Apres

I have never been a giggling, girlish sort, at least not since my return from Treve so many years passed. The romantic notions of a child were culled from my soul under great-grandmother's stern tutelage. She replaced such nonsense with a myopic reality that has guided my life. Some might call it hyper-vigilance, this indefatigable, externally effortless decorum.

That is not to say that I cannot or do not enjoy life. I am constantly in search of, when the Ahns of monotonous responsibility allow, diversion. My wit is dark and seems to spring out of thin air at times. Abu has often accused me of being too serious as if that were a sin against nature. Contrary to popular belief, I can laugh and frolic with the most frivolous men and women, though I confess I bore with such easily. Give me an earnest debate, a game of badinage, a challenge to my intellect and I am in my element. It is doubtful I would ever be labeled effervescent, but under the right circumstances, I allow myself the luxury of the vivacious spirit that must, perforce, often remain tamed and silent.

Thus I find myself bewildered of late. Rare have been the moments I have wallowed in puerile fascination; and more uncommon the times I have squandered in libertine contemplation. One would not be human if one never faced one's most basic nature, the organic requisite to seek the inverse of oneself, some might say the completion of oneself.

A single unguarded moment can leave an indelible mark. Introspection ignites the fight or flight response in my brain. Commanding synapses urge my thoughts in other directions, my feet back to the self-righteous path. But my soul disobeys the nagging voice in my mind, preferring to bask in unbridled fervor. Inevitably I divest myself from the petty melodrama best left to the casteless; yet it haunts the edges of my consciousness like a predator.

I hear the drizzle of the rain
like a memory it falls
soft and warm continuing
tapping on my roof and walls

From Kathy's Song by Paul Simon (c) 1966

Justin

For two cycles of the moons I remained locked in despondency. Simba dead, his ashes swirled in the currents of the Nyoka, carried back to our beloved jungles. I became the personification of the negative connotations of my name.


It was not so much the question of honor that plagued me, although that certainly weighed heavily on my spirit. I scrutinized that puzzle from every conceivable angle until I had convinced myself that his actions, though tinged with the brashness of youth, were noble. His untimely death, amidst the premiere of his prodigious caste skills, was no stain on the venerable name of Storm. I took great comfort in that rationalization, but it could not erase the loss.

We were an unlikely pair, my half-brother and I. He was birthed by a mother who shunned me. His life in Shaba was vastly different from mine in the city, our paths rarely crossing until his sixteenth birthday when he chose to swear his allegiance to Schendi and returned to live in Storm Manor. Inexplicable forces drew us together, whether they were born of the old language we shared, or the circumstances of our proud lineage, we became as close as twins. His adherence to the old ways mirrored mine as though he leeched Drusilla’s catechism from me. The modern world was changing before our eyes and we, steadfast in our views, and despite our lofty status as scions of the Ubar, were loved best by each other.

But it was Justin who held the right of primogeniture. Many years my junior, it was he who was heir to the legacy of Abu. He was the man I should have been. That might have produced an abiding hatred in some women. I cannot deny that there were, in unguarded moments, fits of jealousy and regret. But I am vain enough to admit proudly that I developed instead a fierce protectiveness and affection that was returned in equal measure by my brother.

Months earlier, another companionship for Abu had stripped me of the title of Mistress of Storm Manor. Convinced it was the gracious thing to do, I removed myself from the manor and lodged in the small beach house on the estate Uncle Arioch had gifted to me on my twenty-fifth birthday. I remained there nursing my pride despite Abu’s impeachments. It was not until Abu, at the height of his grief during the pyre for his son, implored me to be at his side again, to be his solace in our shared bereavement.

Thus the long days of mourning passed, melancholy aggrandized in the selfish belief that the one person who loved me unconditionally, who accepted my rigidity, who, in fact, exalted it, was gone forever. I saw no one but Abu and the slaves sent to cajole me to eat and bathe.

The world did not stop revolving. Events I had no hand in nor gave thought to, little by little drew me back from solitude. A renaissance in Schendi could not be ignored. Hesitantly I emerged from the shroud of woe into the glaring light of Tor-tu-Gor, into the society where my duty required me. I like to think that, in breathing the acrid smoke from his pyre, I have taken Justin’s spirit inside me. I will nurture it every day of my life facing the world a better person for having his company if only a little while.

Na’kupenda, tiba Simba.

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains,
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways,
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests,
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans,
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

From A Hard Rain’s a-Gonna Fall by Bob Dylan © 1963