The Habitation of the Blessed - Catherynne M. Valente [71]
Qaspiel folded and unfolded its long bluish hands in distress. Its wing-tips flicked back and forth.
“How will you find it, John?” The anthropteron said. Its voice quivered with such intense desire, a desire I knew so well: to give no offense. This is one of our chief motivations, and I realized then that John did not at all understand why we behaved in such unfailingly kind fashion toward him, no matter what bizarre rituals he encouraged us to practice. Among the immortal, good manners are as important as bread and water. When we cannot forget anything, courtesy behooves us all.
“The Lord will guide me, Qaspiel. He will show me the way through the mountains, through the desert, through any trial.”
A murmur passed through the throng. It was all well and good to learn Latin, but to trust one’s precious body to those mountains, those deserts, with only John’s alien God who very manifestly did not speak or appear or do much of anything? I am not faithless. My mother taught me the secret hymns of the Navel of Heaven, which connects us all. I believe, on good days when it does not rain or freeze, that in my very need that connection will shine, and preserve me. But I also believe in maps, and cartography, and magnetic north, and a good, not too ornery, camel to carry me along. John stood firm, but we saw for the first time that he might not have come from the Rimal unscathed, that his mind might be bruised, half-jellied. The priest could not go alone. He would be killed, immediately.
Hadulph yawned. Fortunatus held still, a rictus of concentration. Grisalba belched. And I saw my chance. I would not be left out again. He could not ignore me anymore.
I stood up, so there could be no mistake, and called out clear as prayer: “I will go with you, John. I will protect you and keep you living on this road.” And I will bring a map, I added silently.
The priest scowled, and I had won. He could not reject me in front of everyone—how small and mean he would look! But Astolfo beside me, my husband of the voiceless love and jaw like a barrel, looked up at me, his eyes filled with loss. “I will come back for you,” I said softly, and brushed the hair from my love’s brow. But we had learned too well to converse in silence. He would not hold me to it.
Hadulph, in the end, agreed to go as well, and of course Fortunatus. Qaspiel, too, and the little panoti, though many protested that she would be no help and should stay where she could be loved and cared for. She hissed through her perfect, tiny teeth. I looked at Grisalba, but she brayed in laughter. “Not on your life, my decapitated love,” she said, shaking her head.
All our talk done, the sun threw its golden arms up and surrendered behind the far hills, where we would go, all of us, together, and return nothing like ourselves.
THE SCARLET NURSERY
Once, Lamis came to me when the night rung like an old, empty jar, almost dry of dregs. She held out her huge hand, her lip trembling, wanting closeness, afraid to ask, as she was not supposed to be awake, not supposed to trouble her Butterfly when the stars were tucking themselves into bed.
Lamis, Who Was Only Lonely: Tell me a story, Butterfly. One only for me. Tell me where you come from.
You ought to be asleep, my lambfleece love.
Lamis, Who Wanted Something Her Siblings Did Not Have, Something All Her Own: If you tell me, I shall fall asleep.
A child in need is the worst trap the world can lay.
Well, I began, here is the truth of it: I am not like you. I was made of other things than street-dust and spices, other things than cities can forge in their endless and wending hearts. My people did not come with the rest upon the Ship of Bones. We dwelt here in the years before bread and salt, dwelt in honeycombed snow, frozen bees crawling in the rafters of the world. You are all foreigners here, even your