hated Frieda and Mom sometimes, and I hated our pathetic house.
But I could've slapped Frieda for trying to send me away from
it all. "I don't eat that much," I said. "And if
it weren't for me you wouldn't have anything to wear!"
That last part was almost true. We still had an old sewing machine--we'd
get maybe $25 if we sold it, so we'd kept it. And I used it to
mend hems and seams that came loose, and to sew new clothes. I
made most of what I wore, some clothes for Frieda, and all Mom's
nightgowns. (She didn't need suits anymore, and she had enough
church dresses to last 20 years, 30 if she missed every third
Sunday or so as she had been lately.) Frieda hated skirts, but
I made her high-waisted cargo pants, with room for her hips--stuff
a woman couldn't buy in a store anyway.
"I can buy clothes at Goodwill, Bonnie," Frieda said.
"Where am I supposed to buy a clean house?"
"I guess we're too poor to afford one," I said. Frieda
didn't have an answer, so I said, "Fine. I'm going to Tina's.
I'll be back for the funeral, I guess."
We both knew I didn't mean it, but Frieda was still mad and didn't
try to stop me. I slammed the door hard as I left.
The stifling heat from the setting sun nearly drove me back inside.
It wasn't like I could really go to Tina's--she had hardly
spoken to me in two weeks, busy with her boyfriend, and she had
stopped wearing the spaghetti-strap tops I sewed for her. My other
friends had grown distant after Mom got sick, like they thought
cancer was contagious. And I couldn't live on the streets--a sidewalk
hot enough to fry an egg would surely fry me too.
Uncle Gary would help me in a pinch, but he lived across town.
None of our neighbors had ever brought any food over while Mom
was sick, just their outdated junk. They didn't have that much
more to spare than we did, but you'd think they would've helped
with what they had--maybe in gratitude for the fact that their
own families were healthy. They never had, though, and I knew
they wouldn't take me in.
I'd made it to the park. It was a tiny bit of ground, with almost
the only trees in a two-mile radius, and just about the only living
grass. A few years back no one dared set foot there, for fear
of gangs, but the homeless people had taken over, and now everyone
else stayed away. I could just imagine a couple gangsters in bandanas
stalking off from the place, clucking their tongues in disgust
about the park going so far downhill.
The homeless were mostly gone around dusk, getting food from our
poor church a mile away, and the ones left behind were fast asleep,
more pathetic than scary. I wasn't at all afraid of them, but
I hated to look at them. I wouldn't be one of them, not the moment
Mom died, anyway. Uncle Gary would take care of me, for a while.
But if he got tired of me, I'd be a ward of the state for a couple
years. After I turned 18, I didn't know what would happen. Frieda
couldn't afford to go to college, so I'd probably have a job like
hers, flipping burgers. Then I remembered that I probably couldn't
even do that right. Scrubbing toilets, then. I guess that's hard
to mess up.
I leaned against one of the trees. Its trunk was no thicker than
a volleyball pole, and its leaves were nearly as thin as a net's
strings. I was alone; it was far too hot for any sensible person
to be outside with nothing but a stick to protect her from the
sun.
I tried to go back to my dreams, to feel a cool breeze, to smell
strange flower scents, to hold the hand of the handsome strong
man with the long hair. I tried to imagine anything, but all I
could picture was the pole-tree leaning over me, as if to speak,
and then suddenly choking me with its half-dead leaves.
Why was I imagining being attacked by a spindly tree? I'd thought
the only thing I was afraid of was Mom's death, maybe being poor,
or poorer. But a tree?
I didn't want to go home, back to the people who were disappointed
in me. I longed to be taken away, even to be caught up in wicked
tree branches. I pressed my hands to the tree trunk, and then
I wasn't so angry with Frieda anymore. She was pathetic, not worth
my anger. I imagined her bowing to me, begging my forgiveness,
pleading for my help. But it wasn't what I really wanted, was
it?
Frieda found me just before dark, and she didn't scold me, but
she didn't say she was glad I was OK, either.
"Thanks for scrubbing the toilet," was all she said.
After supper I worked on Frieda's new church dress for a couple
hours, until the hum and ratcheting noises of the machine started
to annoy Mom, and I had to stop for the night. Then I halfheartedly
studied for my exams, really just hoping to tire myself enough
to drift into my fantasies again.
But once I finally fell asleep, I didn't dream.
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