Mad Sisters of Esi, page 6
Forgive me, Laleh.
She stared at the words, then shut the book.
But after that, Myung was no longer living for herself. She lived for her sister too. She disembarked at every island and wrote down what she saw. She put all her feelings into it, so that if Laleh ever read the notebooks, she would be able to live the journey.
These were the first Myung’s Diaries. They described common places but with such tenderness that people saw these places anew. Sailors used to ask Myung to read them passages on long nights. They would ask if they could copy pages to keep. An enterprising merchant promised her riches if she distributed her words; Myung never saw any riches, but her diaries were copied, stitched and sent off into the universe. Myung didn’t care. Not really. They were only written for one person.
When Myung began visiting undiscovered islands, her diaries became invaluable. Sailors found that Myung Ting—she gave herself a last name because everyone kept asking for it, and she liked how Ting sounded—had a distinct knack for survival. Nothing fazed her. Nothing surprised her. She faced the largest sea monsters with glee. She wrote about the smallest plant with sensitivity and care. She spent years on the wildest islands, decades even, and she tamed them. Myung’s Diaries became gospel. They taught you how to love the black sea, to understand its strange and erratic islands. Sailors read them for instructions; they acted them out for entertainment; they even read them in their spare time, because there really wasn’t much to do on a ship when you had been sailing for ages. They called Myung by other names now. Holy Word. North Star. Albatross. They welcomed her onto their ships . . .
• • •
Myung clutches the back of her neck, startled. She was wrong—the tingling has not stopped. The drink Blajine gave her is now working on the nerves in her neck. Alarmed, Myung pinches the area to stop it, but the shivering sensation keeps climbing. It travels up, into her skull.
Myung’s vision blurs. Ojda distorts and she feels herself falling into a hallucinatory state. She is calm; she has experienced this before. A lot of islands use hallucinogens as defense. As long as she stays level-headed and doesn’t do anything stupid to herself, the delusions won’t hurt her.
The trick is remembering not to do anything stupid.
Just before she passes out, Myung sees her sister. She is leaning over her. Are you okay? she asks. Can you hear me?
Laleh blurs and distorts. She disappears. She is replaced by three people: two men and one woman. They stare at Myung appraisingly as she lies on the ground, sweaty and blinking blurrily. She doesn’t know any of them, but she knows they are Kiltas. They share the same facial pattern that Blajine has: strong jaw, distinctive nose.
The older man bends to peer at her face.
What do you think, Rostum? the woman asks. Her voice echoes. Do you think she’s the one Mad Magali keeps waiting for?
Rostum squints at her as if appraising a rock to ascertain its age. No, he says. Can’t be. She doesn’t have the Kilta nose.
Or the jaw, says the other man.
Then Myung passes out.
V
Once Blajine is sure she has lost the traveler, she drops to her knees. She looks left, then right. She doesn’t want her mother witnessing this. Then she takes a deep breath and picks up a handful of Ojda’s soil.
On the ground, Ojda’s soil shifts colors—blood red, ochre, blue. But in her hand, the particles drain of pigment, turning a distinct and unmistakable bone white. This is the true appearance of Ojda: a bone-white island made by Mad Magali, so that the Kiltas could paint it into anything they wanted.
Of course, now no one paints Ojda but itself.
Blajine stares at the particles in her hand. They look so small and simple, yet they achieve amazing feats. These particles sing endless memories across the black sea. It is beautiful, when you think about it like that.
It is less beautiful when you think about Ojda as, well, Ojda.
But Blajine steels herself. Irrespective of her problems with this island, she needs it to help her now.
Ojda, make a ship, she commands.
The particles rattle and then lie still. Blajine knows the request is not impossible. Ojda is a shape-shifting island; it makes things anew all the time and changes into whatever it likes. Blajine’s grandfather used to ask Ojda to create statues of the Kiltas he didn’t like; he would make these ugly, giving relatives bigger noses or larger bellies, then he would laugh every time he saw those statues (Blajine’s grandfather was a bit strange). But the point is he could get Ojda to make those statues. Blajine’s mother, Ayesha, used to sing to the island and Ojda would murmur happily under her song. It adored her. If she had asked for a ship, there would be twenty of them right now.
