She hurried noisily through the room now, hoping to disturb him, and out onto the balcony. The air that had come hot all day from the east was beginning to come cooler from the south, though still not very cool. Shamsha sat down in a legless wicker chair behind the wooden goats and vines and looked through them over the common place and across the Valley to the hills south of Odoun.[18] She stretched out her legs and stared at the blue-violet hills. Several times she spoke aloud, saying “How—” or “No,” or made a small, wordless sound, in the busy distress of her thinking.
Her son-in-law, Hwette’s husband[19] Kamedan, came up the outside stairs onto the balcony. He said in his low, gentle voice, “So you’re here, amabí.”[20] She looked at him from clear across the Valley. At last she started a little and said, “Kamedan! Have you seen Hwette?”
“Not since this morning. I’ve been at the looms,” he said. He stood there, hesitant. Kamedan was a tall, well-made man with dark skin, long hair, and clear eyes. He was strong and beautiful in limb and feature. His mother-in-law looked at him now admiringly and with rancor. She thought: He doesn’t know. He won’t know till she tells him. She told me first, as she ought. Hwette always does right, always does as she ought to do.—The thought was complacent and yet heavy, as if it held other thoughts folded inside it. She put it away from her. She said, “She was here, and then I lost her.”
Kamedan said, “I think she was going to the heyimas[21] this afternoon with Fefinum, to Clown practice.”[22]
“Oh yes, that’s right,” Shamsha said, getting up. She found it hard to get up gracefully from a legless chair, but Kamedan’s beauty made her wish to be graceful in his eyes. “All the same, she was here for a minute,” she said, and so saying thought about the chicory plant. She did not want anybody else seeing it lying wilting on the counter. She went in to the kitchen. Tai was there, still moist and creased, but awake, standing up, and breathing through his nose. She did not see the chicory plant. He had spread out a litter of vegetables and implements all over the counter, being as unable to work in an orderly place as Shamsha was unable to work in a disorderly one.
Kamedan had followed her, and now the children came running in, Fefinum’s eight-year-old daughter Bolekash and Hwette’s little boy Torip. Torip fastened his arms around his grandmother as high up as he could reach, which was just below the hips, and said earnestly, “Ama! Ama, I’m very hungry, I need to eat!” Kamedan poured them and himself cups of lemonade from the jug in the coolroom, and Shamsha fetched down a great bowl of apricots, the last picking of their five trees[23] in Dry Creek orchard, and the children filled their hands and mouths. Pottering at the counter, Tai asked, “Shall I get dinner early?”
“It’s still too hot. After sunset, maybe,” Shamsha said.
Bolekash said, “Come on! We’re going to the garden!” and whirled out again. Torip obediently followed her, clutching apricots. Shamsha called after them, “Keep out of the irrigation system, you two!”
“We will,” Torip called back, sweet as a towhee chirping.
Shamsha said, “They dammed up the ditches this morning and flooded the salad beds. A pair of wild pigs! The wheat’s on the stove, cooked, Tai, and I left the herbs in oil, there in the brown bowl. Do you want a hand with anything else?”
After thinking about it for a while, Tai said, “No.” Shamsha was relieved. When he cooked he moved so slowly among such a confusion of implements and unfinished work that it tried her patience, and she often ended up finishing the unfinished for him, which he never seemed to notice. She had already started out of the room when he said, “I guess the peas need to be shelled,” with the air of a person coming slowly upon a concept entirely new to him. Shamsha turned around, picked up the big basket of peas and an empty basket, and went back out on the balcony to shell them.
Kamedan had brought his lemonade out and was sitting there looking out through the goats to the hills. When she sat down with her baskets he moved closer, took up a handful of peapods, and began shelling, dropping the pods into the empty basket and the peas into his shirt pocket, except for those that went into his mouth.
“Will any of those come back?” Shamsha asked, and he answered, “Only the ones I don’t eat.”
