Jahari and Beatrice
February 23, 2002
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Homework
Jahari's hair whispers as a light breeze fluffs stray, shoulder-length tendrils. His clothes rasp out a murmur as he stretches languidly in the pool of warm sunlight on the front porch of his little cottage. The sound of nickering from the other side of the house, shows that Betsy is content to crop the grass in the side yard.
"Ah, vacation." He says to the sun. "How I have missed it."
Standing up, he faces the door leading into the cottage. He ponders what he should do next. Go fishing? Or maybe a little hiking through the countryside. It is a lovely day. The sun is shining the, birds are singing. The grass looks so green and soft. The trees sigh with the breeze. Everything seems so inviting.
He lets himself into his abode, and lights a candle on the hearth with nothing but a thought and the snap of his fingers. Its weak light shows that the place is in bad need of repairs. He sighs and begins to straighten the piles of cluttered papers gathered on the one maple table that occupies most of the floor. Suddenly he straightens up, listening to the crunch of pebbles that can only mean that a carriage is being drawn up out front.
He rushes to the door in time to see a woman alighting from a fine, blue, gold-trimmed carriage. He admires the two matching stallions that have brought the conveyance to his door. He also admires the lovely red-haired woman that is driving the coach, and clucking her tongue at the horses. He turns his gaze back to the other woman abruptly as he recognizes who she is. Damn, he thinks. Now, why would she bring herself here? And why now, for that matter?
"Jahari! I have need for your assistance!" Exclaims the new comer.
"Go home Beatrice," he replies, backing into the room. "I have nothing to offer you. Go bother someone else!" He glances at the driver nervously. "I am on vacation damn it!" With that said, he forcefully closes the door.
"Jarahi!" He can hear through the door. "Get your skinny butt out here this instant!"
Grabbing a mug of cool water, he sits down at the table and prepares to wait out her storm. A clunking sound invades the little room as Beatrice stomps onto the porch. The sound of her fist pounding the door echoes inside his head.
"Jahari! Damn it, let me in this moment. Father would be most displeased if he were to find out that you have locked me out to freeze in the outdoors!" Her voice is shrill to his ears.
"Father would commend me for having the sense to not do anything that is scheming inside that little brain of yours. And besides, it's the middle of summer." Jahari says calmly. He can picture how she would look now. Her hair beginning to frizz with the humidity. Her normally rosy cheeks now bright red splotches with barely suppressed anger. Her little hands clenched so tight the knuckles turn white. He chuckles as he looks toward the door. It is hard for him to see her as the 19-year-old she is, as opposed to the image of the 8-year-old stuck in his mind's eye.
"Go home, Beatrice. I have nothing for you here." He says.
"But father said I could." She moans through the door, a sharp crack resounds through the tiny room as she stamps her foot.
Jahari sighs. He knows that there is no way to get rid of her if their father has given her permission to do what-ever it is that she is here for. Draining his mug, he stands and reaches for the door. The moment the knob turns, Beatrice bursts into the room.
"I knew you would come to your senses," she says haughtily.
Jahari sighs again as he pulls out a chair for his sister.
"What do you want of me now, Beatrice?" He asks dejectedly.
"I want. . ." she pauses as he seats himself across from her, then leans forward onto her elbows in a most unladylike way. "I want to learn the magic!"
Jahari blinks. Looks quickly away, then back at her. Blinks again.
"You know I can't tea. . ." he starts
"Yes you can! Father has said so! He has seen people who don't have the Talent do tricks, and. . ."
"No." He interrupts.
"But can't you just. . ."
"No."
"Oh. Then I guess I shall find it some other way then." She sighs, flinching away from the glare he is casting her way.
"You can try all you want, Beatrice." He says, "There isn't an ounce of Talent in you. I know, I've searched for a long time. But when your blood-time came and nothing manifested. . ." his voice trails off, dragged away by the single tear the slowly rolls down her cheek.
"It isn't fair." She states. "You have the Talent. Why couldn't I have it, too?"
He studies her features for a long time. Watching as the blood slowly fades from her face. She begins to tremble a bit. He gets up and grabs a blanket, throwing it around her shoulders.
"We don't have the same mothers." He says as warmly as possible, patting her shoulder. "You know that I got my Talent from my mother."
"What of it? Father said. . ."
"Yeah, I know. He's still trying to convince himself that it was he who gave the Talent to me to begin with." He turns away, staring into the cold hearth. "You do know that he had my mother flogged to death for not teaching him, don't you?" Silence is his only answer, so he continues. "Damn it Bee! Why the hell you think he married again? Huh?" He turns toward her, she looks away.
"Um," she begins, then clears her throat. "Because he was in love with my mother?" She looks back to him, hoping that the line may have warmed his heart. But all she finds is a cold glare.
"He was looking for another woman with the Talent. And your mother had a talent all right! To lie! She let my father believe that she was Gifted. She told him of the wonders that she was going to teach him. Why do you think she keeps herself locked up in that little tower of hers? Our father has seen fit to let her survive, although I don't know why. He pities her like some would a wounded bird."
