Part Four
Chapter 39
LAST RITES
"For we cannot say, 'The Luhvluhv will cease to flow, the sun to rise and set, the blaorzh to grow, or the babe to cry,' when at last our time is over for us. The Luhvluhv is ever changing, but always there. The sun is ever moving, but always returns. The blaorzh requires our constant care, but rewards our efforts with its life-giving goodness. And the new-born child will ever temper the joy it brings its shainu with the trial of its voice.
"So come with me now, as we offer the very life of our Gronay to the soil and to the water, and return to your shainus with these poobells, to bring his life into your own lives, and make him a part of you and yours, forever."
Rayuhr came down and extended his arms invitingly toward Moerv, silently offering his condolences, and subtly urging him to get moving. It was time for the procession to move on to the rituals of soil and water. They had had to wait for him long enough to begin poobell rites in the first place, and Rayuhr, while oblivious to the time-eating effect of his own plodding but proper panegyric pronunciation, was keenly aware of the tardiness of others. "Here, Moerv," he cooed, giving him an exact and practiced, sympathetic but respectful smile, while his eyes flitted nervously over the restless faces of the folk standing waiting for Moerv to rise. "Take my arm."
"Why?" Moerv sniffed. "Don't you want it?"
The mourners shifted uneasily, a little impatient. The bereaved were naturally accorded great latitude in the expression of their grief at the rites, but Moerv was trying the limits of their sympathy. He had been led in, crying and snuffling uncontrolably, ridiculously late even for a grief-stricken son, and their hearts had melted and gone out to him, poor orphan, with many loud and sincere protestations of pity and commiseration. He had reacted by immediately drying his eyes, turning, and breaking out into great gales of laughter. They were stunned, insulted: many rose to their feet in indignation and were about to leave; but Rayuhr explained that Moerv was beside himself with grief, and didn't know what he was doing. It certainly seemed to be true: while Rayuhr was saying it, Moerv was winking at the numpas behind his back. Once the ritual finally got under way, Moerv insisted on interrupting it repeatedly with crude questions about Rayuhr's personal life, couched in indiscreet terms. It had been a trying evening already.
Rayuhr smiled stonily, and spoke through his teeth in a whisper, "Let's go now, Moerv. You may insult me all you like when the rites are over, dacoar? You are tarnishing the memory of your prahnum for these good Laizuvrians. Please!"
Moerv rose languidly to his feet. "Well, RAY-UHR, thank you! I'd hate to TARNISH their MEMORIES! Shyay, my entire LIFE is tarnished! But do I care? Do I let it BOTHER me?" He suddenly straightened himself, assuming a rigidly affected pose of dignity, and tendered his elbow to a surprised and inwardly seething Rayuhr, who hesitatingly took it. "Lead," Moerv pronounced gravely, haughtily tossing back his head, throwing his hand out in an ostentatious and imperious gesture indicating the door of the mezzohnmohr. "Lead the way!"
Rayuhr tried to silently apologize to the astonished onlookers with his eyes as they walked by, Moerv marching solemnly with stiff legs and a precisely measured gait. Very few of them, however, went on to the shoz for the rite of the soil. No one followed to the Luhvluhv for the rite of the water. Rayuhr was incensed, humiliated, disappointed. He had never encountered a display of mourning so inconsistant with what he felt was only civilised behavior.
"Well, Moerv, son of Gronay, and so on," he began irreverently when they reached the quays. "It is obvious that you don't care at all about these rites, and even though I strongly believe in them myself, they are in fact only for the comfort and inner calm of the bereaved, and not for me alone. I have to tell you, Moerv, that if you do not expressly want me to finish the whole ceremony, I'll be more than happy to just hand you the river-poobell here and now and be done with you! I've had it! I don't understand your attitude. Shall I finish, or not?"
