Chapter Text
Cliopher has always been a sentimental person.
He never hid it at home, although in Astandalas – and now Solaara – earnest emotion is terribly gauche.
Still, when he feels melancholy like this it’s always best to cry in his own rooms.
When Cliopher was merely a fifth-degree secretary dragging himself through the Ministry of Health no one particularly cared that he wept during hard shifts. After the Fall his superiors just sighed; everyone was stressed. Cliopher hid in closets if he felt particularly weepy. Princess Indrogan had a tendency to roll her eyes if she saw him crying; her solution was to pile on more work. “Tears are a waste of time,” she scolded him more than once. “And you’re too useful for this nonsense, Sayo Mdang. Get out and have your breakdown somewhere where you won’t be in the way if you must. Come back when you’re ready to work.”
So that’s what he did.
These days things are different. The Palace is a kinder place, but Cliopher’s role has also changed. As the Hands of the Emperor people care what Cliopher does. They take their cues from him, too. If people see Cliopher crying they’ll wonder if some disaster has struck Zunidh; they’ll certainly whisper and mock him. And then he’ll get a visit from Ludvic’s guards to check that he hasn’t been threatened.
Cliopher knows because they’ve checked before. Multiple times.
Anyway, it’s not like anything happened. He’s just homesick. As usual.
And today… it was really more frustrating than upsetting. There were visitors who referenced the Vonyabe, an old enough affectation that Cliopher was too surprised to correct them; one of the other secretaries did.
Oh, well, one dismissed. Who cares; they’re barely worth talking about. Why, I can’t name a single thing that’s come from that place except for ahalo cloth.
And it hurt. It made Cliopher angry, but…
Well. What else has the Vangavaye-ve produced?
He’s proud of his heritage. But the islands remain isolated, even today with the easy travel of the sea-trains. Cliopher doesn’t know how to explain to these puffed-up aristocrats why his home matters.
He imagines saying, I know a hundred ways to light a fire; I have built a ship of my own hands' making, and sailed the Wide Seas; I can navigate by the stars across the ocean and dance my way home.
But that won’t mean anything to them. Cliopher wonders, as he often does, what his friends and his lord would say if he tried to talk about those things. He imagines polite, puzzled smiles, devoid of comprehension. Just the thought stops him from trying.
Sniffling, he eventually peels himself from his sofa and finds the latest stack of letters from home. If he’s going to wallow about his island than he might as well get through some correspondences.
The first one he picks up is a letter from his cousin Faila.
Faila manages a children’s puppet-theatre. In recent years she’s branched out into regular theatre, too. She been working with the local school and teaches a kid’s drama-class that’s become well-attended. But she expresses frustration with the plays they’ve done.
It’s just a little sad, Faila writes. We do our own plays, too, and you know the little kids love the puppet-shows… but I feel like there isn’t anything new. Just the old classics and the modern foreign stuff, but nothing exciting that’s really ours. Nothing popular, anyway. I don’t know. I didn’t care much about the old traditions when I was a kid, either. But it feels like you see our culture less and less in the arts, and it’s just a bit sad.
Cliopher thinks about that a lot. It doesn’t make him feel better, and he spends a few more minutes miserably sorry for himself.
Then he starts thinking about the ‘old classics.’
When Cliopher was young he used to make up all sorts of stories with Basil and Dimiter. Sometimes they played at being the three brothers of Vonua’a. Sometimes they were Aurelius Magnus and Elonoa’a (with Dimiter usually posing as an enemy to overcome together).
But they played out other scenarios, too. Especially after Kip’s year with Tovo. By then everyone complained they were too old to play-pretend; but Kip and Basil and Dimiter just went deeper into the woods and kept playing anyway.
The last time Dimiter visited Kip in Astandalas they drank and reminisced. Cliopher was dressed in unusually nice clothes because he planned to attend a party later that night (after Dimiter left he learned that the other secretaries had told him the wrong address, so he never made it there).
“You always loved dressing up as a kid – remember when you used to pretend to be Leona?” Dimiter asked.
The section about Leona was always one of Cliopher’s favorite parts of the Lays. His family complained about how much he hummed the verses after learning them from Tovo; but Vinyë would later name her daughter Leona, so Cliopher suspects she didn’t mind too much.
Leona was the daughter of a chief in the Isolates. Her father was Nga and her mother was Ela. The story rang with themes from both families. In a time of great peril to her people, when the spirit of Mama Ituri was injured, she won the assistance of Vou’a and traveled the Wide Seas on a vaha of her own making. She navigated by the stars and negotiated with the world of spirits to heal the volcano.
