Shadows, стр. 6
“I am Tanavuna,” the man said after Cutter stepped out of the APC, stiff and hot. “I am the son of our hetman, Nokina, and this is my wife, Kesteluni, our shevfashli.”
“Shevfashli” was what this village called their healer, a title of great respect. Cutter bowed his head in the appropriate response. “I am Lieutenant Cutter. It is my great honor to train and assist you in your struggle against the satrap.”
“We have heard impressive things about your victories over the J’Stull,” Kesteluni said. There was a languid tone to her voice that Cutter found quite soothing.
Cutter thought about mentioning he’d only just landed on R’Bak, but thought better of it. “I’ve often regretted how much my people know about war, but as long as evil men seek to dominate others, men like me will be necessary.”
“I only ask one thing of you, Lieutenant,” she said, smiling the friendliest smile he’d ever seen. “Bring my husband home alive, if possible, but if he is fated to die, help him to do it well.”
Tanavuna lifted an eyebrow. Before he could speak, she turned the smile on him, and the words died on his lips.
“Let me introduce my father,” Tanavuna said. As they entered the home, the drivers and guards began unloading the wagons.
Drenched in sweat, Cutter immediately noticed how much cooler it was inside the house. Instead of windows to allow breezes to pass through, a gray compound that resembled concrete sealed all the joints and seams. Tanavuna introduced his father, a mirror image of his son, only older. After an exchange of courtesies and refreshments, Cutter asked how the heat could be so much less inside the house when it hurt to breathe the hot air outside.
“Do you see the pipes coming out of the ground?” Nokina asked. “The air in the ground is cooler than above and is brought to our homes through those pipes. We seal our homes to retain it, only coming and going when we must so the cooler air does not escape.”
“That—this is ingenious.”
“Our knowledge of such things comes to us from those who came before,” the hetman said.
“As does our knowledge of the healing arts,” Kesteluni added. Cutter sipped the water she’d given him. It had a faintly sweet flavor unlike anything he’d tasted on Earth. “I sensed that you felt worry at being among us, so your water contains a mixture of urot, palankea, and fel-franzh. The recipe has been handed down from healer to healer for many generations. I hope you take no offense.”
“Not at all. I am grateful you think me worthy of your gifts.”
“Are you sure you’re a man of war, Lieutenant Cutter? Your courteous words do you credit.”
Tanavuna sat beside his wife, beaming as she held court. It surprised Cutter that neither Nokina nor his son objected to her dominating the conversation.
“How do you remember everything about all those plants?” he asked. “I can’t remember my father’s phone number.” Having no R’Bak equivalent, he used the English word phone.
She wrinkled one eyebrow. “Your father’s foes were so numerous?”
“No, a phone number is…well, never mind that. I was just saying I have a poor memory.”
“Part of being a healer is not forgetting the lore entrusted to you. That is very important.”
Preparations for a feast in his honor began in the early afternoon and lasted until the lighting of a bonfire after sunset. Once the sun went down, everyone could relax and remove their robes and face coverings, which, in itself, gave the occasion a festive air. Cutter ate the unfamiliar food with trepidation, but growing up in rural Mississippi during the Great Depression meant he had learned how to enjoy a variety of dishes city folk wouldn’t have eaten if they were starving. After a few bites of various meats, he discovered the flavors had a gaminess he liked. Among the vegetables, or what he thought of as vegetables, the stir-fried bulb of a purple flower reminded him of okra.
As the night wore on, the men of his soon-to-be-activated platoon drifted over to say hello and introduce their families. Fatigue from the long day made it impossible to keep all the names and faces straight, except for one older woman who knelt in the dirt and took Cutter’s hands in hers. Beside her stood a lean boy—Cutter had trouble thinking of him as a man—with the embarrassed pout of a teenager.
“I am Issikoffa, and this is my only son, Suukamanu. I give him into your care, Lieutenant Cutter. He is a good boy, but impetuous: brave but unwary. Please bring him back to me.”
Cutter wasn’t sure what to say. On top of the latent guilt he carried from World War Two, how could he assure this mother that her son would come home alive? Combat just didn’t work that way.
“Perhaps he should wait a year or two, to gain maturity?” was all he could think to say.
Issikoffa leaned back as if slapped.
“He is grown now, and he will defend his people as a grown man does,” she said, obviously offended. He tried to apologize, but she hurried off. Her son spread his arms in a helpless gesture and went the other way, leaving Cutter to gape and wonder what had just happened.
“Take no heed of Issikoffa,” said Kesteluni. Sitting on Cutter’s right, she’d heard the whole exchange. “She lives to be offended. Her son looks younger than he is and will make a fine soldier.”
“I knew people like that back on Earth,” he said. But his thoughts were on how the