“The book I’m working on describes people like Tai,” she said, “who by apparently doing nothing cause other people to do things. The author calls it controlling by receding, an important principle, especially useful for controlling people like me. People like me will always come forward as people like Tai recede.”
Kamedan smiled, diffident; he seldom analysed ideas or people. They both shelled steadily. The peas were small, crisp, and neat, willingly coming out of their pods under the push of a thumb. They fell musically into the basket in arpeggios as Shamsha shelled, and in a pattering rush when Kamedan leaned forward to empty his pocket. His movements were steady and quiet, reflecting his art as a weaver, and his nature, Shamsha thought as she watched him. Yet she did not trust his quietness, his gentleness. It was real but it was blind. Though his eyes were clear, inwardly the man was blind, eyes clinched shut, forehead wrinkled like a bull’s, helplessly dangerous.
Shamsha believed that men knew their helplessness, since the rules that bound desire were largely of their making and responded to their needs; but she would like to know a man who did not love his helplessness. She wondered if it had been Hwette’s choice to have a second child, or if it was Kamedan’s non-choice, his blind doing, the helpless, driven reassertion of potency as paternity, not wanting the child but the fatherhood of the child that bound him to the mother, his emptiness to her fullness.
And why had the child chosen to come to them? Had they yet considered that? Shamsha thought that Hwette might not have considered it and yet, when she did, would be able to answer the question. Hwette had that gift, though she seldom used it. Kamedan, if he considered the question, would not care if he could not answer it. He thought it was enough to welcome the child, to love the child, as he loved Torip. The child was a thread in the fabric of his relationship with Hwette, his marriage the warp on the high, broad loom and he the blind shuttle weaving her life into a pattern, a figure—but really, Shamsha thought, what gaudy metaphors! That book is controlling my mind. Here sits the handsomest man in Telina, shelling peas to help me, thoughtful, careful, kind, the perfect husband for my daughter. Why shouldn’t they be having another baby? Kamedan leaned forward to empty a load of peas from his shirt pocket, and the fineness of the corners of his mouth, the innocence of the smile that changed his face from its habitual calm, irresistibly invited her trust and pleasure. Men need marriage, she thought, and it’s foolish to begrudge it to them.
Looking down through the goats’ legs she saw the two wives, her daughters, coming together across the common from the Naward Bridge. Perhaps because her mind was agitated and she had been thinking about marriage, she saw ghosts: her father walked in his granddaughter Fefinum’s short, assertive stride, on small feet that turned out a little, planting themselves firmly at each step. And it was the grandmother, Shamsha’s mother Wenomal, who turned Hwette’s head, lifting the chin, looking up into the evening sky with a bodily gesture so submissive, so remote, that it frightened Shamsha and made her look away, thinking that it is never an altogether happy thing to see the dead, even in the living.
19
Souv giyouda, daughter’s husband, so called having formally married Hwette at the Wedding ceremonies of the World Dance.
21
The physical site of the spiritual center of one’s Earth House (maternal clan—in the case of Shamsha and her daughters the Obsidian). The five heyimas of the Five Houses were one arm of the double spiral formed by all Kesh towns; the other arm consisted of the dwelling houses.
22
The Obsidian House provided the ritual Clowns for several of the great dances. Fefinum and Hwette have joined the Blood Clown Society to learn and perform Clown roles in the women’s dances of the Blood Lodge.
23
The Kesh idea of property was complicated. Only sacred things were held entirely in common; only one’s own body was considered entirely one’s inalienable property. Everything else fell between those extremes. They used the possessive pronouns, but their meaning is often very shadowy, and is a kind of shorthand. Speaking carefully, one would not say “my family” “my house,” or “our trees,” but “the people I am related to,” “the house I am living in,” “the trees my family looks after.” The produce of farming and hunting was always shared to a degree determined by complicated traditions and rules. The farm holdings of a Kesh family were usually scattered here and there in a patchwork, cultivated partly by the individual owners and partly as a cooperative enterprise; work and produce were shared according to rule and custom. Shamsha’s family may have had various apricot trees in other orchards.