Redemption in Indigo

10

paama among the sisters,

and alton the poet finds his muse

Many times has the tale been told of the composer Lewis and how, fasting, he spent a full day and a night creating his famous chorus Entry into the Courts of Heaven, a chorus which would become the axis, the centrepiece of the latter portion of his symphonic diptych Redemption. After completing it, he was moved to tears and declared that it needed no revision, for he had but recorded the music exactly as he had heard it when, transported from his study, he had stood in those very courts with angels thronging to the left and right of him.

Less embraced by oral history is the equally interesting tale of Jacob's Ladder, the centrepiece of the first half of Redemption, which, though almost as renowned and adored as Courts of Heaven, caused him many pangs of labour to deliver live and not stillborn. Inspiration had been in such short supply that he had been constrained to cobble together pieces from his musical ragbag, that collection of orphaned snippets of likely pieces whose greater works had either suffered from drought or block at a critical point, or which, though performanceworthy, had been deemed unfashionable by patrons and were thus abandoned as unprofitable. To the trained ear it was evident—new lyrics sat oddly on musical trills that had been tailored to fit other, more secular words—and yet the public loved it and found in it something near to that other, effortless God gift.

Paama knew of both tales and often consoled herself that since very few people could tell the difference between gross human toil and sublime heavenly message, there might be an element of the heavenly in the former, and of the human in the latter. She had never realised that others thought the same way until she saw the legend on the arch of the gate to the House of the Sisters:

Work is Prayer.

She rang the gate's bell and waited.

A woman shuffled down the dusty path, her head bound in a simple cotton wrap, her feet in mended canvas shoes. She was familiar to Paama, but it was not until she was much closer to the gate that her old eyes brightened in recognition at the sight of her visitor.

'Paama, come in, come in and welcome! How good to see you.’ She fumbled back the gate's iron latch and opened the way for Paama and her mule to enter.

'Aunty Jani,’ Paama said, embracing her warmly, cheek to aged cheek.

It was the wrong form of address, of course, but Sister Jani had known Paama from her youngest days and had been an aunty for longer than she had been a sister.

'Will you take in a kitchen helper for a few weeks?'

Sister Jani laughed. ‘Kitchen helper—you? Please, take over with my blessing. But you did not come all the way up here just to cook for us, did you?'

With that mild encouragement, Paama suddenly found herself pouring out the story of her bizarre life, starting with when Ansige came to Makendha to fetch her back home. She talked for so long that the mule grew bored and started to chew at her sleeve, and still she was only to the point where Ansige tumbled into the well. Sister Jani pulled the mule away, and they laughed together for a moment.

'Let us give this one something more nourishing to chew on and take your bags into the House,’ suggested Sister Jani.

Within an hour or so, Paama was sitting on a mat before a low table set with simple but delicious refreshments: fruit, soft cheese, semisweet cakes laden with nuts, and the drink the House had made famous—lime juice with just the right proportions of mint and ginger. She managed to eat and continue her tale. When she reached the part about the djombi, she hesitated and then went on cautiously, speaking in vague terms about having received a gift and a warning. Sister Jani gave her a long, close look that had nothing to do with physical nearsightedness, but she said nothing until Paama came to the end.

'I think that you have come to consult with a Reader,’ she said.

Paama kept silent. She had thought nothing of the kind, but suddenly it seemed an excellent idea. The House of the Sisters was renowned for its scholars and wisewomen. The Readers of the House represented one of the special branches of learning of which she knew little, but she had heard of people consulting them for problems that could not be solved by herbwomen or surgeons.

She did not know what to expect and was therefore more than a little startled when Sister Jani led her to a large room where a woman stood at a joiner's worktable assembling what looked like shelving. The woman looked up, wiping her hands free of sawdust on her apron.

'Someone for a Reading, then?’ she said cheerfully, seemingly not bothered about being disturbed midtask.

She untied the apron and tossed it on top of the table. Motioning Paama over to sit on a long bench by the wall, she pulled up a stool and positioned herself in front of her.

'This is Paama, Sister Elen,’ said Sister Jani. ‘Can you help her?'

'We'll see,’ smiled Sister Elen. ‘Tell me your story.'

Paama began slowly at first, but soon the words flowed. Sister Jani withdrew so quietly that Paama did not even realise when she left, but by then Sister Elen seemed so well known to her that there was no self-consciousness in her. She did not trim the facts this time but told the full story while the patient listener opposite sucked it in as if she were a benign vacuum. Then, at last, it was over, and there was a long silence during which the Reader stared at the silk-wrapped Stick fastened to Paama's belt.

'I think,’ she said slowly, ‘that you should consult with our Speaker. Follow me.'

Bemused, Paama let the woman lead her through passages and doorways into a cool storeroom where a sister was diligently labelling and listing the sealed containers on the shelves.

