Redemption in Indigo

20

kwame meets the sisters and begins the hunt

Kwame was not allowed any farther than the courtyard of the House of the Sisters. The four who had hired him sat before him on a long wooden bench, looking far too much like a tribunal.

'A woman is missing,’ said Sister Jani.

Kwame was an experienced tracker. That meant that whatever the Trickster had told him had been temporarily set aside so that he could listen to what the Sisters had to say without making any assumptions.

'Describe her to me.'

The Sisters looked at each other, and then Sister Jani answered, ‘She has courage. She has braved scorn and ridicule, which can tear the soul more viciously than vultures at a corpse. She has managed to keep her self-esteem intact.'

'She has compassion and discretion,’ added Sister Elen. ‘She does not pull down the weak, and the secrets of others are safe with her.'

'She has integrity,’ continued Sister Deian. ‘When she goes about doing what is right, she does not consider solely her own benefit.'

'She has the most beautiful dreams,’ concluded Sister Carmis on a wistful note.

Kwame listened politely, and then he coughed even more politely. ‘I meant, what does she look like?'

The Sisters appeared to be slightly taken aback.

'Medium height?’ hazarded Sister Jani.

'Slim build, hair braided in spiral style?'

'A rather long nose?'

'But really very ordinary to look at.'

Then Sister Elen sat up straight. ‘She was wearing a brooch in the shape of a dragonflower, though she may have put it aside now.'

'And a headband in bronze-coloured material??hough she may have taken it off,’ mused Sister Deian.

They fell into a glum silence. Sister Elen was fretting, wondering how she was going to work into the conversation her knowledge of the places that Paama had been without betraying the arcane methods by which it had been acquired. Sister Deian was brooding over their lack of proof. The brooch and the headband no longer functioned, having succumbed at last to hours of being drenched by rain and saltwater. And yet, even if he believed them, the House of the Sisters had secrets that were not to be told to lay persons.

Kwame detected the lull and tried to get them to talk again. ‘What was her occupation? Before she disappeared, that is?’ he corrected himself. Referring to a client's loved one in the past tense was never a positive approach.

'She was a marvellous cook,’ smiled Sister Jani. ‘She had skill in her hands and love in her heart, which is the way to make food fit for the angels.'

'Did she work at a restaurant? A guest lodge?'

'She was here with us, last,’ said Sister Deian sorrowfully.

'Do you know why she has disappeared?'

Again that silence fell, so odd to a stranger, so understandable to us. Kwame looked at them with greater and greater suspicion.

'Perhaps I should ask some questions down in the village,’ he suggested, raising an eyebrow.

'Oh, don't do that!’ Sister Jani cried. ‘Her own family doesn't know—they still think she's with us!'

'That's very interesting,’ said Kwame levelly. ‘Why haven't you told them?'

'We didn't want them to worry,’ said Sister Carmis, and twitched visibly at the weakness of her excuse.

'Nevertheless, if I am to find her, I need something more than what you seem prepared to tell me. It would be better if you allowed me to ask my questions. I can play a role—pretend I am simply a restaurant manager looking to recruit a cook—and they will not learn from me that she is missing. Would that satisfy you? If it does not, I tell you frankly that I will not be able to do anything for you.'

They looked at him in dismay.

'Very well,’ said Sister Jani. ‘Go and ask your questions. We will confirm your ruse if you wish. But we ask only one thing. After you have heard from the villagers, return to us. We will have more things to tell you, things that may appear strange, but are no less true for all that.'

Her colleagues gave her slightly anxious looks, but she stared directly at Kwame and pretended not to notice them.

Kwame inclined his head in thanks. ‘I shall do as you say.'

The village court of Makendha, like village courts the world over, was sometimes graced by the presence of an itinerant storyteller. Kwame found one sitting on a stool under the shade of the sandbox tree, muttering to himself. He knew the type. He found them to be excellent observers of humanity, professional harvesters of gossip and scandal.

'Excuse me,’ he said, approaching the old man, ‘but I am trying to find a cook by the name of Paama.'

The old storyteller ceased his muttering, turned his aged and weathered face to Kwame, and gave him a good look up and down.

'Now, there's an accent that has walked far,’ he said.

'I have no accent,’ Kwame replied.

'Ah, that is how I know it has travelled so far, to have wrapped itself in so many layers that to everyone, no matter what region they hail from, it appears you have no accent. So, you are looking for Paama? Why?'

Kwame had few qualms about lying for the sake of his profession, but something about the twinkle in the man's eye—little short of a leer, it was—made him embarrassed for no good reason. He scuffed his foot awkwardly in the dust and said, ‘A good cook is always in demand, and her fame has spread beyond the village.'

The wrinkles on the old man's face assumed a less satyric aspect as he folded his hands and sighed.

