Grandma was unwell.
Everyone was unwell, these days. Some people got sick from the rivers, especially after they stopped running tests and started telling people the glowing water was a sign of progress. Some people got sick from the air. It hung all around, thick and heavy like a charcoal fire. Some people claimed it was the smells, but doctors said you couldn’t get sick from smell, only from air. They had discovered bacteria last year, bacteria that made you sick when you breathed rotten air.
But Grandma was especially unwell. Most people had a doctor who could heal them, or patch them up for a few years until they were ready for full employment again. That was the goal, after all, full employment. You had to work to survive, at least if you were a Shiboni. Other people got to take advantage of the new laws, passed by the Republic Assembly a decade before, that allowed a woman to claim pregnancy as an excuse for not working. Some fathers even got to stay home. But not if you were Shiboni.
And Grandma was as Shiboni as Darfen Himself. She had the fourteen dots from when they registered here during the Fourteenth Ingathering. Shiboni could be counted, you see, but only when it was for customs inspections and border crossing. Counting Shiboni for hospital wards and primary school enrollment wasn’t worth anyone’s bother. Grandma had had perhaps six months’ total education. People always said she had done well by herself despite never finishing school. She’d always said she’d done well despite the school.
Her face was covered in the curling tresses of the Shiboni, even as white and limp as they were in old age. She had one of those wrinkly, kind faces that made other people trust her. Local Santoyan children would cluster around her, patting her clan tattoos, asking her to tell them Shiboni stories.
“Shiboni stories are so much more fun!” they would squeal, before she told them the Tale of Larter the Bard. “They are so much more real!”
Shiboni stories were real because they were pulled from the memory of seventy years of suffering.
“It wasn’t all bad,” Grandma had said, years upon years, after telling her stories to the children of her oppressors. “There was real joy in there. I met your grandfather. He was the greatest thing I ever experienced. And boy was he an experience.”
But her stories were of the ageless insults hurled at the Shiboni since time immemorial.
“‘Death-stealers!’ they called us,” Grandma said. “We hardly know what death they expect us to steal. Heaven knows we can’t get to their cemeteries.”
Or anywhere of importance. Shiboni were barred by law from visiting the restaurants of Santoyan citizens. They couldn’t go to the same parks, or wander the same school hallways. They were cordoned off.
“Set apart,” Grandma insisted. “We have been set apart by the Great Eye. We are blessed."
But the blessing in her life had been kicks in the ribs and sullen murmurs if she was seen on the road.
“The Shiboni are the kicked of the earth,” she’d said, time and again. “We get kicked so others don’t. It’s our destiny.”
“But why do we take it? Why can’t someone else be the kicking back?” Abri asked.
“That’s not how the world works,” Grandma said, cuffing her lightly on the head. “The Shiboni are kicked. We don’t kick back.”
Her face tattoos always wrinkled when she said that. She had the most ornate face tattoos in the Quarter, added slowly over the course of seventy years. She was one of the last who remembered the days before the Quarter, back when they had worked for the Shaytakh.
“Half Shaytakh, half monkey, they called us,” Grandma always said. “We were the animals they didn’t want in their zoo, and the umans they didn’t recognize as kin. They monkeys had it better in the zoos, the Shaytakh had it better alone on their Plain. We had neither.”
“Your grandmother is unhappy,” Father always said. “She remembers what could have happened, not what happened.”
“But if we were promised a place and a ration,” Abri said. “Why didn’t we get one?”
“No one offers the Shiboni a place,” Father said. “The Shiboni are their own place.”
“But this is better than suffering under the Shaytakh!” Abri said.
“The Shaytakh and the Santoya, neither are our friends,” Father had said. “Trust no one, no matter what they say.”
“He’s weak,” Grandma said. “He’s weak because he cannot resent that toadstool he calls Master.”
“You need a doctor, mother,” Father said. “You need a doctor and Abri doesn’t need to hear this type of talk.”
“You are boiling frogs,” Grandma said.
