For the Anakim informants, Bellamus had ordered a chair constructed to suit their larger proportions, and one for himself as well, so that the two of them could sit on the same level. Every word of his introduction, every gesture, he had trialled before. It all depended on that, he had discovered. If the right tone was not set at the beginning, there was no hope for the interview. Any hint of antagonism, and Bellamus would find himself frozen out. They were stubborn folk, these Anakim, perhaps unsurprisingly when there was an army camped on their land.
Bellamus had spoken to one of them that morning: a woman named Adras. It had been just the two of them in this space, along with a jug of wine which Bellamus had unstoppered, decanting generous measures into two goblets. The potent smell of fermentation made the Anakim woman wrinkle her nose as he pushed one of the cups towards her.
She stared at it, then back up at Bellamus, saying nothing. She was almost entirely rigid, each muscle braced against its antagonist. Bellamus did not appear to notice, taking up his goblet and leaning back in his chair to take a sip. He glanced over the rim at the woman and, when he removed the cup, his face was sympathetic. “That cup is yours.” He spoke in Anakim. “Whenever you want it.”
The woman made no move for it beyond a glance.
“This must be your home, that we are camped in now,” Bellamus continued. “My very great apologies for that. We’ll be moving along soon and, by that time, we’ll have had a good conversation and you’ll be free to stay here.”
“What are we going to talk about?” asked the woman.
“You,” said Bellamus, smiling gently. “You must forgive me for being so personal. My trade back home, in the south, is my knowledge of your people. And I wouldn’t be of much use if I didn’t keep that knowledge sharp. I won’t remain unique in my skills for long. Others will see the value in them and try to catch up: I must always remain a master of my subject. At least, relatively speaking. So if you’ll be very kind, perhaps you could help me with these words.” Bellamus took the top parchment off the table with his free hand and cast an eye over it. “Kip-sun-ga? Am I saying that right?” He leaned closer to the woman. “Kipsunga?”
“Kipsanga,” corrected Adras.
“Kipsanga. What does it mean?”
Adras paused, staring at him for a time. “It is the best kind of friend.”
“Explain for me,” said Bellamus, taking another sip of wine.
The Anakim stayed silent, and then took up her own cup. She sniffed it for a moment, glanced at Bellamus (who appeared to be consulting his list of words once again) and took a sip. “A kipsanga is a friend whom you both respect as a person, and get on with particularly well.” She stopped there but, confronted with Bellamus’s hopeful expression, gave a small smile and continued. “Maybe you share a very similar sense of humour, or have an especially good time with them. But you also respect their character.”
“And are there other kinds of friends, beyond kipsanga?” pressed Bellamus. “Its opposite, perhaps?”
“We talk about three kinds of friends,” said Adras. “A kipsanga combines the two most important elements of friendship. An unga has only one of them: it is someone you get on with very well, but do not admire as a person.”
“Could you give me an example?”
Adras shrugged. “Perhaps they are kind to you but unkind to others. Or maybe they are good company but sometimes try to manipulate you. Or …” She thought carefully. “Maybe they are lazy and fearful, and unwilling to confront their own shortcomings.”
Bellamus was scribbling furiously. He saw Adras looking curiously at his paper and held it up to show her. “Writing,” he said. “We use it to store words. I suspect we Sutherners have less good memories than your kind, but it is helpful to be able to remember things exactly. Memory can twist what has happened. Please, go on.”
“The third kind is the opposite of an unga. A badarra: a person for whom you feel great respect, or distant affection, but with whom you don’t get on particularly well. They might be a serious person, but one who is especially kind and generous. Or one from whom you have very different opinions, but you appreciate how well reasoned theirs are, and that they think them for the right reasons. Or maybe just someone you don’t have much to say to, but you still greatly respect.”
“Fascinating, fascinating,” said Bellamus, absorbed in his parchment. “Your people have a very objective view on those they are close to.”
Adras shrugged. “Of course.”
Bellamus liked to start with the easy questions: the words. He had known what kipsanga meant. He had mispronounced it deliberately, to bleed the first little piece of information from Adras. He had known about unga and badarra too. It was how he opened his informant, and how he gauged how willing they were. It was just hard enough an explanation to require some effort, but not a difficult concept. By broaching the topic of friendship, Bellamus also hoped to positively dispose Adras towards this conversation. Then he could progress to the harder questions.
What was the significance of wilderness?
How was the Anakim manifestation of memory different from his own?
Why did the Anakim not run in the face of his advancing army?
Why was it, that in spite of their harsh