Cliopher loves the ‘old classics.’ But he understands it can be hard for kids to grasp them, especially through the language-barrier; most of the city kids don’t even know Islander anymore.
He finds himself humming, tears gone. Making up little songs is a game between Mdang children, too; he remembers Basil singing rhymes about Leona.
He pulls out a blank sheet of paper and starts to write.
After the Fall – after the Emperor woke, and Cliopher escaped the Grey Mountains, and crossed the Near Sea at the invitation of pirates, and braved the Hutabarrah desert despite all the times he was urged to quit…
There was a long period where he feared his journey would end in Zangoraville. The sailors there refused to do anything more adventurous than fish; they would not take him westward. They would not cross the typhoons that shrouded his islands, if they even remained intact.
Cliopher was despondent. It was an easier place to live than Csiven, though, coming as he did with supplies from the kind desert folk. He even had a little money, and it was easy enough to get work at the docks. He fished for his food and foraged; and here, closer to the Sociable Isles, no one much cared if he wanted to wear grass-skirts or build himself a little shelter by the beach.
That’s how he met Saya Ng.
She was an old woman, and someone had told her of the Islander-man badgering the captains for news. She came down expecting little; she was ecstatic when she saw him and his efela. She bowed immediately over her hands. “Tana!” she cried, and then, “How did you come to be here? Did you come from the Wide Seas? Who are you?”
And he answered, “I am Cliopher Mdang of Tahivoa. My island is Loaloa. My dance is Aōteketētana.”
She was delighted again; he had to disappoint her to explain that he was not really a tana, not properly. And he didn’t know what had become of the Vangavaye-ve. “I’m trying to find out,” he said.
But she continued to call him ‘tana’ anyway. She invited him back to her house, where she lived alone.
It was better food than Cliopher managed in those days (generally his goal was just to cook something edible over a fire; filleting a fish was easy. Seasoning it was another matter.)
It turned out Saya Ng had not been home in many years. But she remembered the lessons of her childhood, and she spoke wistfully of the sea. “I have wanted to go home to die,” she sighed. “But with these typhoons… but you, you are strong enough to go.”
Then she changed the subject and asked him to tell her stories of home.
Cliopher obliged. He wasn’t a tana, really. Not properly. He had never danced at the Singing of the Waters; he did not live among the community, guiding and counseling. But he still remembered the stories Buru Tovo taught him.
In those days the stories were tainted; he’d recited the old tales to himself many, many times in the Grey Mountains, in the desert, trying to keep up his spirits. Trying to remember why he needed to go home.
Cliopher sang the song of Leona for Saya Ng. She told him it was always one of her favorites. Then she asked whether he had a boat.
“A proper boat,” she added. “Not one of those flimsy things they make here.” But Cliopher did not.
So over drinks they conspired to build one. Cliopher liked that idea a lot, despite all the dangers of handling a small craft over the Wide Seas. But he was more hesitant when Saya Ng said she wanted to go with him.
She scoffed at him. “If I die, I will at least lay my old bones into the sea,” she said, which Cliopher could appreciate.
But once the boat started to come into shape – after weeks and then months of labor – the doubt returned. By then the locals had learned of their work. They didn’t seem to blame Cliopher, but he could tell they doubted the old woman’s sanity. The mayor of the city came and personally begged them not to go. They would die, he insisted. The typhoons were impassable; proper merchant-ships had broken against the storms. Their little hand-carved vaha wouldn’t have a chance.
Each time Saya Ng just scoffed. “We’re Islanders,” she said. “We know boats, and we know the sea.”
They gathered supplies. They cleaned Saya Ng’s house and sold her things. All but the little box of efela and a few things necessities they would bring on the boat.
They attended a funeral that the locals held for them. Her neighbors cried.
Before they left Cliopher suggested one final time that she could stay.
She did not tell him that it was too late to change her mind. Instead she looked him seriously in the eyes. “You sang the story of Leona the day we met,” she said. “You know why that girl was a hero, young tana? Because she was true Nga! We read the stars. We always know the route home. I will depend on you to tell the tales; you can depend on me to find the way.”
But he could not, because Saya Ng died in the first typhoon.
She tipped overboard; Cliopher could not catch her. And he was lost for a long time. For months and years, maybe, as time worked after the Fall.
He was lost until he remembered his own lessons and danced his way home.
Cliopher toys with the concept of his story for months. Fortunately time passea faster there than the Vangavaye-ve, so no one is likely to notice that his letters fall by the wayside for awhile. He starts dedicating his infrequent sparetime to a different sort of writing. He often spends so long writing that his wrists and back ache; but he enjoys the new hobby, even if his body protests spending even more time at a desk. It's good to write something that won't affect laws and policies and lives. It's like playing with Basil and Dimiter again.