"I'm sorry my AT-TI-TUDE isn't down to your level of underSTANDING, Ray-uhr," Moerv snorted. "As hard as it may be for me to believe, though, you are right about something: I don't care KROT about your sympathy or your ceremony! If you recall, I didn't want to do it in the first place. But you, you insisted! 'It'll be GOOD for you, Mooooerv,' you gurgled, 'You'll feel BETTER when it's OVER, Mooooerv!' Shyay! We both feel better now, don't we, Ray-uhr?"
Rayuhr stood with hands clenched at his sides. He was trembling with rage. He tried to tell himself that Moerv was out of his mind with his loss. He told himself that Moerv had lost both prahnumpa and prahnum within a season. He told himself that Moerv had been working the fields alone all through his prahnum's illness, fields that the whole shainu had worked in the past, and that Moerv had been doing the work of three, and caring for his failing prahnum besides.
"What's WRONG, Ray-uhr? Getting MAD? Ha, ha, ha!"
Rayuhr carefully set the river-poobell down, stood up, and struck Moerv in the face with all his might. "May the Nemornivini forgive me!" he muttered, and walked quickly away. Moerv, stunned and bloodied, felt his legs wobble and give way beneath him, and crumpled to the ground in a heap, dazed.
A lone figure watched from some way down the quays. When Moerv collapsed, alarmed, she came hurrying over to see if she could help.
"Salu - are you all right? What happened? What happened?" she cried, approaching breathlessly. Moerv sneezed out a great spray of blood, and attempted to uncross his eyes.
"Never better!" he answered, to her surprise. "A merchant of comfort and sympathy merely administered to me my fair share, that's all. Nothing I'm not used to, believe me."
"But that's terrible!" she cried, looking at his mashed face.
"That's the usual reaction," he muttered to himself. "I'll be fine," he told her. "Don't concern yourself. It's only excruciating pain, that's all. I hardly notice it, anymore."
"Don't be sahnsaervoh, let me help you up!" she insisted. "Who are you - where is your shainu? Let me help you there." She knelt down beside him and gently grasped his arm.
"My shainu?" Moerv laughed grimly. "There's my shainu, what's left of it, there in that poobell!" And he broke into tears, sniffling, burying his squashed face in his hands. His benefactress thought her chest would burst when she saw the poobell, and she threw her arms around the pitiful um and wailed with him.
"Thank you," Moerv sniffed, sincerely grateful, as he looked up into the face of his comforter for the first time. "Thank - shyay!" He tore himself away from her and scrambled backwards on his hands and feet in haste. "Zholybet! I recognize you! Stay away from me! Augh!"
She stood up, his blood dripping down her shoulder and arm, crying for herself now, ashamed. For a moment, she had forgetten that she was a shunned numpa, virtually without a friend in Todymody. She was trying to help a poor, hurting um, offering unsolicited solace and aid, and happy to do it. But even he would not abide her.
It was a crushing blow. She wept now; not bitter, or vengeful, or spiteful tears, but the truly satisfying and purging tears of self-pity. She had not allowed it to get to her for a long time, but now she couldn't help it. The tears came in a flood.
"I - I'm sor - sor - sorry," she sobbed. "Forgi - give - forgive muh - meeeeeee!" She turned and ran, wailing, back down to her former place on the quay, and sat, clutching her legs in front of her, hiding her face, crying convulsively.
For the first time, Moerv felt truly remorseful. He didn't know why. He surely felt almost no compassion for anyone in the long nightmare his life had become since the Ealdlazay Fair, and he had no desire to feel any. But, strangely, he pitied the hideous Zholybet (Zhonoy pt! they called her) with a depth of feeling that he had thought himself incapable of. He wanted to walk away, to just go back to his empty hut, brooding on his misfortunes, which was only his right, after all - but he couldn't.
Zholybet looked up from her misery when she felt his hand gently touch her shoulder. "I'm the one who should apologize, Zholybet," Moerv said falteringly. "I'm sorry. You were only trying to help."
"That's all right; I should have expected it," she said weakly. "Thank you for coming over. I really appreciate it. You - you are the first one to talk to me, except my prahnum, for a long time. Thank you. Thank you for caring that much, at least."
