Quickly she signed to Rihana, "Is that a fuzzywriggle?"
A hand came down and slapped her fingers, making them sting and turn red. Holding her hands together and sitting back upon her heels, she looked up through her tears and saw that the man in the beautiful slippers wore a beautiful robe of white and gold. From his neck hung a large golden starcross. He reached down, grabbed the girl's hands and slapped them again.
"Never do that," commanded the man in the beautiful robe. He looked at Rihana. "Woman, do not let this child learn the blasphemous finger-talking unless you wish to see her neck in a choke loop. I know there are families that tolerate such things, but I would remind you that even if the family tolerates it, Alilah does not. Alilah sees, will not forget, and will not forgive. Neither will I."
"Father," began a strange voice, "perhaps we can continue looking at the gardens?"
The man glared at the girl for a moment longer, then he nodded and turned his back. "I apologize, Trader Ib, but you see how Reformist households simply flaunt the law."
"Not an easy law to enforce, father."
"And this is why, Trader Ib. This is why."
As the creature led the man away, it moved very smoothly down the path although it seemed to have nothing for legs. The creature's fur rippled with movement, and here and there a hairy worm or snake would peek out.
When they were out of sight, Rihana stood, brushed off her dress, and pulled Silent Her next to her on the bench. "Before you use the finger-talk before a man, you must first know how the man feels about it."
"Who was the man, and why did he hurt me?"
"He is a very important priest and your father's guest. He slapped you because he believes that women using the finger talk is evil."
"If he is an important priest, shouldn't he know?"
"There are other priests who disagree."
Silent Her rubbed her fingers and sniffed. She turned to Rihana and signed, "Was that a fuzzywriggle?"
"Do not call them fuzzywriggles. It is very unkind. They are called Imahnti."
"Are they like Onan said?"
"What did Onan say?"
"He said they were made out of fur, worms, and snakes."
Rihana sighed as she shook her head and signed, "Those things Onan calls worms and snakes are appendages like your hands, feet, fingers, and toes."
The girl stood on the stone bench to try and catch another look at the creature. All she could see, however, was a black thatch moving along a hedge next to the priest's shoulder. One of the snakes seemed to wriggle from beneath the thatch and wave at her.
"It waved at me," signed the girl. "How could the thing wave at me when it wasn't looking at me?"
Rihana lifted the girl off the bench and placed her on the path. "It is not a thing, child. It is an Imahnti. We also call them traders. Why it could see you is because they have more than one set of eyes. They have many eyes."
Silent Her wrinkled up her face. "That's awful."
"Did you ever think how you must look to an Imahnti with your naked skin, those awkward stubs of arms and legs, and only two eyes?"
The girl laughed in silence as Rihana looked around and signed to her, "It's time for us to be getting back. I'm certain your father wouldn't have let his guests into the garden if he knew women would be in the way."
They returned to the female wing, and that night Silent Her had two nightmares about snakes and worms with multiple eyes and long, yellow teeth.
He and Peter were already up when Tony got home from work the next morning.
"You want breakfast?" Brendan pointed at the frying pan still on the stove. "There's some bacon left, I can make you eggs or something."
Tony shook his head. "No thanks. Got an Egg McMuffin on the way home. Check this out—"
He pulled a CD from his leather jacket. "Promo of the new Advent Moth. Wanna hear it?"
"No."
"Aw, c'mon—"
"No." Brendan slid back into his chair at the table beside Peter.
"Peter, here's Uncle Tony. Peter has to finish eating before he can leave the table," he said. "Okay, Peter. Pick up your fork, and eat this before it gets cold."
Tony stood watching them. "Hey, Peter," he said. "That looks like a good breakfast. Yum yum yum."
Peter sat at the table in a booster seat, a plastic bowl in front of him holding a small yellow heap of scrambled eggs. Around him the floor was smeared with more scrambled eggs and several pieces of toast. "Pick up the fork," repeated Brendan.
Peter reached for the cup. "That's the cup," said Brendan firmly. "Pick up the fork."
Peter put down the cup but did nothing. "This is the fork," said Brendan, pointing. "You eat your food with the fork." Peter picked it up stiffly, and began to eat.
"Listen," said Brendan. He looked up at Tony and patted the empty chair next to him. "We have to talk."
Tony sank obediently into the chair. "This isn't going to work, right?"
"Well, no, probably not. Or well, maybe for just a few days—" Brendan sighed and took a sip of coffee. "I was talking to Teri—"
"Oh, yeah, right. I thought we weren't supposed to tell Teri."
"I have to tell Teri, because of Peter." Brendan glanced at his son and smiled. "You're doing a good job with that fork, Peter." He turned back to his friend. "Look, Tony—you know what it's like. We're doing this intensive treatment, Peter's doing really well with it, and—well, we have to be consistent. Anything disruptive is just going to confuse him, and …"
"Right," said Tony. He spread his longyears out on the tabletop and began drumming them. Peter looked over, drew his own longyear to his mouth, and bit it.
"Pick up your fork, Peter. Put down your longyear and pick up your fork." Brendan reached over, took Peter's longyear and brought it back to the table. Peter began to scream, but then abruptly stopped.
"See what I mean?" Brendan shot an exasperated look at Tony. "We're working on that kind of stim, him biting his longyear—"
Tony nodded. "He's not doing it as much as he used to."
"He's not doing it at all. Hardly. That's one of the things you do—you don't let them indulge in any self-stimulation, not until after they've eaten their breakfast, or done computer time, or whatever. Then, instead of letting him bite his longyear we give him something else—"
Brendan turned so the boy couldn't see him and went on sotto voce, "—we give him this rubber duck, he can soothe himself with that for a few minutes."
Tony rubbed his chin. "Uh-huh. Well, I can do that. I mean, I can remember to—"
"No, you can't. No offense, but just your being here is disruptive—not you personally, but anyone else beside me, or Teri. We have this all worked out and it's—well, it's pretty rigid, Tony, it's like this total one-on-one stuff and let me tell you, it's exhausting."
"But then maybe you can use me—I mean, I can help with something, right?" Tony asked, a little desperately.
"Well, maybe." Brendan gave his friend a doubtful look. "I guess we can try it and see."
"Why didn't you just tell all me this last night?"
"Jesus, Tony, you didn't really give me a chance, did you? I mean, you ambushed me at the zoo, saying how you're getting kicked out of your place and you've got twenty-four hours to live, and—use your fork, Peter."
"I didn't mean to put you out." Tony ran a longyear through his long hair, his leather jacket squeaking. "Okay. Well, I guess I could, I can always find somewhere else to crash, just let me get on the horn and see who I can get in touch with, okay?"