“I’ve long since forgotten the details of her warnings. Of all the areas of history to study, I never understood why you made her life your focus. Most of her writings bored me, and the prophecies were so weird they made little sense, at least at the time we covered them in class. Which one are you going on about here?”
“The Silence.”
Arlo scrunched up his trunk and spat. “I hate that one. You remember how my mam told us stories about it when we were small, years before we got to that section in school? Scared the leaves out of us.”
“I remember. I had nightmares. Sometimes I think I grew up to study them as a reaction. You know, so that I could really understand what scared me.”
“Yeah? Well, be sure and thank her for your livelihood next time you see her.”
Jorl looked down, finding a sudden interest in the cuticles of one hand.
“What?” said Arlo.
“Your mom is part of the problem. I wasn’t going to bother you with the knowledge, but she sailed off a season ago. I’m sorry.”
“Oh.”
“Kembü had a full life, Ar. It didn’t have anything to do with your own passing. It was just her time.”
“What do you mean, she’s ‘part of the problem’?”
“Do you remember when we were eight and crazy for insects? We spent the summer collecting every bug we could find? I got to thinking about it, and I found myself wanting the specimen jar you used. Just a sentimental reminder. And you know how your mother never threw anything away … So I tried to ask her if she knew where it was.”
“What do you mean, you tried?”
“I couldn’t summon her.”
“How long ago?”
“Weeks. More than enough time for her to finish her last voyage and be summonable. Something set me off, thinking about that long ago summer. I snatched up a pellet of koph and reached out to pull your mother’s nefshons together, only … I couldn’t.”
“What does that mean? Why couldn’t you?”
“Because there weren’t any, at least, not any that would come when I called for them.”
“How can that be? We’re constantly producing particles, storing them up until death sets them free.” He gestured at his own chest with his trunk. “That’s how I’m here now. So how can my mam not have any?”
“I don’t know the how of it. I’m telling you what happened. A Speaker can only summon the nefshons of someone he knows. I know your mother as well as my own, but when I tried to find any sense of her, well, I think I felt something, but it wouldn’t respond. They were there, I’m sure, but it was like something was holding on to them. I’ve never felt anything like it.”
“You are kind of new at it,” said Arlo.
“Don’t insult me. I’ve done more than a hundred summonings, spoken with dozens of different people, including some I had to research because I didn’t know them personally. I should have been able to Speak to your mother. But I couldn’t attract so much as a single one of her nefshons.”
They sat quietly a few minutes, until Arlo finally asked, “So then what happened?”
“I shrugged it off. Blamed it on not enough sleep, or some bad fruit from breakfast. I put it out of my mind. But a few days later I needed to check on a reference with another historian, a woman I’d fallen out of correspondence with, only she’d sailed away sometime before your mom. I couldn’t reach her either. Same problem. But that time I wasn’t tired and I hadn’t eaten any bad fruit. Once I could dismiss as a fluke, but twice?”
“Flukes can come in pairs. Unlikely, statistically improbable even, but not impossible.”
“I knew you’d say that. So I asked around, both here at home and among a couple of the nearer islands. I compiled a list of five other elders who had all sailed off on their last journeys this past season with ample time to arrive at that last shore. I couldn’t summon any of them.
“I expanded my search, going back a bit further, built up a list of a dozen names. Those who had left two or more seasons ago responded to my call. Anyone who took to sea more recently than that I couldn’t reach. Like your mother.”
“And you think that’s the Silence from Margda’s prophecy?”
Jorl’s ears flapped as his shoulders rose in a shrug. “What else could it be? I mean, sure, like all prophecy the wording is vague, but I don’t know of any other event that fits her description of When the dead will not answer, the Silence is at hand, and the fate of all Barsk will soon hang in the balance.”
“You left off a piece,” said Arlo. “Just like you’ve left off your tattoo.”
Jorl’s entire face reddened, making his vestigial tusks seem to brighten by contrast. “I leave the tattoo off because I didn’t have it when you were alive; I want you to see me the way you knew me. I thought it would be more comfortable for you.” He mentally updated his own image and the glimmering glyph appeared.
“Okay, point one: that’s a load of crap. When I knew you, you weren’t a Speaker, so the fact that we’re having this conversation means I already know you’ve been through some changes since I died. Point two: you’re deflecting the real issue here, the bit of the prophecy you don’t want to talk about. What’s the rest?”
“Each of Margda’s prophecies goes on and on for pages in that meandering double-talk of hers—”
Arlo interrupted, “And yet, there’s a bit that you’re deliberately not mentioning. Jorl, you said you needed to talk to me about this, so talk.”
Jorl gestured at his forehead with one hand, moving his trunk in parallel for emphasis. “The next line says, The newest Aleph must do what has never been done though it is almost always done. Whatever that means. It’s nonsense.”
“Nonsense that bothers you. Because there are what, only three Fant now living who’ve been awarded the aleph? And you’re the most recent person to bear the mark. You think she’s talking about you!”
“Maybe. But only if the Silence is really happening. For all I know, I’m misreading the signs, and the Silence is something totally different that won’t come to pass for another hundred years, by which time I’ll be dead and some other guy will be the latest person with a glowing tattoo on his head. I’m probably worrying about nothing.”
“I can see how it might stress you,” said Arlo. “Have you tried talking about it with any other historians? Other experts in the Matriarch and her prophecies?”
“Oh yeah, and what a mistake that was! Mickl accused me of ‘conveniently’ interpreting the data to enhance my own position. He claimed I was trying to write myself into history.”
“Which one is Mickl?”
“He’s the head of the department at the university on Zlorka. He got the job because no one else wanted it. His scholarship sucks — everyone knows it — so he hides behind his title and generates bureaucracy instead of anything remotely publishable. And now he’s poisoning the rest of our community against me!”
“I remember you talking about him. He always sounded like an ass and a blowhard. If everyone already knows that, then his opinion isn’t going to carry much weight. So that’s not what’s really bothering you. Tell me what is!”
Jorl leaned over, elbows resting on knees, dropping his face into his hands and covering his eyes. His ears flapped forward, further shrouding him. After a moment he whispered, “I don’t want to be a part of history.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Arlo pushed off from the wall, rising and crossing the gap between the two benches in one step to settle alongside his friend, one arm reaching across his shoulders to pull him close. “I know what that’s like,” he said.