"I don't care!" Moerv wanted to say, but couldn't. To his everlasting amazement, he found himself asking her to join him in performing water-poobell rites for his prahnum.
Zholybet wiped her eyes with her fingers, and smiled gratefully. "I would be greatly honored, uh, er..."
"Moerv."
"Moerv! Of course! You brought Opumohn back from the Ealdlazay Fair in your batohvahn! I remember you now."
"Please, don't remind me of that!" he said. "It was the beginning of all my misfortunes."
"Oh?"
"Well, not the very beginning," he went on. He was astonished at his willingness to talk about it. Zholybet was very easy to talk to, he thought, and posed no risk of carrying his story to others, too.
"The very beginning was a slow of a Zhonoy at the Bazaar who tricked me into drinking its hot, vile potion. It cheated me out of the deal I had struck with it, and made me break a great many of my own pieces. My head hurt for days afterwards. I tolerated that pestilence known as Burfohn in spite of my hurts, only to have him let my batohvahn drift away with my new fo (I wish I had it now!) and all my trades. The night we came back, his malwozzoh prahnumpa hit me in the forehead with a zhat, I think it was, and then proceeded to scream at Burfohn the news that my poor prahnumpa had died in my absence, and then had him kick me out! I slept the night in the alley. Then, my prahnum fell ill, grieving for my prahnumpa, but I managed to get all our fields planted by myself. Now, just when it is nearly harvesting time, my poor prahnum goes on, instead of recuperating as I had hoped. I'll never be able to clear my fields, and I dread going back to the empty hut!"
He looked at Zholybet. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you all that. It just came out. What should you care about my troubles? I'm sure you have troubles of your own."
"Let's finish your prahnum's rites," she suggested.
They walked together out to the end of the pier, and Moerv, after a silent moment, solemnly scattered the dust into the breeze blowing up the river.
It was a fine evening. The sky was clear, the air was cool. The sun was just about to set: sinking, a red half-circle, into the shoam beyond the shoz. They watched in silence as the floating ashes glided downstream and out of sight.
Moerv looked down at the water pensively. "If I were to throw myself into the river and drown, no one would notice I was gone," he declared with conviction.
"I have felt that way myself, many times," Zholybet replied.
"But you haven't done it."
"No. Not yet, anyway."
"At the risk of offending - which indeed has never worried me before - why haven't you?" Moerv asked.
Zholybet sighed. "Well, there's my dear prahnum," she said. "He would be beside himself if I died; but he is strong, and would eventually recover, I think."
"Then what is it?" he pressed.
"I just have this feeling," she said emphatically, looking him right in the eye, "this dream, that everything will turn out all right, somehow, if I can just hold on, if I can just wait it out! Oh, Moerv, sometimes I think I can't stand it any more. My old friends say the most terrible things about me to my face, or turn away from me without saying anything to me at all, which is even worse. And I run down here, to the river, and think that thought you just spoke of, and almost decide to follow it - but then I think, 'maybe someday, maybe someday,' and I change my mind."
"Well, I no longer have my prahnum," Moerv said, "and I have no such dream, no hope that things will turn around for me. I have had a lean, hard season after losing all my gains from last season. I will have many lean, hard seasons before I can make up my losses. What is to stop me from leaping under here and now?"
"I am, for one thing!" Zholybet cried. "I am a very strong swimmer, you may know. I will not give up hope, even if you will!"
"What is it that you are hoping for?" Moerv cried. "What could possibly happen to change my fortunes, or yours?"
Zholybet did not answer. She looked out into the water, at the red reflection of the sunset, and was silent. She knew what she was hoping for, but she dared not tell anyone, particularly not Moerv, who felt he had suffered so much at the hands of the Zhonoys.
"Why are you here at the quays tonight?" Moerv asked suddenly. "You weren't in my prahnum's procession, were you?"
She looked up into the sunset. "No. I come every evening, after my chores are finished and my prahnum is comfortable. I like to watch the Luhvluhv."
"Alone?" Moerv asked, then winced at the unbelievable stupidity of his question. Who would come here with Zholybet? She faced him again.