It’s a surprise to himself when Cliopher sits down one evening and finds there isn’t much left to do; the story is rough but complete. But he does not immediately send the full draft to Faila.
Cliopher feels silly. He’s not a writer. He’s not a musician. He’s a secretary and bureaucrat. Cliopher Mdang is a law-expert. He makes budgets, runs audits… what does he know, really, about music? Reciting other people’s stories is not the same as composing.
But Cliopher finally picks out his favorite song from his full draft – which has grown much larger than expected. He copies the music-sheets, folds them up, and stuffs them into a tiny packet to go with the main letter.
Then he spends an agonizing amount of time writing that letter, trying to find the correct tone. He only mentions the packet near the end, very briefly. I don’t know why, but after your last letter I ended up thinking about the story of Leona – it was always my favorite, and I’ve always thought kids should hear it more often. I am not much of a writer, but it was a pleasant exercise to play with.
He wavers awhile. Does he really want to send it? Well. At least if she hates it he won’t have to look at her face. And Faila isn’t a gossip, really. If it’s terrible she won’t share it.
Cliopher sends it off with the Lights the next morning and tries to stop fretting.
Cliopher receives a letter from Faila four days letter.
It takes two days for letters to travel between Solaara and the Vangavaye-ve, which means she replied immediately. And unlike him, she addresses his hesitant composition at once.
Oh, Kip, what a cute song! And it’s… I don’t know how to phrase it, inspiring? It evokes the Nga so well. If I hadn’t known better I’d have thought one of them wrote it! I hope you don’t mind, but I showed Lenora, who was in the hobbyist orchestra and an acrobat-troupe and liked writing adaptations of popular music, and she thought the musical score was wonderful too.
But is it part of a larger piece? It feels like it should be! Do you have any more? I’m terribly curious now. I won’t share if you want to keep it private, but it was so lovely…
She must be exaggerating for his sake; but Cliopher’s certain she wouldn’t gush like that if she disliked it. He leaves for his morning work with a smile.
Still, he’s not sure he wants to send the rest. It’s one thing to send a single song, which can be excused as a fun way to occupy himself through some bored afternoons. Another entirely, to send out the result of months and months of labor and let on how seriously he’s dedicated himself to this project. Maybe Faila will laugh.
But Cliopher has never been a coward, and it’s not very satisfying to imagine the story rotting in his notebooks without knowing whether it’s good. It’s only a story for kids, he tells himself. It doesn’t need to be a literary masterpiece; just fun. He thinks he can manage fun.
He’s still torn as he takes dictation for his lord that day. He watches his Radiancy pace and pace around the room as he writes. Cliopher could almost write a song to the precise beat of his lord’s golden sandals padding over the marble floor.
With a strange insight Cliopher realizes his lord is restless; extremely restless. He wonders if his lord has any secret hobbies. What a pity that his Radiancy could never pursue them in public. Imagine if the Lord of Rising Stars were to paint or sing or write poems, and did it badly. It’s a sad thought. His lord would never dare, just for the scrutiny he’d receive from Court.
But Cliopher can. No one cares here, or in Solaara, if he’s a bad song-writer. They might laugh a little at home, he supposes, but Faila is nice. And he wants to send his story. Maybe it won’t be good, but isn’t it worth trying? It takes a lot of failures to get better at art. It’s not like he picked up the oboe and knew at once how to play.
Cliopher just wishes he could find a way to tell his lord about his revelation. You could do something new, too, he thinks, watching his lord pace in the same perfect triangle that he always follows. Maybe you would like it. Maybe you would love it. Aren’t you tired, my lord?
But Cliopher cannot say that, so he just keeps writing.
Cliopher organizes the collection of songs into a binder. The scenes in between aren’t nearly as fleshed out – some are just outlines and brief summaries. That feels better, somehow. Like it’s just a careless little thing that he’s been playing with. He sends it to his cousin late at night and thinks about his lord.
The Mdangs are a family of musicians. Cliopher has always loved the Lays and the old songs, even when he just copied what he knew.
What rouses his Radiancy’s passions?
This time it takes longer for Faila to reply.
Cliopher tries not to care. And sometimes he really does forget about it; he’s constantly busy. He reminds himself about the time-difference, too.
How did her first letter arrive in only four days, it occurs to him? Surely with the difference it should have taken longer? But the priests always scold him not to think about time.
Her reply comes nearly two weeks later.
