Karen Lord - Redemption in Indigo

'Duty,’ he said at last, a single, glum word.

'We have duty, too,’ Paama countered.

'Not like ours. You're weak, and allowances are made for your weakness. There's forgiveness for you. Mercy. I don't see why, personally.'

'I know. You think we deserve to be left to perish in our own self-made misery,’ she accused.

He did not answer at first, but then he said, ‘I thought you wanted this time to be lighthearted. You're not making a very good start of it.'

She kept silent, kept her head down, and looked at the rain-silvered grass instead of at his back. In this way, the sight of the mansion came on her all at once, looming out of the grassy plain like a small citadel of pale stone. There was a tidy skirting of lawn around it, hemmed in by stone walls topped with wrought iron.

'Where and what is this place?’ she asked.

'We are near the capital of your own country. This is the country house of a wealthy statesman who retired to spend more time with his wife and young son. However, his wife often grows bored—it's very isolated here—so he takes her to more exciting places. They are visiting the capital right now.'

'And the boy?'

'Here, of course. There are servants enough to take care of him, but of course a servant is not a parent. He has too much of his own way.'

'He sounds like Ansige,’ muttered Paama.

The djombi turned to her, his eyebrows raised in query.

'My husband,’ she said, and was ashamed to have to say it. ‘Now we live apart, but when I was in his house??h??e had grown up spoilt and he wanted to continue spoilt. He almost drove me mad. I was ready to kill myself until my parents hinted to me that I still had a home to return to.'

He was staring at her so fixedly that she felt even more ashamed for having revealed this sordid part of her past.

'Never,’ he said flatly, ‘never speak so easily of killing yourself. You have no idea what that means.'

And he turned away from her and walked off, leaving her baffled and abashed at the stern rebuke.

Just then there was a shriek, and a side door opened so abruptly that it slammed against the wall and almost bounced itself closed again. A woman dressed in a simple servant's uniform came leaping over the threshold with a broom in her hands, vigorously swiping at some small and undesirable vermin which moved so quickly that it was a mere scuttle leaving a wake of shivering grass blades. She danced in fury and brandished the broom even as it fled.

Paama ducked down behind the wall and peeked through the iron bars at the scene. A little boy, about eight, came charging out from behind the servant with such speed that she spun in place like a panel of a revolving door.

'That's my mouse! Don't you dare kill him!’ he yelled at her, and flung himself on the lawn, trying in vain to grab the small creature.

'Your mouse? Your mouse?’ she screamed. ‘Then what business did it have in my apron pocket? You're a bad boy, Jevan, and only getting worse. If you don't mind yourself—'

'You'll tell my parents?’ he finished coldly, pausing in his search to sit up and glare at her. The haughty expression on his face showed just how much contempt he had for such a threat.

The woman's eyes narrowed dangerously as she realised she was being mocked. ‘If you don't mind yourself,’ she began again deliberately, ‘if you don't learn to control yourself, the baccou will steal your skin and behave so badly that even you will be ashamed of yourself!'

He got up and ran, yelling over his shoulder, ‘I wish it would!'

Just as Paama was shaking her head and smiling ruefully at the little tyrant, a deep, sorrowful voice behind her made her jump.

'There's my cue. Duty calls. But how strange to see you here??nd with a human, too. Duty for you as well?'

A fuzzy, undefined shape was hovering before the djombi, who was looking slightly embarrassed. ‘Not quite duty, but essential nevertheless,’ he replied.

'Ah,’ the newcomer said diplomatically and did not press the matter further. ‘Well, if you've come to see my work, the best view will be from inside the house in the playroom, the boy's bedroom, and the kitchen. But for now, watch outside.'

The shape suddenly blurred the insubstantial air, rushing towards the boy, who was still racing around the house in an excess of furious energy. There was a soft, soundless collision.

'Ow!’ the boy shouted, more from shock than pain.

He opened his eyes wider and raised his hand to his head. Surely he had damaged himself somehow, for there was his own self, sitting on the grass, also rubbing his head and looking at him with mischief.

'Didn't really hurt, did it, you crybaby?’ his image told him callously.

Fright set him on his feet. ‘What are you?'

'You, of course!'

'No, you're not! You're that baccou that Hana's always talking about.'

'Who's the baccou? I can see right through you!'

It was true. The boy looked down at himself and saw the grass growing under the soles of his feet, and then he glanced up at the impostor, who was solid, and real, and twice as cheeky and wild.

'Go away!’ he shrieked, nearly in tears.

The baccou stuck out his tongue. ‘You called me, so I'm not going till I've had my fun. You can watch if you like.'

With that, he raced inside and banged the door shut. The poor faded youngster scrabbled at the doorknob uselessly until he realised that he might not be able to grasp a doorknob, but then again, he could walk through the door. As he disappeared inside the house, the djombi led Paama through a short space-time step that took them directly to the playroom. The baccou was already elbow-deep in the toy box, and the boy was hovering about frantically, unable to lay hands on anything.

'Good loot,’ the baccou commented, throwing things out carelessly and banging things together as if testing them for durability. ‘More than birthday presents and Christmas gifts in here. How in the world do I do it?'

His foot found a tiny wooden train and deliberately stamped it into fragments.

'That's mine !’ the boy howled in horror. ‘Stop smashing my things!'

'Don't be silly, I'm smashing my things. I can do that, can't I? From what I remember, I do it all the time!'

'Give me back my skin!'

' Jevan, what are you doing up there? '

'Oops,’ said the impostor. ‘All yours.'

And he walked through the shade of the boy, leaving him tangible again, and tucked his fuzzy shadow into the corner next to Paama.

Steps came thundering up to the room and Hana burst in like vengeance. ‘ What have you been doing?'

'It wasn't me!’ came the automatic wail from the boy. In a room apparently empty of anyone but himself, the plea carried little conviction.

'Go to your room,’ she ordered and was shocked to see how quickly he ran out of the playroom, almost as if something was chasing him. If she had known the significance of the weird blur that followed him, she would have realised it was true, but she merely rubbed tiredly at her eyes and muttered something about the boy raising her blood pressure.

The djombi brought Paama to the boy's bedroom just in time to see the boy thrashing about on the floor, fighting the baccou for his skin again.

'Leave me alone!'

'Not till I've had my fun!'

The baccou won, naturally. He began to pace around the room, looking for something to break while the boy's shade followed him, all but wringing his hands in impotent anguish.

'Leave that, it's my—no, don't touch that! You'll smudge the—hey!'

'Ohhh, what's this?’ The baccou paused in front of an aquarium. It needed cleaning, but it was vivid with iridescent, colourful fish.

'No,’ the boy whimpered. ‘Not my fish.'