the street show.
Chapter Six
Chloe looked at the scratches on the clay in front of her. Morning light shadowed the deep marks in the clay, so they looked like wedges. “So you’re telling me the sign of the man’s head, means man.”
“It could mean male human,” Kalam said patiently.
“Or it could mean head—”
“Or mouth or eyes or face,” he said.
“Or, the phonetic rendering of
lu.
”
“Truth.”
“Or the determinative, to let me know someone’s—a male human’s, in this case—name is coming up.”
“Yes.”
She looked at the complicated symbol—five marks to make one word? And he had to write with his elbow sticking out so he wouldn’t ruin the symbols he’d made already. “How many signs are there?”
Kalam scribbled something on the clay.
“What’s that?”
“The number showing how many—it’s approximately seven hundred.”
“Each one has all those different meanings, so you need to remember thirty-five hundred different things to be competent.”
“Yes.”
“Is eleven years, from dawn till twilight, enough time?”
Kalam looked at her, suspicious of ridicule. “The wine clouds your head yet,” he said slowly. “Either that or the urine,” he said as he elbowed her.
“I only hope I can get that dress clean!” she said. One of last night’s revelers had relieved himself on her.
A Mardi Gras ancestor,
the voice in her head said.
“Are you ready to try?” he asked, holding the handle of the reed stylus toward her.
This isn’t going to be the way it was before,
she thought.
More like memorizing art than learning an alphabet. Those are just syllables and pictures. Writing in this place and time is a rebus.
“What’s wrong?” he asked; Chloe had torn at her head, her hair, rubbed her ears fiercely. “Are you ill?”
Don’t tell him you hear voices. Even in this day and age—whenever it is—that’s a bad sign.
“Just… my head aching,” she said.
“Do you need some nourishment?”
“No, no thank you.”
“You are becoming quite pale, I mean, for a Khamite.” He stood up. “I am going to the tavern to wait for Ningal. You should rest.”
She nodded. “I should.”
He’s being awfully pleasant,
the voice said.
What’s up with that?
Chloe smiled weakly at Kalam, then hurried off to her apartments.
“Chloe?” he called.
She turned back. “Yes?”
“Who is your personal demon?”
“Pazuzu.”
“Ah, good choice. And your personal god?”
Music, unlike a song she’d ever heard before, beat in her head. A man sang in a rough voice.
“Your own, personal—”
“Jesus,” she called.
“Just one? Well, do you need an altar for him? her? I’m sorry, I don’t recognize the name. A god of the marshes?”
“Of shepherds.”
“Ahh, I see. Do you have a votary? A statue? A watcher?”
The song continued to play in the background of her mind, words she didn’t know, but understood conceptually. The marsh girl knew that votives, statues, and watchers, substitutes for the devoted one, with enormous eyes and fervent expressions, were used to feed the gods’ need for attention. Humans were merely slaves before divine owners. “A votive would be nice,” she said. “I never thought about it.”
“It will be my New Year’s gift to you,” Kalam said, then waved.
“Kalam,” she said, turning to him. “Instead of writing so awkwardly straight down the clay, and right to left, why not write across it, left to right, so you don’t smudge the marks as you go?”
Kalam stared at her. Speechless.
“Anyway,” she said. “Tell Ningal hello from me.” She left him standing in the doorway as she climbed the steps to her apartment. The pounding of the kettledrums was past, but the noise in her head had grown a thousand times louder. Voices, thoughts, and pictures. Her mind ached just being awake. Chloe went to her room, took off her clothes, and crawled into her palm-frond bed.
“Jesus,” she said softly to her personal shepherd
Chapter Six
Chloe looked at the scratches on the clay in front of her. Morning light shadowed the deep marks in the clay, so they looked like wedges. “So you’re telling me the sign of the man’s head, means man.”
“It could mean male human,” Kalam said patiently.
“Or it could mean head—”
“Or mouth or eyes or face,” he said.
“Or, the phonetic rendering of
lu.
”
“Truth.”
“Or the determinative, to let me know someone’s—a male human’s, in this case—name is coming up.”
“Yes.”
She looked at the complicated symbol—five marks to make one word? And he had to write with his elbow sticking out so he wouldn’t ruin the symbols he’d made already. “How many signs are there?”
Kalam scribbled something on the clay.
“What’s that?”
“The number showing how many—it’s approximately seven hundred.”
“Each one has all those different meanings, so you need to remember thirty-five hundred different things to be competent.”
“Yes.”
“Is eleven years, from dawn till twilight, enough time?”
Kalam looked at her, suspicious of ridicule. “The wine clouds your head yet,” he said slowly. “Either that or the urine,” he said as he elbowed her.
“I only hope I can get that dress clean!” she said. One of last night’s revelers had relieved himself on her.
A Mardi Gras ancestor,
the voice in her head said.
“Are you ready to try?” he asked, holding the handle of the reed stylus toward her.
This isn’t going to be the way it was before,
she thought.
More like memorizing art than learning an alphabet. Those are just syllables and pictures. Writing in this place and time is a rebus.
“What’s wrong?” he asked; Chloe had torn at her head, her hair, rubbed her ears fiercely. “Are you ill?”
Don’t tell him you hear voices. Even in this day and age—whenever it is—that’s a bad sign.
“Just… my head aching,” she said.
“Do you need some nourishment?”
“No, no thank you.”
“You are becoming quite pale, I mean, for a Khamite.” He stood up. “I am going to the tavern to wait for Ningal. You should rest.”
She nodded. “I should.”
He’s being awfully pleasant,
the voice said.
What’s up with that?
Chloe smiled weakly at Kalam, then hurried off to her apartments.
“Chloe?” he called.
She turned back. “Yes?”
“Who is your personal demon?”
“Pazuzu.”
“Ah, good choice. And your personal god?”
Music, unlike a song she’d ever heard before, beat in her head. A man sang in a rough voice.
“Your own, personal—”
“Jesus,” she called.
“Just one? Well, do you need an altar for him? her? I’m sorry, I don’t recognize the name. A god of the marshes?”
“Of shepherds.”
“Ahh, I see. Do you have a votary? A statue? A watcher?”
The song continued to play in the background of her mind, words she didn’t know, but understood conceptually. The marsh girl knew that votives, statues, and watchers, substitutes for the devoted one, with enormous eyes and fervent expressions, were used to feed the gods’ need for attention. Humans were merely slaves before divine owners. “A votive would be nice,” she said. “I never thought about it.”
“It will be my New Year’s gift to you,” Kalam said, then waved.
“Kalam,” she said, turning to him. “Instead of writing so awkwardly straight down the clay, and right to left, why not write across it, left to right, so you don’t smudge the marks as you go?”
Kalam stared at her. Speechless.
“Anyway,” she said. “Tell Ningal hello from me.” She left him standing in the doorway as she climbed the steps to her apartment. The pounding of the kettledrums was past, but the noise in her head had grown a thousand times louder. Voices, thoughts, and pictures. Her mind ached just being awake. Chloe went to her room, took off her clothes, and crawled into her palm-frond bed.
“Jesus,” she said softly to her personal shepherd
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