have been repaired in some way, but you were like a merchant, adding debt to debt. Your shameful behavior has cost me much. And it is not of quixas that I speak.”
“What about their shameful behavior?” I asked, annoyed that once again, other people seemed to matter to him more than I did. “Your friend allowed his wife to fight his battle!”
“Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you! You with your boasting words. You who have not killed so much as a buffalo dare speak against Nwaha? At best, you sound arrogant; at worst, you’re a fool. Do you not remember who these people are, or what they have suffered in order to help their people?” He paused and drew a breath.
I remained silent, remembering what he had told me about the Angleni atrocities in the Kluna region.
When he began speaking again, his voice had softened. “We’ve spoiled you, son. A motherless child is a sorrowful thing. Indulgence would have been wrong in any case, but the Pagatsu clan is large, and I being headman and you my only son, well ... you received too much petting. A certain amount of arrogance on your part is to be expected, but your illness and the sad fact that you’ve lived your life surrounded by too many women—aunts, female cousins, doting slave girls, captives—all of whom had duties toward you—”
“My illness has nothing to do with this, and the petting and fawning of worried women might have spoiled other boys, but not me. I am sorry if I did not behave properly toward your friends, but—”
A desert owl moaned and I heard my father’s footsteps approaching me. He pushed the slatted wooden curtains aside and stared out at the sparse bushes on the western edge of the complex, apparently searching for the owl. “The past cannot be undone and Nwaha will not nurse a grudge against you. But the girl ... who knows?” He lowered his voice, softening his tone. “Is it possible, Loicuyo, you’re confusing pity with love?”
“But, Father, do you not consider the girl beautiful?”
“I hardly saw her. Nor did you, for that matter. If I know your heart—and I think I do—your love for her is mixed with pity. Jobara! Nevertheless, haven’t you seen enough of my life to know that beauty is one thing, and love quite another? You haven’t lain with a woman yet—as far as I know—and now you want a guardian for your heart.”
My father knew me well. Indeed, I did sense some wound within the girl that echoed with some hurt within my own soul, but Father didn’t wholly comprehend that it was I who felt the need of pity and care, that I needed one who would be my true family, an ally like Krika was.
He continued, more practical about my life than he had ever been about his own. “If you had any sense, you would have hired her as a servant. Then you would have had time to woo her. But like an ypherled love-sick fool, you chose marriage.”
“I’ll want no other wife as long as I live, Father.”
“Good, for that is what you have.” He laughed, then tousled my hair. Again his voice became gentle. “Your heart is as soft as mine was once.”
“Your heart is still soft, Father.”
“But what if you’re making the same mistake I did? Will she want you? You’re a child still. Have you considered what you’ll do if she doesn’t love you? What if the year-mark arrives and the time comes for the full marriage and she decides she doesn’t want you?”
“I can make her love me. I know this. You were never able to make the Third Wife love you. She scorns those noble qualities you aspire to. That’s the difference between your choice and mine, Father. Satha has a noble heart.”
“You speak boldly about my heart, my son.”
“Only because I see what your heart should have seen ages ago.”
He squinted at me, studying my face. “Young men always think themselves strong as they try to prove an old man wrong. But that victorious look on your face won’t last long. One day, my son, you’ll understand that some victories aren’t victories at all, and some apparent weaknesses are really the true victories.”
“Gaining Satha is a true victory, Father. Nothing can make me regret that. As for you, look to yourself. Don’t judge my actions when you’re the one nursing a viper in your breast.”
Other fathers in the Pagatsu clan would have publicly scolded me for such a reply. Or they might have killed me as Okiak killed Krika. But Father only re-entered his room and closed the curtains between us. Rebuke enough.
SATHA: Sudden Betrothal
Rose Moon—Second Cool Moon
The next day when a valanku pulled up to our shop and three linen-clad men stepped out of it carrying three silken bolts of fabric—pale green, reddish purple, and ocean blue—our Ibeni neighbor came running into our garden.
“Where did the money come from to buy all this finery?” he asked Mam without even a greeting.
Mam took the silks and said, as if they were nothing new, “My Satha’s promised one is always sending lovely gifts to fulfill their age-old marriage vows. These are for her half marriage ceremony, today.”
“But this is news!” The Ibeni fingered a small porcelain frog fetish about his neck. “The first day of the Rose Moon is very propitious. Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“To speak of one’s good fortune before the blessed day arrives is to invite the evil eye,” Mam answered, glancing at me. “I’m not so stupid as to parade my good fortune when there are so many jealous people around. I’m sure you understand what I mean.”
The Ibeni nodded knowingly, and Mam waved Taer’s servants away, as if she were already their Arhe, the Chief Mistress of the Pagatsu households. As I started following her in, the Ibeni whispered to me, “The valanku bears Taer’s markings. That rich little Doreni boy worked quickly! One day he’s asking questions, the very next he sends you marriage raiment. Waihai! A boy of such determination will make a good husband.”
“Mam,” I said when I went inside, “don’t tell that lie anymore about Taer’s son being my promised one. Our neighbor knew you were lying. Since I’ve never heard of this promise I had no good answer to—”
“Waihai!” Mam shouted. “Of course there’s a promise! But Taer had grown rich and rich men often forget to honor their promises to poor friends. No use giving you false hopes.”
It was one altvayu after another. In those days, altvayus—little lies—were an art and they came in all forms: the protective lie, the etiquette lie, the covering lie, and the hospitality lie. By the time I began to wear the scarfed long veil I had heard so many prevarications, ambiguities and ambivalences, I considered every word as veiled as I was. Altvayus were such a necessary virtue that no one believed anything anyone said. My only response was, “I had no hopes, false or otherwise.”
Mam studied the fabrics with a seamstress’s calculating eye. “The green would probably be the best choice for you,” she said. “It will work best against that dark skin of yours. Plus green is their clan color. What do you think of a dress in the style of the Ibeni Kelovet clan? It’s the style now, and every woman is wearing it.”
The long puffy sleeves I could accept and I could manage not to trip over a Kelovet veil that trailed along the ground. But I objected to the low square neckline.
“Waihai!”Mamshouted.”Youngmen,howevervirtuous,areentrapped
