Author's Note:
Thank you dear readers, for having patience with this story. I had run into a rut sometime (well, both writer's block as well as real life interefered - now tell me how does anyone combat that?) in the middle of this; while I had roughly plotted out how it was supposed to go, somehow things didn't seem to tally up for a bit. But I love writing very dearly, and this must be done, of course, even then, because it's a labour of love.
We have a bit of time - with Rick and his wife, now that the bomb has been dropped (more about them? 'Twill be revealed later in time to come), well, and also a bit of Evy and Severige.
And also a thank you to those who have left reviews the last time. Please do not stop your encouragements!
Chapter 10: Without Number
O Sweet everlasting Voices, be still;
Go to the guards of the heavenly fold
And bid them wander obeying your will,
Flame under flame, till Time be no more;
Have you not heard that our hearts are old,
That you call in birds, in wind on the hill,
In shaken boughs, in tide on the shore?
O sweet everlasting Voices, be still.
- O Sweet Everlasting Voices, William Butler Yeats
Rick O'Connell thanked the heavens as they emptied their watery treasures heavily around the Medjai tents, for her warm luxuriance that he had grown so intimately acquainted even within that short time they had married. He boldly proclaimed to be no religious saint, and surprised himself the most of all when he found himself a wife who prayed deeply, believing in the unseen as naturally as breathing came to man. But he thought all might approve; she suited him well, becoming that precocious balance to that recklessness that he embodied, the fear and reverence of God that was inserted in his life through her. Dared he say it - blessed the day be he had seen Evelyn Carnahan off on the ship to England, unseen by her standing concealed among the throng of apathetic Egyptians, still a broken man as the ship sailed, little knowing that it was the same hour his life would turn irrevocably.
Taqiyyah O'Connell turned at the rustling and smiled at that foreign husband of hers, marvelling briefly at his fair hair and light eyes, that pure honeyed colouring she hoped their children would someday carry.
"These are your medications. Use all you need and then give them freely, Rick." He looked in to her keen eyes, that slightly mellowed mannerism ins her movements, beautifully alive, and in the firelight and she met his gaze calmly, as he imagined Evelyn Carnahan would have become, in the nights that allowed him wingless fantasies and dreams that for once, he had not hungered after. That ordinary rhythm of her movement - so ordinary that not even the most observant of men would notice, accentuated her to him only, attuning him to it, drawing and alluring. Rick O'Connell capitulated like a lost man, that eyes that were clouded with pain and defeat had engraved themselves in his mind, and then fell into his heart. The politics of passion had never been and will never be complicated to him, the very way this woman tore all defences down and saw the frightened, uncertain core trembling beneath the bluster.
He took her gently by the elbow, until they stood facing each other, the symmetry of their faces framed in the firelight for eternity and a second, before he lowered his cheek to hers for the most fleeting of kisses.
"Thank you, Taqiyyah." There was more he wanted to say, words that he always found himself unable to express verbally, choosing instead to talk with his weaponry and show of courage, praying for an unspoken understanding and acceptance of such expression by those closest to him.
"You are my husband - my joy in life, and yes, you are welcome. Allah bless the day you found the Medjai injured and stayed."
"How could I not?" He answered feelingly. "Those bastards were -"
"Rick! The child hears, I swear to Almighty!"
He dropped his arms to her sides, thumbs moving over the puckered flesh over her ribs that healed cruelly in ridges, remembering all that they represented in her life, the cruel scimitar slash and the rough scrape of a bullet that marked her body for all time, scars that refused to mark themselves physically but also mentally, the torturing lions that gnawed slowly at her in sleep. How he wished that the wildness of danger would be tamed and the ferocity of memories would ebb even in the harshness of political instability, simply for the sake of her peace of mind. And the unborn child's. But they both knew that child would be dragged, just as the generation before him was dragged, dancing through mad flames of fire, moulded into the dry, brown desert world and shaped by tough violence.
Taqiyyah O'Connell read the expression in her husband's face.
"You fear for the child, do you not? That I, also a fierce female Medjai will nevertheless join battle when necessary."
