Child of Venus (9 page)

How many people were actually what they seemed? Mahala wondered. How much of her world's history was lies or stories that might be only a part of the truth? Her own mother had been transformed by Lakshmi Tiris's story into a murderer. Her uncle, despite his kind words, might still be feeling anger at his dead sister whenever he looked at Mahala.

“Better eat your fish, Mahala,” Kolya said, “before it gets cold.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Shouldn't waste food,” Grazie said.

“Then you can eat it,” Mahala muttered.

Paul frowned at her. “Maybe I'd better take a look at you.”

“Please.” Mahala got to her feet. Dyami, by now, was probably sorry he had come here. “I just want to go to my room.” Risa nodded at Barika; the mahogany-skinned woman quickly stood up.

Mahala left the room, Barika right behind her. “I'll read to you if you like,” the young woman said. “Maybe you need a story to take your mind off things.”

Mahala pressed her door open. A voice on her screen could narrate a story and punctuate the tale with images whenever she got tired of following the words, but Barika would interrupt her reading with anecdotes about the previous lives of the characters, their customs, and with digressions even about insignificant details. Mahala suspected that Barika made most of these accounts up, but her asides were often more interesting than the story itself. She felt a flicker of longing for a new story, then sighed as she sat down on her bed. “I don't think so.”

“You mustn't brood on what that woman said,” Barika said as she sat down on a cushion near the bed. “Risa had a talk with her.”

“Risa talked to her?”

“Over the screen, as soon as she found out you'd been there. You
don't think your grandmother would just let it pass, do you? Risa didn't even excuse
herself to talk in private, just called the creature right from the common room. The woman admitted
she had spoken to you and told us what she had said. That somebody could say such awful things to a
child—”

“Then everybody else knows.” Mahala bowed her head, ashamed and miserable. Her only consolation was that no one could possibly tell her anything worse about her parents than what Lakshmi had already told her. Others would no longer have to whisper behind her back.

“We're not going to say anything to anyone else, believe me,” Barika said. “Anyway, Kolya was in the kitchen at the time, and Grazie was in our greenhouse.” That was some comfort, Mahala supposed, since Grazie was the member of the household most likely to relate the story to other people. “Your grandmother was quite restrained, considering.”

“Lakshmi said I shouldn't be alive.”

“That's a horrible thing to say.”

“It's true, isn't it? Everything she said about my parents was true.”

“I haven't been here long enough to be sure.” Barika paused. “When I was a student at the university in Harare, one of my professors used to say that the trick with history was learning how to live with it and learn from it without having it overwhelm you. Many people came here hoping to escape the past altogether. That's probably part of the reason your grandmother always wanted people to put what happened here behind them.”

Barika seemed to be saying that people could not run away from what had already happened. “I wanted to find out,” Mahala said. “Now I wish I hadn't.”

“It's over, Mahala. The only thing to be done about it now is to try to understand why things happened as they did, so that you can think of how to make them better.”

“Maybe things'll never be better.”

“People came here because they thought they could be better.”

Mahala's head drooped; she covered her mouth and yawned. “You're tired,” Barika continued. “Time to go to sleep.” The young woman helped her off with her clothes and slipped a light tunic over her head. “Are you sure you'll be all right?”

Mahala nodded. Barika covered her with a sheet, then left the room.

Exhausted as she was, Mahala could not sleep. She did not know what disturbed her more, that her parents had done what they did or that Lakshmi had been so anxious to hurt her. A woman who did not even know her could hate her because of what her parents had done.

At last she got up and went into the narrow hallway. In the common room, Risa was saying good night to Paul and Grazie. For a moment, there was the familiar silence, and then she heard her grandmother's voice again.

“It was eerie,” Risa said. “Sometimes that young woman seemed quite rational, and then I'd glimpse that mad look in her eyes.”

“She needs help, if you ask me,” Sef said.

“She needed it years ago,” Risa said. “I could have tried to do more for her.”

Mahala moved toward the light. Her grandparents and Dyami were still sitting at the table. “You should be asleep, child,” Risa said.

“I can't sleep.”

“Then come and sit with us.”

Mahala went to them. Sef held out what was left of the bread; she shook her head.

“I suppose you heard us talking about Lakshmi Tiris,” Risa murmured. “I'm sorry you spoke to her and furious with her for what she said to you, but I'm partly to blame for that. Her parents sent her to another settlement not long after your mother's death and told me Lakshmi only wanted to forget what was past. Since I wanted the same thing, I was content to forget about the girl. I was relieved that there would be no hearing for Chimene, that almost no one would know what my daughter's last days were really like.”

“Was it true, what she said about my mother and about what happened with Lakshmi and my father?”

“The story about your father's death is true. As for Lakshmi and Boaz and their dealings, I had no knowledge of any of that at the time, but hardly think she'd make a story like that up.” Risa glanced at her bondmate, then reached for his hand. “Maybe if there had been a hearing, Lakshmi Tiris could have put her experience behind her. I should have tried to do more to help her, but I was thinking more about those close to me. Many others had suffered. I couldn't be bothered with worrying about one girl.”

“You couldn't have known,” Sef said.

“I should have guessed.”

Dyami was silent. He had been a prisoner; that was another fact Mahala had always known without really feeling what it meant.

“What are you going to do?” Sef asked.

“Encourage her to seek some help,” Risa replied. “Lena Kerein might
be able to counsel her. Or, if she can't bear to speak to the Guide, there are others who
might—”

“I'll speak to her,” Dyami said.

Risa tensed. “You? But I don't expect you to—”

“Some in Turing meet occasionally to talk about the past. Sometimes one needs that kind of emotional support. I never cared for dwelling on such matters myself, but maybe this woman would find it easier to talk to me. If she doesn't, you've lost nothing.”

