Hunger's Brides by W. Paul Anderson Page B

me for so many hours so close to tears was not the ringing in my ear or even the humiliation. It was shame—scalding and caustic and vile. He
did
count on me.
    â€œAngel, will you …? My eyes are tired.” And I would read for him—enchantingly, as any great actress would. That was our game. I had never thought of it as his needing me. Even though now, no matter how stunningly I read, how emphatically—how
loud
, I could never quite wake one of his eyes. The right. The one he kept turned away from me at the firepit. The truth was, he often just listened now, nodding sagely at the flames as I spoke.
    That night dealt me a succession of confused dreams, and on each card the emblem of my guilt. Snake, horse, lion, falcon,
manatí
. Each appearancebrief, each somehow me—a fugitive, a figure like Proteus wriggling through a thousand shapes to flee to Egypt with his sea calves. Or the daughter of Erysichthon—always unclean, no matter how many her guises.
    I was still close to tears when I saw Xochitl the next morning.
    â€œTwo palm-widths above the horizon. Just like you told us, Xochita.”
    â€œTell me about the trout.”
    I knew she asked this by way of consoling me. But how did she know they’d be there?
    â€œAs a girl I watched them,” she said. “Just like you two. We had to practice a lot to spear them.”
    â€œYou
speared
them?”
    Amanda nodded. “They’re quick.”
    â€œYes, NibbleTooth, but also because they are not there.”
    â€œAfter
, you mean?” I still didn’t see.
    â€œNo
—then
. You see a fish. And there is a fish. But not there … over
here.”
As she said this, she had turned up her right palm, now the left. “Not yet, eh, Ixpetz? Next time take a long stick. Our spears were higher than our arms could reach and straight. Put the stick in—”
    â€œIt bends!”
    â€œNear the bottom, where the hot water comes, it bends more. The stick is straight. But not always. The fish is. But not there.”
    â€œXochita, this is just
refraction,”
I said, eager to explain.
    â€œNo, this is god.”
    â€œIt’s only
light.”
    â€œLook more, Ixpetz. You will see the double you keep asking about.”
    She had never once given me a straight answer about any of this, nor had she ever been the one to bring it up.
    â€œSometimes we say
ixiptla
, sometimes mask. Or double.
Or …
twins.”
    â€œWhy so many, Xochita, so many words?”
    She made a funny face, the face of an insatiable child pleading for one more treat—a face just such as mine. “Maybe we were never sure we understood. Twins, doubles … Who can say, Ixpetz—
one
of them might be right.”
    How did she always manage it? She could make me want to laugh in the blink of an eye.
    â€œSometimes we say they are a couple. Like those two mountains.”
    â€œMaybe,” I said, “the lovers are also between the fish.”
    â€œMaybe very good, Ixpetz.”
    â€œFish,” I said, trying not to smile.
    â€œFish.”
    â€œNot one fish.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNot two.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHere and there.”
    â€œYes, Ixpetz. Near and far.”
    â€œMany masks—one face.”
    â€œNot one.”
    â€œFaceness—
face
. Only ‘face.’”
    â€œAhh …”
    â€œAnd we’re needed, somehow.”
    â€œWe
bend the stick!” Amanda said.
    â€œVery good, NibbleTooth.”
    â€œBut, Xochita, if you stand directly over the water,” I said, “the stick …”
    She shook her head sadly. “You think too much.”
    â€œThat’s no answer, Xochitita,” I crooned. “Please?”
    She thought about this. “In the world there is no such place. To stand.”
    â€œAbove god,” I added, hoping she might say more.
    â€œHelp me grind the corn—both of you. I am late