He gazed at her, suddenly afraid of dropping into that abyss of loss, where all that he could do there was to look up and gaze helpless, at the slight slit, that endless sky.
"Taqiyyah, I would ask that -"
She shook her head, bejewelled not by precious stones, but by the soft flickers of firelight that seemed to hurl itself at her with the slightest of moves.
"Lena Shirin had done so. But I will not be so foolish to do so. Such an act only defiles the woman and disregards strongly the life that she carries within. Sometimes it seems that her punishment is not only her own life for the life of the child's, but also the life of Ardeth. Look at our chief, Rick - he stands strong when I see him, but my eyes can fail, even though he fights relentlessly, and we shout our victory before the war is won. But he is empty inside, and that man truly sees no happiness before him."
"Yes, my dear, I will speak to our dashing strong figure clothed in majestic black. Just for company." He raised an eyebrow questioningly, seeking her approval, surprised to see a shake of her head.
"You, my Western man, need a refreshment in the arts of pleasing a woman, especially one called a wife and also a mother-to-be."
Rick O'Connell waggled a finger and cocked an eyebrow experimentally at her, and they laughed, loving - astounded, really, at the briefly shared camaraderie before she turned serious again, mirth disintegrating as fast as the political tide changed in Egypt.
That life was led to its fullest concerned her, in that time when no man knew his true lifespan, where their fates were now subject to both the eroding nature of the desert and of the stress of civil war.
"Have you also witnessed much, lives lost?"
"Without number," he replied sombrely, before stepping out of the tent once again, holding her healing balms as well as the tender ministrations that he had just received.
"And the sky, black, and its luscious silver, without number. That desert sky, clean and unpolluted." He stretched the width of his arms with a dramatic flair, causing that peal of laughter to erupt once more.
Evelyn Carnahan smiled widely, pleased that Severige had a whimsical aspect glued onto his character, chastened that he had felt comfortable enough to share with her.
"The day I see stars without number above London Bridge, oh - bless that day, Evy!"
"While I am surprised, Severige, well, respectful also, of the fact that you have been trying to present your esteem of Shakespeare so touchingly in the past hour, I am - oh, appalled, by that bad enactment of foppish stage acting, made worse by the terribly mismatched shoes that you struggled to wear when you -"
"Uh huh - that spoilsport she is, that old mum of mine," out called a voice slightly nasal and groggy voice, followed by a staggering body in the form of Jonathan Carnahan out onto the patio where everyone lay in decadent positions, admiring the cool night sky. "Past two in the morning, and she is uptight as she is in that ol' Elizabethan rug corset of hers, well, behavioural I mean," he emphasised deeply, "As for that corset, well, someone will just have to peek."
"Boo, Jon, you don't ruffle me in the slightest." The wine that the Carnahan siblings had consumed loosened them both, and the laughter that flowed free, in turn loosened Yasser and Najya Savita Mahadeva.
Jonathan Carnahan laughed at nothing much in particular, pleased with the way the evening had turned out, even more pleased that the Mahadevas had enough good sense to offer their English guests fine wine and silken cushions. He felt verbally free, as if the carnage of words that he let loose would tonight hurt no one in particular, its invincibility stemming from the sheer senselessness of his sentences.
"Without number, my dear folks, that is the true state of uncountability! Much, not many! Much is infinitely heavier."
His sister eyed him, alarmed at that internally gushing dam and wondered at the loose screw that was supposed to have held in tightly in place, yet was never fixed. Perhaps it was time, that she personally undertook that task.
"Jon," Evy began suspiciously, "You are seriously not making sense. Well, there have been occasions when you say utter nonsense of course - but that's well, of course besides the point, it's just that you are hammered once more!"
"Oh my bloodyhammered, you say, my sis?" He flopped down beside Najya and smiled beguilingly. "Look into my eyes cousin, and tell me if I am a safe man."
"A dangerous man announces that he is safe, and the safe man would like people to think he is dangerous, so they keep away from what is a really a coward." She spoke succinctly into his face, before bursting out in great laughter.
