Ha'x mibli Kao-a so su-Yilakili : The Sound of a Few Words Ringing
The Memoirs of Kilomela-Jann Urmonaxi
A Saiyan Among The Korud-Jin
III.
Spoils of War : Fen'pir Ad-ar Tird
The halogen lights that loomed over the runway eclipsed my yellow lantern as we approached the leveled city block that had become a landing strip for transport vessels. Like a swarm of nocturnal insects, the black shapes of soldiers seemed drawn over the horizon into the light.
There was a happy chattering noise that rose and fell as the waves of bodies gravitated towards the center, a thousand simultaneous conversations in a language I could not understand. These were the reserve troops of King Korudo, resplendent in their horned helmets and armor. They carried away chests of porcelain wrapped in plastic, brass curtain rods, sacks of vegetables and reams of paper, the trappings of everyday existence. Two thin men laboriously dragged an emergency generator on a makeshift travois. Another soldier pushed past, an enormous stone monkey from the palace gardens balanced perilously on a serving cart.
About a hundred meters into the crowd an impassioned voice rang out.
"Em-Korudo kes' tol sama! Em-Korudo kes' tol lim! Em kes'til nimnima!" The crowd echoed the soldier's cry. "Honorable is King Korudo! Merciful is King Korudo! Long may he live!"
Apuru smiled, proudly showing four new teeth. He curled his tail around Jann-Run's thick wrist and closed his eyes. He was quite content in unfamiliar arms, too young to be frightened so long as he was warm and had his thumb in his mouth. I regretted not knowing his date of birth, what he liked to eat, or whether he had begun to talk. We shared the same blood, but we were strangers just the same.
The ships seemed like great black kettles from a distance, round and dark, their great engines spewing a cushion of red flame beneath. Suddenly, a face and a pair of arms emerged from the mass of bodies and armor, plowing through the crowd excitedly in an effort to reach us. " Jann-Run-iku! Jann-Run-iku!" There was a cacophonous clanking as an enormous man appeared with an upholstered chair and three shiny copper cooking pans strapped to his back.
The stranger began a frenzied exchange with Jann-Run, who shook his head intermittently, as if to say, " No, you are mistaken". The stranger spoke quickly and nervously, taking regular gasps of air between thoughts like a swimmer between strokes.
Although the stranger seemed a great deal younger than Jann-Run, their faces bore the same tattooed markings. Indeed there was a strong resemblance between the two men, sharing strong chins, alert blue eyes, and a distinct bump along the bridge of the nose.
"Ah, sem'x sul." Jann-Run replied, again and again. "Hen, Sem'x sul." The stranger pointed at my brother's tail in an accusing manner.
The words fluttered past me like a rain of feathers. I swatted at a familiar sound and lost it. I was mystified by vowels squashed flat or stretched like rubber, punctuated by consonants that clicked, hissed and sang like music. But the song of their rapport had a familiar refrain. "O'zaru. Seiyan hibi'thi-O'zaru."
O'zaru. Oozaru.Monster.
Jann-Run glared at the stranger. His lower lip crumpled in disapproval.
" Den'em." He snapped.
The stranger was quiet until we boarded the transport together, prodded into the vessel by the crowd behind us. Disorganized, the soldiers poured into dim, narrow corridors, shoving one another against the walls, politely apologizing, swearing loudly, plugging their ears with their thumbs, sneezing, praying, and muttering to themselves. The stranger seized me by the collar. "This way. This way. Ama'zul." He grumbled.
The gate closed behind us, plunging the travelers into noisy darkness. My lantern bounced, flickered, and was snuffed out by a gust of air as the vessel roared to life. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed and a sickly yellow glow illuminated the passage.
Finally, we stopped in an empty passenger compartment marked six hundred and thirteen. The stranger's heavy load occupied most of the bench beside me, the unwieldy chair propped up like a throne against the wall. Jann-Run, the stranger, and my brother sat facing me; the two men shoulder to shoulder, the child on Jann-Run's knee.
The stranger inspected me, reaching across the compartment to touch my hair, as if he fully expected to be bitten. When his right hand came near to my face, I noticed that the tips of his fourth and fifth fingers had been amputated at the joint. Raised, jagged scars cut across the designs tattooed on his hand, the beautiful geometry twisted and destroyed. We locked gazes like two feral cats patrolling the garden wall in the dark, unsure whether the creature staring back was a reflection or a spectre.
After an uneasy silence, the stranger said, " I am called Talarin, Talarin-Aliriki, the younger brother of Jann-Run." He smiled timidly, and then quickly hid his deformed hand behind his back. "I speak Saiyago, but not so well as my brother."
Although his size was impressive, Talarin's voice was thinner and less confident than his brother's, betraying his relative youth. Talarin-Aliriki sounded like a magical incantation, or the password that would open a cave of treasure. It was the name of a complicated man within whom secrets were buried deep.
