Redemption in Indigo (17 page)

'Your mouse?
Your
mouse?’ she screamed. ‘Then what business did it have in
my
apron pocket? You're a bad boy, Jevan, and only getting worse. If you don't mind yourself—'

'You'll tell my parents?’ he finished coldly, pausing in his search to sit up and glare at her. The haughty expression on his face showed just how much contempt he had for such a threat.

The woman's eyes narrowed dangerously as she realised she was being mocked. ‘If you don't mind yourself,’ she began again deliberately, ‘if you don't learn to control yourself, the baccou will steal your skin and behave so badly that even you will be ashamed of yourself!'

He got up and ran, yelling over his shoulder, ‘I wish it would!'

Just as Paama was shaking her head and smiling ruefully at the little tyrant, a deep, sorrowful voice behind her made her jump.

'There's my cue. Duty calls. But how strange to see you here??nd with a human, too. Duty for you as well?'

A fuzzy, undefined shape was hovering before the djombi, who was looking slightly embarrassed. ‘Not quite duty, but essential nevertheless,’ he replied.

'Ah,’ the newcomer said diplomatically and did not press the matter further. ‘Well, if you've come to see my work, the best view will be from inside the house in the playroom, the boy's bedroom, and the kitchen. But for now, watch outside.'

The shape suddenly blurred the insubstantial air, rushing towards the boy, who was still racing around the house in an excess of furious energy. There was a soft, soundless collision.

'Ow!’ the boy shouted, more from shock than pain.

He opened his eyes wider and raised his hand to his head. Surely he had damaged himself somehow, for there was his own self, sitting on the grass, also rubbing his head and looking at him with mischief.

'Didn't really hurt, did it, you crybaby?’ his image told him callously.

Fright set him on his feet. ‘What are you?'

'You, of course!'

'No, you're not! You're that baccou that Hana's always talking about.'

'Who's the baccou? I can see right through you!'

It was true. The boy looked down at himself and saw the grass growing under the soles of his feet, and then he glanced up at the impostor, who was solid, and real, and twice as cheeky and wild.

'Go away!’ he shrieked, nearly in tears.

The baccou stuck out his tongue. ‘You called me, so I'm not going till I've had my fun. You can watch if you like.'

With that, he raced inside and banged the door shut. The poor faded youngster scrabbled at the doorknob uselessly until he realised that he might not be able to grasp a doorknob, but then again, he could walk through the door. As he disappeared inside the house, the djombi led Paama through a short space-time step that took them directly to the playroom. The baccou was already elbow-deep in the toy box, and the boy was hovering about frantically, unable to lay hands on anything.

'Good loot,’ the baccou commented, throwing things out carelessly and banging things together as if testing them for durability. ‘More than birthday presents and Christmas gifts in here. How in the world do I do it?'

His foot found a tiny wooden train and deliberately stamped it into fragments.

'That's
mine
!’ the boy howled in horror. ‘Stop smashing my things!'

'Don't be silly,
I'm
smashing my things. I can do that, can't I? From what I remember, I do it all the time!'

'Give me back my skin!'

'
Jevan, what are you doing up there?
'

'Oops,’ said the impostor. ‘All yours.'

And he walked through the shade of the boy, leaving him tangible again, and tucked his fuzzy shadow into the corner next to Paama.

Steps came thundering up to the room and Hana burst in like vengeance. ‘
What
have you been doing?'

'It wasn't me!’ came the automatic wail from the boy. In a room apparently empty of anyone but himself, the plea carried little conviction.

'Go to your room,’ she ordered and was shocked to see how quickly he ran out of the playroom, almost as if something was chasing him. If she had known the significance of the weird blur that followed him, she would have realised it was true, but she merely rubbed tiredly at her eyes and muttered something about the boy raising her blood pressure.

The djombi brought Paama to the boy's bedroom just in time to see the boy thrashing about on the floor, fighting the baccou for his skin again.

'Leave me alone!'

'Not till I've had my fun!'

The baccou won, naturally. He began to pace around the room, looking for something to break while the boy's shade followed him, all but wringing his hands in impotent anguish.

'Leave that, it's my—no, don't
touch
that! You'll smudge the—hey!'

'Ohhh, what's this?’ The baccou paused in front of an aquarium. It needed cleaning, but it was vivid with iridescent, colourful fish.

