In his mind, Jorl’s study was little different from the reality. Stacks of papers still cluttered his desk, albeit slightly different ones. Spent sticks of ink bamboo lay scattered alongside full cups of the things. Printouts and partially completed manuscripts, both heavy with marginalia lay piled on both sides of his chair. The still-mourned guest chair faced him, empty at first and then suddenly full with the figure of a Lox of late-middle age that appeared older still, folded in upon himself with weariness and too many years of illness. The man smelled of sea salt and recent rain.
“Hello, Dad.”
Tral blinked. His ears flapped slowly, as if testing the air. His hands lightly touched his chest, his thighs. The nubs of his trunk feathered absently across the tips of his vestigial tusks. His eyes appeared rheumy, though Jorl did not recall seeing them so when last they’d met. But that was the point. This Tral had been drawn from his father’s last living nefshons, from a time after he had set sail.
“Jorl … This is … this is your home. Why am I back on Keslo?” A moment passed. The confusion abated. “Oh. I’m already dead. And you’re a Speaker now. I remember that. We’ve talked like this once before, haven’t we?”
“We have. And I wouldn’t have summoned you a second time if it weren’t very important.”
With a flick of one ear, Tral waved away the apology. “I can’t recall seeing you look so dire. What has you so wound up? Does it have anything to do with that Otter girl?”
“Otter girl?”
His father shrugged. “I think she was. But, you know, I’ve only seen images. Willowy she was.”
“When did you see a Lutr, Dad?”
“How am I supposed to know that? When did you talk to me last?”
“More than a year ago.”
“Well, there you have it,” said Tral. “Some time between then and now. She said you wrote a book about me, if that’s any help.”
“Why would she summon you? What did she want?”
“No idea. We didn’t talk long or much. So, if it’s not her, what has you bringing me here?”
Jorl flexed his trunk and remembered the conversation he’d planned. “A prophecy of the Matriarch that looks ripe to come true.”
Tral gestured with his trunk at Jorl’s forehead. “Is this the same one as you said got you that mark? My son, a Bearer and a Speaker. I wish I’d lived to see it.”
Jorl blushed. He fanned his heated face with both ears and then shook his head. “No, something else. The details aren’t important, but the information I need from you is.”
“If it’s in my head, then I’ll happily share it. What do you want to know?”
“Some time after we last saw one another in life, you set sail, didn’t you? Your passing was deliberate and sure, not some accident somewhere?”
“It happened just that way, Son, the way it does. Late one night I woke from a dream and knew my time had arrived. I closed up my shop and went around to see Belti. You remember her? Her middle daughter was always sweet on you though you never seemed to see it yourself. Anyway, I remembered she had an old boat she’d long since stopped using. I bought it from her on the spot. Filled it with some supplies, and set out with the dawn a day and a half later.”
“And you reached your destination?”
Tral smiled. The rare expression tugged at Jorl’s heart. The way one corner of his father’s mouth pulled up more than the other, the gleam in the old man’s eye, associated with too many wondrous memories of earning favor and pleasing him, the last time years before when he’d finished at university. He took a deep breath to clear his head, and realized he’d missed some of Tral’s words.
“—the beach not long before you called me here. I’d just let the boat go. I’m right where I need to be, I know that, so I won’t be needing it anymore. But that’s all in your past, isn’t it, Son?”
Jorl nodded. “Yeah, Dad. A decade and more. I just … I needed to know you’d reached your destination—”
“Have no doubt of it,” interrupted Tral.
“—and I need you to tell me where it is,” finished Jorl.
“You what? I can’t do that.”
“Dad, something’s happened. I think one of the Matriarch’s prophecies is coming to pass and it has something to do with Dying Fant who have sailed off on the last journey. I need to follow them. It’s important.”
“I’m sure you think so, but it’s not for you to know. It’s not the sort of thing you know until it’s your time. And if it was your time, you’d know.”
“You said you’d share what you know. Happily.”
“Ask me something else. Something I can tell you.”
“You can tell me, you’re choosing not to.”
Tral crossed his arms over his chest. His ears dropped defiantly. “You have a clear understanding of the situation. That’s good.”
“Dad, I didn’t want to do this, but, you know I have an aleph.”
“I’m dead, not blind. What of it?”
“So you have to tell me.”
“I don’t believe I do.”
“Being dead doesn’t relieve you of your culture. The bearer’s mark grants him passage. No doors can be closed to him. He’s free to go wheresoever he wills. That’s the law of Barsk!”
“I’m not disagreeing, Son.”
“Well, I choose to follow where you and other dying Fant have gone.”
Tral relaxed in the guest chair. The smile returned to his lips but his eyes had lost that joyous gleam.
“Then go, boy. I’m not stopping you. Go ahead, sail off.”
“Then you’ll tell me where it is?”
“Of course not. I already told you I wouldn’t. You’re not stupid. You’ve never been stupid. Pay attention.”
Jorl slapped at his own forehead, the aleph’s glow faint, but steady. “You just said you weren’t stopping me!”
“And I’m not. But I’m not going to enable you either. That mark means you can go where you please and no one can hinder you. It doesn’t mean anyone else has to help you though. And I won’t.”
The two Lox fell silent. Jorl seethed, but Tral merely sat there looking bemused.
“This isn’t just about the prophecy,” said Jorl.
“No?”
“I’m not certain I’m even reading it right.”
“Then what is it about?”
“I’m a historian. That’s what I do and who I am. My area of specialization is Margda, and her prophecies are a part of that. I’m one of the top three scholars in that area. I’ve published some very highly regarded research. I’m good at what I do.”
“Never doubted that,” said his father.
“Yes, and being able to Speak just gives me another tool, and allows me to do things beyond the reach of most other historians. Can you appreciate that?”
Tral waved his trunk in agreement.
“And the aleph, I’m not the one who ever sees it, it hardly ever comes up, but it’s also a tool, like Speaking. Right?”
“Still with you, Son.”
“The current … situation, I’m the right person in the right place with the right set of tools to resolve it and get some answers. I have an obligation as a historian to do this.”
“Huh. Well, I can’t say I follow all of that, but I do see how important this is to you. Maybe even life changing.”
“Yes, thank you. So you’ll help and tell me what I need to know?”
“Nope. I already told you that. Leave off. This is important to you, I get that, but it doesn’t change my mind. Doesn’t matter how hungry you are but it won’t make a sky rain soup.”