“I’ve already called the exorcists,” Niravati says. “But I thought I should come directly to you on another important matter. You asked the warders to escort that woman Hakkoia to your chambers this morning….”
Bhismu looks startled. “You did?”
“Her wings are Tivi’s chosen Gift this year,” Vasudheva replies. “No other Gift survived. I thought it would please the people to see her fly from my balcony.”
“No doubt it would be exciting,” Niravati says. “But with so much concern about demons, surely it’s rash to let a woman visit your room. The laity is not in a mood to accept…deviations from common practice.”
Vasudheva knows he must rebuke Niravati now, immediately. To hesitate for another second will prove he’s afraid. (Does Niravati know about the kisses? He must. Bhismu lay in the light of Tivi’s fire; Duroga could see everything.)
But Vasudheva is afraid. The people are used to the clergy sporting with women—order an ale in any tavern of Cardis, and before your glass is empty, you’ll hear someone in the room telling a joke about lascivious priests. Such joking is good-natured, almost fond. However, to be caught kissing a man…of course, there would be no trial, no public punishment, for a high priest could not be convicted on the word of a junior cook. But there would be insolence from the novices; too much salt in every meal; clothes that came back dirty from the temple laundry; conversations that went silent as the high priest entered the room.
He couldn’t stand that. He couldn’t stand a world that didn’t respect or fear him.
Vasudheva sighs heavily. “You have a point, Niravati. Hakkoia will have to fly from some other height. Perhaps the bell tower of the City Council?”
Niravati shakes his head. “The people are gathering in the courtyard below us. They expect you to announce the Gift from your balcony here. That’s the tradition.”
“I could wear the wings,” Bhismu says suddenly.
“No!” Vasudheva’s voice cracks.
“But I could!” the young man insists. “I want to. For Hakkoia’s sake.”
“An excellent idea,” Niravati says, clapping Bhismu on the shoulder. “I should have thought of it myself.”
“She talked to me about flying,” Bhismu says excitedly. “She says she has eagle blood. The way she spoke of eagles…as if she were in love with them…please, Your Holiness, let me fly in her place.”
“Yes, let him, Your Holiness,” Niravati says. “It would show your…good faith.”
Vasudheva looks at Bhismu’s eager face and remembers warm curls, soft lips. “All right,” the high priest says. “Go get the wings.”
He turns away quickly. Another second, and Bhismu’s grateful expression will wring tears from the high priest’s eyes.
“People of Cardis!”
The rim of the sun is emerging over the rooftops. Only those in the tower can see it; five stories lower, the city is still in shadow. But men and women crowd the courtyard, their heads craned up to watch the high priest’s balcony. Every onlooker wears some small finery—a new ribbon in the hair, a patch of bright cloth sewn on the shirt directly over the heart.
Hakkoia must be in the crowd somewhere, but Vasudheva doesn’t see her. His eyes water; he can’t focus on any of the faces below.
“People of Cardis!” he repeats. “As you may have heard, many of the intended Gifts were destroyed last night in a terrible commotion. A commotion we believe was caused by demons.”
At Vasudheva’s back, Niravati murmurs, “That’s right.”
“But through Tivi’s heavenly grace,” Vasudheva continues, “one Gift was spared. That Gift is the one the gods have chosen to accept this year. A Gift that is nothing less than the gift of flight!”
Bhismu steps onto the balcony, arms high and outspread to show the wings he wears. The crowd stirs with wonder as the feathers catch the dawning sunlight, catch the soft breeze blowing down from the hills. Bhismu glistens like dew, so pure, so clean.
Vasudheva can see Bhismu’s arms tremble as they try to support the weight of the wings. The wings are far too heavy; they’ll never fly.
Bhismu grins, eager to leap out over the crowd. He waggles a wing to someone; it must be Hakkoia, though Vasudheva still can’t pick her out. Bhismu no doubt intends to fly a few circles around the tower, then land at the woman’s feet.
He’s so beautiful.
Vasudheva lifts his hand to touch the young man’s hair. As simple as that, a totally natural gesture. Bhismu turns and smiles; he must think it’s a sign of encouragement.
Niravati clears his throat disapprovingly. “Your Holiness…” he murmurs.
And suddenly Vasudheva is angry, righteously angry, at Niravati, at himself, at all those who try to lever people away from love. All the scheming conniving bishops, and others like Bhismu’s father who trample over affection on their way to meaningless goals. Love demands enough sacrifices in itself; no one should impose additional burdens. One should pay the price of love and no more.
And no less.
Vasudheva touches Bhismu’s arm. “Take the wings off,” he says. “Give them to me.”
A stricken look of betrayal crosses Bhismu’s face. “No!”
“You can have the second flight. Warders!”
They grab him before he can jump. One warder looks at Niravati for confirmation of Vasudheva’s command; already the bishop has followers. Let him. Let him have the whole damned temple. “Give me the wings!” Vasudheva roars.
They slide onto his arms like musty-smelling vestments, each as heavy as a rug. Vasudheva can barely lift his arms. A warder helps him up to the balcony’s parapet.
Vasudheva would like to turn back, just for a moment, and say something to Bhismu, something wise and loving and honest. But that would only burden his beloved with confusion and guilt. Best to leave it all unsaid.
“With wings like these,” the high priest calls out to the crowd, “a man could fly to heaven.”
He laughs. He’s still laughing as he leaps toward the rising sun.
“The Reckoning of Gifts”: Back when I was doing theater, I wrote a one-act play called “Gifts” that was performed by my old high school. Years later, when Lorna Toolis and Michael Skeet asked me to submit a story for Tesseracts 4, I resurrected the idea from the play and this is what I got.
I should point out the story is substantially different from the play. For example, the play had none of the Vasudheva/Bhismu subplot. There are subjects that high schools prefer to avoid…
One last thing about “The Reckoning of Gifts”—the story is science fiction. Science fiction. Just because the tale is dressed in fantasy clothing, just because the characters talk about gods and demons and dreams, don’t automatically believe them. Science-fiction readers should know better.