“But—”

“I'll also be sure to tell her not to bother Mahala again.” Dyami's voice seemed colder. “I don't expect that she will, given that the Council has ways of dealing with those who harass children, but perhaps it wouldn't hurt to emphasize that fact.”

“I won't talk to her anymore,” Mahala said. “I wish I hadn't talked to her at all.”

No one spoke for a while, and then Risa said, “Mahala, you must go to sleep.” Her grandmother leaned toward her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Make me this promise—if you have any questions about your parents, come to me with them. And I'll make this promise to you—I may not know the answer to every question, but I won't hide what I do know from you.”

Mahala nodded, then stood up. Dyami rose and held out his hand. “Come on,” her uncle said. She thrust her hand in his as they moved toward Risa's wing of the house.

Mahala was yawning by the time she was getting into her bed. Dyami covered her, then smoothed back her hair.

“Sleep well,” he said. His voice was warmer again, but she heard sadness in it.

Ragnar Einarsson gazed sullenly at Mahala in the classroom, pointedly turned away to stare out the room's wide window whenever she looked toward him, avoided coming anywhere near her during lunch, and left school in the company of three other boys without even a glance at her. Apparently Solveig had been right about saying he would not come after her again.

Dyami was standing just outside the school's main entrance, waiting for her. She ran toward her uncle. “Why are you here?” she asked.

“To ask something of you.” He looked around, but the few children outside the square school building were wandering away. “I'm going to speak to Lakshmi Tiris now. You may come along with me, but I won't insist that you do.”

“But why?”

“Maybe if she sees you, she'll understand what she's done. It might make her more willing to talk to me. But the choice has to be yours.”

“I'll come with you,” she said.

“Good.”

They walked in the direction of the greenhouses, Dyami shortening his strides so that she could keep up with him. When they reached the road, she pointed out the way to Lak-shmi's house. Greenhouse workers were leaving for their homes; Mahala soon saw the dark-haired woman outside one doorway.

“That's Lakshmi,” she said, pointing. Others were walking in twos and threes or in groups, but Lakshmi was alone. Maybe she did not have many friends. Mahala felt a surge of pity for her.

They waited near the stone path until Lakshmi was near them. The woman's hands were inside the pockets of her tunic, her head down.

“Greetings,” Dyami said.

Lakshmi looked up; her eyes narrowed. “I know who you are,” Dyami
continued, “but please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dyami
Liang-Talis—I'm the son of Risa Liangharad and Sef Talis, and—”

“I guessed it,” Lakshmi said in her raspy voice. “You look just like
your father. I know about you.”

“Then maybe you'll understand that I have some sympathy for you, in spite
of what you said to my niece. I'm here to tell you that I'm willing to help you. If you
talked with someone who could understand what you've gone through, you—”

“Spare me your false compassion,” Lakshmi said. “I see what's going on. You want to make sure I don't talk to anybody else. That might be embarrassing for your mother the Councilor. If people find out how much she's hidden of what happened during her daughter's last days, they might wonder what other secrets she's kept.”

“Do you think she cares anything about that?” Dyami lowered his voice.
“If coming to terms with the past requires that you go on all the public channels with
everything you know, no one will stop you. A great many people have made quite a hobby of raking
over the past and revising their records.” He paused and took a breath. “Maybe you
should find someone here, another former member of Ishtar in whom you might confide. You could go to
the Guide. Lena didn't let her faith blind her to what was going on before the Revolt, when
she stood with the resisters, and she might be able to show you—”

“She can't show me anything. Neither can you.” Lakshmi's mouth twitched. “Why did you bring that child here?”

“So that you could apologize to her.”

The woman's eyes widened. “Apologize for what? Telling her the truth?”

“What you told her about her parents was one thing.” Dyarni had let go of Mahala's hand; his own, hanging at his side, was clenched in a fist. “I don't blame you for hating them. But you have no right to pass on your hatred to my niece or to make her suffer for what her parents did.”

“I suppose I might have told her more gently.” Lakshmi gazed at Mahala, then looked away. “But you have no right to tell me what to do. Bring a complaint against me before the Council if you have a grievance against me. Your mother would have to disqualify herself from judging me, given the circumstances. See how Risa Liangharad likes having this child testify in public after I've told my story. Otherwise, leave me alone.”

“I thought you might listen,” Dyami said. “My mother was sorry that she didn't do more to help you. She's willing to help you now. But if you'd rather pick at your wounds instead of trying to heal them, there isn't much we can do. We'll leave you alone, as long as you don't trouble Mahala.”

“I'm not afraid of her,” Mahala said, “not any more.”

Lakshmi's face froze. She took a step back, then shook back her hair. “I have no reason to speak to the girl again.” Her lips curved up. “The Guide, your sister, taught me a few truths amid all the lies. One was that people like you were an offense to the Spirit. How she must have hoped to bring you to the right way, to give up your perversions. But I no longer believe in the Spirit, so I can't feel a little love for you even while praying that you might turn to the true path. I can only despise you.”

Dyami said nothing. Mahala, peering up at his face, could not read the expression in his brown eyes; it was almost as if he had not heard the woman's words. Lakshmi turned and left them.

“Dyami?” Mahala tugged at her uncle's sleeve. “Why did she say that? What did she mean?”

“She hates what I am. That's one of the things my sister and her comrades taught her, to hate people who find lovers among those who are like themselves. She hates me because I love men. The people in that cursed cult were taught that men and women have to come together in their embraces, that this is part of bringing life to Venus and its Spirit, and that someone like me is an offense to their beliefs. It served their purposes, having a group of people to hate, and there were enough people here from the more backward regions of Earth who already shared some of their prejudices.” He sighed. “It doesn't matter, Mahala. I no longer care what such people think as long as they haven't got the power to harm me.”