“Is the child yours?”
“Is it a customary child?”
“We thought it was not a customary child. We believe she is t’lick tlassca.” After some discussion, this term was translated as “wonder.”
“Yes,” Pamra agreed with a rare smile. “She is a wonder.”
“Would Pamra stay long?”
By this time Lila lay on Werf’s lap, patting her feathery bosom with long, stretched gestures, murmuring her own legato music. Werf dripped tea into her mouth, and the baby smiled, an endless smile, like dawn.
“Why had she come?”
Without thinking to censor what she said, Pamra told them why she had come. Not all, merely some. Awakeners were part of the reason, and the Servants of Abricor. There was a sad murmuring, a shaking of feathered heads.
“They were kin to us one time, those fliers of the Northshore. Those you call Servants of Abricor. We remember that time in our histories. There was a time when honor could have been retained. Our tribe, the Treed, chose the way of honor. They, those who remained, chose otherwise. There are certain words in our language which go back to that time which those on the Northshore no longer know. Words like ‘decency.’ And ‘dignity.’ It makes us sad what they have become.” Werf shook her feathered head in sadness, widening the plumy circles around her eyes.
Binna changed the subject, and Pamra kept quiet, abashed at the sadness she had caused.
“We thought you might like to see some of our dancing,” said Binna, nodding at a young Treeci, who went racing away with this message. In moments there were sounds of a drum and a rhythmic tinkling.
From the teahouse the Treeci watched indulgently, even proudly. On the lawn the young Treeci sat, whispering, a few going so far as to point with wingtips, as though accidentally. Looking at these youths, Pamra could not tell whether they were male or female; they had no distinguishing colors, they were merely young. Perhaps there was a stage in development in which it did not matter, for all the young ones murmured together, moved about in giggling groups, walked with entwined fingers and heads tilted toward one another.
The dancers, however, were all male. Pamra could feel it. They twirled and postured, stamped, wings wide with each feather displayed, chest feathers fluffed, those around the eyes widened into flashing circles. Their flat beaks had been rouged, their talons painted. Beside her Werf sat smiling, wing fingers tapping in time to the drums, eyes moist. Pamra followed the direction of her eyes. Werf’s son, Neff, among the dancers, magnificent in his grace and strength, the dance itself stimulating, breathtaking. Without thinking, Pamra started to say something about this, some small, complimentary remark, only to feel Joy’s fingers biting into her arm. Confused, she confronted the old woman’s forbidding eyes with wide, excited eyes of her own. This, too, was not to be spoken of. Pamra pulled her arm away. She wanted to say something, do something. Her face was flushed, red; she could feel the heat in it, in her arms trembling with the music.
Binna had been watching her. Now she said something loudly, a cutting metal sound, and the dance ended in a ragged cacophony of drum and bell. There was conversation then”, apologies, a rapid murmur of polite talk covering the sudden end of the entertainment. Pamra did not understand it.
Then they were on their way home. “Binna apologized,” said Joy. There was sorrow in her voice, as though she had been given news of a grave illness or death.
“For what? I don’t understand.”
“For the dancing. They had not realized you would be–moved by it.”
“It was exciting! That’s wrong?” Pamra wanted to laugh. “Isn’t that the object of it all?”
“No. Never. That would be unseemly.” This, too, was forbidden ground. Joy would not talk of it further.
Her reticence broke the fragile confidence that had been building between them. Now Pamra could not feel comfortable. Each remark had to be weighed for acceptability. There were too many areas of taboo. She began to take long walks, carrying the slow baby in her shawl, far down the shore toward the west, far into the forest toward the south, roaming the rolling island woods to pass the time and leave the old woman alone. Joy did not object. She seemed to have withdrawn from Pamra as though Pamra had been culpable of some social error that only time would dilute. Her feelings did not seem to convey disapproval so much as sorrow. It was easier for them both when they were apart.