It was perhaps two weeks after this that my grandfather came to the Selicar Refuge on one of his regular visits. This had been a stipulation of several of our parents (Shisken's, for one) before they would entrust their children to the Refuge: they disliked the notion of children growing up without any adult contact, and they had demanded that some mature Andalite be placed in the Refuge to instruct us and watch over us.
Of course, having a healthy Andalite reside permanently in the Selicar would have defeated the whole purpose of the Refuge, but Grandfather had tried to address the parents' concerns nonetheless: he had arranged for an elderly vecol, an albino male with a congenital lameness in his right forehoof, to dwell in a small scoop near the eastern edge of the Refuge, and he had agreed to make a special trip to the Refuge himself every time the second moon of the Andalite homeworld completed its cycle of phases. The idea, I believe, was that the albino vecol (whose name I have forgotten) would serve as a quasi-parental figure to us children of the Selicar, and that Grandfather himself would solve any disputes between us that the albino was unable to handle alone.
Needless to say, this did not work out as planned. In practice, nearly all of the disputes between Selicarites were resolved by appealing to me (or, if I was otherwise occupied, to Limilt, Shisken, or Berel), and, as for the albino becoming a surrogate father, I have never met anyone less qualified or likely to do so. He himself, of course, had been isolated since birth in accordance with Andalite custom, and had never felt the sanitizing influence of a herd; as a result, his mental stability had been dangerously undermined, so that one sometimes got the impression, when speaking to him, of a mind held together by thin threads of chikinee fiber. He never raised his tail to us in discipline; indeed, I rather got the impression that he was afraid of us, particularly after he learned how much swifter we were than he. (Not, of course, that we were as swift then as we later became, but the slowest of us could easily outrun a hobbling old Andalite even then.) We, in our turn, treated him with sublime contempt, frequently forgetting that he existed for weeks on end – and, as for Grandfather, we did value his visits, but not for the reason he intended. To us, Nimavar-Povis-Alkati was like an ambassador from another world, and we treasured his tales of the world beyond the Refuge the way we might now treasure a visit from a Skrit Na freighter.
On the morning in question, however, my interest in meeting with Grandfather was unconnected to any interest in the folkways of the Broad Southern Valley. Despite Kirinar's doubts, I still believed that my grandfather would be unable to resist my appeal – that no-one, not even a High Andalite Council member, could be so blind to the demands of justice as to condemn a young female to exile for a fault in no way hers. (It will be remembered that I was very young.)
Grandfather lowered his eyestalks to me as I came up to him. « Gree - tings, Gar - a - tron, » he said. « You have grown much since I saw you last. »
«I have,» I said. «And I have learned much, as well.»
« Have you, now? » said Grandfather, indulgently. « And what is it that you have learned? »
«I have learned that scientists in the Eastern Woodlands have developed a radical new medium of information storage,» I said. «I have learned that tracing patterns in the stars can inculcate discernment in one who aspires to wield authority. And I have learned that the Selicar Refuge is not a proper home for everyone.»
Grandfather's eyes abruptly left mine, and fixed themselves on a point on the far horizon. « Yes, I have al - so heard of Scho - lar Ru - mil's in - ven - tion, » he said. « The Coun - cil has al - rea - dy gran - ted her the funds to con - struct some three hun - dred of her "books". »
«Grandfather,» I said, «there is a young female who came to the Refuge a fortnight ago...»
« Yes, Gar - a - tron, I know, » said my grandfather sternly. « I have dis - cussed the plight of Kir - i - nar - Ol - mit - Za - pal - resh with both Go - ver - nor Hai - thul and Coun - cil Head Ur - li - po. None of us are pleased with it, but there is, un - der the cir - cum - stan - ces, no al - ter - na - tive. »
«No alternative?» I repeated. «She has a home on the Southernmost Island. She is a member of a culture that does not object to her deformity. How can the Selicar Refuge be her only option?»
Grandfather sighed. « The mat - ter is not so sim - ple as that, Gar - a - tron, » he said. « When Kir - i - nar - Ol - mit - Za - pal - resh - 's pa - rents de - fied the Coun - cil to keep her with them, she be - came a sym - bol of 'Main - land op - pres - sion' to those Green An - da - lites ea - ger for so - cial up - hea - val. They call her a pri - so - ner in a nor - thern wil - der - ness; they de - mand that we re - turn her to the Is - land, and threat - en vi - o - lence if we do not com - ply. If we were to send Kir - i - nar back to her home - land, it would be tan - ta - mount to ad - mit - ting that these a - gi - ta - tors had been jus - ti - fied in their grie - van - ces – and that might well spell the end of Con - cil - i - ar au - thor - i - ty on the South - ern - most Is - land. »
If he had been able to speak at an ordinary pace, I might have had more patience with this explanation. It is difficult, to someone who has never spoken to an Andalite, to describe just how ponderous and laborious their thought-speak is, and how grating it was to a passionate youth to have to listen to a lecture on the state of Andalite-homeworld politics delivered in that plodding drone. Had it not been for the strictness of Andalite propriety (which dictates that a juvenile must never interrupt when an adult is speaking), I would have broken in impatiently at half a dozen points; as it was, when Grandfather finally finished his exposition, there were so many things I wanted to say that I ended up picking the rashest and most ill-calculated of them. «And what good has Conciliar authority ever done the Southernmost Island?» I said. «Our legacy to them, if Kirinar speaks truly, appears to have been principally one of petty tyranny, rising on occasion to injustice that Kawafim-Ursel-Zikorr would have been ashamed to have perpetrated. Under such circumstances, perhaps it might be as well if the Council were to leave the Green Andalites to their own devices.»