"Dacoar. Alone," she said, enunciating carefully. "That is why I come." The sun slipped beneath the blanket of the horizon, but the sky still glowed with the recent heat of its presence. A distant vahnsack, far downstream, flared red as if aflame. "Weren't you listening? I come here almost every evening."
Moerv sniffed. For a few moments, he had almost wanted to forget that he hated his life, that the emptiness of boredom was his only hope of relief from total, abject misery. Zholybet's unfounded optimism had seemed so fresh, so appealing, that for a while he was willing to ignore its incredible stupidity. But, he realized, all good things must pass, and he felt himself slipping back into his old depressed cynicism again. He was waking from a dream, to find himself standing alone with the most scorned and revolting numpa imaginable. He quickly looked around for witnesses. Had anyone seen them together?
"Where's that sahnwah coming from?" he asked, semi-rhetorically. Zholybet glanced up in the direction he was looking. The red-singed vahnsack, running downwind toward them, was making for the quays. She sat down, staring into the water, without answering. "Look, uh, Zholybet," Moerv began, then hesitated. "I, er, I'm going back now."
She understood. "Good-bye, Moerv. It was nice to talk. Thank you."
Moerv's face felt a warm flush of guilt, but he said nothing, and turned to leave. At the last moment, though, something about that vahnsack caught his eye. A wild thought came to him, and he suddenly became agitated. "Say, Zholybet, do you recall that batohvahn of mine?" he asked.
She shrugged. It was a batohvahn, like many others she remembered. "Not in particular. Why do you ask? I thought you were leaving."
"No reason," he said, walking backwards a few steps as if to leave in earnest, but keeping his eye on the vahnsack out on the water. "It's just that... nothing. But you know, for a moment there, I thought, I thought... but it can't be. Never mind. I'll be going now..." But he did not move. He stood rooted to the quay, staring at the incoming batohvahn.
Zholybet looked up at him, disturbed. If he was going to cut short their conversation, just like all the others, why didn't he just do it? she thought. What was he standing there for, anyway? She noticed the very queer expression on his face, though, as he stared out over the river, and she turned to see what he could possibly be looking at.
It had been a long three hand-days.
He had finally emerged from the twisted corridors of Igilvee's caves to find himself rather high in the foothills of the mountains, but at least on the right side, and upon climbing a nearby escarpment he immediately discovered the line of the Luhvluhv down below him, and the endless shoam plain beyond it. After a few days of running through the rapidly failing forest of the hills he struck the riverbank, and began the dull frustrating march through the shoam, heading upstream.
More than a hand-day later, he espied the batohvahn, right where he had dragged it up the bank, on the opposite side of the river. By this time he was so thoroughly sick of the plain that even that wayward craft held no terror for him any more, and he eagerly swam across the wide (but once again slow) current and thankfully threw himself into it. It took him almost another hand-day to familiarize himself with the mechanics of the thing, but eventually he did, and the last few days of his journey had been wholly given up to a growing, throbbing expectancy. He was eager to get back.
Monwyrt's keen eyes were not deceived by the light of dusk, and he recognised Zholybet on the dock long before she could see him in the batohvahn. "Zholybet!" he called. "Zholybet, wait! Zholybet!" He cursed the wind for not being stronger (even though it was from the perfect direction), and cursed the missing ram. He tried to guage the speed of the batohvahn, and decided that no, he could not swim any faster, so he set to trimming the vahnsack and raising the center-vane as much as he dared to make all possible haste.
The sound of his voice carried with the wind straight into Zholybet's soul.
"Zholybet!"
It couldn't be! she quailed. It frightened her - it was too good to be true! She dared not hope for it, but could not bear to deny it, either. Was it true? was it true? Tears of nervous anguish welled up in her eyes, and she came chill all over. "Moerv," she pleaded, fearfully burying her face in her hands, "Moerv, please tell me, tell me - "
"Is that your brute of a Zhonoy," Moerv interrupted, "in - in - "
It was Moerv's turn now to have his insides rotated. There could be no mistake any longer: he knew it by sight too well. "In MY BATOHVAHN?" he thundered, quivering with excitement. "My batohvahn, my batohvahn - I can't believe it!" He wanted to dance, to cry - but he dared not take his eyes off it for fear it would vanish again.