'No,’ the boy whimpered. ‘Not my fish.'

The baccou shrugged. ‘My mischief's very person-specific. I won't hurt them. But you have to admit I should have cleaned it out by now.'

He looked around, grabbed a cup from the bedside table, dumped the contents of a vase out of the window, and then carefully transferred the fish to the vase. As he lifted away the last of the fish, he carelessly tapped the side of the aquarium with the vase's heavy base. The pane of glass splintered and the cracks began to ooze liquid.

'Slow leak,’ remarked the baccou. ‘Ah, I'm wrong,’ he corrected himself as the rest of the glass finally gave way, deluging the floor with water and weed.

Hana was at the door as quickly as if she had snapped her fingers and whisked through space-time. ‘Now what? Oh??i no!'

She scrambled out and returned with a mop and pail. Yanking the vase away from the baccou, she carefully poured the fish into the pail while fending off the spread of the water with the mop. Then she began slopping in the weed angrily. The boy's shade danced about her, trying to get her to see his plight, but she ignored him and turned instead to the grinning baccou.

'You,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘get out. No dinner for you.'

The baccou rushed out of the door, muttering, ‘Kitchen. Better stock up now while I have the chance.'

The boy let out a screech of fury and frustration and ran after him. Paama found herself grinning as she went with the djombi to the third observation point. How many times had she thought that if only Ansige could see how he appeared to others, he would be desperate to change?

The baccou was tearing messily through the larder, throwing food down and smearing his face with flour, molasses, anything that would stick and look ridiculous. When the boy saw him, he sat down on the floor and wept helplessly until the baccou stopped his rampage and squatted down beside him, a sympathetic expression on his face.

'It's not so much fun anymore, is it?’ he asked the boy softly.

'N-no,’ the boy sobbed.

'Well, it's not fun for me anymore, either. Call me up again if you want me, but you can have your skin back now.'

Then there was only the boy, sitting in a mess on the floor, his face and clothes dirty. He hiccupped once, looked around with scared eyes as if waiting for something to pounce, and then crept out of the room.

'That's done,’ said the baccou with satisfaction, back to his indistinct form once more. ‘Seems a ridiculous job when you think about it, but some derive benefit from the exercise. But you had a question?'

He rounded on Paama, who was taken aback at first, but then she bravely spoke her thought. ‘I was just wondering, does it only work for children? It's just that??ell??'ve got this husband, Ansige?'

The shape flickered in a manner that somehow seemed apologetic. ‘Ansige the Glutton? I'm sorry. No-one's going to be assigned to him. Not much time left there.'

Paama was stunned by the pang of fear and worry that shot through her bones and drained her of strength. ‘Not much time?'

'I'd go visit if I were you. Anyway, can't hang around. Another call is coming through. Toodle-oots.'

And with that, he vanished.

Paama sat weakly on the nearest chair. ‘Ansige?’ she said softly to herself.

'Tell me where he lives,’ said the djombi quietly. ‘I'll take you there now.'

[Back to Table of Contents]

Kwame was not allowed any farther than the courtyard of the House of the Sisters. The four who had hired him sat before him on a long wooden bench, looking far too much like a tribunal.

'A woman is missing,’ said Sister Jani.

Kwame was an experienced tracker. That meant that whatever the Trickster had told him had been temporarily set aside so that he could listen to what the Sisters had to say without making any assumptions.

'Describe her to me.'

The Sisters looked at each other, and then Sister Jani answered, ‘She has courage. She has braved scorn and ridicule, which can tear the soul more viciously than vultures at a corpse. She has managed to keep her self-esteem intact.'

'She has compassion and discretion,’ added Sister Elen. ‘She does not pull down the weak, and the secrets of others are safe with her.'

'She has integrity,’ continued Sister Deian. ‘When she goes about doing what is right, she does not consider solely her own benefit.'

'She has the most beautiful dreams,’ concluded Sister Carmis on a wistful note.

Kwame listened politely, and then he coughed even more politely. ‘I meant, what does she look like?'

The Sisters appeared to be slightly taken aback.

'Medium height?’ hazarded Sister Jani.

'Slim build, hair braided in spiral style?'

'A rather long nose?'

'But really very ordinary to look at.'

Then Sister Elen sat up straight. ‘She was wearing a brooch in the shape of a dragonflower, though she may have put it aside now.'

