Redemption in Indigo

of ebony, and its handle was banded with etched gold. It was a trophy for her years of endurance with Ansige, and immediately she was very proud of it.

'Take it up, hold it,’ insisted the messenger as she hesitantly extended her fingers over the gleaming finish of the handle.

Paama took the gift into her hand, and her eyes were so focused on admiring the workmanship that she missed the somewhat inappropriate expression of happy relief on the messenger's face.

'It is the most beautiful stirring stick I have ever seen,’ she said.

'Yes,’ the messenger murmured, constrained by the habit of truth. ‘It is certainly a Stick for stirring things up.'

'I shall have to have it mounted on a plaque,’ she mused aloud, turning it under the sunlight and wondering where she should hang it. ‘Or perhaps a stand or rack of some sort might show it off better.'

'Why not hang it at your waist for now?’ suggested the messenger. ‘It has a loop for just that purpose.'

Paama stared at him. That was odd! Hanging it on her belt as if it were a guard's truncheon or a tradesman's tool. She started to tell him so, but the words evaporated. Shrugging at her own eccentricity, she did exactly as he said and hooked it onto her belt.

He smiled. ‘Thank you. I will go take your answer back to Mister Ansige.'

Paama waved farewell as he trotted away from her front door. 'Thank you'? Why is he thanking me? She watched him, slightly suspicious, to make sure that he did indeed head for the road leading out of the village. When he did just that, she laughed quietly at herself and her foolish thoughts and went back into the house.

Meanwhile, out of sight of the village, the messenger stepped quickly along the country trail until he was a day's journey out of Makendha. There was a sleeping heap huddled around the bole of a shak-shak tree, awaiting his return.

'Wake up,’ he told it, giving it a friendly nudge with his foot. ‘Go back and tell your Mister Ansige that Paama's words are, “Don't act as if I don't know you.” She said some other things, too, but the general idea is that she's not coming back. Understood?'

The heap sat up and stretched. It was a man, the twin of the messenger in every way—features, figure, clothing, even the courier's satchel. He looked strangely fuzzy around the edges.

'Have I slept long?’ he asked. It was the messenger's voice, too.

'Two days.'

The man was still stretching, making noises of pleased surprise. ‘I cannot believe it. I have no stiffness, no pain?'

'Do you think I would steal two days of your life? To the world you slept for two days. To yourself mere minutes have passed since I left you.'

'What did she think of your gift?'

The faux messenger smiled. ‘She likes it very much. When she learns what it is, she will love it even more. But no more questions. We will have an exchange—my memory of delivering the message to Paama for your memory of my existence. You promised,’ he added as the man began to look downcast.

'I know. Will I see you again?’ he asked hopefully.

'Me or someone like me,’ came the cheerful reassurance. ‘Now, hold still.'

He pressed a palm lightly on the man's forehead, and as he slowly faded into air, the real messenger grew solid and substantial. The man got to his feet, looked around with a slightly puzzled expression, and then set off with determination down the trail away from Makendha.

* * * *

'Mission accomplished.’ There was a certain amount of self-satisfaction in this communication.

'Are you back already?'

'I presented her with the Chaos Stick. Even as I speak, it is hanging from her belt.'

'Well done! And what else?'

'What? That else?'

'You did show her how to use it, of course?'

'I? I was supposed to show her how to use it? Oh. Dear. Um.'

'Exactly. You have to go back.'

* * * *

The life of the undying is quite busy, either through dedication or desperation. The benevolent ones are the most diligent and the most overlooked, because they work with willing people and take their images as their shadows. The person who looks and in an instant reads your soul, the ordinary type who suddenly declares a profound and wise truth—I do not mean to take anything away from these people, for they are willing collaborators in a great work, but in many such cases they have lent their shadows for that pivotal moment.

Alas, there are others, not quite so benevolent, who entertain themselves by tormenting the lesser beings, namely humans. Co-operation is not a word that you will find in their lexicon, which is why they often find it simpler to snag a ride with a passing insect or any small creature whose brain can be easily overpowered.

Some are but tricksters, turning the tiniest of choices into a dire misstep or a trigger for catastrophe. Even very powerful ones, those who have learned to make their own shadows, sometimes do nothing more than tease and tweak fates a little, just for a good laugh. I am sure that the spider of Ahani was one of that sort, wreaking minor havoc in the form of his own whimsically-crafted shadow.

Others are more malicious, turning their powers to greater degradation than mere mockery. Many of those are powerful, for such work requires an amazing level of skill in its own warped way. Why, you may ask. Simple. Not one of them, no matter how powerful, can sway a body from its chosen course. The most they can do is help it along—grease the slope, as it were.

Carefully removing memories for generations still could not erase the collective awareness that there was something out there, going bump in the night or whatever. Thus several names had come to be attached to these immortal beings as they wrought both mystery and mischief through all countries, cultures, and centuries of humanity. Since the story is about Paama, we will use her country's name for them—the djombi.

This particular djombi, who was of the benevolent but not very powerful type, was experiencing a special kind of difficulty. For reasons that we cannot go into right now, a more powerful djombi was using his services. Unfortunately, his superior, who had long ago forged a shadow for herself, often appeared to forget the limitations of her weaker kin. By ending his errand and giving up his shadow too early, the junior was, in a manner of speaking, stranded, like a man who has neglected to ask the cab to wait for just a moment. He had to find another willing person to help him get back into Makendha so he could teach Paama the purpose of the Stick.

He was already too embarrassed by his earlier slip to ask directly for his superior's assistance, so he slunk to the fringes of Makendha and prayed for a small miracle.

His prayer was answered? Very accurately, very precisely.

A little girl was playing at the edge of a pasture, dramatising some inner daydream with dance and song. She turned in midwhirl, caught sight of him, and tumbled over in surprise.

'What are you doing there?’ she asked, peeking up through the grass stems.

'Waiting for someone to take me into the village,’ he answered truthfully.

She narrowed her eyes and moved her head snakewise from side to side as if trying to look at a very tricky mirage. ‘I can't see you very well. Why?'

He thought for a moment; truth is harder when one lacks the necessary vocabulary. ‘I'm standing on the edge of the world. It makes things blurry.'

She got up and dusted herself off, apparently satisfied with that. ‘All right. Good-bye.'

'Wait! Will you? Will you take me with you?'

She squinted at him again. ‘Why?'

'I have to help someone discover something.’ That was all he said, but for some things, tone and expression are more potent than vocabulary, even when you are a discorporate entity standing in the interstices of time and space.

She believed him. ‘All right. Come.'

He stepped over the threshold and ran skipping towards her, a vaguely cloudy image gradually coalescing