Descending Road - ARGUING WITH THE FOXGLOVE by Dana W. Paxson

ARGUING WITH THE FOXGLOVE

1563 4D

In the uncertain Rumchi street light, Marra held the young man, Frei he called himself, by the arms, stood on tiptoe, and looked into his eyes. He wore a battered orange carapiece on his back, the Darko Hejj sign on it; he had propped the ‘piece against the understreet wall to hold himself up. His pupils throbbed, tightening to dots, expanding wide, then narrowing to ovoids.

Marra said, “Deen, we’d better find a place for these two, you know?” Wisps of acrid blue smoke layered the air; people had emerged from hiding, some to find the wounded and dead, some to find their places once again in the Run.

Deen looked down at the man Frei had named Engel, slumped unconscious against the wall. “You mean you don’t have an antidote for that special recipe you gave our old friends?”

“Uhh, no. I hadn’t worked it out after the last time, and then I sort of forgot. It’s got to have anise and bloodwort in it, tincture, and then, well, I never got the next part. That was, my, about five years back, wasn’t it?”

Frei clutched his belly in pain and folded, dropping down beside Engel and muttering, “The dreams, they’re red, mouth’s red, my fingers hurt and… He’s been stabbed, the bugs speared him up the street, got to find a—“

Marra squatted down and took his hand. Frei‘s long fingers looked like sausages, bloated between their joints. His nails, gently rounded at their tips, bowed sharply convex at the cuticle, where a deep sharp red stain radiated away from each nail’s growth base. “Deen, I’ve never seen anything like this. Look.” Frei‘s eyes closed. He moaned.

Deen pointed to the skin around the cuticle of one finger. “See this? It looks as if the base of the nail is sinking into the finger, or the finger’s flesh is growing up around it.” She reached under Frei‘s hand and took his fingertips. To Marra‘s surprise, the bases of the nails of the fingers she touched seemed to rise in response, slightly out of the enfolding skin. “Marra, it looks like a little claw reflex.”

Marra touched one of Frei‘s fingertips. The nail seemed to extend very slightly. “Something’s changing him.”

“This one’s in real bad shape,” Deen said, examining Engel. “He’s nearly dead.” Somewhere in one of the nearby streets a bass drumbeat rose among chanting voices. The festival gathered itself for another outing.

Three girls, just old enough to begin childbearing, danced past in thin bright-yellow dresses showing long legs, their mouths laughing, their eyes still watchful. Four boys their age, new-cut collechi scar additions still red and swollen on their bare upper arms, followed them, beating tympans and chanting, staring intensely at the three pairs of legs weaving and kicking ahead of them.

“Marra, the herbal shop is open again. Do you think you could try to put something together?”

“Now? In the middle of all this?” Marra stared around. Nobody paid them any attention. Two men lugged a badly-wounded friend away through growing lines of dancers, his blood leaving a trail of regularly-spaced dots. She called into herself, Aoriver, come back. No response — just like the last time, when—

“Yes, Marra. Now. Unless you want to try to get him treated in a long line with all these others. Then he’ll die.”

Marra nodded and slithered out among the bodies, heading for the shop. No choice now. When she finally struggled into the shop entrance, the shopkeeper, a young dark-golden woman with chestnut hair woven in a high knot, nodded in anticipation and said, “Did you like the quality of the last ones? I’ve got a special on these guanidaria. And look, all the solvents and ‘zymes are marked down.”

“Hold on.” Marra closed her eyes and groped through her own mental garden, where the leaves and flowers socialized and gossiped and spoke to her in their lazy way. The anise had been arguing with the foxglove over season moisture, and they had called the saxifrage to testify, but then Marra had intervened. Anise and bloodwort, no, two different seasons for the two of them, anise in blossom, the wort drying stems at its end of life. The okra, then, chewed and warmed, for inhesion, and— “Here,” she said, snapping her eyes open, “I want this list, right now, and exactly as follows.” She ran through a long sequence of items as the woman nodded rapidly like a chicken trying to peck all the grain before another hen arrived. “I’ll pay extra if you can have it in my hands and just as I said it to you, in twenty long breaths.”

