35. Just Concerned

It’s strange being “in front” as the others call it—apparently a reference to being the driver of a carriage, or something like it. The carriage in this metaphor being their—our body. I’ve mostly been avoiding it, especially since gaining my [Lucid Dreamer] and now [Dreamwalker] class. While dreaming, I can truly be myself, or close enough to it, but being in front forces me to confront the fact that I am no longer a Fa’aun in body. I also don’t have the same worldly concerns as the rest—everyone I ever knew or loved is dead apart from the company we now keep, and I’m as adrift in this world of the future as the rest of them.

So I’ve been content to be a passenger in this tortured metaphor of a carriage, but unlike River I find that I cannot live my life entirely through dreams. Least of all when the other occupants of this body are feuding with each other. That they’re fighting with each other is hardly new, but this is the first time it’s gotten bad enough that I’ve ended up pushed to the front because none of them want to deal with the others.

Thus I find myself left to explore the unique traveling village of the Degala tribe by myself, trying my best to tolerate the discomfort of being in a body that feels so wrong. Though I have to admit that furless skin is a welcome advantage in the muggy heat of the swamplands. I still hate the way our sweat beads and drips, but it’s better than perpetually soaked fur.

I’ve elected to take full advantage of our lack of fur by baring as much skin as I could get away with before Allison’s complaints of immodesty grew too insistent to ignore. Lady Tara was very generous with her gift, and wasn’t kidding when she claimed to have packed clothing for all climates.

Our shirt is a sleeveless one of the same variety Tara herself tends to favor, which Allie calls a “cropped tank top.” She’s not able to explain why it’s called that, aside from the fact that the bottom of the shirt is cropped short of the waist—as if that’s not how most shirts are made anyway. That would be the end of it, but Allison would not let me leave our room without wearing that terribly uncomfortable undergarment she calls a bra.

“Wearing a loose crop top with no bra is going to flash our boobs to everybody who gets a look up our shirt!” she tells me.

Like who? Only the smallest children are short enough for that and what do they care? There was no convincing her, though, so I accepted the compromise. In exchange, however, I decide to do away with the cloak entirely. The canopy of the tall mangrove trees provides enough shelter from the sun and it’s overcast today anyway.

Nipper certainly seems to enjoy the fresh air, coiling around our neck and shoulders as it takes in our surroundings in its odd little way. I’m ashamed to admit that the little monster has grown on me. I doubt I’ll ever see it as “cute” the way Magdalena does, but its surprisingly loyal affection is rather endearing.

The lower part of the outfit was more of a struggle, as Allie refuses to go out with anything less than a full skirt, and even then rejects most of the shorter ones.

“You know, for a priestess, your clothing preferences are kinda...”

Allie trails off, and I sense that Maggie would have chimed in with a crude word for immodesty if they weren’t avoiding each other.

“Your standards just don’t make any sense,” I retort. “You’re embarrassed to show skin without fur, then even more embarrassed to show any that does!”

Imagine my shock when I found out that she shaves most of what little body hair we have.

“I don’t want to wear a skirt so short that everybody can see my entire butt!”

“Isn’t that what your underwear is for?” I ask.

“I don’t want people to see that either!” she squeaks.

Then why wear it? No matter, I’ve accepted Allie and Violet’s strange ideas about modesty, and so has Lady Tara. Thanks to the young lady’s foresight, I manage to pick out a pair of shorts that Allison doesn’t mind pairing with a loose half-skirt.

I’d also hoped to wear our high heel shoes, but apparently those are for “special occasions” and unsuitable for the village’s muddy terrain. Alas, the regular “everyday” shoes will have to serve.

It takes me a while to readapt to our odd gait after spending so much time in my dream body, but I’m not in any rush. For most of the morning, I just meander through the village, watching the tribespeople work. They don’t pay me much mind, aside from a few curious children who are quickly called back by their minders.

Though I grew up clanless, I’ve never really experienced rural village life. Especially not in as remote a location as this. The city wasn’t as developed in my time, but it was still a city, with bustling streets and busy people. In the village, everybody works—even the children—but there’s an idleness to it. A carpenter takes the time to show his apprentices how to handle a knot in the lumber, then watches each in turn as they try to apply his lesson. A teenage boy lingers in the shade of a tree, making a show of picking through the same patch of mud for forage even though it’s painfully obvious that there’s nothing to find there. Nobody bothers him.

Even with a looming crisis, the tribe doesn’t have the same sense of urgency that feels ever-present in the more urban environment that I once called home. In the city, work is never guaranteed and everybody is competing with each other to make the most of what opportunities they can. Here, everybody is assured of their place, and while none can afford to be truly idle, neither are they pushed to fight over scraps.

Not that I ever did either. In the cloister, I was assigned chores and I did them. I attended my lessons, joined sermons, and occasionally served as a healer when called upon. I received a small allowance, plus a portion of any pay I earned as a healer, and was free to spend my time in the city however I liked when I had no other duties.

