“To prevent war,” she says. Her wooden voice sounds rougher than before, less polished. “The Faloii will go to war with the star people if they discover what I know. If you can return him to me, violence can be avoided.”
“So you’re protecting us?” I ask slowly.
“No.” The spots remain where they are, a hard cluster. “I am protecting our planet. A war like this one would do irreconcilable harm to much of the life here. Our planet is small. Intricately connected. Violence has grave consequences for Faloiv.”
I try to understand. I can feel my brain blundering through what she’s saying. It’s as if my thoughts lack thumbs, handling a puzzle clumsily and without context. War. Violence has grave consequences. The idea sends a quake through my bones. I don’t know why N’Terra—my father—has taken Rasimbukar’s father prisoner, but surely it’s an act of war. If the consequences are grave for the Faloii, who are indigenous to this planet, then what would they be for us? There’s no power cell for the Vagantur to flee with. End of the line for what Rasimbukar calls the star people. The galaxy we wandered through to come here is closed.
“So if I can return your father to you without your people finding out, then it will be okay? The Faloii won’t . . . kill us?”
“Your people have broken agreements in the past,” she says. “The Faloii have been angry for some time. There are amends that need to be made. But we can keep the bridge from being broken if you return my father to me and if the star people break no other understandings.”
From the back of my mind comes the word “control.” I think of my father, of Dr. Albatur; how, under his leadership, N’Terra has swirled with the grumblings of bitter whitecoats. What have we done?
Rasimbukar looks up at the sun. It’s beginning to sink, bathing the tops of the trees in deep golden light. The spots on her face spread a little but don’t stray far from the center of her forehead.
“I must return you to your people,” she says. Her voice sounds sad, though I’m not sure if what sounds sad to me actually translates as sadness for her. I try to look into the tunnel, but it’s closed tightly, as if she knew I’d be looking and shut herself off. “My people will soon begin to search the jungle for my father, and it is only a matter of time until they arrive at your compounds with questions. If your people lie, the Faloii will know.”
“But how will I find him? How will I get him out? How will I find you?”
She’s reaching out for me, one long brown finger extending toward my face, her eyes wide and dark and staring.
“You will find a way,” she says. “He will need the kawa, so you must help him get it. When you are ready to enter the jungle, I will know.”
And then her finger meets my forehead. There’s an instant of stars. In the moment before the world goes dark, I think of my grandmother once more. I can almost see her stepping out into the trees, as strange and vast as the stars themselves. In a jolt, I imagine what she must have felt: her spreading wonder as the core of this new planet rose up to greet her, a precious center where all things meet. Then a sweet, warm black filled with the smell of ogwe trees surrounds me, carrying me up into their branches.
CHAPTER 19
In the dream, the stars conspire. They mutter in silver tongues, their language a pattern of chains that snare everyone in N’Terra with metal coils. Some of them sound like my father. Some of them are voices slithering from behind glass, heavy with secrets. One of them sounds like my mother for a moment, whispering my name. In the haze, I feel her running a finger up and down my jawbone.
“Octavia. Afua,” she says. Her voice is warm, her face in shadows. “You can come back now. Come back.”
I open my eyes. It’s not a dream. The shadow that is my mother blots out some of the soft light from above, but I still blink several times as I move into full wakefulness. I’m in my parents’ bed. My mother’s finger pauses in its path down my jaw.
“There you are,” she whispers.
I open my mouth to speak, to tell her all the things I’ve learned and ask her all the questions I need answers to. My head buzzes, my fingertips tingling: it’s almost like heat, the skin along my palms burning faintly. I struggle to lift my hands to look at them, but they feel too heavy. I flex my abdominal muscles to sit up, but my mother rests a gentle hand on my chest.
“No, no,” she says. “Rest. You don’t have anywhere to be. Your hands are okay. You have your father’s hands now.”
“My father’s hands,” I repeat sleepily. Am I dreaming this? My fingers continue to tingle.
“Yes,” she says, giving my arm a squeeze. “They’ll get you where you need to go.”
I can’t make sense of what she’s saying.
“Alma . . . Rondo,” I whisper. “Dr. Espada.”
“Alma and Rondo are fine. So is Dr. Espada.”
“Yaya? Jaquot?”
“Yaya is fine. Rest,” she says, and I do. Exhaustion swallows me whole and I drift down its throat into sleep.
When I wake again, Alma is in the chair in the corner with her slate in her lap, studying. Her hair is loose from braids or head wrap, free in a fluffy Afro. Watching her, my chest swells with gratitude that she’s okay, whole, alive. I can still see her scrambling to climb the tree with Manx and the others, and all the fear and chaos from that moment rises in me again. A tear escapes from my eye and travels the short distance down my cheek to the pillow. I sniff.
Alma looks up and throws her slate on the floor in her haste to reach the bed.
“Octavia,” she says. “Rondo, she’s awake!”
I hear quick steps, then the hurried sliding open of the bedroom door. In a moment both Alma and Rondo hover above me. Rondo’s eyes are red. He reaches for my hand and holds it. At the feeling of his fingers, my chest swells again.
“Hi,” I say. My throat feels scratchy.
“Are you thirsty?” Alma says. “You’ve been getting fluids intravenously, but your mom said that if you woke up today you’d probably want actual water.”
“If I woke up today?”
“They figured it would be today or tomorrow. Your vitals have been getting closer to normal.”
“How long have I been sleeping?”
“Three days.”
“Yes, I’m thirsty,” I croak, squeezing my eyes shut.
Rondo releases my hand. When I open my eyes again, he’s there holding a small bowl. He brings it to my mouth and tilts it against my lips. I drink a few sips, feel the cool liquid trickle down my throat. It tastes how I know water tastes, but I can’t help but compare it to the rhohedron nectar. Plain water is pale in comparison. I sigh and look up, and see the bottom of Alma’s sleeping platform.
“Was I in my parents’ room before?”
“Yes, but they moved you in here with me yesterday,” Alma says. “Said you’d get better quicker if you slept in the same room with someone.”