The Tsahik did not say anything during the journey to Kelutrel, leaving Janelle to her own thoughts. One thing that did occur to her was that for a middle-aged Na'vi, Mo'at was pretty damn fit. She must have run all the way to the schoolhouse, but she had shown no sight of being out of breath.
Given Mo'at's aura of authority, Janelle was also not surprised that Tsawlontu's mouth was also clamped shut. He must be clamping down on his tongue to stop it from waggling.
When they emerged from the forest into the clearing around Kelutrel, Janelle was stunned. She had seen hometrees from the air – they were visible for miles – but she had never stood directly beneath one, for all that her time spent on this world. It was by far the biggest living thing that she had ever seen – more like a skyscraper that a tree. People lived in trees just like this one, communities of more than a thousand Na'vi. Her sense of awe was overwhelmed.
"Kelutrel is beautiful, is it not?" asked Mo'at.
Janelle could do little other than nod. Words were superfluous, but she tried. "There is nothing like a hometree on Earth, not now."
Mo'at caught the qualification.
"The last sequoia perished thirty years ago," continued Janelle, almost in a dream. "They were only a fraction the size of a hometree. The People of that land had vanished, and could not protect the trees from the ones the Na'vi call tawtute."
"Tsawlontu," ordered Mo'at, "Your mate requires you."
The male smiled ruefully at Janelle, obviously wanting to know more of Janelle's fate, but he knew a dismissal when he received one. "Eywa ngahu, Zha'nelle."
Janelle inclined her head in response, and followed Mo'at inside the hometree of the Omaticaya.
The area surrounding Kelutrel was swarming with Na'vi, performing all kinds of tasks. A few of them looked curiously at the stranger accompanying their Tsahik, but no-one seemed to really notice that she was not Na'vi. Instead, they went on about their business, unhurried and calm.
Mo'at led Janelle up an inner spiral to a small alcove within the huge tree, and bid Janelle to sit. The alcove was richly furnished, with hangings of woven cloth bearing complex abstract designs, and many beautifully-crafted artefacts – most of which, she had no doubt, were not just beautiful, but highly useful.
As Janelle knelt on the woven mat on the floor, and looked about at the rich furnishings surrounding her, Mo'at stated, "You have been in a place like this before."
"Srane," replied Janelle. "This place is very like the dwelling of my father's father. He had many things that were made by our People, gifts from those that followed the old ways. Grandfather was shaman – like Tsahik – to our clan." An ache entered her heart. After the death of her father, her mother had Grandfather declared incompetent, and placed in an 'assisted living facility' – for his own good, her mother said, as he was almost undone by grief for his lost son. She said that he needed the special care and counselling that the clan could not provide. Janelle clenched her fists as she remembered her mother taking all the precious gifts and selling them to collectors over the web, when they were not hers to sell, but heirlooms to be passed down from one shaman to the next. Grandfather did not survive long after that – he withered into nothingness for lack of sunlight and rain, and love. Janelle's mother was filled with the kind cruelty of the unthinking, the cruelty of the dead in spirit. Despite her Cree blood her mother Heard nothing, Saw nothing, Felt nothing.
"There is much you do not say." Mo'at's voice was gentle, quite unlike the voice she had used at the schoolhouse clearing.
"I am not strong enough to say the words," admitted Janelle, tears pricking at her eyes.
Mo'at gazed calmly at Janelle, seeing the deep-buried anguish within her soul. "My child," she said, "You are strong in the spirit of your People. You have been sent on a long and strange journey to this place, that you may heal your wounds, and so that you may carry a message to the Na'vi. When the time is right, you will be given the strength to speak the words of the message that you bear."
There was only once answer that Janelle could give. "Irayo."
"Za'u fìtseng, ma'itetsyìp," called out Mo'at.
A few seconds later an adolescent girl appeared at the door of the alcove. Her face showed the promise of startling beauty, and her intelligent eyes gleamed brightly. "Srane, sa'nok?" She looked curiously at Janelle, but out of respect for her mother said nothing else.
"Ney'tiri, bring your sister here," asked Mo'at. "I have a task for her."
The young girl disappeared as promptly as she appeared.
Mo'at smiled, and said, "That was my younger daughter, Ney'tiri. I think she will cause much trouble when she is older, but for now, she is a sweet and biddable child."
Janelle said, "Grandfather said much the same of me."
The Tsahik laughed briefly, a rich rolling sound full of good humour. She said, "My elder daughter, Sylwanin, shall be your guide, until you learn the ways of the Na'vi. I suspect that we are not so different from your own People, and you will find much that is familiar."
Something bad was going to happen. Grace was not a follower of any religion, scorning them all as props for fragile egos. However, she did have a deep and abiding belief in Murphy. In her opinion, Janelle's death and transference to her Avatar was fertile ground for the Irish demon. Something really crappy was going to come out of it. She just didn't know what.
The news that Janelle followed the beliefs of her Native American ancestors was something of an eye-opener. Janelle had kept it well hidden from everyone – there had been no mention of it on her personnel records, and she had never let a peep out to anyone. Grace had thought she was just another nature loving tree-hugger like most of the rest of the science team. If Eywa truly existed, then perhaps she had felt Janelle's belief and saved her from death – if you wanted to believe that kind of clap-trap. God knows, Grace didn't. She snorted in amusement at herself at her last thought. Grace was as hypocritical as the next human.
The tech on temporary assignment to site twenty-six was hovering over her link unit as Grace exited, ready with her pre-lit cigarette. At least something was working properly, when everything else was turning to shit. Grace took a long drag, feeling the relief as the longed for shot of nicotine entered her bloodstream. These cancer sticks were going to be the death of her, if Pandora didn't kill her off first.
Grace walked over to the hab module com unit, told the tech to scat to the other module, and made a call to her new best buddy. "Max," she said, glad to see that he was alone in his quarters. "You have full administrator rights to the Hell's Gate IT systems, don't you?"
The little bearded man on the screen instantly looked worried. "Why?" he asked suspiciously. "Are you going to ask me to do something illegal?"
"I don't think it is illegal on Pandora," replied Grace. The lawyers hadn't got their greedy little hands into Pandora's pockets – although she could see the day that it would happen, if Selfridge and his ilk got their way. No doubt it would be to the detriment of the Na'vi. "It would probably get you ten to fifteen on Earth, though."
"Oh," he said. "In that case, what is it?"
"I want you to reactivate Janelle's Avatar network account," said Janelle. "I want you to do it in such a way that no-one can monitor the account usage, or even if it exists. I especially don't want anyone to be able to track message traffic to that account from other accounts. Can you do that for me?"
"Yes," he said. "Easy-peasy. I can even do it so it looks like the IT staff set it up that way. There is a way to do it on the systems here by changing it to a 'ghost' account, in order to reduce our software licensing bills. Why?"
How appropriate, thought Grace, especially given Janelle's status now. "You don't want to know," she answered. "Although, if someone asks, say I wanted to get access to some of Janelle's data." And that, she thought to herself, wasn't exactly a lie. She did want to get access to Janelle's data and emails – the stuff she produced after Janelle was officially declared dead. "If anyone gets snippy, whisper to them that you think I might be trying to take credit for some of Janelle's work. Make me out to be the biggest bitch in this arm of the Galaxy, and that if anyone blabs anything or even attempts to blow a whistle, their guts will end up as cable ties.
"Ok, Grace. No-one will hear anything other than the pure unalloyed bullshit you have just fed me, and that only under the threat of torture," said Max, grinning broadly. It seemed that her new associate was not that respectful of authority. She liked round little Max more and more every minute she spent speaking to him. Perhaps Murphy had his good days as well.