Blajine is the only one failing at being a keeper.
Logically, she knows this is not her fault. With all the other Kiltas, Ojda was only a docile island. Its consciousness hadn’t fully developed until then; it was like a helpless baby. It did what anyone asked; it nurtured the family and it didn’t change too much. In short, it was a good island. But now it has grown up, and Blajine is stuck with the tantrum-throwing toddler version.
Make a ship, she says again, infusing her voice with authority and wisdom. Then she resorts to cajoling. You want the traveler gone too, she reminds Ojda. You’re the one who woke me up in a panic, remember? Make a ship and I can get rid of her.
It is true that Ojda woke Blajine up in a panic. It is true it didn’t like how the visitor felt—displaced and wrong. But now, Ojda has changed its mind. Or it has forgotten why it was so upset in the first place and can’t be bothered to remember. Or it is simply distracted and doesn’t want to make a ship.
Exactly like a toddler.
Blajine yells in anger and fear. She is so very tired.
• • •
Blajine’s yell travels across the island to a small patch of trees. These trees do not have leaves on them. Instead, they have tiny blue birds, each growing from the branch and chirping mournfully. Below these branches, the ghosts of the Kilta family are having an argument.
There are three ghosts right now. Laleh has seen all three; they were the ones peering at Myung as she fell into delirium. The older one with a rather large belly, the one they call Rostum, is clearly the leader. He stands with his feet apart and his hands on his hips. He is the sort of man you would imagine saying well now! a lot. Jilla, the thin woman who asked him the question about Myung, looks secretive by comparison. She is tall and thin to the point of spindly, and she hunches over, drumming her fingers together in thought. The third man is so insignificant Laleh almost misses him. He has a knack for blending into his surroundings, like he would rather not be noticed. But when you do notice him, you see a square jaw and a general stubbornness that Laleh is beginning to understand is a Kilta family trait.
Well then, Rostum says, if she’s not the one . . .
No one is the one, Jilla says gloomily. I bet Mad Magali made the whole thing up so she could chain us to this island forever. It is the kind of thing she’d find fun.
Mad Magali loves us, Hormuz offers tentatively.
The other two look at him in disgust.
The others will be here soon, Jilla says. Although I can’t see what is taking them so long. They’re ghosts—it is not like they get tired. They could just close their eyes and wish to be here and they would be here. They are delaying on purpose. I hate this family.
But Rostum has just spotted Laleh. He frowns and says, Hello. Laleh, who has never spoken to anyone except Myung, almost runs away. But being the keeper of the whale of babel has taught her to approach petrifying things head on, so she steps forward boldly and says, Hello.
Jilla looks at her. I haven’t seen you before, she says. Have you just arrived?
Laleh nods.
Ever heard of Ojda? Rostum asks.
Laleh shakes her head. She is about to add, But I am learning more every moment I am here, in accordance with the laws of the dream. But Jilla is talking.
Poor girl, she says. Shall I give her the explanation or would someone else like to? She looks at the other two, who shake their heads. Welcome to Ojda, she tells Laleh when she turns back to her. Everyone belonging to the Kilta family is meant to spend their life on this island. Some of us—she shoots a look at Rostum—didn’t. They left and traveled the black sea and had lots of children. Lots. Many of whom didn’t know they had Kilta blood in them. Which would be fine, except—
Except when you die, Hormuz says, you learn that you are tied to Ojda. You come back here, as a ghost. Bit of a disconcerting experience if you have never been here before, but don’t worry, you are already dead—nothing on the island actually harms you. Ojda mostly ignores you.
Bit of a disconcerting experience even if you have been here before, Rostum grumbles. Imagine thinking you have escaped this crazy island for good, traveling the black sea, dying peacefully in some lush paradise, and then landing up here again. None of us know how to stop it.