"Monwyrt!" Zholybet whispered thickly through her tears, slumping down to her knees. "I knew you'd come back! I knew it!"
Monwyrt brought the craft right to her on the dock and leaped out even as a trembling Moerv leaped in, and ran the few steps to her and firmly lifted her to her feet.
"Zholybet," he whispered, suddenly hoarse, wiping her tears from her cheek with fingers that suddenly seemed too coarse and rough to use for that purpose. "Zholybet! You watched for me, didn't you? I was so afraid, on the way back - " She pressed her finger across his lips.
"Monwyrt," she merely mouthed the name, as if she was too weak to utter it aloud, but then she found her voice, and whispered, "you are my Monwyrt, aren't you? My Monwyrt!"
"My Zholybet!" Monwyrt smiled, staring into her eyes. "I like that sound!"
"My batohvahn!" squealed an elated Moerv, joyously fingering the sheets of his craft as it slowly floated out.
"My um!" Zholybet put her arms around the muscular torso of the Traeppedelfere and held him tight, listening to the pounding of his heart with her ear pressed against his chest.
"My numpa!" Monwyrt embraced her in a gratifying crush, longing to hold her even tighter, closer. "My antunge!"
"My fo!" Moerv declared triumphantly, holding up the somewhat rusted but serviceable implement he had just discovered in the hold of his craft. "My knives! My metal zhats!" He cried for joy, loudly; real tears of joy; a grown um, standing in his batohvahn, obliviously drifting (again, untied) downstream, far away from the dock. The happy couple did not notice his departure. They were locked in a passionate, smothering, tearful smaec, until Zholybet, feeling a new and quite persistant nudging, looked up, smiling.
"My word!" she said coyly.
"My fault," Monwyrt admitted unapologetically, drawing her closer still.
"What can be done about it?"
They looked each other in the eye, touching foreheads. She whispered "sfairlipuasahn" and he mumbled "becumanfisc" at exactly the same time, and they laughed together.
"Here?" she giggled, glancing about. It was getting dark.
"Here," he said emphatically, picking her up across his arms. "Now!" His hair was waving, the back of her neck was chill. He took two steps, and jumped with her still in his arms into the warm, shallow water between the docks. Suddenly, they were far upriver, all alone, on a sunny day, and she was trying to teach him how to swim; but this time they suffered no doubts, and they encompassed each other willingly, completely and for all time, right then and there in the eddying water.
"You're sure you want to do this, Zholy?"
Nuzhunpa searched his daughter's face for some sign of hesitation, of doubt, without success. He, Zholybet and Monwyrt were standing before Paisohnprahn's door early the next morning. His head was in a whirl. They had been up all night listening to incredible stories of the lands downriver. And on top of it, Monwyrt had said he was going to fulfill his promise and work the rest of the season he had promised Nuzhunpa. For some reason which baffled him, Zholybet had made Monwyrt promise to help Moerv, too, if he had time. And they both had absolutely insisted on being trothed that very morning.
"You realize it is possible that Paisohnprahn will refuse, don't you?" he tried to warn her. "In fact, it's likely he will refuse! Why should he agree to such a thing?"
"He will agree," Monwyrt stated flatly.
"Prahnum," Zholybet bubbled, "of course he will agree! You know what is said about me all over Todymody as it is - don't protest! you know what's said. Now, at least, we will have a chance of being treated as a real shainu, and not just some eccentric sahnsaervohs living with a stranger."
"With a beast!" Monwyrt corrected her, smiling. "Besides, Nuzhunpa," he continued, "if Paisohnprahn refuses us our troth, which he won't, I'll just take Zholybet away with me and forget about finishing my season of labor."
