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Dream Log: Sabinoha
Feb. 18th, 2008 03:09 pmEvery day we rappel down the sides of the plantaona to harvest the honeymeads. The honeymeads grow in thick clusters on the underside, shaded from the double-sun; we cling to the crumbling earth of our floating island-home and crawl as far as we dare, battered by the strong winds. If the wind jerks one loose, or if the loam is particularly treacherous that day, a harvester will fall until the belay line takes his weight. Sometimes the line holds, and then the unlucky climber can be hauled up to try again. Sometimes the line does not hold, and then that person is never seen any more, falling endlessly into the mists below.
Some days I bring back a dozen of the swollen gourds, and that is a good day. Some days I bring back one, or none, and that is a bad day. On such days I must risk the moods of Nhamba.
Nhamba is our overseer. He works directly for Papa Rheo Rhupari, lord and master of Seven Breezes Plantaona, and he is loath to report a meager harvest. Accordingly, on a bad day, it is best to approach Nhamba when he is drunk. Sometimes when he is drunk he will merely scold and shout, or even mumble some words of forgiveness, and then all is well. But such times are rare. Usually, when one climbs back up the line empty-handed, Nhamba whistles up a scourge.
Always it is the same. "You are lazy, like all your kind," Nhamba sneers.
"No, Sir Nhamba, I looked but found nothing," one apologizes, but it doesn't matter.
"Then you are lazy, and a liar as well," Nhamba replies. "Do you think to make me look like a fool to the Papa, eh? You want to make trouble for Papa himself?"
All the overseers are secretly afraid of revolt. They remember the plantaonas found adrift and empty. So, always there is pleading to no avail. Nhamba lights his candle, and a foul wind begins to blow. Nhamba knows only the Candle; the ways of the Book and the Bell are beyond him. But the Candle is enough to call forth a scourge, and the stinging fire will shred a slave's back for a full minute before dissolving back into the nothingness from whence it came. When it is done, Nhamba stands over the one who has been punished.
"Next time," he says, almost kindly, "you will work harder. Next time you will do better. Do not be willful. Do not shirk your labors. Do not balk, do not oppose, do not even think. Do as you are told, because you are Maputique, lowest of slaves, and you have no magic."
Then one is dragged back to the quondams, and there one heals. Always the healing period is quick and largely painless, under the ministrations of the wise women. Because Nhamba is wrong. He does not know it, but we do have magic.
We have Sabinoha.
( Read more... )
Some days I bring back a dozen of the swollen gourds, and that is a good day. Some days I bring back one, or none, and that is a bad day. On such days I must risk the moods of Nhamba.
Nhamba is our overseer. He works directly for Papa Rheo Rhupari, lord and master of Seven Breezes Plantaona, and he is loath to report a meager harvest. Accordingly, on a bad day, it is best to approach Nhamba when he is drunk. Sometimes when he is drunk he will merely scold and shout, or even mumble some words of forgiveness, and then all is well. But such times are rare. Usually, when one climbs back up the line empty-handed, Nhamba whistles up a scourge.
Always it is the same. "You are lazy, like all your kind," Nhamba sneers.
"No, Sir Nhamba, I looked but found nothing," one apologizes, but it doesn't matter.
"Then you are lazy, and a liar as well," Nhamba replies. "Do you think to make me look like a fool to the Papa, eh? You want to make trouble for Papa himself?"
All the overseers are secretly afraid of revolt. They remember the plantaonas found adrift and empty. So, always there is pleading to no avail. Nhamba lights his candle, and a foul wind begins to blow. Nhamba knows only the Candle; the ways of the Book and the Bell are beyond him. But the Candle is enough to call forth a scourge, and the stinging fire will shred a slave's back for a full minute before dissolving back into the nothingness from whence it came. When it is done, Nhamba stands over the one who has been punished.
"Next time," he says, almost kindly, "you will work harder. Next time you will do better. Do not be willful. Do not shirk your labors. Do not balk, do not oppose, do not even think. Do as you are told, because you are Maputique, lowest of slaves, and you have no magic."
Then one is dragged back to the quondams, and there one heals. Always the healing period is quick and largely painless, under the ministrations of the wise women. Because Nhamba is wrong. He does not know it, but we do have magic.
We have Sabinoha.
( Read more... )
