it.”
Jath’ibaye joined him on the sill. He picked up a page of Kahlil’s translation. Kahlil leaned in slightly, following Jath’ibaye’s reading.
He felt relieved that they had left the previous conversation behind. After witnessing the pain in Jath’ibaye’s face at the subject of Ravishan’s death, discussing a dry botanical text seemed like a relief.
“I didn’t know exactly how to translate some of the words,” Kahlil commented. “There’s one long contracted phrase in particular. It means something like ‘fine hairs knotting roots.’”
“They’re probably trying to describe mycorrhizae.” Jath’ibaye leaned back against the window.
“I have no idea how to write that in Basawar script,” Kahlil said.
“Just use English. I’ll know what it means.” Jath’ibaye picked up Kahlil’s pen. He held it for a moment, thinking, and then very carefully printed the word on the margin of the page. Kahlil wondered how long it had been since Jath’ibaye had even thought of his native language.
“Mycorrhizae are fungal filaments,” Jath’ibaye said. “They entwine around plant roots and aid in the uptake and transfer of nutrients between root systems. Many newly germinated plants can’t get enough nourishment without them.”
“I had no idea,” Kahlil admitted.
“I can’t imagine you cared to know,” Jath’ibaye replied and again Kahlil caught that flicker of a teasing smile. He must have joked like this often with Ravishan.
“I don’t know…It seems like it could be important,” Kahlil answered. “It could affect people’s lives.”
“True enough,” Jath’ibaye agreed, though he seemed a little surprised that Kahlil had said as much.
As Jath’ibaye read, Kahlil observed his expression. It was so serious and at the same time almost tender. All at once, Kahlil felt that mycorrhizae had to be important. It mattered that he had translated those dozens of tedious pages for Jath’ibaye. He recalled Ji’s comments about the introduction of featherfin to the lake. This is what she had meant when she said that it mattered to her because it mattered to Jath’ibaye.
Jath’ibaye finished reading the page and set it aside. He looked to Kahlil and his expression changed. The intensity was still there in his bright blue eyes, but he also seemed troubled, as if he were contemplating a difficult equation.
“Will you tell me,” Jath’ibaye asked, “why you talk about Ravishan as if he were someone else?”
“He was.” Kahlil frowned down at his hands. “I may carry his memories, but I didn’t live his life. I didn’t make the choices he did.”
“But you remember his life? You remember…” Jath’ibaye didn’t seem able to say anything more. His jaw clenched and he shook his head.
“If I don’t think about it, then Ravishan’s memories come to me as if they were my own,” Kahlil admitted. “But then I realize that they can’t be. When I try to straighten out what’s mine and what’s his, it all gets garbled and confused. Everything I know about myself is suddenly contradicted by this other life I didn’t live. It’s like my memory is haunted.”
“How do you get through the day like that?” Jath’ibaye lifted his hand and for a moment Kahlil thought he might reach out to touch his cheek, but then Jath’ibaye caught himself and dropped his calloused hand back to the book in front of him.
“I try not to think about the past too much.” Kahlil shrugged. “You’d be surprised by how little you have to know about yourself to just get through the day.”
“Sounds like hell,” Jath’ibaye replied.
“When I first arrived it was, but lately…” Kahlil sighed. “I don’t know. Either I’m getting used to it or my memories are beginning to settle out.”
“Settle out?” Jath’ibaye asked.
“I can think about the past a little more easily. There are still two histories, but instead of just crashing into each other, it’s
Jath’ibaye joined him on the sill. He picked up a page of Kahlil’s translation. Kahlil leaned in slightly, following Jath’ibaye’s reading.
He felt relieved that they had left the previous conversation behind. After witnessing the pain in Jath’ibaye’s face at the subject of Ravishan’s death, discussing a dry botanical text seemed like a relief.
“I didn’t know exactly how to translate some of the words,” Kahlil commented. “There’s one long contracted phrase in particular. It means something like ‘fine hairs knotting roots.’”
“They’re probably trying to describe mycorrhizae.” Jath’ibaye leaned back against the window.
“I have no idea how to write that in Basawar script,” Kahlil said.
“Just use English. I’ll know what it means.” Jath’ibaye picked up Kahlil’s pen. He held it for a moment, thinking, and then very carefully printed the word on the margin of the page. Kahlil wondered how long it had been since Jath’ibaye had even thought of his native language.
“Mycorrhizae are fungal filaments,” Jath’ibaye said. “They entwine around plant roots and aid in the uptake and transfer of nutrients between root systems. Many newly germinated plants can’t get enough nourishment without them.”
“I had no idea,” Kahlil admitted.
“I can’t imagine you cared to know,” Jath’ibaye replied and again Kahlil caught that flicker of a teasing smile. He must have joked like this often with Ravishan.
“I don’t know…It seems like it could be important,” Kahlil answered. “It could affect people’s lives.”
“True enough,” Jath’ibaye agreed, though he seemed a little surprised that Kahlil had said as much.
As Jath’ibaye read, Kahlil observed his expression. It was so serious and at the same time almost tender. All at once, Kahlil felt that mycorrhizae had to be important. It mattered that he had translated those dozens of tedious pages for Jath’ibaye. He recalled Ji’s comments about the introduction of featherfin to the lake. This is what she had meant when she said that it mattered to her because it mattered to Jath’ibaye.
Jath’ibaye finished reading the page and set it aside. He looked to Kahlil and his expression changed. The intensity was still there in his bright blue eyes, but he also seemed troubled, as if he were contemplating a difficult equation.
“Will you tell me,” Jath’ibaye asked, “why you talk about Ravishan as if he were someone else?”
“He was.” Kahlil frowned down at his hands. “I may carry his memories, but I didn’t live his life. I didn’t make the choices he did.”
“But you remember his life? You remember…” Jath’ibaye didn’t seem able to say anything more. His jaw clenched and he shook his head.
“If I don’t think about it, then Ravishan’s memories come to me as if they were my own,” Kahlil admitted. “But then I realize that they can’t be. When I try to straighten out what’s mine and what’s his, it all gets garbled and confused. Everything I know about myself is suddenly contradicted by this other life I didn’t live. It’s like my memory is haunted.”
“How do you get through the day like that?” Jath’ibaye lifted his hand and for a moment Kahlil thought he might reach out to touch his cheek, but then Jath’ibaye caught himself and dropped his calloused hand back to the book in front of him.
“I try not to think about the past too much.” Kahlil shrugged. “You’d be surprised by how little you have to know about yourself to just get through the day.”
“Sounds like hell,” Jath’ibaye replied.
“When I first arrived it was, but lately…” Kahlil sighed. “I don’t know. Either I’m getting used to it or my memories are beginning to settle out.”
“Settle out?” Jath’ibaye asked.
“I can think about the past a little more easily. There are still two histories, but instead of just crashing into each other, it’s
Similar Books
