CHAPTER EIGHT: Define 'Evil'
PART TWO…Yet You Don't SOUND Like Her…
"That is beyond unladylike, Callisto," he softly scolded, waiting for her hem to fall back to her knees.
But she continued flapping the edge of her skirt around, looking to Knives dismissively. "It's beyond hot today, and this thing is scratchy."
Knives bit his lip. After all these months of scavenging, he'd not yet found a comfortable dress for the girl. If he didn't find something truly soft and durable soon, she'd surely dress as a man. "As hard as it was to find, I wish you'd stop complaining. After all, it's attractive and feminine, and it suits you."
She snorted. "That's why it DOESN'T suit me. A dress is an obsolete thing, and acting 'ladylike' is ridiculous. Female modesty was a thing invented purely to protect females from predatory men. Considering the current situation, I've little need to worry." She hesitated a bit at that, remembering all the endless scolding she'd heard for dressing in Knives' clothing, walking about nude, and discussing sexuality aloud. The books were right – adults squirm at the hint of sexuality, whether inferred or not. His anxiety gave her two options: to assume he was a prude, or to worry that he was holding himself together, pretending to be a prude to cover something deeper and far less innocent.
Little Callisto sighed, tossing her long, light blonde hair over her ruffled shoulder. It was an absurd amount for an eleven-month-old to worry about.
Knives was rather oblivious to her concerns. The past year was a blur, an endless trial to feed them both, clothe them both, entertain them both…She preferred books to his company, and in the most recent weeks he'd spent most of his free time simply observing her as she read and slept.
Vanessa. Just like Vanessa.
To the detail, she was a young, perfect Vanessa. The hair texture and color, the eye depth and vibrant aqua, the thin limbs and long face…The only visual details she lacked were Vanessa's scars and deformities.
'Thank you,' he thought as he led the toma-drawn cart into the abandoned town. He always thought this, a mantra of thanksgiving to the providers. He thanked them endlessly since her birth. The prayers became increasingly fervent, considering her appearance. Knives was given a new, flawless Vanessa, just as he wanted.
Certainly, Callisto was bold and erratic, but he assumed she would grow out of this immaturity. He was sure she would blossom into a talented, reserved young woman. Callisto would be the companion he wished for; the companion Vanessa was both inept and unwilling to be.
Suddenly, Knives' head went up in surprise. He stared, wide-eyed, into the distance, towards the sudden mind shock.
Callisto reacted as well, jumping to Knives' side at the front of the cart. She twined her little arms around Knives' muscular forearm, squeezing as she stared off to the north. "Daddy, who's that?" she whispered quickly, not realizing the folly of her word choice until it was too late. Waiting, she wondered if he'd heard her.
Knives stared north, hiding his displeasure. Once in a while she 'slipped,' calling him THAT, though he'd told her not to. 'I'm your guardian, not your father,' he'd adamantly corrected, internally disgusted at the thought of her believing him to be her father, considering the life he wished to live with her in her mature years. "Callisto, please…" he murmured slowly.
"I know, I know," she interrupted. "Didn't mean to. Who's hurting, Knives, sir?" she repeated, adding a sarcastic formal title for her own amusement.
Knives listened closely, pinpointing the origin of this pain. "Talia," he answered soberly. "It's minor, though." He lifted the reins and snapped the tomas into motion once more, now in the direction of the message. "We'll check on her first, but hopefully we can still finish the scheduled adjustments."
"Right," Callisto agreed distractedly. She knelt, reaching up into Knives' short hair with her fingertips. Itching at his scalp like that felt odd, and she liked the feel of cropped hair, wishing for it herself.
And he didn't complain, because it was nice somehow.
"So, um," she began, breaking the silence again. "If you're not my dad, then who is? 'Cause, you know, people have parents."
Sighing, Knives rolled his eyes. "That human literature is rotting your mind. You don't have a father. You're a PLANT, remember?"
"Yeah, yeah, like you keep telling me. Whatever that means. I mean, as far as I can tell, I'm just a sped-up human. So what."
"So everything! You and I are superior, because we are plants. Don't insult your brethren by even hinting that we are like them," he scoffed.
Callisto stopped rubbing his head and slunk down on the wooden bench beside him. "Well, it's true. But, then, I have a mom, right? Which one of them was it?"
"It's not important which one, because they're all your mother. You have a plethora of mothers and one guardian, and we are plants."
"So we are. And you're a bastard, too, then?"
Knives nearly choked on his tongue. This was just like her, to come up with the most horrific things to say. "I beg your pardon!"
"Bastards. Those who have no father, or were conceived and/or born out of wedlock. I am a bastard child. You, too, huh?" she asked, as though the indications of the word meant nothing.
"That's a human term," he corrected, face flushing red. "No, I don't have a father either, and I'm proud of that fact as I am proud of my race, and as you should be as well. Now stop this nonsense, please." Knives thought, itched his head, and paused. "And could you do that again? It's pleasant."
"What, this?" she asked, returning to rubbing his scalp. She sat back down and folded her arms. "Hell, no."
Knives huffed but made no further insistence.
After a moment of thought, Callisto presented her argument, gathered from these weeks of researching humanity through literature, and observing Knives as a sentient plant compared to the plant angels. This moment seemed as good as any. "We speak, move, feel, look like humans. We're nothing like the plants in those bulbs, or if we are we are far too displaced to belong with them. Not like this. We're 'liberated', if you want to call it that, but this is the loneliest brand of freedom I can figure…We have no place with humans because we're not born like them and we don't die like them, correct? Yet we, in this state, cannot live within the bulb, and cannot get the responses from the angels that we want. That is, I can't. But then, you can't either, can you…?"
"Yes I can; I asked them for you, and they delivered," Knives responded curtly, a bit shocked at the formal, mature speech she had delivered, in that soft, child voice.
"No, I mean you can't otherwise get them to come down and visit with us, unless they're hurt. Their interest in us is like one watching a butterfly. We're no one's equals."
His mouth became dry. It was true, but he didn't want to admit it.
"You say I should love being a butterfly. But I'd rather belong. If I can't be a human, I wish I could at least be an angel." She sighed, slumping on the bench. "Not like you'd understand."
"I understand your feelings, Callisto, but we're important. We tend to them; without us their bulb environments would run themselves out of balance, like they always do, and no one would be there to type on the keyboards. All the plant angels would die if we weren't out here, traveling every day to help them. We're their equals for that."
"No, we're not," she corrected. "That just makes us servants. We're not angels. We can only be angels in our imaginations, and there are never enough dreams, vivid enough dreams, where I can be one."
Knives frowned. "This life is harsh; full of sacrifices. I'm sorry you're not old enough to realize the nobility and necessity of us, out here, willing to let our sweat and tears fall for their sakes. One day you'll see, Callisto. Until then, please be patient with them. Be patient with me. Appreciate what you have and know that you're special."
Callisto snorted a reply, but she felt he was condescending in those words. She chose to fidget for the duration of the trip instead of engaging him in further conversation.