She sniffles and hitches the blanket up closer around herself.
"I was old enough to remember when she told him." He says, looking off into the distance. "I remember the pain that crossed his face when he finally confronted her. He asked her outright, and she told him outright. He was a fool for having believed her to begin with. Of course you hadn't been born yet, and I think that is why he didn't thrash your mother as he should h. . ." his head reels from the impact of her slap, he hadn't heard her get up from the chair.
"Stop speaking of her as though she were some kind of street trash!" She cries.
He looks away, unable to meet her intense gaze. He slumps into the chair she had just departed.
"Bee," he begins, but his words are cut off.
"No! I have heard all the lies! She was no trollop that any man could have a bit of good time with, so long as they had the cash." She says, looking off into the rafters. "She was a noble woman, with a noble lineage." She squares her shoulders, and straightens her back, daring him to make accusations about her and her mother.
Instead of arguing, he studies her instead. He can tell by the lift of her chin that arguing will be a fruitless venture. He watches as she tries to smooth her waist-length dirty-blonde hair. Her blue eyes flash with indignation, in much the same way that their father's do. The lavender cotton dress is cut well to emphasize her small shoulders and abundant hips. He sighs, running a hand through his own dark hair. He is darkness where she is light. But they each have their father's eyes. And those eyes lock for a moment. Turning away, he clears his throat.
"Beatrice," he begins, "You know that I can't teach you. You have been asking to learn since you were 8 years old. I tried to teach you then, and thought that I was just to young, that I didn't have what it took to be a mentor. But as we grew and you didn't develop the Talent, I knew that the fault wasn't mine." He turns to her, taking her hands in his. "Believe you me, I really hoped that you would have the Talent. I wanted to teach you so much! I wanted you to be there with me when I found new spells to try. I wanted someone else to learn with, someone else that father could moon over. But it just isn't there. You have as much of the Talent in you as that mug there. I'm sorry."
"But father said that anyone can learn tricks." She replies weakly.
"Father doesn't know what he's talking about." Jahari says softly. "He doesn't understand that the Talent comes in varying degrees of power. Some with the Talent will never be able to do more then lift a feather, while others can shake whole cities to the ground. I am good at the little parlor tricks. I can light a candle with a snap of my fingers, but I still have to be able to see the candle. I can make bugs vacate a mattress, very useful but not terribly showy." He sighs. "Bee, you have your own talents. Why are you so bent on this one, it really isn't all that special."
She turns indignant eyes on him.
"Well," she says, "It's only not special to you because you already have it, now don't you? But to those of us left out in the cold, it is special! To those. . ." she stops, looking out the window, sighing.
"Bee," he begins, "I just don't know what to tell you. You have a wonderful magic that I can never duplicate."
"And what, pray tell, is this wonderful magic?" she asks him dubiously.
"You can give birth!" he answers
"Oh! Right! And that is supposed to make everything better?" She hollers as she stands. "Being able to pop out babies is supposed to be magic? What kind of magic is that? It's nothing more then a physical function! There is nothing magical about babies! I want to be able to make fire! Or be able to move things with just a whim. That is real magic."
He gives her a hurt look, she gets herself under control with a shudder.
"I'm sorry, Bee, that you feel that way." He says.
"No," she replies. "It's not your fault. You have the same thought as all men. That because we can do something you can't do you think it's special. . ." dawning lightens her eyes and she turns to him. "Oh, Jahari! I think I understand what you mean now. I just never thought of it that way! I should just be content with who and what I am. Oh, I've been a miserable pisspot haven't I?"
He holds his arms open for her to rush into them.
"Yes," he says, "You have. But you are still my sister. And although I can't give you the magic that you want, I can still try to give you the world."
She shudders into sobs against his narrow chest. He pets her hair, hoping that he is some comfort. He can feel his shirt getting damp as her tears soak into the fabric. Her racking sobs begin to fade to hiccuping. Eventually she pulls away from him, sniffling.
"Am I a horrible sister?" she asks. "Do you think that my ambitions ruled my life? Tried to make me into something I just couldn't be?"
He looks into her eyes. Eyes that are so very much like his own.
"You are not a horrible sister," he begins. "At least, not all of the time. But I have heard tell that we are supposed to make each other's lives hell. And as for being too ambitious? Well, everyone needs goals, and most people will kill themselves to achieve them. At least you know someone who could turn you aside before you became a real bitch!" He smiles as he says this last, and she punches him in the arm.
"Here," he says, "Let me show you some real magic!"
He points the mug on the table and it begins to fill with water. She giggles and claps, and seats herself for the show she knows is now forthcoming. For although she thinks that he may be better then her because he has the Talent, he will always take time out of his busy, or relaxing as the case may be, schedule for her. She knows that nothing will every come before her in his heart, not even the Talent or the fact that they do not share full blood kinship. Just because he is her big brother.
They spend the rest of the day relaxing, laughing and generally being silly. And the coachwoman? Can't forget about her! She has been busy this whole time practicing her Talent in front of the horses!
NOTE: This was an assignment for my CCV (Community College of Vermont) Creative Writing I online class with William Noble.
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