The woman ran from jar to jar, plant to plant, drawer to drawer and arrived, trying not to pant, her arms full of bottles and jars and cups and packets and bags, in front of Marra. “It’s all here.”

Marra checked the items and paid her quickly, leaving the young woman smiling and puffing and rearranging her topknot, and elbowed her way through the throng back to Deen and the two men. Frei and Engel both lay curled up side by side, eyes closed, inert. In two small cups, Marra mixed dark and greasy-looking slugs of sour-smelling liquid, handing one to Deen.

Deen‘s nose wrinkled. “This? It stinks like, well, the stuff you put under the arroses.”

“Never mind, fussy. Drink it. Watch me do it first if you think it’s that bad.”

“Fine. You first. Drink mine.” Deen thrust her cup at Marra, who tossed it into her mouth immediately, swallowed, and started to speak.

“See, it’s— it’s— oh, morons!” Marra spat remnants back into the cup. Her eyes and nose both ran. She clutched at her roiling stomach and gasped for breath. Her mouth drooled almost uncontrollably, making her swallow again and again. Her eyes closed, she repeated to herself, Aoriver, Aoriver, come back, please come back. She put one hand against the wall, steadying herself, bending over but afraid her stomach would send the load back the way it had come.

“Marvelous. I’m going to wait until you get results before I drink these droppings,” Deen said. She tapped her foot. Over the street’s pounding chant, Engel moaned.

A bulge grew in Marra‘s brain, down where she usually sensed Aoriver‘s words. The bulge grew until she gripped the sides of her head, afraid it might explode. The bulge changed shape and emitted some odd rumblings and flatulences that forced swashes of color into Marra‘s eyes. Tremors ran through her entire body as if something tickled her everywhere at once. Then: Arrgh. Yezribfil gindelloins khrinh ghe ghe szuenfreyl shnir.

“Aoriver?”

Moora? Marra? I trust I speak with the Queen of Devil Women? At your disposal, my lady. Your obedient handmaiden and spirit, a bit tardy and misshapen, I fear, but nonetheless mostly present and accounted for. Aoriver‘s voice gathered clarity as she spoke.

“Aoriver? I’m glad you’re back. We need you and Oortonel.”

Though I am here, I regret to say that my partner is still in a delicate state and cannot be disturbed just yet.

Marra, without looking at Deen, motioned her to drink.

“You’re kidding. I’m not touching this stuff.”

Marra stamped on Deen‘s big foot.

“Ouch! All right! All right!” The sound of swallowing, then gagging and spitting. “Oh, shit, it’s just like shit, oh, no!”

Is something wrong with her? Do you need me to help?

“Ah, no, not yet. I’ve got other work for you to do.” Marra looked up and pondered. Deen stood, stupefied, staring out over the bouncing oblivious crowd. The drool ran down her new coverall.

Aoriver spoke to Marra. Whoo. What a trip we had out there. My apologies for a late return.

“Did you have that much fun? You’ve never talked like this.”

Fun is such a small word of yours. Such a small word.

A trio of muscular, sweating men in armless coveralls stopped before Deen, beating their tympans and grinning. She giggled, straightened as if coming out of a spell, batted her eyes, and undulated to the beat for a few turns. The men nodded, turned their heads, and moved on. Deen faced Marra, all business. “Oortonel‘s back.”

Ah, Oortonel, my old friend, and since old in our ways is many millenia, this term carries much meaning—

Marra interrupted, turning to the wall and glancing down at Frei and Engel. “We need the help of both of you, right now. One of these guys is dying from a ripped-open gut, and the other one’s got some gene disease, I think.”

Sure. How about the old mouth-to-mouth? Hmm, they’re very nice. You should like this.

“Shut up.” Marra immediately knelt over Engel and put her face close to his. Yes, his mouth did have an interesting curl to it.

Deen‘s hand gripped her shoulder. “Marra, wait. This is a terrible place to do that, it’s taboo during this festival.”

“Oh, no. But can we wait? Let’s get them to the herbal shop, in the back. The owner was happy with me.” Marra stood up.

