Jamalik said that in Kamaha, where the farms were large, tenant farmers divided a landowner’s fields among themselves to cultivate them and pooled the grain they harvested to send to the owner. That should have required many men in a household, yet he said he had seen only one old woman here.
When they reached the house, Jamalik jumped down first and knocked on the door. After perhaps three knocks, instead of the door opening, they heard someone in the back garden.
“You’ve brought the wind with you. Tie those horses properly, unless you want to make them into constellations.”
A sharp laugh followed. Gene stared hard at the old woman walking out from behind the house. Her hair beneath the towel wrapped around her head had turned white, but her back was straight. She was tall, and her outline at first suggested a man. Yet she was an old woman, with a well-defined nose and cheeks rosy even through their wrinkles. Her face made it easy to imagine a beauty who, only ten years earlier, would have had nothing to envy in a young woman. Gene suddenly thought of his mother. He knew what superhuman efforts his mother, still extraordinarily beautiful as she approached forty, made to preserve her appearance. One day she too would wither into someone like this. And that day was not far away. Would his mother be able to bear it?
The old woman was staring at Gene too. Indeed, she examined every inch of him, from head to toe. Then she abruptly turned, opened the door, and said, “Come in.”
As they tied the horses, Jamalik spoke quietly.
“Remember what I told you? She seemed to think I was lying when I said you weren’t him. But I couldn’t exactly tell her who you are, Adjutant.”
“Mm.”
Gene nodded and went inside. With even the back door tightly closed, the house was dark and cool. It smelled damp as well. As Jamalik followed and closed the door, the old woman was lighting a lamp. The light sprang up, making the house look much more inviting. She pointed to the only sound chair at the table.
“Sit.”
Gene shook his head.
“Please take the seat yourself.”
“I said sit, so sit.”
Her speech was rough, unlike her fine-featured face. Gene did as he was told. He had come to carry out his teacher’s last request and had resolved to respect the old woman whatever attitude she showed him. From the circumstances and her age, she might have been his teacher’s sister, his lover, or perhaps even his wife. She took a mortar from the cupboard, poured in coffee beans, and began pounding them. She put the ground coffee and sugar into a small pot to boil. The smell of coffee filled the house.
While it boiled, she returned to the table and studied Gene’s face again. He thought he understood how she felt and let her look as much as she wished. Their eyes naturally met several times. There was a thin scar on her cheek. At first he had taken it for a wrinkle, but it ran in a different direction from the creases around it.
When the coffee was ready, she divided it among three wooden cups and set them on the table. Their insides were stained black from coffee, suggesting frequent use. She pulled up a box and sat down.
“Drink.”
As Gene reached for his cup, Jamalik, standing beside him, quickly held out a palm to stop him and took a sip first. His eyes widened. He forced it down, then coughed.
“Ugh, Granny. This is poison, isn’t it? Why does it taste like this?”
“It is, you rascal. Before long, all four of your limbs will swell up blue.”
“You heard her, Adjutant? Let’s just wait a moment.”
“Where do you two get off making fun of me? You there, hurry up and drink yours too!”
“Granny, you really mustn’t call just anyone a rascal.”
“If I can’t call some green youngster a rascal at my age, why live? I might as well hang myself, you sneering wretch.”
While the two bickered, Gene took a mouthful and gave the same start. He had drunk coffee often since his time in Epherium, but never in his life had he tasted any so intensely bitter. It had not even been strained, leaving grounds to roll over his tongue. Yet as time passed, the sweetness emerged, mingling with the ground coffee to produce a better aroma than he had expected. After another sip, Gene called to Jamalik.
“Jamalik, try another mouthful.”
“Really, Adjutant. I told you it’s poison, and you’re still drinking it.”
Even as he said it, Jamalik took another sip, but immediately shook his head and grimaced.
“Oh dear. My tongue just can’t tell.”
The old woman snorted, took a small lump from the pouch at her waist, and tossed it onto the table.
“Here. You can eat this.”
It was a small ball of sugarcane taffy. Jamalik promptly popped it into his mouth, rolled it about, and smiled.
“This is just the thing for me.”
“Only because I haven’t a dear grandson of my own to feed it to instead of a wretch like you.”
“Well, think of me as a slightly overgrown grandson.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Ten years ago, a man your age proposed to me.”
As they traded words, the old woman’s tone gradually softened. Jamalik was indeed the right man for this sort of assignment. His gift of gab must have won her over on his previous visit too. But he could not solve everything. It was Gene who had to draw out a story she might not have told in decades. With that thought, he studied her profile again and discovered another scar, beneath her chin. His suspicions stirred. That looked like the mark of an arrowhead that had grazed her. Setting his doubts aside, he spoke.
“You gave him an old book.”
The old woman looked back at him, her eyes narrowing slightly.
“I did.”
“I know a little about the man in that book.”
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