And every morning, every step of that way, she was watched, or directly accompanied, lest she meet some chance encounter that would irretrievably stain family honor. Her little brother, Wayan, took his breakfast perched at the window, half-heartedly tracing the path of her yellow bonnet in the melting frost as she made her way across the field in the weak morning sun. Her cousin Hugo met her on the bridge, riding her on the handlebars of his bicycle if he was in a good mood; scowling and pinching and telling her to hurry and keep up if he was not.
But on days like today, when she was tired and cold and had lingered for just a minute’s extra sleep, she emerged like now, heart in her throat, fear pounding in her ears, tears choking her eyes at the approaching uniform tramp of running feet. For although, for years, she had stopped and smiled and waved at the soldiers who, grinning, waved back as she continued to the bridge while she turned right along the stream bank, last week she had turned thirteen. And with that her father, for no reason that she could see or understand, on hearing from cousin and brother that she had looked full face on the soldiers; had smiled and waved as usual—on hearing that, he had flown into a fury and had slapped her so badly that her face was still mottled purple and green. Screamed at her for a harlot. Pulled her out of school. Made her don the bonnet. Made her work all day, under Uncle’s eye, instead of just helping in the early morning.
She hurried on, determined to make the bridge before they passed her, the stiff grass and battered ground hard and unyielding to the passing of her swishing skirts and rushing feet. The formation pulled closer, feet crunching in unison as they left the pavement for the trackway. She could hear their steamy breathing, a great, puffing dragon of a beast bearing down. She was jogging herself now, trying to stay ahead. Her own feet followed the rhythm as they half-sang, half-shouted:
“A yellow bird
A yellow bird
With a yellow bill
With a yellow bill
Was perched upon
Was perched upon
My window sill
My window sill”
She joined in, under her breath. She had learned most of the Anglic she knew this way, listening to the jodies, every day, day after day, morning and evening, for thousands of days. Until, somehow, a word at a time, they’d seeped in along with Pisin and Dutch and were just part of her vocabulary. Part of the multilingual patois of the Moorstown community.
At “window sill,” she glanced up involuntarily, looking over her left shoulder to the third storey window, now far behind her. But if little Wayan was tracing little pictures in the glass to mark her way, she could not see him.
It was just a glance. A quick peek. But in that moment, as she still jogged in time with the singing and crossed from the field into the dark of the trees, her right foot splashed, then slid on a patch of wet, slick on the pavement of clay beneath. Marul flew headlong forward, the cadence calls echoing through the tunnel of trees:
“I lured him in
I lured him in
With bits of bread
With bits of bread
And then I SMASHed his LIT-tle head!
The turn of her own head meant that she slammed down onto her right shoulder and tumbled before she had a chance to think. She landed hard on the right elbow pinned beneath her, rolled to her back, and in one desperate move scrambled to her feet, facing away from the bridge, looking face-on to the oncoming troops plowing among the trees four abreast like a train derailing, as the first ranks splattered into the same patch that had sent her sprawling.
They skidded to a halt, song stopped mid-word, to keep from running her down, and stood gaping and gasping, the NCO in charge already trotting forward to reach for her arm, saying “Are you OK, honey?” They gaped at her, skirt matted with chocolate mud and debris, bonnet askew; at the red smeared down her right cheek and soaking the shoulder and arm at the back of her white sweater. They gaped at much too much red.
The battalion medic was already jogging forward, already saying “It’s OK honey, it’ll be OK. It’s probably just a little cut on the scalp. They bleed a lot. They always look worse than they are. It’ll be OK. Let’s have a little look-see, OK?”
But Marul was not looking at the steaming soldiers, in their baggy yellow jogging suits, milling around her in a smelly yellow gaggle, those rearward still lurching to a stop as the accordion affect made its way to the most distant and slow-moving among them. Nor was she looking at the thin line of those too short, or tired, or hung over, or sick, or lame, or unfit, or slow, or just plain lazy to keep up with the gazelle’s pace set by the lead battery’s best runners. Nor was she listening.
Instead, Marul was staring straight up into the trees. Not at her feet. Not at their faces. Rather, far above their heads. She clutched her hurt right elbow hard against her stomach with her opposite hand. Her breath came in short, deep pants. Her bonnet slipped back from her head. She did not notice. She began trembling. And just as the medic reached out to her, saying, “Just let me see your arm, honey,” Marul let go of it, so that the medic alone looked down at her and saw her bruised cheeks.
The others, following the line of her shaking, outstretched left hand to the end of her pointing finger, stared with her, on beyond it, up into the century-old tamarisk. They now saw what she had seen during that frantic instant on her back, twenty feet above the ground. Upside down, his throat a crimson gash; something pink and sloppy covering his chest; a crimson spike pinning him to the trunk by his ankles, hung Marul’s cousin Hugo.
The medic heard the XO’s bark: “Secure the scene. I’ll secure the gate. You. You. You. You. Detail, follow me.” Heard, but did not see, the tramp of retreating feet, as Marul’s breathing became ragged, her knees shook, and she slumped to the ground, her arm still pointing. Sergeant Thompson gently lowered the arm, wrapped the girl in her jacket, knelt beside her, and only then turned to survey the scene. She watched the XO’s retreating back. Heard a slow drip-drip-dripping from the tree. Watched the XO stuff a ‘tooth into his ear. Pulled the girl closer and said “It’ll be OK Honey.”
Far above, high in the Oquirr mountains, seated before a glass wall that overlooked the smoky, fogged-in plains below, Lillith Van Zandt felt a warm buzzing pass through her desktop. Still soaking up the sublime scene of a dewy, early morning, she pressed her thumb to the table’s edge and said: “speak.”
A characterless electronic voice responded. “Confirmed and secured.”
Lillith smiled, pressed her thumb again, and returned to her steaming coffee. The sun broke over the clouds below, burning through in spots to patches of brilliant green. It was a beautiful morning, indeed.
Aboard Sinbad, Mote System, 3047
We went on and on, for a very long time. Once Uncle Kevin asked how Grampa was feeling. I was always afraid now, when Uncle Kevin asked that. It meant he was going to do something to the ship that would be bad for Grampa. Grampa said he’d been better, which meant he did not feel well. He said “I’ve been altering my will.” I could not imagine how Grampa could alter his will. His will was iron. His will was obeyed even though he was old and dying. Even strange Masters bent to his will. Auntie Omar said that’s why it was the greatest possible honor to be given him.
Then he and Uncle Kevin made a cube. Glenda Ruth helped. I do not like Glenda Ruth. She lies. And I will not call her Auntie Glenda. She moves like a Mediator, but she is no Mediator, and no mistake. I will bet Uncle Kevin’s pipe that she has two MaPas and no MaMa.
It went on for five days. And then came Grampa Horace’s greatest hour. It was like this. Glenda Ruth was sitting on Grampa’s bed. I did not like that. It made the bed move, and that disturbed Grampa Horace. He did not say so, but I could hear it in his heart. It went lub-dubby-dub, just for a moment, whenever she moved. She did not even notice! Calls herself a Mediator! Can’t even see the obvious! She was scratching my ear. I can lie too. I pretended to like it. I held very still, because the scratching made it hard to hear. Imagine! A Mediator! Interfering with my Duty!