The doctor came, a Shiboni and the wealthiest man in the Quarter. There were mysteries of herb and leaf, pestle and oil, that the Shiboni knew and no one else knew. Before the Quarter, they had roamed the Plains, paying off the Shaytakh, avoiding the Cities. They knew how to heal and how to kep the mind from forgetting how to heal. The doctors of the Shiboni were paid handsomely for their knowledge, although it was frequently resented in the Cities that they shared all of their earnings with the entire Clan. The Shiboni paid for each other.
He came, but he did not leave quickly. He was an old man, already worn out by decades of endless service to the Stampers and their families. His hair was stringy but tied back in the three braids of the Shiboni Gulf Clan. He felt her forehead, felt her pulse, listened to her heart. He had old machines, dials as old as magic, artifacts from the Fallen Nations. These were the priceless relics of the Shiboni, unusable unless you were Shiboni, but useful beyond measure to everyone.
“Not good,” he murmured. “But maybe…” and he’d pull up another image, another small squiggly line, another number projected in the far right corner.
“Ah,” he said once, as Abri stood in the doorway. The doorframe was cold, her hands could feel the knots in the wood as she watched the old doctor work.
“Will she live?” Abri asked, once, when the doctor looked particularly troubled.
“Hush,” Father said. “He can’t focus on the magics if you’re asking so many questions.”
“He doesn’t have any magic,” Abri said. “It’s just some plates that some long-dead magician implanted magics into.”
“Don’t say that,” said Father.
“It’s true,” Grandma whispered. “It’s all true. Magic is dead. We are just working magic from dead mages.”
“It eternally renews itself,” the doctor said, mystically. “It will eternally renew itself until the Avi.”
“What’s that?” Abri asked. “What’s the Avi?”
“Hush,” Father said. “How should I know? The doctors have their own chants. I’m just a tailor.”
“What’s Avi?” she asked, as the doctor was walking out. “What’s it got to do with Grandma?”
“There is no Avi,” said the doctor. “I spoke out of sadness.”
“Will Grandma die?” Abri asked.
“We all die, child,” he said. He pulled up his mask and headed into the late evening dusk.
Grandma was sick that night, retching and screaming.
“My boy!” she shouted in the middle of the night. “My boy! Where are you?”
“I’m here, mother,” Father said. “Hush, I’m here. You’re burning up.”
“Where my other boy?” Grandma asked. “Where’s my Chales?”
“You don’t have another boy, mother,” Father said. “Chales is dead. You buried himself yourself, set his grave down with iron and salt.”
“It’s not strong enough,” she said. “He’s a Wonderer.”
“Iron and salt holds everything, mother,” Father said. “Iron and salt holds everything.”
He was stroking her hand, his eyebrows furrowed. He stayed like that for hours, murmuring old songs, lullabies.
“I taught you that,” she said. “When you were a baby.”
“Hush, mother,” Father said. “You need your strength.”
“Is she dying?” Abri asked, when Father came down at last to make himself some tea. There were only three rooms in their hut, one tiny one for Grandma, one for cooking, and one for Mother and Father. Abri slept on the floor of the cooking room.
“Shiboni don’t die,” Father said. “They are buried.”
“Everyone dies,” Abri said. “That’s what the doctor says.”
“The doctor is wrong,” Father said. “Or maybe he’s seen it too often. We are buried.”
“But Grandma is dying,” Abri said.
“So she is,” said Father. “Go to sleep, now. We have many more days of this before the end.” He stood and put the tea cup in the washbucket. He dried it with a few flicks of his wrist, stepping over Abri’s sleeping bag. He looked sad, but undisturbed.
“Your Grandma is dying,” Aian had no qualms about saying it.
“Maybe she’ll get better!” said Cai, squeezing Abri a bit tighter. They were walking in the road near school. Someone had built a Shiboni school away from the Lower River and all of the more prosperous Shiboni enrolled their kids.
“Our Grandma didn’t,” Aian said. “She died.”
“Was your Grandma a Shiboni?” Abri asked.
“Yeah,” Aian said. “All of our grandparents are Shiboni.”