It starts, Don’t be mad! But it was just so good, Kip – I had no idea you wrote music – I shared it with the theatre director at the local school, and the conductor for the Children’s Chorus, and…
Cliopher reads with growing astonishment.
Faila wants to turn his vanity-project into a proper musical.
He wrote it like a musical, of course. But he didn’t really expect…
He’s not sure what he expected, actually.
It takes him awhile to sort through his reactions.
Cliopher wouldn’t mind doing a little more editing. And it’s… well, it’s just a school-performance Faila wants to create. That sounds more reasonable in his head. Just a silly little thing for the schoolkids to enjoy.
Cliopher made the story to translate the Lays into something children could understand. Something they could love like he loved the legends Buru Tovo fixed into his soul.
It’s not like he’s adding to the Lays. He just wanted to write something fun. Faila thinks it’s good… and Cliopher never wants to be a coward.
Cliopher spends another five months editing his draft; Faila won’t notice or mind. Then he lingers a few more weeks before sending it.
Something is missing.
This is a final copy. Has he really included everything? Cliopher flips through the pages. Then he plucks up a random book from his shelf. It’s thin; a script of a play he once watched with Conju. He flips through it a few times, trying to figure out if he’s missing something important. Then he gets to the dedication.
Cliopher sits and thinks for awhile. Then he opens up the front of his carefully-bound script. He has a large family. He could just dedicate it to all of them.
He writes, For Saya Ng, and stuffs the book into an envelope.
“You’ve been fidgeting,” Rhodin announces. A thoughtful pause. “And you’re humming new songs again.”
Cliopher jolts and stares. “Excuse me?”
Rhodin takes an obnoxious slurp of soup.
They’re at a new, tiny restaurant Rhodin wanted to show him; it’s possible the chaotic noise of the interior was intended to mask this discussion. “I know how to interpret your moods based on your humming,” Rhodin tells him, like that isn’t an insane thing to say. “Or, I did. But you’ve changed them all up this year. I think his Radiancy is concerned about it.”
“I don’t hum around his Radiancy!”
“Of course you do. Almost every day,” Rhodin adds, and then bursts out laughing when Cliopher drops his head into his arms. “Good gods, man, you never noticed?”
Cliopher did not. Flushing, he takes a few breaths and looks up. “Fidgeting?”
“You look nervous.”
“I’m not.”
Rhodin eyes him and waits.
Cliopher relents, “Just waiting for some news from home. Nothing bad, I’m being ridiculous.”
“Oh, well.” Rhodin looks satisfied. “That’s fine.”
“Is it?”
“Sure. You’re always odd about your family.”
And Cliopher supposes that’s true.
Cousin Faila writes just two months before his next vacation. Cliopher tells himself he’s not anxious for her response, and restrains himself from opening it until lunch.
Oh, Kip, she starts. The children love your play – everyone loves it!
Cliopher reads with a mix of surprise, pleasure, and embarrassment as Cousin Faila - there is no other word – gushes over the performance.
You should see all the kids lately – they’re singing the songs every day, she writes. It’s been driving the elders crazy, actually. But they love it so much – even the parts in Language! I’ve never heard so many questions about the old tongue. My niece went up to beg Uncle Tovo to help her learn some other songs, the ones you based it on, and…
All the city-kids are so enthused they want to learn how to make grass-skirts, Faila writes, like his characters wear. They have three children from the Nga who are suddenly very popular, having been asked all about their stories and how to navigate by the stars (they did not know, she admits, but apparently went to their own parents about it and now the Nga are holding a little workshop at the school…)
Local kids are wearing the grass-skirts Cliopher was always teased about. They’re begging to learn the family patterns. They want to know their own words and dances. They want to learn about the story his play was based on, and the ones that came after, and the Lays...
Cliopher briefly sets down the letter to cover his face; he realizes he’s grinning. Oh, well. There’s no one to see if he’s smiling like an idiot in his own office.
It’s just a little children’s-play, and Cliopher suspects Faila’s flattering him; he also knows that kids can lose interest in things within a few days. But…
Even if that’s the case, it sounds like Cliopher encouraged at least a few youngsters on his island to take more interest in their traditions. That’s what he wanted from the start. It’s what the Mdangs are supposed to encourage, the tanas.
(If Cliopher lived there…)
But he lives in Solaara. Still, if even one child keeps asking questions of their elders – maybe even becomes a lorekeeper, learns the old ways, carries on their traditions – he’s proud of that.
At the end of her letter Cousin Faila even says another village wants to perform the play. She asks if she can share the music and script. Cliopher writes back to tell her that’s fine.