Grandfather's face darkened dangerously. « Gar - a - tron, » he said, « my thought - speak re - cep - tors are not what they used to be, and it is pos - si - ble that what I just heard was not pre - cise - ly what you meant to say. Would you care to re - peat your state - ment? »
This, of course, was his delicate way of telling me that I had passed the bounds of decency, and it was time for me to be silent. I knew this perfectly well, but I was in the grip of a passion that blinded me to all hazards. «I believe you heard me perfectly well, Grandfather,» I said. «If letting the agitators have their way with the Southernmost Island is the price to be paid for rectifying the injustice done to Kirinar, then so be it. The Council has only itself to blame if its crime has had consequences beyond...»
Grandfather's tail lashed out like a sudden wind on the Eastern Ridge. Before I could move, the edge of his blade grazed against my thigh, scraping off just enough of the skin to draw blood. I cried out sharply, and fell silent.
It was not the pain that I objected to. Like any good form of corporal punishment, the Andalite shurieta causes no more pain than its instructive purpose requires – and, since it is used principally on disobedient juveniles, that requirement is slight. To my pride, however, the wound was deep – for I was unused to being treated like a disobedient juvenile, least of all when I was envisioning myself as the fearless defender of a young female's rights.
My grandfather gazed silently upon me for a minute or two while I nursed my wounded hoof; then, softly, he said, « Do you un - der - stand, Gar - a - tron, why I have done this? »
I considered. The last thing I had said had been something about the High Council being guilty of a crime – which, since Grandfather himself was a Council member, amounted to calling my mother's father a criminal to his face. Yes, I could see how that might merit chastisement.
«Yes, Grandfather,» I said. «I apologize. I had no intention of disrespecting you.»
« No, » said Grandfather. « You were moved by pi - ty, not by in - so - lence. For the first time in your life, you have seen that jus - tice is not al - ways u - ni - ver - sal – that the du - ty of one per - son may cause great grief to a - no - ther – and, na - tu - ral - ly, you re - fuse to ac - cept this. At your age, in your si - tu - a - tion, I would doubt - less have done the same. »
There was just enough sympathy in his tone to inspire me to one more attempt. «Grandfather, is there nothing you can do for Kirinar?» I said. «Might there not be some obscure law, some all-but-forgotten treaty, by which she might be restored to her family without impinging on the Council's honor?»
« There is no - thing I can do, Gar - a - tron, » said my grandfather. « In an - y e - vent, the fam - i - ly that we re - stored her to would scarce - ly be the one she re - mem - bers. »
I glanced uneasily at him. «What do you mean?»
« Has Kir - i - nar not told you how Go - ver - nor Hai - thul brought char - ges of trea - son a - gainst her pa - rents? »
My eyes widened. «You mean... they have been executed?»
« Not pre - cise - ly, » said Grandfather. « When it be - came clear that the judg - es would de - clare them guil - ty, Lan - farr - Ol - mit - Ha - ti - ni and Me - qua - quil - li - Lis - me - Ak - ka - ras e - lect - ed to throw them - selves on their own tail - blades ra - ther than un - der - go the in - dig - ni - ty of dy - ing at the tails of 'Main - land - ers'. The dis - tinc - tion will no doubt gra - ti - fy young Kir - i - nar, but it will not make it an - y ea - si - er to re - turn her to her pa - rents' arms. » He knelt down on one foreknee, and gazed tenderly into my eyes. « I am sor - ry, Gar - a - tron. »
My hearts were too full for me to answer, and presently Grandfather rose and turned his stalk eyes toward the horizon. « Where is Shis - ken? » he inquired. « I have a mess - age for her from her fa - ther. »
I gestured dumbly with my tail, and Grandfather cantered away toward the ridge. I set my own face to the south, and limped perhaps a mile to the grove of jamblyhas where Inmalfet stood; there I knelt down, pressed my face against its bark, and buried my sorrows amid the pulse of its vegetable mind.
Perhaps I spent an hour there; perhaps more. I didn't keep track, and Inmalfet could not tell time. All I know is that, after a considerable time had passed, I was roused from my dismal meditations by the sound of Kirinar's voice. «There you are, Garatron,» she said. «Limilt told me I might find you here. Your grandfather has gone, and Berel...»
She broke off as she caught sight of my ankle, and uttered a little cry. «Garatron, you are hurt!» she said, her voice quickening with concern.
«It is nothing,» I said, rising unsteadily to my hooves. «It will be healed by sundown. Such wounds are not meant to be lasting.»
Kirinar's eyes narrowed, and she reached out to touch my face. «And you have been crying,» she said. «Garatron, what...»
I grabbed her hand before it could reach my eye socket. I did not think I could bear the touch of her fingers against my face, innocent as it might have been.
«I will get you home, Kirinar,» I said fiercely. «Someday, somehow, I will get you home.»