'Sister Deian. This is Paama. I have read her story, but there is more to it than meets the eye. Perhaps you could do a Speaking for us?'

Sister Deian turned from her work and greeted Paama. Paama was dismayed to see that in contrast to the warmth and welcome she had so far encountered, Sister Deian's face was not friendly but tense, as if Paama represented something she would rather not face. For the first time, Paama felt tainted, like one with a contagious disease.

'There will be no Speaking for this one, I fear. Her tale is true, and that is all I can say. More than that is impossible with that thing in her keeping.'

She nodded towards the Stick, and her expression was that of someone determined not to show the fear she was feeling.

'She had better go straight to a Dreamer, perhaps,’ mused Sister Elen. ‘I hope you are willing to spend a little time with us, Paama. Dreaming is not quickly done, and more than one Dream must be examined for a full understanding.'

'Will I be safe here?’ Paama asked, suddenly feeling vulnerable and exposed, like a person who wakes to find she has walked in her sleep into the middle of a battlefield.

'Why, Paama! You're worried about your safety? With that you could protect all of us,’ said Sister Deian.

Paama found that to be even more worrying.

A spare pasture near Makendha had been selected for Lord Taran's temporary address, and it now sprouted a tent city with one large palatial tent at the centre and a few satellites sprinkled about its circumference. One of the smaller tents was occupied by the man whom Taran had hired to speak for him all the words that a djombi would never say and could never mean. He was pretending to set his pens and writing desk and other paraphernalia in order, but in reality he was brooding.

Alton the poet was a man setting out on a long journey for the first time. Because he did not look young, people assumed that he had been a long time at his job and must be something of a master. The reality was that premature greying had crowned him with an appearance of greater maturity than was actually the case. He truly was a poet, but a very young one who was only now testing out ways to make money from his art??f art it was. A terribly shy man, he was far too self-deprecating, an unhelpful trait in any person who aims to sell snatches of empty air shaped around vowels and consonants, or worse, bits of white paper irregularly stained with black ink.

When he had been hired by Bini, he had mistaken the majordomo for the master, but when he saw who the master really was, his worries increased. Once, he would have thought himself beyond fortunate to be in the household of a rich merchant prince, but fantasies and dreams worked well enough when unfulfilled. Now he would have to produce work worthy of his exalted position, and the muse in him fled in terror at the thought.

On reaching Makendha, he relaxed slightly. This was the kind of village that a city man like himself rarely took seriously. It was his own fault, perhaps, that he was so lulled and vulnerable when Bini called him into his tent-office to receive his first assignment.

'You are to write a love poem.'

Alton looked at him, expecting more, but Bini's face was poker-bland.

'Just?? love poem? Might I ask for whom? I mean?? don't want to be nosy, but it helps if you can imagine who??ho you're writing to??nd maybe why you're writing to them? Or is this just an arbitrary love poem?’ he stammered.

'There is a woman named Neila in Makendha. Her mother is Tasi, her father is Semwe, and she is not yet married. The poem is to be addressed to her, and it will be signed by our lord. Then you will deliver it to her, orally as well as on paper.'

Alton flinched. His penmanship had always been excellent, but his oratory was more of a challenge.

'By tomorrow,’ Bini concluded.

Deadlines were the one thing guaranteed to pour ice water all over Alton's creativity. He fished for help, something to delay the inevitable.

'I have not even seen the subject. Where will I get my inspiration?'

Bini got up from his desk and patiently led the young man out of the tent. He pointed across the pastures towards the edge of the village, where young women were fetching water from the village well. ‘Go and see. Try not to get too inspired.'

Alton set off, trying to appear unconcerned. Women fell into that category of fantasies and dreams that worked well when unfulfilled but presented all kinds of problems when brought out into the real world of trial and failure. Only his greater fear of being fired pushed him on towards the well and took his trembling legs to the edge of the group of chattering women. A few fell silent and gave him that dismissive, up-and-down flash of the eye that women could be so horribly good at. The rest ignored him.

Then one of the women turned around.

It was exactly like the master poets had written it. The air seemed to turn hollow, muting the sound of chatter to mere background warbles. The other women became like so much wallpaper, a neutral background for the vividness of the central figure. He heard a voice say:

'You must be Neila. I am Alton, poet of the household of the Lord Taran.'

This could hardly be his own voice. It rolled, it thundered boldly, it was the voice of one who knew that he would be heard. Giddy with this unlooked-for power, he continued speaking, fuelled by a rare vintage of courage.

This was not Taran's doing. Taran might have done something, perhaps if the first draft of a poem had come for his signature and had proved substandard, but he had not even heard Alton speak as yet. What Alton did was not at all remarkable. Like many men before him, he had simply fallen in love with the face of the most beautiful woman in the village, and in so doing had found his muse.