even.
âIâm coming with you,â Zamatryna said, and at last they let her; everyone went except Aliniana and the cousins. The family stayed very close together, moving through the chill darkness, and Zamatryna thought fleetingly of how they had huddled together after they came through the door from Lémabantunk.
Darroti wasnât at the Porto-Sans, which were empty. He wasnât in the food tent or the shower tent. They wandered about the camp in the first glimmers of dawn, calling him. âDarroti! Where are you!â They were answered only by grumbles from people who had been asleep. But then there was a shout from the nearest edge of the camp, and all of them began to run. Erolorit swung Zamatryna up into his arms, for she wouldnât have been able to keep up with the adults.
They ran toward the perimeter, where they found a group of Americans, even paler than usual, gathered around something hanging from the fence.
âNo no no no no no,â Harani said. âNo. Oh, no.â Erolorit tried to cover Zamatrynaâs eyes, but she pushed his hands away. She knew what she would see. She had known since she woke up to Mim-Bimâs buzzing.
It was Darroti. He had twisted his sheet into a rope and hanged himself from the fence.
3
Darroti
Heâs out of his body now, bobbing in the air like a feathered seed-pod, watching the scene in front of the fence. Dying hurt less than he expected: a few awful moments and then it was over, blessed relief. Since that terrible night with the knife, living has hurt far more than his death just did.
He knows he should have done this in Lémabantunk, before the family went into exile. If he had been able to summon the courage to do it there, they would not have had to leave. But he was a coward. If the dead cannot speak to the living, still some of his people believe that the dead can speak to the dead, that the dead commune in their own world.
That is what Gallicina believed. âWe will not always be apart, dearest. You will conquer this demon of drink and then it will be fitting for us to tell our families that we love one another. When you have won the battle with the demon, we will be together for the rest of our lives, and after our lives, too. Not even death will separate us.â
Not even death. That promise, the prophecy she intended as a blessing, became a curse; Darroti himself made it a curse, that terrible evening. And afterwards in Lémabantunk he did not dare to kill himself, even to spare his family from exile, because he could not face the possibility of meeting Gallicina. The very thought of her is an agony, even now.
Even now. Death has not released him from his crime; it will be his burden forever. He knows that. But now he has done what he needed to do. He has freed his family to leave the camp, freed them from the burden of his presence. He killed himself out of love for them, love that finally gave him the courage to put the twisted sheet around his neck. Surely they will be happy, as soon as they realize this.
They are not happy yet. The limp sack of his body leans against the woven metal fence; the Americans gesture in consternation, and his family howls and keens in rage and grief. Somehow, although he hangs above them, he sees them as if they are in front of him, too, sees all sides of them at once. Macsofo has collapsed onto the ground, beating at the dust with his fists. Erolorit, shoulders shaking, kneels next to Macsofo. Harani clings to the girlchild Zamatryna. Of all of them, only Zamatryna seems calm. He can tell that she was crying before the family found him, but she is not crying now.
Timbor stands apart from everyone, ashen, until the little girl breaks free of Harani and goes to comfort him, putting her arms around his waist and patting his stomach. He says nothing. His face is tracked with tears.
They should be happy. They will be happy, soon, once they have had a chance to think. If they cannot
âIâm coming with you,â Zamatryna said, and at last they let her; everyone went except Aliniana and the cousins. The family stayed very close together, moving through the chill darkness, and Zamatryna thought fleetingly of how they had huddled together after they came through the door from Lémabantunk.
Darroti wasnât at the Porto-Sans, which were empty. He wasnât in the food tent or the shower tent. They wandered about the camp in the first glimmers of dawn, calling him. âDarroti! Where are you!â They were answered only by grumbles from people who had been asleep. But then there was a shout from the nearest edge of the camp, and all of them began to run. Erolorit swung Zamatryna up into his arms, for she wouldnât have been able to keep up with the adults.
They ran toward the perimeter, where they found a group of Americans, even paler than usual, gathered around something hanging from the fence.
âNo no no no no no,â Harani said. âNo. Oh, no.â Erolorit tried to cover Zamatrynaâs eyes, but she pushed his hands away. She knew what she would see. She had known since she woke up to Mim-Bimâs buzzing.
It was Darroti. He had twisted his sheet into a rope and hanged himself from the fence.
3
Darroti
Heâs out of his body now, bobbing in the air like a feathered seed-pod, watching the scene in front of the fence. Dying hurt less than he expected: a few awful moments and then it was over, blessed relief. Since that terrible night with the knife, living has hurt far more than his death just did.
He knows he should have done this in Lémabantunk, before the family went into exile. If he had been able to summon the courage to do it there, they would not have had to leave. But he was a coward. If the dead cannot speak to the living, still some of his people believe that the dead can speak to the dead, that the dead commune in their own world.
That is what Gallicina believed. âWe will not always be apart, dearest. You will conquer this demon of drink and then it will be fitting for us to tell our families that we love one another. When you have won the battle with the demon, we will be together for the rest of our lives, and after our lives, too. Not even death will separate us.â
Not even death. That promise, the prophecy she intended as a blessing, became a curse; Darroti himself made it a curse, that terrible evening. And afterwards in Lémabantunk he did not dare to kill himself, even to spare his family from exile, because he could not face the possibility of meeting Gallicina. The very thought of her is an agony, even now.
Even now. Death has not released him from his crime; it will be his burden forever. He knows that. But now he has done what he needed to do. He has freed his family to leave the camp, freed them from the burden of his presence. He killed himself out of love for them, love that finally gave him the courage to put the twisted sheet around his neck. Surely they will be happy, as soon as they realize this.
They are not happy yet. The limp sack of his body leans against the woven metal fence; the Americans gesture in consternation, and his family howls and keens in rage and grief. Somehow, although he hangs above them, he sees them as if they are in front of him, too, sees all sides of them at once. Macsofo has collapsed onto the ground, beating at the dust with his fists. Erolorit, shoulders shaking, kneels next to Macsofo. Harani clings to the girlchild Zamatryna. Of all of them, only Zamatryna seems calm. He can tell that she was crying before the family found him, but she is not crying now.
Timbor stands apart from everyone, ashen, until the little girl breaks free of Harani and goes to comfort him, putting her arms around his waist and patting his stomach. He says nothing. His face is tracked with tears.
They should be happy. They will be happy, soon, once they have had a chance to think. If they cannot
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