The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter - Brent Hayward [12]
A summons.
The hammock had been set up in the shade, near the pepper fields. He looked out over the gardens, toward the ridge of hills. The day was mostly warm and breezy. Pressed against him, his youngest wife remained fast asleep. The exemplar tried to suppress his coughing, so as to not wake her.
Both he and this wife had spent a great deal of the previous night awake with their infant son, who was not a good sleeper, and who cried every time he was left alone. Maybe the boy was cutting teeth?
Seven years since the exemplar had accepted the host of the benevolent sisters, bless them, into his mouth. There had only been perhaps twelve previous summonses. Most of the time, the sisters communicated by the voice of the seed he had swallowed, talking softly in his head, but on occasion they wanted him physically at their side, as a witness, when they announced to him certain plans for the village, such as how to best cull ducks, or how to forge the sharpest of knifes. Once, the exemplar had to reconnect a damaged cable that had come loose from one of the goddesses’ great flanks during a storm. (The exemplar had a hard time distinguishing Kingu from Aspu: the sisters, bless them, were identical.)
He hoped this summons would be for as simple a request.
Disentangling from his wife—who grumbled a complaint and moaned but did not wake—the exemplar managed to clumsily stand. He had never quite mastered getting in or out of hammocks and was satisfied with himself that he had not fallen or dumped his wife out on her ample ass. The burning in his throat had lessened but he knew this was because he had moved; if he were to lie back down again, try close his eyes, the discomfort would resume, twofold.
“Where are you going?”
“I thought you were asleep,” he said. “I’ll be back soon. The sisters are calling me. Bless them. Go back to sleep.”
“The sisters?” She rolled in the hammock, face averted, hips rising. “Mmmmm . . .”
The exemplar blinked and, watching his youngest wife, adjusted his genitals beneath his robe. He had woken with a hard-on. When he returned, maybe they could make love? Being tired made him horny. So did warm days. And breezes. And hammocks. He smiled slightly, rubbing at his face, considering, just for a second, postponing his response to the summons. But that would be foolish: who in the world would ignore the call of their goddess?
“I won’t be long,” he said. “Hold that pose.”
“Don’t even think about waking me.”
He could tell she too was smiling.
The exemplar had left his sandals at home, so he had to pick his way carefully, barefoot around the garden, heading toward the pad where the benevolent sisters lay dreaming. Keeping an eye out for snakes or thistles or anything else that could hurt his feet, he heard from beyond the trees the laughter of children, playing nearby, drifting though the walls of foliage. He was unsure if any of this laughter was from his own children, but the sounds helped relax the exemplar nonetheless.
Just for a moment’s isolation he and his wives went to the hammock. For naps, and to maybe fool around. He touched his cock again through his robe, almost entertaining the thought that being an exemplar for his community was an imposition at times like this, but the sisters could read such thoughts, bless them, so he suppressed the idea as best he could, trying to hurry, and be devout.
Beyond the row of trees, he descended a path of black lava stones, which were sharp and further slowed his progress. At the crest of a second stony slope he cursed himself for not going back to his home to retrieve his sandals; he knew he must have looked ridiculous mincing his way down to where the goddesses slept.
If they wanted to, they could have seen him through his own eyes. They could watch