“How did she die, then?” asked Abri. “Father said the Shiboni don’t die.”
“Maybe your father is wrong,” said Aian. “I’ve seen plenty of Shiboni die. Old Alan up in the HighRises died last year, and he’s still in the grave! We checked on him last night.” Aian and Cai’s father was the local gravedigger, charged with also keeping bodies in the grave.
“Grandma can’t die,” Abri said. The bell was ringing, so they hurried inside. Abri had trouble focusing through her lessons. Several teachers gave her demerits and one even insinuated that she should pay better attention since her Grandma couldn’t really go away. Abri hadn’t known what to say.
“I don’t like it when people say that!” Aian said afterwards, as they were walking towards some class or another. “They don’t know anything about us!”
“People have to believe something,” Abri said. “That’s what Father says. At least they no longer believe we eat the dead.”
“Why do they have to believe anything at all about us?” Abri asked. “They don’t know us.”
“I don’t know,” Cai said. “but if they don’t start replacing these lightbulbs, I’m going to run someone over.”
“You have no compassion,” Aian said. “Your best friend is losing her Grandma and you are complaining about lightbulbs!”
“Well, there’s a reason I’m her best friend,” Cai said. “And not you, Mr. Gloomypants.”
“Thanks, guys,” Abri said. “These lightbulbs are really annoying.”
“Maybe your Grandma will be better when you get home!” Cai said.
Grandma was not better when Abri got home. The doctor was over again, looking more strained than usual. He hardly consulted his magical panes now.
“Give her what comfort you can,” he said. “I can do nothing now.”
“Is there something more…arcane?” Father asked.
“Magic?” the doctor said. “I know a few cantrips doctored up by sages long since dead. I’ve tried them all.”
“Is there anyone…else?” Father asked.
“The Shiboni don’t die,” said the doctor. “But we do lose knowledge. I would give you a name if I had one.”
Abri went to visit Grandma as soon as the doctor left.
“Tell me a story,” she begged. “Tell me a Shiboni story.”
“The Shiboni don’t have stories,” Grandma said. “We have memories. And you know all of them by heart.”
“Tell me them again,” she begged.
“You tell me,” Grandma said. “Tell me whatever you can remember.”
“Grandma,” Abri said, holding her wrinkled hand. “Tell me about Avi.”
“What is Avi?” Grandma asked.
“The doctor mentioned it.”
“I don’t know those stories,” Grandma said.
“The doctor said it doesn’t exist,” said Abri. “But right before, he said magic would last until the Avi.”
“I have never heard a story about Avi,” said Grandma. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what it is.”
“What is it?” Abri asked.
“I have no idea,” said Grandma. “Until the doctor mentioned it, I had no idea you could put those sounds together and make a word. Pass me the tea, dear. There’s a chicken outside who wants to talk to you.”
“Your Grandma has been talking like that all day,” Mother said. “Your father went out to get some fruit.” She looked at Grandma with an appraising glance. “But I think he didn’t want to see his mother gibbering like this.”
“Is she dying?” Abri asked.
“I wouldn’t know,” Mother said. “Shiboni die in such an odd way. Rihoni do not die this way.”
“But you’re Shiboni now, after the Convergence,” Abri said.
“That doesn’t mean I think Shiboni,” said Mother.
Grandma was singing a lullaby.
“It’s just getting weird,” Abri said to Cai. She was on the rotary, stealing precious minutes before Father needed it to call his business associates. “Grandma is talking about chickens. Everyone is being so odd.”
“Maybe they just don’t want you to be scared,” said Cai.
“I’m fourteen,” Abri said. “In two years, I’ll be able to get a job in the tunnels. Why do they need to protect me?”
“I don’t know,” said Cai. “Maybe they feel better when they’re protecting you?”
“But I don’t feel better,” said Abri. “If they’re protecting me, shouldn’t I feel better?”
As the next few days dragged by, Abri did not feel better. Father also did not feel better. He kept on biting his lip and muttering to himself. Mother would look at him sadly and sometimes she would squeeze his hand. Grandma certainly did not feel better. She was singing all the time now, snatches of nursery rhymes interspersed with songs from the Great War. Abri only recognized some of them.