A dangerous man announces that he is safefood for thought, Evy mused sagely, under the influence of world-renowned wine and giddiness.
"When you have poured sufficient cheap, market-bought perfume oil on my leather-clothed feet, my dear brother, you might hence like to wipe the excess off with your short hair," She said dryly.
"That governess in Evy - look at 'er, must say she makes a good disciplinarian, eh Severige? We should have dancing girls to rile her further. As that governess..." Jonathan stretched out his legs luxuriantly, keeping his glass of wine close to his chest.
"You were a governess in that sense, Evy?" Najya asked with great interest. "A woman also of great learning then."
"Governing young minds," Jon chipped in triumphantly, earning another glare from his sister. "Or more precisely put, she...mmhf -"
A hand clapped over his mouth like a vacuum.
"That perfect teacher I am. My brother praises me entirely too much and overestimates my talent in such a hysterical state." She smiled evilly.
"Hey, Ol' Mum!"
"Maybe it is time, we all governed our own bodies into bed." Severige smiled with ease, folding up the mats and laying the cushions aside, watching his sister support Jon strongly on her shoulder back into the house, shaking his head in great amusement.
"That brother of yours, Evy, is fairly entertaining."
Evelyn Carnahan watched them, musing.
"Entertaining enough, perhaps, to be fortunately ensnared by a travelling circus so that he may perform live when drunk and be paid, as a passing note? Or perhaps, revise the existing dictionary because he makes up words when he is drunk, problem being that he will be too shot to remember when he finally recovers from languishing in his hangover?"
He laughed, that full grin of his appearing, and had her smiling in response when her heart leapt. Her fist tightened unconsciously around the glass she held, needing the comforting and mundane gestures of normal life, lifting that glass of wine to her lips.
"You are funny, my dear, unlike that Victorian governess he called you. No one that uptight is ever that comic with that sharp wit."
"I must thank you again, Severige. No one has ever shown us immediate kindness as guests, but you and Najya have exceeded yourselves."
"Family." He merely said that word, reminding her of all the connection and reconnections that was now bewilderingly once again part of her life. "Nothing good withheld."
"Thank you once again, for that great feast you called a modest dinner, and for the rooms and hospitality you have been showing" She rose with great effort from the lovely large cushion that was by now indented, putting it away reluctantly.
"Are you intending to thank me every quarter of the day?" He queried smilingly and pulled her up gingerly from her reclining position.
"Yes, I believe it is my 5th time?"
"6th."
"Why then, Evelyn, do you worry that we, the Egyptian side of your family, begin our relationships with rifts?" He asked her now, quietly, those piercing eyes needful enough for her to look away.
"But I did not do -"
"The number of times you have thanked me tells me of your fear and unspoken worry." Severige replied steadily.
"I...well, Severige..."
He became bolder than he thought he would be on this particular night, imbibed not with liquor as Jonathan Carnahan was but with that extraordinary English lady whom he never thought he would see, under the cover of wine and the excuse of fantasy, bringing his hand to rest lightly on her shoulder, squeezing slightly. There were urgent words he wanted to let loose especially then when there was a great possibility all might be forgotten and more easily forgiven when formal behaviour seemed at present non-existent, yet he held back, hesitating.
"Trust us - trust me."
But she looked at him only confused, bleary and nearly cross-eyed, and smiled briefly before patting his hand, exiting the patio softly. He had asked for her trust and she did not know what she needed to do.
"Good night, Severige."
"Good night, Evelyn," he called back louder than she had spoken that closing line, halted in his tidying movements, wearing that momentary vacant look before he left for his own room.
"You have risen so," he swallowed hard and murmured helplessly, as if unwilling to concede his heart too fast, "in our esteem. Najya's and mine."
He thought back to the apparently senseless words that Jonathan had liberally spewed in that foolish, drunken state. Without number, that true state of uncountability. Looking at the sky as if for affirmation in the countless stars, he nodded to himself briefly, pursing his lips as if deep in thought. Uncountable.