one of the few bonds not broken by the disaster, and they
deserved to celebrate that. But their professionalism and skill were incontestable,
and their dedication to rebuilding Sadiri culture absolute. I found that admirable.
Because the settlement we were visiting consisted of widely scattered homesteadings much like the Sadiri one
in Tlaxce, we had arranged our schedule to arrive for one of their festivals. People
would be gathering at a public area called the Grand Savannah over a period of two
days. Initially, we had planned to spend time at one of the major homesteadings and
conclude our visit with the festival, but because of the delay we were going to do
it the other way around.
Our first sight of the Grand Savannah was a long, high berm with an arched entrance
cut into the center. Underneath the arch ran a road of flagstones. We came in government
vehicles with awagonload of gear, having left the shuttle at the outpost. Inside the earth-walled
enclosure was a huge field with a tent city, the colors so bright and the designs
so varied that it looked like a scattering of kites on the ground waiting to take
flight. There were rangers there acting as marshals, and they pointed us to a space
where we could set up our camp. We hadn’t been there more than fifteen minutes before
a visitor arrived.
“Welcome to the Grand Savannah! Do I have the honor of addressing Dr. Qeturah Daniyel,
head of this government mission and renowned academic in her own right?”
The words were measured, even stately, but there was hidden laughter in the tone.
When I saw the speaker and the suppressed smile and almost wink that passed between
him and Qeturah, I instantly had the impression of some shared encounter in the past.
He was a notable man of the tall and distinguished variety, but there was something
irreverent in the gleam of his eye that warned of a love of fun. Qeturah, in contrast,
looked unusually shy and coquettish. Must have been some encounter.
“Leoval,” she said, and her voice seemed richer and more resonant as she held out
her hand to be kissed. “Not too old for this yet?”
Leoval gave her a droll look of mock injury. “Qeturah! What a suggestion!”
Introductions were made. At first, when he bent over my hand as well, I feared he
was an incorrigible flirt, but when he proceeded to clasp arms with Fergus and Lian
and bow to the Sadiri gravely with the appropriate phrase in perfectly accented Sadiri,
I realized I was in the presence of a consummate diplomat. I was right too. He was
a retired civil servant, and he had been one of the first anthropologists to revisit
and update ancient research on the region. He made Qeturah promise to come visit him,
telling her to send word by a marshal and he would have a sedan chaircome around for her. Then, with that carefully modulated sense of courtesy, he bid
his farewells and departed.
“What an interesting man,” I said innocently.
Qeturah gave me a sharp look. “Yes,” she replied firmly. “He is. And a gentleman.
He always found ways to help me without ever once mentioning the dreaded phrase ‘Dalthi’s
Syndrome.’ Like offering to send a chair for me—that’s his kindness all over.”
I hesitated, then decided to speak my thought. “Dalthi’s Syndrome? Isn’t that a treatable
genetic condition?”
“Yes, it is, but I’ve never liked the idea of flipping the switches on my own genes,”
Qeturah said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Seems like cheating.”
I was more than surprised to hear this. It was a bit like learning your local butcher
is a vegetarian.
“Besides,” Qeturah continued calmly, “for some time I had unresolved issues about
being the weak one of the family. My siblings used to tease me and say no homesteader
would ever marry me, because I’d be as much work to take care of as the homestead
and my children would probably be weaklings too. When you start thinking of
deserved to celebrate that. But their professionalism and skill were incontestable,
and their dedication to rebuilding Sadiri culture absolute. I found that admirable.
Because the settlement we were visiting consisted of widely scattered homesteadings much like the Sadiri one
in Tlaxce, we had arranged our schedule to arrive for one of their festivals. People
would be gathering at a public area called the Grand Savannah over a period of two
days. Initially, we had planned to spend time at one of the major homesteadings and
conclude our visit with the festival, but because of the delay we were going to do
it the other way around.
Our first sight of the Grand Savannah was a long, high berm with an arched entrance
cut into the center. Underneath the arch ran a road of flagstones. We came in government
vehicles with awagonload of gear, having left the shuttle at the outpost. Inside the earth-walled
enclosure was a huge field with a tent city, the colors so bright and the designs
so varied that it looked like a scattering of kites on the ground waiting to take
flight. There were rangers there acting as marshals, and they pointed us to a space
where we could set up our camp. We hadn’t been there more than fifteen minutes before
a visitor arrived.
“Welcome to the Grand Savannah! Do I have the honor of addressing Dr. Qeturah Daniyel,
head of this government mission and renowned academic in her own right?”
The words were measured, even stately, but there was hidden laughter in the tone.
When I saw the speaker and the suppressed smile and almost wink that passed between
him and Qeturah, I instantly had the impression of some shared encounter in the past.
He was a notable man of the tall and distinguished variety, but there was something
irreverent in the gleam of his eye that warned of a love of fun. Qeturah, in contrast,
looked unusually shy and coquettish. Must have been some encounter.
“Leoval,” she said, and her voice seemed richer and more resonant as she held out
her hand to be kissed. “Not too old for this yet?”
Leoval gave her a droll look of mock injury. “Qeturah! What a suggestion!”
Introductions were made. At first, when he bent over my hand as well, I feared he
was an incorrigible flirt, but when he proceeded to clasp arms with Fergus and Lian
and bow to the Sadiri gravely with the appropriate phrase in perfectly accented Sadiri,
I realized I was in the presence of a consummate diplomat. I was right too. He was
a retired civil servant, and he had been one of the first anthropologists to revisit
and update ancient research on the region. He made Qeturah promise to come visit him,
telling her to send word by a marshal and he would have a sedan chaircome around for her. Then, with that carefully modulated sense of courtesy, he bid
his farewells and departed.
“What an interesting man,” I said innocently.
Qeturah gave me a sharp look. “Yes,” she replied firmly. “He is. And a gentleman.
He always found ways to help me without ever once mentioning the dreaded phrase ‘Dalthi’s
Syndrome.’ Like offering to send a chair for me—that’s his kindness all over.”
I hesitated, then decided to speak my thought. “Dalthi’s Syndrome? Isn’t that a treatable
genetic condition?”
“Yes, it is, but I’ve never liked the idea of flipping the switches on my own genes,”
Qeturah said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Seems like cheating.”
I was more than surprised to hear this. It was a bit like learning your local butcher
is a vegetarian.
“Besides,” Qeturah continued calmly, “for some time I had unresolved issues about
being the weak one of the family. My siblings used to tease me and say no homesteader
would ever marry me, because I’d be as much work to take care of as the homestead
and my children would probably be weaklings too. When you start thinking of
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