The color drained from Nuzhunpa's face. The season of labor did not concern him as much as the sudden prospect of losing his Zholy. His jaw worked tersely, but no sound came out of his mouth.
"Relax, prahnum," Zholybet put her hand on his arm. "Monwyrt is - " she cut off in mid-sentence. Paisohnprahn had opened his door.
"Monwyrt is back, I see," he said, supplying his own ending to her interrupted thought. "Sorry to keep you waiting, but when my little helper realized what - er, sorry again - who was at the door, he refused to open it, and asked to be excused." He looked at the faces of his three visitors.
"Paisohnprahn, old counselor," began Nuzhunpa nervously, "we are here to - "
"I think I can guess! Come in, come in!" he winked exaggeratedly to Zholybet as she passed. "And if I am right, which I have had the good fortune to be from time to time in the past," he laughed, eyes twinkling, "I think it is a wonderful idea! Excellent all around!"
Nuzhunpa was immensely relieved. "Do you mean it?"
"Of course!" Paisohnprahn said matter-of-factly. "It is obviously the only thing to do."
"Oh, thank you!" Nuzhunpa sighed. "I was so afraid you would say there was no way you would troth Zholybet to a Zhonoy - pardon me, Monwyrt - a Traeppedelfere!"
Paisohnprahn rose majestically to his feet. "Troth Zholybet?!" he shouted. "I was speaking of us all eating oofs together for breakfast! What is this about?"
Nuzhunpa was terrified. He didn't know what to say. Zholybet agonizingly looked at Monwyrt, and turned pale. She felt sick. Monwyrt sat quiet as long as he could, and then burst into howls of laughter. He rolled on the floor, clutching his sides. Nuzhunpa thought he had lost his mind. "Monwyrt, please!" he chided, not meaning to offend Paisohnprahn, who stood by wearing an imperious scowl. "Stop it!"
"You stop it! Oh, oh, oh, oh! Look at his face!" he pointed at Nuzhunpa's grave countenance, and burst out anew with gales, maelstroms of screaming uncontrolable laughter. "Oo - oo - oofs! Ow!"
Paisohnprahn looked tenderly at his old friend. "I'm sorry, Nuzhunpa, but it appears," he glanced at the tears of disappointment streaming down Zholybet's face, "it appears - that Monwyrt is the only one to understand my little joke! Of course you may betrothed to him, Zholybet! Look at him! Who else would want him?"
Monwyrt was doubled up on the floor, on his back, kicking his feet helplessly in the air, convulsed with silent laughter. He couldn't draw in enough breath to make a sound. It was not a pretty sight.
"I told you he would do it!" he said at last, when he could breath again. "Oofs! Oh, oh, oh!"
"Still, it isn't a bad idea," said Nuzhunpa. "Perhaps after the ceremony..."
"Ugh!" Monwyrt made a face, suddenly sober. The others took their turn to laugh at him.
"Tell me, though," Paisohnprahn addressed the couple. "What are your plans?"
"I promised to work one season for Nuzhunpa," Monwyrt answered, "and I have that to fulfill yet. Then," he took Zholybet's hand, "we would like, with your permission, to take up residence as keepers of the camp at the Ealdlazay Fair."
"Why, that seems most appropriate!" Paisohnprahn said. "A Laizuvry, and a Traeppedelfere, at the meeting-place of those two folk! And you would be providing a valuable service, as well. I am right, am I not, Nuzhunpa, that repairing the abandoned huts and preparing the shoz for the camp takes much of your time each season?"
"It takes some, dacoar, but - "
"Then it's settled!" Paisohnprahn declared. "You shall be the Camp-guardians. Wonderful idea."
"It was my idea!" Zholybet beamed. "I knew Monwyrt would come back all along!"
Paisohnprahn stood, and walked with his tiny, measured pace around to face the others. "Well now, well now, well now," he said. "Shall we begin the ceremony?"
Monwyrt smiled to himself.
Nuzhunpa turned to Zholybet. "Zholy, what say you? Shall we begin?"
"Dacoar," said Zholybet, beaming. "Let us begin."
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