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The heat had brought on food and water rationing, the rationing had brought on riots of discontent, and the riots had brought the Protector’s iron fist down upon the populace. Blood had run in the streets instead of rain, and the ruined fields were tilled with a fresh crop of gravestones.
“Trust in the fortunes,” Sonami said. “They will guide you well.”
“In the monastery,” Mokoya said, “they taught us that fortune is both intractable and impartial. That when bad things happen, it’s the result of an incomprehensible and inhuman universe working as it does. The mountain shrugs, but thinks nothing of the houses crushed in the avalanche. That was not its purpose.”
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I was taught to believe that the fortunes don’t give you more than you can handle. It was a mantra, almost. Something bad happens? Well, you can handle it, because otherwise why would it have happened? I think it was the only way people could cope with the things that went on, sometimes.”
I don’t care about the fortunes. I care about doing whatever you can, with whatever’s in front of you. Because it’s the only thing you can do.”
Cheebye. They swore silently.
“You offended her. She’ll remember.” “Good,” Thennjay said. “I want her to remember.”
They stared unblinking at their own face as they recited feminine pronouns like a sutra. I am. I want. I will. And like a sutra, the words came out of their mouth rote and meaningless. There was no connection between what was said and the person in the black mirror.
They should have thought of this earlier. Why hadn’t they thought of this earlier? It was like cutting themselves open and finding another creature living inside, nested in their blood and bones and guts. Fear and excitement seized them in equal parts. I should tell Mother, they thought. He thought. Tell her before I change my mind.
Yongcheow’s fingers grazed his chin. Akeha froze. “Thank you,” the man whispered.
They were Tensors’ playthings, put together by masters of earth- and water-nature for fun.
“The Almighty decides our circumstances. He doesn’t decide our actions. It’s what He gave us free will for.” “So you chose rebellion.” “We chose to act. Rebellion was the Protectorate’s choice. They could easily have accepted our existence. But they didn’t.”
“The saying goes, ‘The black tides of heaven direct the courses of human lives.’ To which a wise teacher said, ‘But as with all waters, one can swim against the tide.’”
Because he had always known, even as a child, that he was the lightning, while she was the fire in the core of planets. And the world needed both. Revolutions needed both. Someone had to wield the knives, but someone also had to write the treaties.
Akeha found Yongcheow’s hand and curled fingers against fingers. “Let the black tides of heaven direct our lives,” he murmured. He turned to look at his partner. “I choose to swim.”
The air felt wrong. Something lingered in it, worming through the Slack in glowing, infinitesimal paths.
Akeha had another prototype swinging from his belt like a moon, and it begged for taxonomy that bayed of what it could do. He thought about fire and death and otherworldly annihilation. The word “jinn” drifted toward him. “Ifrit.” Perhaps.
The glass lotus lay dwarfed by the palm of his hand, and he was seized by a sudden terror of dropping it. He had to find a safe place for it, somewhere padded and concealed. To Uncle Akeha, from Eien. With all the horrors in the world, it was easy to forget there were wonders too.
“Thank you,” he said to Yongcheow, even though his words were directed a thousand li away, at a smiling child he had never met and who had never met him.
Why couldn’t he return to the place of his birth? Because tigers prowled in the woods, and giant snakeheads circled in the water. He just couldn’t. “Now’s not the time.”
“I know what to call them.” “What? What time is it?” “I said, I know what to call the weapons.” “Akeha, go back to sleep.” “Sunballs. We should call them sunballs.” “ . . . what?” “They explode with the brightness of the sun. We should call them sunballs.” “You . . . I can’t believe you woke me for this.” “I thought you would find it funny.” “I’ll find it funny when it’s not the unmentionable crack of night. Go back to sleep, you turtle bastard.” “I love you.”
When their bodies parted, it felt like a continent splitting. He gripped Yongcheow’s hand, then put his hand over his heart. “His peace be with you,” he said.
“The sun falls and returns five times a day, the flowers wilt and return once a year. But the return of a wayward child is something that happens once a lifetime.”
It was pathetic how little she knew of those she called her children. What they wanted. What they would choose.
“But you didn’t. You let me grow up. You sowed the seeds of your own downfall. It’s what you deserve.”
Because Mokoya was still alive. Whatever the fortunes had woven, whatever the Almighty had willed, Mokoya had survived. Whatever Akeha could or couldn’t do, he could love her. And love—that was all that had sustained them since they were children. Love, and nothing else. It was enough. As long as there was love, there would be hope. It was enough.