“Abri, Abri,” Grandma would say, as Abri tried to eat her dinner. She had taken to eating in Grandma’s room so that Father could manage to eat more than a few bites.
“I’m here, Grandma,” Abri said.
“Don’t forget,” said Grandma. “Don’t you ever forget.”
“Don’t forget what?” asked Abri.
“Oh, you’ll know,” Grandma said. “You’ll know. Don’t you forget it.”
The doctor came once more, before the end. He had no magical instruments, not even a stethoscope. He looked at Grandma and said a few quiet words to her. Then he turned and looked at Father. He shook his head sadly and walked out of the house without a word.
“Grandma’s dying,” Abri said to Cai at school later that day.
“Have a candy bar,” Cai said, holding it out to her with a hug.
“Sometimes, when I’m sad, I got out to the fieldfarms and scream,” said Aian.
“I don’t think Abri needs your screaming,” said Cai.
“I could go and do it for her,” said Aian.
“Thanks, Aian,” Abri said, hugging him. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, but he squeezed her tightly. Aian gave the best hugs, even when he didn’t mean to.
“I’ll walk home with you,” Cai said.
The two girls walked into Abri’s tenement just as the sun sank beneath the Plains. Three men in white robes were standing in the cooking room, looking out of place but enjoying a hearty mug of sofir cider. Mother was there too, saying nothing but refilling the sofir.
“Go to your Grandma’s room,” she said as Abri entered. Cai squeezed Abri’s hand and went to steady Mother’s hand from spilling the sofir. Abri went through the sleeping room into Grandma’s room.
The Priest was already there, chanting. The smell of incense filled the air. Father was bowed by Grandma’s bed, his shoulders throbbing as he sobbed.
Grandma, herself, lay with her eyes closed. She looked like she was at peace, like she would wake at any moment. But Abri didn’t need to see Father’s tears, or the blue funerary shroud, to know that Grandma had joined the Eternal Wait. Her hands were folded above her heart, to keep her peacefully in the grave, and her feet were already strapped down with pine boughs.
The Priest finished his chant and the men in white robes entered. Abri now recognized Cai’s father as their leader. They gently lifted Grandma onto a stretcher, and then into a simple pinewood coffin. Cai’s father began the long, slow chant of the gravediggers. They stepped out, slowly, tiredly, into the fading sunlight. As they passed house after house, mourners came out, dressed in blue, the women tense and silent, the men wailing Father’s loss, Father’s tears.
They came to the graveyard as the light vanished. The flickering sodium lights did not extend this far into the Quarter, so many people of the mourners pulled out their flashlights. Someone had lit a torch, as per tradition, and now by it’s flickering light, by the steady glare of the flashlights, to the steady drone of mourner’s chant, they lowered Grandma into the earth.
The Santoyan Priest stepped forward to read the official proclamation of death, but already the gravediggers were dragging ingots of iron towards the grave. As soon as Grandma was pronounced dead, they threw the heavy bars directly atop her body, before lowering the raised lid of her coffin. Someone had backed a truck up to the grave during the day. Father took the first shovelful of salt and threw it in, before the gravediggers opened the sluice and let salt fill the grave almost to the top. Where the bodies of the Shiboni lie, no plant can ever grow or animal burrow. It is poison, just as Shiboni life is poison to all around them.
As soon as the grave was fill, the mourners dispersed. The Priest took his fee and left, careful to avoid even touching the Shiboni all around him. Father was still weeping by the grave, and Mother held him. They looked so frail, suddenly, and older than Abri remembered.
“Here,” said a voice behind her. It was Cai’s father, holding a slip of paper. “I found this in your Grandma’s hand before we lowered her into the coffin. It’s addressed to you.”
It was a small envelope, smaller than the palm of Abri’s hand. Inside, in Grandma’s neat, flowing script, was a note.
*Abri, seek Avi. I love you. Grandma.*