“Happy with your money, you mean. Let’s try to drag them. Neither one looks very heavy.” They tried and gave up after pulling Frei and Engel about five feet down the crowded street toward the crossing. Raucous chants and wails built a wall around them.

Would you like help? Aoriver‘s words, enunciated so carefully, sounded haughty.

Marra bridled. “What are you offering? Should I see if some of these party-lovers will pitch in, so I have to explain all this? Or shall I just drool some of your stuff on them?”

Crude. No, wouldn’t you prefer a power boost? Then you can just carry them by yourselves.

“Very funny.” In answer, a surge of benevolent lightning raced through Marra that asked her, Well, why not? She bent down, threw Engel‘s arm over her shoulder, and lofted him effortlessly to her back. “Come on, Deen, get the other one.” Deen hesitated, listening to Oortonel, then lifted Frei with just as much ease. Ignoring many goggle-eyed stares, they bobbed with the dancers up to the intersection, and trundled into the herbal shop.

Her wide-eyed look of surprise turning to one of hunger, the shopowner surveyed the men flung over their shoulders. “I don’t know what you did with all that stuff, but do you think you could share your recipe with me? I’ll pay you for it, I’ll pay you very well.” Her pupils dilated as she looked Frei over.

“Maybe later,” Marra replied. “Can you just let us use some backroom space for a few minutes?”

“Now wait, this is Corsang Run,” the woman said. “Do you think I’ll let you break the rules that way? In my shop? And you andros? And what’s wrong with your hair, anyway?” She smirked. “Give me your recipe, though, and I’ll consider it.”

A warm wetness spread down Marra‘s back. Oh, no, there went the new coverall. She turned sideways and hitched Engel‘s body up a little, so the blood showed. “Look at this, and then tell me we can’t use your room to get these guys in better shape. The medicals have got to be crammed with wounded. Okay?”

The woman looked closely at the blood, and turned serious. “Fine. No charge. But,” she said as she led them to a cramped cubby in the rear of the shop, “I’d sure like to get that recipe anyway.” They pushed her firmly out of the little room, closed the door, and laid the men side by side along a heavy table, shoving aside nutrient tanks and bags of seed and fertilizer. Marra got astride Engel, Deen above Frei; opening the mens’ mouths, they plunged to work.

