fine-featured male whom I recognised from the school gates as the parent of one of your friends, a girl named Zadie. He was slim and smooth-skinned, and wore the same look of concern as the other two.
Caige spoke first. He was even more red-faced and blustering than usual, and when I saw what he was holding I knew at once why.
‘This will not stand,’ he said, thrusting the paper towards me. My heart sank. It was a drawing. ‘Experiment or no experiment, we cannot allow this kind of behaviour.’
‘I can explain,’ I said, taking the paper from him and inspecting the sketch. It was somehow different to the one I kept hidden in my balloon, and although it had been some months since I had confiscated that first attempt at art, this seemed unreasonably advanced in terms of its technical skill. It was of a dwelling. The lines were as straight as what they represented, joining with each other at precise points. The were no figures, no clouds, no mountains, and despite the trail of smoke from the chimney, the whole thing seemed cold. I was disappointed.
‘He has only done this once before. I told him not to, but he has a fascination with—’
‘This is not your human’s work,’ spluttered Caige, taking two furious steps towards me. ‘This is an ertling’s!’
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’ He batted the paper with the tips of his fingers. ‘An ertling—’ he puckered as if the approaching word was sour to taste ‘—drew this.’
‘Our ertling,’ said the smooth-skinned male behind him. He slipped a hand through Caige’s arm and they faced me as one.
This was a surprising development. As I have mentioned, gossip does not provide meaningful data to the erta, so the relationships between individuals are neither public nor private; one sees them when one sees them. It was beginning to seem, however, that such relationships existed in greater number—not to mention, variety—than I had first presumed. That Caige and his partner were both male was no great shock, for I had heard that matching genitalia need not be a barrier to emotional or sexual congress, and Payha had already nodded to her preference in this regard. What was surprising was that the smooth-faced, waif-like creature before me was a fourth generation erta, whereas Caige was on the high council.
‘You are Williome,’ I said. ‘Zadie’s father—’ I glanced at Caige ‘—or one of them.’
‘Yes.’ Williome’s eyes were fixed upon the drawing in my hand. ‘It appears that Zadie has made friends with the human.’
With a quiver of his lip, he suddenly reached out and snatched the drawing from me.
‘Why would she do this?’ he cried.
Caige consoled him by tightening his embrace.
‘Because she was copying the boy,’ he said.
My mother spoke.
‘He is quite the artist, it seems.’
She reached inside her cloak and produced a stack of paper bound with string, which she passed it to me. More drawings. The top was of a balloon in the sky, and two figures in the forest beneath it. This was much more like it; I fought back the urge to beam.
Williome, however, fidgeted with disgust.
‘As you can see,’ he said, dismissing the pile as if it were dirt. ‘Zadie’s is far superior.’
My indignation spoke before I could.
‘It may look like a house, but it does not feel like one.’
Caige and Williome scoffed, then re-examined their child’s drawing in silence.
My mother adopted her most gentle tone. ‘Ima, you know how this behaviour is regarded by the erta.’
My eyes were still on the balloon and the bubble beneath. There was a face behind it. The same face. The same eyes.
‘Of course.’
‘Singing in the school yard is one thing, but this.’ She shook her head, began again. ‘In truth, none of us knew whether the child—’
I looked up.
‘His name is Reed.’
The silence gaped for a century, and if it had gone on any longer I believe it would have swallowed us whole.
Neither of those statements is true, of course—but, oh, how I am enjoying these metaphors.
My mother cleared her throat and continued.
‘—whether Reed would exhibit such traits naturally, or whether they were learned through social interaction with other humans. Now it seems that question has been answered. The flaw is hard-wired.’
Williome pierced me with a glare from his pretty eyes.
‘Unless, of course, you taught him.’
‘Of course I did not,’ I said.
‘Or somebody else,’ said Caige from the shadows. ‘As I understand it you are not the only one with whom he spends time outside of school.’