I’m not sure whether I’d say it was easy, but I don’t think it was hard. Not compared to the villagers here, and certainly not compared to the struggles faced by a clanless man like Draga. Once, I would have simply shrugged it off as the Goddess’ design. Yet now that I’ve been forced to confront the truths of “noble” birth and a fallible church, I have to wonder how I ever thought the same Goddess described in my lessons could render such a cruel fate on such a gentle soul.

And the more I look, the more I see Fa’aun justifying their own failings in the names of the Goddess. How often and how deeply have they tarnished her name over the centuries, I wonder?

I’m not sure when exactly I’m joined by the little brown ferret, but Taaka’s company is a welcome distraction from my ruminations. I giggle at the sight of her playfighting with Nipper and let them enjoy themselves for a bit. Naturally, Taaka’s companion is never far behind, so I’m not surprised when he joins me in the shade.

“Ah, so that’s why she ran off,” he chuckles. “I should have guessed that she smelled her new friend nearby.”

I give him a polite bow, though as Allie has often complained it’s not the most comfortable motion with such a short neck.

“Sir Fargo. My apologies, I didn’t mean to steal away your companion.”

He blinks. “Miss Evelyn? What an unexpected pleasure! I don’t believe we’ve had much opportunity to speak.”

We haven’t, so it’s almost surprising that he’s able to identify me so readily, but I suppose it’s the proper speech as usual. I’ve gradually gotten used to being more casual with my so-called “headmates” and even let some of my guard down around Lady Talla, but Fargo is still as good as a stranger to me. As a Foren—even male—his status is greater than mine, so it’s only natural that I would speak politely. The fact that I’m a priestess might complicate matters slightly, but I’m no longer affiliated with the church, so it’s mostly irrelevant.

“I don’t typically concern myself with raising Nipper, and rarely get along with Magdalena,” I explain. “So there’s been little enough for us to discuss.”

“Ah, I suppose Mags struggles to get along with even her own other selves, eh?” he chuckles. “I might have guessed.”

“I’m not—” I start to protest, then shake my head. “It has less to do with her personality and more with ideological differences.”

Not that her personality helps.

“Right, you’re a priestess, are you not?” he asks. “I confess, you stand out as particularly odd among a set of already quite strange individuals.”

It’s a little bit annoying to be called odd compared to the likes of Maggie, but I know what he means. No skill can really explain why one would have a two hundred year old priestess living in her head. Even if Fargo’s not aware of my true origin, it’s clear enough that I’m different from the others.

“And does that make me a looser thread to pluck at?” I ask. “You haven’t exactly been subtle about your curiosity.”

Frankly, I think we should just tell him. We’ve trusted him enough already that one more secret would hardly make a difference, and he was instrumental in saving us from the inquisition’s pursuit when we fled the mainland. Well, Taaka was, anyway.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” he says. “I learned my lesson after the last time Maggie upbraided me. If you wish to speak of something else, then we can. Or nothing at all, if you’d rather I leave you be entirely.”

I sigh and shake my head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be so harsh. I fear my manners may have declined lately.”

Maybe I really am spending too much time in dreams, with only Maev for company.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever spoken to someone as polite as you,” he remarks. “If this is your idea of ill-mannered, I’m not sure I want to see what you consider proper.”

So much has changed. Two hundred years doesn’t even sound like that long. There should be people alive who knew people who were born while I was alive—not counting the apparently immortal Alchemist. Yet the gap is so much greater than I could have imagined.

“I think we’re all a bit irritable,” I admit. “Allie isn’t pleased with Vi and Maggie’s approaches to the problems we’ve faced recently. The weather probably doesn’t help either—this heat is atrocious.”

He laughs softly. “It is, isn’t it? So Allie’s bad mood affects you all?”

I shrug. “Sometimes it’s like that. Apparently emotions aren’t entirely in the mind, so we often inherit echoes of each other’s moods when switching.”

“Hormones” Vi called it—some special type of humor that affects how we feel. It’s always so shocking just how deeply they understand so many different subjects, but they always brush it off as “common knowledge.”

“Interesting, but not quite what I meant,” he says. “What I’m asking is whether Allie alone is the problem. Are you in poor spirits because she is making her problems your problems?”

Stopping to ponder it for a moment, I eventually shake my head. “No, she’s too considerate for that. I think I’m just concerned for them.”

It’s a surprising revelation. Even after resigning myself to this new life, I’ve rarely thought of the others as more than unwitting companions. Allie has been a teacher, but not really a mentor, and Violet an ally against Maggie at best. Maggie isn’t quite the enemy I used to think she was, but I wouldn’t call her a friend.

And yet, here I am, worrying about them. I didn’t expect myself to care so much, but I do. Usually, Allison is the one who resolves these sorts of conflicts, but that’s difficult to do when she’s at the center of them. I didn’t mean to involve myself, but maybe I should after all.

Fargo’s response is aborted when a fat droplet of rain strikes him between the horns. He has just enough time to blink and look up at the sky before a sudden downpour unlike anything I’ve ever experienced begins. The roar of the falling rain is so loud that he has to shout over it, and still I can barely hear him.

“I believe we’re about to get our opening to depart!”