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	ARGUING WITH THE FOXGLOVE 1563 4D In the uncertain Rumchi street light, Marra held the young man, Frei he called himself, by the arms, stood on tiptoe, and looked into his eyes. He wore a battered orange carapiece on his back, the Darko Hejj sign on it; he had propped the ‘piece against the understreet wall to hold himself up. His pupils throbbed, tightening to dots, expanding wide, then narrowing to ovoids. Marra said, “Deen, we’d better find a place for these two, you know?” Wisps of acrid blue smoke layered the air; people had emerged from hiding, some to find the wounded and dead, some to find their places once again in the Run. Deen looked down at the man Frei had named Engel, slumped unconscious against the wall. “You mean you don’t have an antidote for that special recipe you gave our old friends?” “Uhh, no. I hadn’t worked it out after the last time, and then I sort of forgot. It’s got to have anise and bloodwort in it, tincture, and then, well, I never got the next part. That was, my, about five years back, wasn’t it?” Frei clutched his belly in pain and folded, dropping down beside Engel and muttering, “The dreams, they’re red, mouth’s red, my fingers hurt and… He’s been stabbed, the bugs speared him up the street, got to find a—“ Marra squatted down and took his hand. Frei‘s long fingers looked like sausages, bloated between their joints. His nails, gently rounded at their tips, bowed sharply convex at the cuticle, where a deep sharp red stain radiated away from each nail’s growth base. “Deen, I’ve never seen anything like this. Look.” Frei‘s eyes closed. He moaned. Deen pointed to the skin around the cuticle of one finger. “See this? It looks as if the base of the nail is sinking into the finger, or the finger’s flesh is growing up around it.” She reached under Frei‘s hand and took his fingertips. To Marra‘s surprise, the bases of the nails of the fingers she touched seemed to rise in response, slightly out of the enfolding skin. “Marra, it looks like a little claw reflex.” Marra touched one of Frei‘s fingertips. The nail seemed to extend very slightly. “Something’s changing him.” “This one’s in real bad shape,” Deen said, examining Engel. “He’s nearly dead.” Somewhere in one of the nearby streets a bass drumbeat rose among chanting voices. The festival gathered itself for another outing. Three girls, just old enough to begin childbearing, danced past in thin bright-yellow dresses showing long legs, their mouths laughing, their eyes still watchful. Four boys their age, new-cut collechi scar additions still red and swollen on their bare upper arms, followed them, beating tympans and chanting, staring intensely at the three pairs of legs weaving and kicking ahead of them. “Marra, the herbal shop is open again. Do you think you could try to put something together?” “Now? In the middle of all this?” Marra stared around. Nobody paid them any attention. Two men lugged a badly-wounded friend away through growing lines of dancers, his blood leaving a trail of regularly-spaced dots. She called into herself, Aoriver, come back. No response — just like the last time, when— “Yes, Marra. Now. Unless you want to try to get him treated in a long line with all these others. Then he’ll die.” Marra nodded and slithered out among the bodies, heading for the shop. No choice now. When she finally struggled into the shop entrance, the shopkeeper, a young dark-golden woman with chestnut hair woven in a high knot, nodded in anticipation and said, “Did you like the quality of the last ones? I’ve got a special on these guanidaria. And look, all the solvents and ‘zymes are marked down.” “Hold on.” Marra closed her eyes and groped through her own mental garden, where the leaves and flowers socialized and gossiped and spoke to her in their lazy way. The anise had been arguing with the foxglove over season moisture, and they had called the saxifrage to testify, but then Marra had intervened. Anise and bloodwort, no, two different seasons for the two of them, anise in blossom, the wort drying stems at its end of life. The okra, then, chewed and warmed, for inhesion, and— “Here,” she said, snapping her eyes open, “I want this list, right now, and exactly as follows.” She ran through a long sequence of items as the woman nodded rapidly like a chicken trying to peck all the grain before another hen arrived. “I’ll pay extra if you can have it in my hands and just as I said it to you, in twenty long breaths.” The woman ran from jar to jar, plant to plant, drawer to drawer and arrived, trying not to pant, her arms full of bottles and jars and cups and packets and bags, in front of Marra. “It’s all here.” Marra checked the items and paid her quickly, leaving the young woman smiling and puffing and rearranging her topknot, and elbowed her way through the throng back to Deen and the two men. Frei and Engel both lay curled up side by side, eyes closed, inert. In two small cups, Marra mixed dark and greasy-looking slugs of sour-smelling liquid, handing one to Deen. Deen‘s nose wrinkled. “This? It stinks like, well, the stuff you put under the arroses.” “Never mind, fussy. Drink it. Watch me do it first if you think it’s that bad.” “Fine. You first. Drink mine.” Deen thrust her cup at Marra, who tossed it into her mouth immediately, swallowed, and started to speak. “See, it’s— it’s— oh, morons!” Marra spat remnants back into the cup. Her eyes and nose both ran. She clutched at her roiling stomach and gasped for breath. Her mouth drooled almost