Awakeners by Sheri S Tepper

“Shhh,” said Elina. “Shhh. There is no need to cry out.”

“Neff! Where is he?”

Trale came from the refectory, joining them, taking Pamra’s other arm. Wearily, pointedly, with a resigned look at Elina, he said, “Your visions wait for you outside. They cannot come into a Jarb House.”

Pamra drew herself up, regally tall, becoming someone else. “Truth cannot exist in this place, can it, Mendicant? Light cannot come here? Only darkness and smoke?’’

He shook his head. “All your—all your friends are waiting for you. Come now. There is food waiting, also.”

She shook her head at them, pityingly, but allowed them to take her to the place where Peasimy stood impatiently with the others, all standing beside their chairs, waiting for her to be seated; then all waiting until she began eating. She nodded at the others, saying, “Eat quickly, my friends. We must leave this place.”

“Dark comes?” asked Peasimy, glaring at the Mendicants. “Pamra?”

She shook her head. “They are not evil, Peasimy. They are only misled.” She had been hungry, but now she began to toy with the food before her, obviously impatient to be gone. Elina laid a hand upon her shoulder, tears in the comers of her eyes. “Pamra! Courtesy! ‘Neff is not impatient.” Pamra took a bite, chewed it slowly, watching them with that same pitying gaze. Now she knew what had been missing since she had entered the house. Neff, and Delia, and her mother. Them and their voices. Gone. As though they had never been except in her memory. Did these poor smoke-blinded fools think she would let them go? Though she could not see them in this smoky haze, the center of her being clung to what she knew to be true. They— they were true. Neff was true. She took another bite, smiled at Peasimy and encouraged him to eat.

From the side of the room, Trale watched, eyes narrowed in concentration. Elina came toward him. “She did not make the connection with her own condition at all.”

“Oh, yes. She knows what we tried to do. But she has rejected it.”

“Why, Trale?”

“Because her madness is all she has. Whatever else there might have been once has been taken away. Whatever else there might be in the future seems shoddy in comparison. Who would wed a man when one might wed an angel? Who would live as a woman when one might rule as a goddess?”

“We could keep her here by force.”

“Setting aside that we would break all our vows, yes. We could.”

“In time, she would forget.”

“Ah.”

“She would grow accustomed.”

“Elina.”

“Yes, Trale.”

“Clip the flame-bird’s wings if you must, Elina. Set it among your barnyard fowl. Tell yourself you do it to save the flame-bird’s life. But do not expect it to nest, or to sing.”

She bowed her head, very pale. At the table behind her, Pamra rose, her hand shaking as she wiped her mouth with the napkin. “Where are my clothes?” she asked.

Peasimy found them for her, beside the fire, and she put them on. They were warm and dry.

“Won’t you stay until it stops raining?” Elina asked her. “Only until morning.”

“No,” Pamra said, her eyes darting from place to place in the high dwelling, marking it in her memory. Another time— there might be converts to be had in places like this. “No. Neff is waiting. Mother and Delia. They’re waiting. We have set our feet upon the road and must not leave it. This is a bad place, Elina. You should come with us. You can’t see the road from in here, Elina. Come with us. . . .” Her face lit from within, glowed, only for a moment, but for that moment Elina felt herself torn, wrenched, dragged to the gate of herself. Fear struck at her and she drew back.

“No, Pamra. It is safe here. The people here find much joy and comfort.”

“Joy,” said Pamra. “Comfort!” The scorn in her voice was palpable, “an acid dripping upon those words. “Safety. Yes. That is what you have here.”

Peasimy was suddenly beside her, swallowing the last bite of his supper. Then they were moving toward the entrance, out across the open chimney, through the hallway, pulling at the great doors. They went into the night, a night miraculously cleared of storm, with the moons lighting the sky. Potipur, half-swollen and sullen above them to the west; Vkanel a mere sickle dipping beyond the western horizon; Abricor a round melon, high in the east.