We are working on a treatise, Hormuz says eagerly. “How to Escape the Shackles of Ghosthood: Understanding Mad Magali and the island of Ojda.” That’s its title.
It will never be published, says Jilla.
It could, says Hormuz.
Hormuz, Jilla says and, at the mention of the name, Rostum tuts obediently, you’re dead.
Laleh listens to them bicker, fascinated. Perhaps it would have been confusing to her if this was not a dream, but dreams always bring their own knowledge with them. And so Laleh understands that the Kiltas are tied to Ojda. In life, they are made to take a vow that they will not leave. And in death, they live on the island as ghosts, wandering aimlessly. If you are a child or grandchild of a Kilta who broke their vow and left the island, which means you are born on some innocent land in the black sea, even then, even if you do not know you are a Kilta—your ghost still ends up on the island when you die. There is nothing you can do about it. It is a question of blood.
Laleh is not a Kilta; she has lived her life in the whale of babel and Myung is her only sister. She is also not dead. She can feel her body sleeping in the whale, and can still hear a faint echo of its song. But these three think she is a lost Kilta ghost, and it seems easier not to correct them.
Wrap it up, wrap it up, Rostum says hastily. They’re coming.
A swarm of ghosts descends on the scene at once. There are so many of them, Laleh cannot count their number. Nor can she tell them apart. They are a blur of defined noses and scowls, most of their brows set in stubbornness. They jostle for space, talking over one another, grumbling about why they have been called here—
—What else do you have to do, Guza? Rostum roars. Not much to do here but wander—
—and generally making a ruckus for no other reason than to make a ruckus. Laleh gathers that they are enjoying themselves. Myung’s arrival has given them something to talk about. There’s some conversation about Myung being the one they have been waiting for. Jilla throws this suggestion out there, but the ghosts squash it immediately. She doesn’t have the nose. Or the jaw. Or the scowl. No, Myung is just a plain old stranger. An infringer on Ojda. The first person to land here in centuries without being led.
At the mention of “led,” everyone looks at Hormuz, who shrinks slightly. They tut.
It’s settled then, Rostum says. The only thing to do is to kill her.
Laleh gasps in horror.
But the other Kiltas are also not a fan of this plan. Murmurs of discontent travel through the group. Kill her? The most exciting thing to happen to Ojda in centuries? Of course, no one wants to say out loud that they would rather disobey Mad Magali’s instructions, so they hum and haw. Perhaps it would be more prudent to find out what the traveler wants first. Perhaps she is the one. Could anyone really know what Mad Magali meant by “Never let a visitor visit Ojda”? Was it “visit” or was it “stay”? It was very vague phrasing really.
• • •
In her cottage, Blajine lies awake in her fairy-tale bed and listens to the ghosts squabble. It drifts to her as a murmur. It sounds rather like the cries of Ojda’s kiko rocks actually. Kiko rocks like to imitate sound, especially voices. They spent a lot of time last year trying to imitate Blajine, which was very disconcerting. But not as bad as when her mother died, and they spent their time imitating her so that Blajine heard her mother’s voice everywhere. It made her grief a thousand times worse.
Blajine glances at her timepiece. According to this, it is the middle of the night. She has only a few hours before she must wake up and find the traveler. It is disorienting to live on an island with a painted sun that never sets, but Blajine has got used to it. In the early days, Ojda used to cover its sun with dark clouds so that the family got the impression of nighttime. Now it is more finnicky—it does this only when it feels in the mood. But Blajine has learned to cover her windows and watch her timepiece, and she has a firm grasp of time. She is glad for it. Time is the only sane thing she has to hold on to. She doesn’t know what she would do without it.
She knows, therefore, that it has been fifty years since her mother died. Fifty years since Blajine has been alone on this island. She misses her mother like an ache. She is here, wandering Ojda as a ghost, but the living do not always see the ghosts. They cannot always hear them. Blajine doesn’t understand how it works; perhaps it will be clearer to her once she is dead.