'I have heard tales of how magnificently she can cook. I could relate for you a description of a morsel of her honey-almond cake, a delicacy which is light enough to melt on the tip of the tongue and yet it lingers on the palate with its subtle flavours long into the dream-filled reaches of the night. I could sing the praises, second-hand, alas, of her traveller's soup, a concoction of smoothly blended and balanced vegetables and herbs guaranteed to put heart and strength back into the bones of the weariest voyager. I have heard of her pepperpot, wherein meat from the hunt simmers slowly all the day long in a fantastic chutney of seasonings, selected spices, peppers, and green pawpaw. And forgive my tears, but I have just this moment recalled a certain jar that sits in her kitchen, filled with dried fruit steeping in spice spirit, red wine, cinnamon, and nutmeg, patiently awaiting that day months or even years hence when it will be baked into a festival cake that will turn the head of the most seasoned toper.'

He sighed again and stopped for a moment. They both swallowed at the thought of such culinary genius.

'Pardon me for raising what must be a painful subject, but it sounds as if you have not tasted Paama's cooking for yourself,’ Kwame noted.

'You are too perceptive. I have indeed missed the golden years of Makendha. My business requires me to travel, and it seems to me that whenever I am away, Paama is cooking here, and whenever I return, she is cooking elsewhere. It is a cruel trick of fate, but I pray it shall soon be ended.'

'What is your business, if I may ask?’ Kwame inquired.

It was best not to appear to pry too openly, and the subject of self was always a welcome change. As he expected, the storyteller was happy to talk about his work.

'I am a storyteller. I travel to collect stories, and I return to tell the stories of one place to the people of another. That is the important part of the trade. You must never tell people their own stories. They have no interest in them, or they think they can tell them better themselves. Give them a stranger's life, and then they're content.'

'But the court is empty now?’ Kwame pointed out.

'Of course it is. Do you think that one simply spouts off before an audience, impromptu and unprepared? I was rehearsing for this evening's performance. But we digress. We were speaking of Paama and her cooking.'

'Yes,’ said Kwame, glad that he had returned to Paama without being prompted. ‘Perhaps you could tell me where I could find her, so I could ask her about her experience.'

'Haven't you been listening? These days, if I am in Makendha, it is almost a guarantee that she is not.'

'But someone must know where she's gone,’ Kwame insisted.

The old man shrugged. ‘I can tell you nothing about the matter.'

'Then I am wasting my time,’ Kwame murmured, using the slightly forlorn look of a man who has travelled far only to waste his time.

It seemed to work, for the storyteller continued. ‘Never mind. Keep searching for her; she is worth the finding. She will be an asset to any restaurant. Already she is accustomed to cooking for twenty at a time?'

'How so? She has operated her own restaurant?’ Kwame asked.

He chuckled. ‘Nothing as lucrative as that. She has had a huge mouth to feed, a real belly-beast to pacify. But surely you have already heard the tale of Ansige the Glutton?'

Kwame shook his head, no.

'Well, since you're a stranger and thus entitled to the tales of this village, I'll tell you.'

And he told Kwame the entire tale of Ansige.

The day after that, Kwame returned to the House of the Sisters. His face was very still, as if he had heard something that had provoked such a strong feeling in him that he could not risk letting any sign of it show in his features. When the Sisters saw him, they realised that something was very wrong.

'Why didn't you tell me about what happened to her husband?’ he demanded.

They looked a little surprised. They had not expected that the tribulations of Ansige were at all relevant to the search for Paama.

'We didn't know it was that important,’ said Sister Carmis.

Kwame closed his eyes as if gathering patience. ‘When a woman goes missing after first leaving her husband and then being left by her husband, no matter how strong her ability to face gossip and speculation, I think that it might be a factor in her disappearance. When the husband has been publicly ridiculed, I grow even more suspicious.'

Eyes thus closed, he did not catch the frantic look exchanged between the Sisters, who knew just how off the mark he was.

'I will go and question this Ansige,’ he declared.

'But—'

'I would not be at all surprised if he knew where she was.'

'Wait a mo—'

'In fact, I would not be surprised if she were with him right now,’ he continued.

'There's more to it than—'

But Kwame was already striding through the gate and back down the trail, his destination now certain.

Sister Carmis was the only one who recovered herself in time to dash after him and say, ‘But there's more we have to tell you! There's more to this situation than meets the eye.'

He stopped and smiled at her. ‘You're the one who dreamed me, aren't you?'

She nodded shyly. She was the youngest of the Sisters, not yet confident in her skills, and hesitant to wield authority.

He touched her arm gently in reassurance. ‘Trust your dreams. Perhaps there's more to me than meets the eye.'

Waving a farewell to the House of the Sisters, Kwame set off to begin his hunt for Paama.