'And a headband in bronze-coloured material??hough she may have taken it off,’ mused Sister Deian.

They fell into a glum silence. Sister Elen was fretting, wondering how she was going to work into the conversation her knowledge of the places that Paama had been without betraying the arcane methods by which it had been acquired. Sister Deian was brooding over their lack of proof. The brooch and the headband no longer functioned, having succumbed at last to hours of being drenched by rain and saltwater. And yet, even if he believed them, the House of the Sisters had secrets that were not to be told to lay persons.

Kwame detected the lull and tried to get them to talk again. ‘What was her occupation? Before she disappeared, that is?’ he corrected himself. Referring to a client's loved one in the past tense was never a positive approach.

'She was a marvellous cook,’ smiled Sister Jani. ‘She had skill in her hands and love in her heart, which is the way to make food fit for the angels.'

'Did she work at a restaurant? A guest lodge?'

'She was here with us, last,’ said Sister Deian sorrowfully.

'Do you know why she has disappeared?'

Again that silence fell, so odd to a stranger, so understandable to us. Kwame looked at them with greater and greater suspicion.

'Perhaps I should ask some questions down in the village,’ he suggested, raising an eyebrow.

'Oh, don't do that!’ Sister Jani cried. ‘Her own family doesn't know—they still think she's with us!'

'That's very interesting,’ said Kwame levelly. ‘Why haven't you told them?'

'We didn't want them to worry,’ said Sister Carmis, and twitched visibly at the weakness of her excuse.

'Nevertheless, if I am to find her, I need something more than what you seem prepared to tell me. It would be better if you allowed me to ask my questions. I can play a role—pretend I am simply a restaurant manager looking to recruit a cook—and they will not learn from me that she is missing. Would that satisfy you? If it does not, I tell you frankly that I will not be able to do anything for you.'

They looked at him in dismay.

'Very well,’ said Sister Jani. ‘Go and ask your questions. We will confirm your ruse if you wish. But we ask only one thing. After you have heard from the villagers, return to us. We will have more things to tell you, things that may appear strange, but are no less true for all that.'

Her colleagues gave her slightly anxious looks, but she stared directly at Kwame and pretended not to notice them.

Kwame inclined his head in thanks. ‘I shall do as you say.'

The village court of Makendha, like village courts the world over, was sometimes graced by the presence of an itinerant storyteller. Kwame found one sitting on a stool under the shade of the sandbox tree, muttering to himself. He knew the type. He found them to be excellent observers of humanity, professional harvesters of gossip and scandal.

'Excuse me,’ he said, approaching the old man, ‘but I am trying to find a cook by the name of Paama.'

The old storyteller ceased his muttering, turned his aged and weathered face to Kwame, and gave him a good look up and down.

'Now, there's an accent that has walked far,’ he said.

'I have no accent,’ Kwame replied.

'Ah, that is how I know it has travelled so far, to have wrapped itself in so many layers that to everyone, no matter what region they hail from, it appears you have no accent. So, you are looking for Paama? Why?'

Kwame had few qualms about lying for the sake of his profession, but something about the twinkle in the man's eye—little short of a leer, it was—made him embarrassed for no good reason. He scuffed his foot awkwardly in the dust and said, ‘A good cook is always in demand, and her fame has spread beyond the village.'

The wrinkles on the old man's face assumed a less satyric aspect as he folded his hands and sighed.

'I have heard tales of how magnificently she can cook. I could relate for you a description of a morsel of her honey-almond cake, a delicacy which is light enough to melt on the tip of the tongue and yet it lingers on the palate with its subtle flavours long into the dream-filled reaches of the night. I could sing the praises, second-hand, alas, of her traveller's soup, a concoction of smoothly blended and balanced vegetables and herbs guaranteed to put heart and strength back into the bones of the weariest voyager. I have heard of her pepperpot, wherein meat from the hunt simmers slowly all the day long in a fantastic chutney of seasonings, selected spices, peppers, and green pawpaw. And forgive my tears, but I have just this moment recalled a certain jar that sits in her kitchen, filled with dried fruit steeping in spice spirit, red wine, cinnamon, and nutmeg, patiently awaiting that day months or even years hence when it will be baked into a festival cake that will turn the head of the most seasoned toper.'