To break the silence, Jann-Run began to sing an off-key rhyme to my brother; a song so old and oft sung, its meaning had long been forgotten:
Fly to the river,
Where the monkeys fish for golden beads,
They sleep like rocks on the sandy bottom,
Singing songs of meat and cheese.
Fly to the ancient city,
Where the King and Queen eat week-old bread
I'll stay on the roof and catch clouds in a basket
And serve them with sugar instead.
After the second verse, the door of the compartment slid open. A decrepit old man, wrinkled and purple-brown like a preserved prune loomed in the entrance. His hair was silvery white and hung in long, matted locks laced with feathers, shreds of colored cloth, and the brittle claws of a small animal. He wore a frayed black tunic, his thin ankles and wrists protruding from his heavy garment like twigs. His lower lip had been stained dark with a blue pigment, giving his puckered mouth the appearance of a badly drawn line between his nose and his chin.
The old man held out a package wrapped in crisp waxed paper and white string. "Ub'ha, Ub'ha, Kilomela. Kilomela, Ub'ha." he said, encouraging me to take it. "Ub'ha, Ub'ha." His voice was grainy, deep and wise.
An expression of profound sadness crossed Jann-Run's face. His lip quivered like a woman's when she swallows her tears. He said, " Take it, Kilomela. Take it, son." I turned the package over in my hands. The old man smiled, his teeth yellowed and broken.
When I answered to his name, Kilomela became me. Or perhaps, I became him. Like the flame of the gas lantern, Rutabaga was snuffed out in a single breath. Kilomela. Kilomela. Kilomela. I sang to myself. Kilomela, son of Jann-Run.
Talarin produced a wad of crisp paper money printed in red and blue. He bowed his head and offered this to the old man. The old man shook his head and chucked.
" Nana. Ix-nana." He pushed the money back towards Talarin, who seemed dismayed. Jann-Run lowered his head. "Kaneb-no'n. Sunno Kami."
The contents of the package were soft and warm. A delicious spicy smell wafted from them and reminded me that my stomach was empty.
"Nana. Jann-Run, Nana" Said the old man. He touched the steel door lightly with his index finger and it slid open, as easily as if it had been a paper screen. The old man hobbled out, and the door slammed shut with a mighty boom that set the cookware clanking and nearly toppled the chair.
Talarin folded the wad of bills and tucked them beneath his chest plate. I did not know it then, but he had offered the man the whole of his service pay, thirty-nine b'an. This sum may be exchanged for a single gram of gold at the current market value, or, in simple terms, a meager four loaves of bread.
"Open it please." Talarin implored. "Sunno Kami has brought us good things to eat. He makes senzu-apo, special fried bean cakes that restore health and energy."
I untied the string and peeled apart the layers of paper. Inside were three greasy brown fritters, crispy dough on the outside, a paste of white beans, dried fruit and orange-red flakes of pepper within. My eyes watered. The senzu-apo barraged my senses with its complex flavors, pungent odor, and delightful crunchiness. I felt as if every molecule in my weakened body had begun to vibrate, heat spreading from my gut to the tips of my fingers, my chest, my tired legs, the soles of my feet.
"I see your cheeks have color in them, " observed Jann-Run as I swallowed the last fiery bite. "Sunno Kami is very learned in these matters. He knows how to make a man whole again when he is broken."
"How old is he?" I asked, wondering if I would ever become so shriveled as Sunno Kami.
Jann-Run laughed. "Sunno Kami is older than the oldest tree, older than the river, older than a mountain, maybe. He was born before anyone thought of recording such things. Perhaps he does not even know this himself. My grandfather was very devoted to him in his day, but even when my grandfather was a child, Sunno Kami was an old man."
His face fell, and after a long pause, he continued. " My people still believe that the corpse of a person who has died an unnatural death is bad luck. Their ghosts will bring misfortune if they are not properly appeased. Sometimes they are reincarnated in new bodies when they cling to the mortal world. Sometimes angry ghosts possess family members. Sometimes they seek revenge. Sunno Kami came here to clean the bodies of the soldiers who died here, and to tell their souls to rise to heaven."
"Angry ghosts cause all sorts trouble," added Talarin.
My chest felt tight as I thought of my mother's body under a white sheet, black hair trailing across the carpet like dry tentacles as the servants carried her away. Would she forever cling to the rubble of the palace, trapped in waking dreams?
Talarin cradled his disfigured hand in his lap, and looked away from Jann-Run.
He said, " When babies die, Sunno Kami takes care of them too. That is the most terrible thing, when babies die. It is terrible for the mother and for the father and all of the people who loved the child. It is terrible for everyone who hears of it."
Apuru yawned. Jann-Run combed my brother's hair with his fingers, and sang:
Fly high to paradise, O my beloved,
Where little boys have soft and golden wings
Fried bean cakes fall from purple trees
And possible are impossible things.