He had never been tempted by other women once he and Rabia wed. Narthani society mandated there be only one wife to avoid inheritance and dynastic conflicts that had been the bane of early Narthani history. Not that there was prohibition against a man having multiple women in his household, but there was only one wife, and her children would inherit. Any other women in the household, be they free concubines or slaves, were subordinate to the wife. Promising children of other women were formally recognized as the wife’s, and such children might inherit under some circumstances. In Akuyun’s case, the issues never arose. Rabia satisfied all of his needs—emotional, political, and sexual, and she was cognizant of all three roles.
“Narth forbid you mention a mere woman was consulted on anything of importance,” she teased.” It was another part of their interplay. Narthani society excluded women in any role outside the home. To her, it was a never-healing sore, and to him a stupidity that lost valuable contributions from women such as his wife. Not that they voiced such opinions except to each other.
“Don’t forget, you promised Lufta and Ozem you would be home tomorrow night for their eleventh birthday.” Okan and Rabia had decided that the fraternal twins were skilled riders and old enough to graduate from ponies to trained, docile horses for birthday presents. Ozem, the boy, had failed in his campaign to be allowed to choose his own horse, while Lufta was indifferent to horses and would be content with whatever her parents chose.
Okan sighed. “You’re right, I had forgotten. Thank Narth, you’re here as my memory for such things.” His smiled, taking years off his face. “I promise, dearest. Home in time for the birthday dinner.”
“Oh, Okan, before I forget, the mail packet included letters from Bilfor and Morzak. They’re on your desk.”
Their two oldest sons were twenty-five and twenty-three years old. The twins had come much later, after he and his wife thought there would be no more children. Bilfor and Morzak were junior officers in the Narthani army and had families of their own. Bilfor, the oldest, was steady and thorough. Akuyun thought he would rise to be a respected major or colonel, but likely no higher.
Morzak, however, seemed to have inherited the intellect and astuteness of his parents. Rabia suspected he was the brightest in the entire family, and Okan once told her he could see Morzak going far, possibly at least as high as his father. As for the twins, they were still too young to be sure, though Okan thought Ozem had potential, while Lufta’s mind flittered in all directions. Half the time, Akuyun thought she might turn into another version of her mother; the rest of the time he wondered if she would end up an empty-headed twit.
Through the rest of the evening, Okan and Rabia talked of family, of matters weighty and trivial, and of whatever their futures might bring.
Okan Akuyun finished eating, his belly full, a slight buzz from the wine, his eyes always coming back to Rabia. Life was good. He’d risen high and might go higher, the mission was progressing well, and he was more than pleased with his family. And then there was Rabia. Always Rabia. Life was good.
Chapter 6: Acceptance
Joe had no sense of time, only that days blurred together. He gained strength and needed less help getting to and from the dining hall and the voiding house. Finally, the day came when he no longer needed assistance and could walk the abbey grounds. The staff acted friendly. At least, he assumed and hoped so, since their speech remained unintelligible. He lived in a semi-mute world, seeing mouths move and hearing sounds, but not communicating. The pattern of his life was to wake, eat in the dining hall, walk the grounds, sit in his room, and fall asleep hours after dark.
In his explorations of the abbey grounds, he found places to avoid seeing another person. In the southeast corner of the abbey complex, where a fruit orchard abutted the eight-foot main outer wall, sat an old wooden chair. He would lean the weathered back against the wall and face a mixed row of lemon and a local fruit tree—foilamon, he later learned—which produced plum-shaped yellow fruit evocative of tomatoes and almonds. Though the taste combination was foreign to his palate the first time they served slices at evening meal, he came to appreciate the subtleties of the flavor mix.
On other days, he rested within formal gardens behind the cathedraclass="underline" several acres of small trees, bushes, grassy plants, and flowerbeds accessed by a maze of paths. A wicker bench sat tucked away on a short, seldom-used side loop off a wider path. It was there, on this day, he sat contemplating his existence. The midday meal had been a combination of foods from both Earth and this planet: wheat for the bread, a stew of beef (he had seen cattle grazing in pastures outside the complex walls), and a mixture of unrecognized vegetables. For dessert, he’d eaten foilamon and a brown banana-like fruit with purplish flesh that tasted of raspberry and licorice.
That he could eat foods from plants and animal evolved on this planet told him the biochemistries of Earth and the local ecosystem were compatible, since he hadn’t been poisoned and his strength improved daily. The local organic molecules—proteins, carbohydrates, fats, and DNAs—must have similar basic structures as those on Earth. He thought it ironic that to one question posed by his planned presentation at the AAAS conference, “Alternatives to Standard Heterocyclic Bases in DNA of Exobiosystems,” he now knew the answer. Earth’s biochemistry was not unique. It was knowledge worthy of a Nobel Prize, except he was the only human in existence, now or perhaps ever, to possess it. Even worse, he had no one to share it with. He and the knowledge were locked away as surely as if both served life sentences in solitary confinement.
Gray clouds hid the sun, but an initial drizzle passed. Despite the cloak draped over his shoulders, he shivered in the chill air. The bench in the alcove allowed views of lovingly designed and tended pebble paths winding among a mélange of plants, perhaps a quarter of which he recognized or suspected of originating on Earth. The rest he assumed were indigenous. He studied the juxtaposition of striking foliage, bloom successions, and colors. Wherever his eyes turned, he saw variety. To the left grew a shrub covered in blue, bell-shaped flowers. To the right, yellow and red flowers rose from a bed of foot-high foliage. Across the path, a grass-like plant bore small white flowers on thin, nearly invisible stems. A breath of wind moved the grass, and the flowers seemed free-floating, dancing like a swarm of small white insects.
Joe followed the undulating passage of a butterfly with yellow and black markings. It fluttered past and settled on the blue flowers, sucking nectar from a blossom. It looked like a tiger swallowtail. Just like at home. For an instant, his imagination transported him back to Earth and let him pretend he was home.
The butterfly veered away as dragonfly-like creatures appeared. Their red-and-green striped wings flashed iridescent in the sunlight as they settled on the flowers. One unfurled a proboscis and probed for nectar.
Joe leaned closer and studied one of the strange insects. They had six wings, stood on four legs, and used two more appendages with small pincers to manipulate the flower petals.
It was not a terrestrial life form.
The illusion of being on Earth evaporated. He trembled, slumped, and covered his face with his hands. Tears ran through Joe’s fingers. Lost, alone, and desolate, he rocked, shoulders jerking as he sobbed.
The bench shifted, then moved again. Someone’s leg and body brushed against him. An arm draped over Joe’s back, and a hand gripped his right shoulder. The warmth of the person’s body seeped into his consciousness. The nearness of another human being, any human, anchored him. His sense of absolute loneliness faded, along with his sobs. A soft breeze caressed his face. Overhead, birds twittered, and in the distance a dog barked. Murmurs of workers in the vegetable garden filtered through the trees. The even breathing of the person brought Joe calm. He drew a shuddering breath, his emotions spent.