Page 25 of Envious Of Fire
The only ones who utter the name “Kaleb” are within his dreams now, his imaginary mother and father, his brother Kyle, their ghosts and no one else, no other set of lips, no breath.
There is a rustling at the door.
Kaleb lowers his violin. Is it 987 again? It can’t be. It’s too late for a visitor. Everyone should be in their cells, save for the few who are on specific nightly labor assignments.
Then the door clicks—another unexpected action—and in a swift, graceful movement, it opens.
Standing there is a woman from above. One of the goddesses. The one with half black, half white hair, woven together in a thick braid sweeping down her left shoulder, lying across her beautiful breasts, her body a sight that at once arrests Kaleb as his eyes fall upon it. His heart races for new reasons now, all of his insides curling with admiration the moment he sees her.
She stops moving suddenly, growing as still as a statue. It is amazing to Kaleb even now, how still the gods and goddesses can become when they so desire, at once made of wax, perfectly and beautifully immobile.
Kaleb panics, having forgotten himself. “S-Sorry.” He sets his violin aside, goes to his knees on the floor at once, lays his hands before him and lowers his head.
The violin bow drops off the bed, skitters along the floor, comes to rest at the woman’s feet.
Then she says: “Ugh, these formalities.”
Confused, Kaleb barely lifts his head. “Ma’am?”
She takes a step inside, crouches down, picks up the bow. “I don’t know the first thing about music.” She frowns. “Do you not remember my name? I remember yours.”
Kaleb stares at the floor. “Y-Yes, ma’am.”
“It’s Raya,” she says anyway. “That’s my name. You can use it. In fact, I’d like that.” At once, she sits on the end of the bed, still inspecting the bow as if it were an artifact of great interest. “I’m amazed such sounds can come from an odd stretch of horsehair. Is this horsehair? I don’t even know. Actually, I don’tcare. The real reason I’m here is that I’m tired and annoyed.”
Still kneeling, still with his hands on the ground, Kaleb is utterly and absolutely and completely unsure how to behave. So the result is that he says nothing at all, his wide eyes glued to the floor where his hands, still pressed, begin to sweat.
“Would you like to hear why I’m annoyed? Actually, I will say it anyway. I am annoyed because, after being dragged along on an errand I did not wish to experience, I am then told I am not allowed to visit you anymore or utter your name.”
Kaleb finds that last part strange, frowning at the floor.
“Something to do with your safety. Or that I’m bothering you. Don’t you enjoy playing your violin? Would it really be so bad if I came here to listen to you turn horsehair into song and sadness? Fine, if I cannot call you Kaleb, then I will call you My Blood, or Blood 1025, or whatever it is the rules say. Oh, did I just break the rule, calling you Kaleb right now? Ah, I seem to have broken it yet again, and again, Kaleb, Kaleb, Kaleb.” She blows air through her lips and rolls her eyes. “Nonsense, all of this. By the way, do you enjoy being on the floor? Isn’t it filthy? You can sit next to me if you prefer. I hope you do.”
It takes an incredible amount of strength to peel his eyes off the ground, worrying whether her suggestion is in some way a test of his obedience. When he finally does, his eyes are first met with her legs, enclosed in black stockings, then to the hem of a black lace skirt. When he meets her eyes, he is surprised to find her inspecting her own fingernails, as if they’ve become the most interesting thing in the universe, the bow lying across her lap, forgotten. After a brief pause, he sits on the bed next to her, leaving enough space between them for a whole person.
She peers at him sideways. “Can we play a little game?”
Kaleb clears his throat. “Ma’am?”
“I want to pretend not to be me, and I want you to pretend not to be you.” He finds the request so unexpected, he parts hislips as if to laugh, but no sound comes out. “Can we do that?” she asks, returns her attention to her nails with a shrug. “I think it could be … maybe a healthy exercise for us both, perhaps.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I am not from here. I have no power nor title. Have no freedoms you believe I do, nor privilege. I am rather quite low as far as ranking goes.” She looks partway toward him. “That is who I will be. Who will you be? Tell me about him. And do not say ‘I am your blood’ or I’ll vomit. Be true.”
Kaleb may not have the confidence that most other Bloods have, but he has an imagination. It’s the only thing, he’s certain, that has kept his spirit alive for so long.
But the words that come out of his mouth betray him. “I’m … I’m a dedicated student … with two strict … but loving parents … and an older brother who teaches me how to live once in a while.” He grows more confident as he describes his life. “I am not from here, either. I am …nota Blood. I have no power, but I believe that in the future, I may have lots of power, if I keep studying, if I keep … being a good student … and a good son. As long as I keep both of my parents smiling, I will live a … a long and happy life.”
A moment passes between them.
Kaleb suddenly worries he said something wrong. He dares a glance at Raya. She is peering back at him thoughtfully.
Then she softly asks: “You’re not happy now?”
Kaleb tenses up. “Is this question for me, ma’am? Or for not-me?”
“Doesn’t matter, I already know the answer.” She takes the violin and bow, extends the instrument to him. “Will you play me a song? I hope you aren’t bothered that that was my ulterior motive. Yes, I had one, this is it, I need a song in my ears, yours and no one else’s.” She closes her eyes, bracing herself for it. “I want to know sadness again.”