God, to die, to finally escape this island in death—only to be reborn on it as a ghost that can never leave . . .
But Blajine longs for even that. For at least then she will be able to see the other ghosts. She will have people to talk to.
Blajine’s loneliness is a creature. It is shape-shifting and hungry. It appears first in small doses—as a tiny fluffy bird by her ear lobe, cooing and chirping. It looks at her life, its head cocked; it looks at her. Then it spends its time pecking by her feet, unpicking structures she has put into place, eating moments of joy and serenity, swallowing—whole—stories Blajine has told herself about herself. It eats; it grows. It diffuses at the edges, feathers fluttering into the sky to dissolve into smoke and then even the breath Blajine takes smells of loneliness. More birds grow in her stomach. They peck toward her heart.
Blajine turns in her bed. Mama, she whispers. She is so tired.
Sometimes, she imagines she is meeting Ojda—its spirit, its consciousness or whatever word they give it now in the black sea. She always sees this spirit in the shape of a woman. This woman would sit by Blajine’s feet as Blajine threatens to leave.
There are islands with real sunrises, you know that? she’d say to this spirit-woman. With real nights, not those created by clouds.
This woman would smile, play with her bone necklace and flash blood-stained teeth.
Blajine would become threatening. I could leave, you know, she’d say. In fact, I will leave. I will leave now. See how well you do without me.
Then the spirit would grow contrite, holding her ankles and crying. Blajine likes to imagine Ojda like that. Needing her. Loving her. But there is no way to be sure.
She realizes, suddenly, that everything is quiet. The squabbling has died; her family has dispersed. It is unlike them to end a family meeting so quickly. They normally drag on for days; you don’t have to stop proceedings to eat if you’re a ghost.
It can mean only one thing. Mad Magali is about.
A metal moon moves on the timepiece; another hour of sleep lost. Blajine rolls over onto her back. She thinks of the traveler, sleeping in the plains. Her arms would be over her eyes, to block out the sun. Blajine remembers how Myung pressed her neck into the knife. This traveler is a crafty one. How do you get rid of the crafty ones?
It’s not my fault if she stays a little longer, Blajine says to the ghost of her mother. I am trying.
Her mother flicks dirt from her nails. How hard?
The Confession
I
Blajine finds the traveler exactly where she had left her. The flowers have subsided, so Myung is curled against the cold, using her satchel as a pillow. She really is asleep. Blajine finds this careless, but the innocence of it is also touching. She imagines sitting her down and educating her, as her mother once educated her. One eye always on the world of the waking, she would say. You never know what might happen.
It takes three shakes to get Myung up. She looks clammier, dark circles under her eyes. Is there a ship? she murmurs as she sits up. Are we making a ship?
She sounds almost eager for it. Blajine smiles. The water she gave the traveler induces petrifying dreams; it is heartening to see it worked. Very hard to know if it will work if you haven’t had a traveler on your island for three centuries or longer. Blajine had to test it on herself.
No, Blajine says. We’re going to find one.
When Blajine was younger, she drew a map of Ojda. It was very pretty. Blue-green mountains, a steady buttercup-yellow sun, sparrows wheeling in the distance. Her trees were not very good, but trees are difficult to master—ask any artist. Her mother was very proud. When Blajine left the island and came back, she talked to her mother about the sketches she made for black sea expeditions. Birds. Flora. Reptiles. We should make one for Ojda, she said. You can try, her mother replied.
Ojda was already changing then. Mad Magali designed this island to be a paradise but as Ojda grew up, it began to change what Magali had made. It crumbled mountains and carved gorges. Shred up birds to make a river of feathers. Brought the clouds low to make mist and then snow, fiddled with its colors. At times, Blajine could feel it turn its vast consciousness on her.
It’s mad, she whispered to her mother, frightened. It’s turning mad.
Her mother tapped her nose and said, Aren’t we all?