uncontrollably, making her swallow again and again. Her eyes closed, she repeated to herself, Aoriver, Aoriver, come back, please come back. She put one hand against the wall, steadying herself, bending over but afraid her stomach would send the load back the way it had come. “Marvelous. I’m going to wait until you get results before I drink these droppings,” Deen said. She tapped her foot. Over the street’s pounding chant, Engel moaned. A bulge grew in Marra‘s brain, down where she usually sensed Aoriver‘s words. The bulge grew until she gripped the sides of her head, afraid it might explode. The bulge changed shape and emitted some odd rumblings and flatulences that forced swashes of color into Marra‘s eyes. Tremors ran through her entire body as if something tickled her everywhere at once. Then: Arrgh. Yezribfil gindelloins khrinh ghe ghe szuenfreyl shnir. “Aoriver?” Moora? Marra? I trust I speak with the Queen of Devil Women? At your disposal, my lady. Your obedient handmaiden and spirit, a bit tardy and misshapen, I fear, but nonetheless mostly present and accounted for. Aoriver‘s voice gathered clarity as she spoke. “Aoriver? I’m glad you’re back. We need you and Oortonel.” Though I am here, I regret to say that my partner is still in a delicate state and cannot be disturbed just yet. Marra, without looking at Deen, motioned her to drink. “You’re kidding. I’m not touching this stuff.” Marra stamped on Deen‘s big foot. “Ouch! All right! All right!” The sound of swallowing, then gagging and spitting. “Oh, shit, it’s just like shit, oh, no!” Is something wrong with her? Do you need me to help? “Ah, no, not yet. I’ve got other work for you to do.” Marra looked up and pondered. Deen stood, stupefied, staring out over the bouncing oblivious crowd. The drool ran down her new coverall. Aoriver spoke to Marra. Whoo. What a trip we had out there. My apologies for a late return. “Did you have that much fun? You’ve never talked like this.” Fun is such a small word of yours. Such a small word. A trio of muscular, sweating men in armless coveralls stopped before Deen, beating their tympans and grinning. She giggled, straightened as if coming out of a spell, batted her eyes, and undulated to the beat for a few turns. The men nodded, turned their heads, and moved on. Deen faced Marra, all business. “Oortonel‘s back.” Ah, Oortonel, my old friend, and since old in our ways is many millenia, this term carries much meaning— Marra interrupted, turning to the wall and glancing down at Frei and Engel. “We need the help of both of you, right now. One of these guys is dying from a ripped-open gut, and the other one’s got some gene disease, I think.” Sure. How about the old mouth-to-mouth? Hmm, they’re very nice. You should like this. “Shut up.” Marra immediately knelt over Engel and put her face close to his. Yes, his mouth did have an interesting curl to it. Deen‘s hand gripped her shoulder. “Marra, wait. This is a terrible place to do that, it’s taboo during this festival.” “Oh, no. But can we wait? Let’s get them to the herbal shop, in the back. The owner was happy with me.” Marra stood up. “Happy with your money, you mean. Let’s try to drag them. Neither one looks very heavy.” They tried and gave up after pulling Frei and Engel about five feet down the crowded street toward the crossing. Raucous chants and wails built a wall around them. Would you like help? Aoriver‘s words, enunciated so carefully, sounded haughty. Marra bridled. “What are you offering? Should I see if some of these party-lovers will pitch in, so I have to explain all this? Or shall I just drool some of your stuff on them?” Crude. No, wouldn’t you prefer a power boost? Then you can just carry them by yourselves. “Very funny.” In answer, a surge of benevolent lightning raced through Marra that asked her, Well, why not? She bent down, threw Engel‘s arm over her shoulder, and lofted him effortlessly to her back. “Come on, Deen, get the other one.” Deen hesitated, listening to Oortonel, then lifted Frei with just as much ease. Ignoring many goggle-eyed stares, they bobbed with the dancers up to the intersection, and trundled into the herbal shop. Her wide-eyed look of surprise turning to one of hunger, the shopowner surveyed the men flung over their shoulders. “I don’t know what you did with all that stuff, but do you think you could share your recipe with me? I’ll pay you for it, I’ll pay you very well.” Her pupils dilated as she looked Frei over. “Maybe later,” Marra replied. “Can you just let us use some backroom space for a few minutes?” “Now wait, this is Corsang Run,” the woman said. “Do you think I’ll let you break the rules that way? In my shop? And you andros? And what’s wrong with your hair, anyway?” She smirked. “Give me your recipe, though, and I’ll consider it.” A warm wetness spread down Marra‘s back. Oh, no, there went the new coverall. She turned sideways and hitched Engel‘s body up a little, so the blood showed. “Look at this, and then tell me we can’t use your room to get these guys in better shape. The medicals have got to be crammed with wounded. Okay?” The woman looked closely at the blood, and turned serious. “Fine. No charge. But,” she said as she led them to a cramped cubby in the rear of the shop, “I’d sure like to get that recipe anyway.” They pushed her firmly out of the little room, closed the door, and laid the men side by side along a heavy table, shoving aside nutrient tanks and bags of seed and fertilizer. Marra got astride Engel, Deen above Frei; opening the mens’ mouths, they plunged to work.