Chapter Chapter Thirty Three

The heart and mind are the only true homes.

Cultivate them, for, at the Great Ending, they may be all you have left.

THE SCROLLS OF VANERA Waiting for Weller Behoola and Brother Ortega arrived at the door to Behoola’s quarters after a short hover-jit ride. She fumbled in her pockets for her keys and nearly dropped them trying to fit the correct one into the lock. “I... I’m sorry,” she mumbled as she opened the door.

Once inside, she switched on the closest oil-globe, closed and locked the door. “Very nice,” Ortega said as he glanced around the well-kept rooms.

“Thank you,” Behoola said, removing her shawl. “Would... would you care for something to drink?”

Brother Ortega held up a hand, a sheepish smile on his face. “Please, Mistress Chaut,” he said. “I too am nervous. This is like nothing I’ve ever done before. It’s quite natural to be uncomfortable and afraid. But we are in this together and I believe your assessment of Simon Weller. He seems to be a good man beneath the guardedness and distrust I sense in him. So, let’s try to relax while we’re waiting.”

“Yes, yes. You’re right.” Behoola sighed, closing her eyes. Waiting for what? “It all just seems so... impossible.”

Ortega sighed. “God knows, that is not too inappropriate a word. But if it will take your mind off things even for just a while, I will have some tea, if you don’t mind.”

“No, no.” Behoola replied, grateful for something to do. “Please, sit down. I have Terran and Senitte. Both green.”

“Senitte, please.”

Hiding her surprise at his choice, Behoola heated up water for the tea on her small cooking unit. With a rueful smile, she realized it had been some time since she had ‘entertained’ someone in her quarters. Ever since she and her father had found Arshelle, it seemed there hadn’t been any time for anything but work and her sister’s care.

Perrano had been his name, a shopkeeper from the market. She had met him right after putting Arshelle into the care of the hospice. He was quick-witted and good-looking and, loath as Behoola was to admit it, she had fallen under his charming spell. Their relationship, though not of a steady nature, had developed to the point where Behoola had felt comfortable telling him about her sister’s condition. She had never seen him again.

And yet here is Weller, an alien, loving Arshelle and risking his life to help. The Spirits do work in strange ways.

“Thank you,” Ortega said as he took the steaming cup of tea from her. Once again, he looked around the room, nodding appreciatively at the flower arrangements and framed prints that dotted the owner’s personal landscape. “I see your bookcases are well filled. I too am a great reader.”

Behoola smiled as she sat down on the cushioned divan across from him. “Yes. I have always loved to read. When I was younger, I had hoped to become a scholar.”

“Ah.”

Behoola looked away, a bitterness she had thought long gone stealing its way back into her heart. Yes. Ah. Her gaze strayed to the shock-lance, now leaning against the arm of Ortega’s chair. “Do you think we’ll have to harm Arshelle? Do you think it will go that far?”

Ortega gazed into his teacup. “I don’t know. I hope not but she is violent and unpredictable.”

“How could this have happened?” Behoola’s eyes began to burn. She put her head down, wringing her hands in her lap. It was if something had broken inside her. Her body heaved with sudden, wracking sobs. “How? How? Oh, Vanera, how?”

Ortega came to her side and knelt in front of her, taking both her hands in his. “Mistress Chaut,” he said. “I fully believe, as do most religious peoples of any faith that I have encountered, that everything happens for a reason.”

“I used to believe that. But now... now...”

“To our eternal frustration, we may never know that reason but, nevertheless, we must trust in what some of your religions deem the Way. I also believe that we will get through this, Mistress Chaut. We will prevail.”

“Behoola,” she said, looking at him with tear-rimmed eyes. “Please call me Behoola. And thank you.”

Ortega smiled and both just sat for a moment, listening to the silence of the room. Ortega spoke first as he rose and returned to his seat. “Is Master Honin-Zay home tonight?”

Behoola wiped her eyes with her fingers. “No. My mistress wouldn’t have arranged this meeting with Master Weller otherwise.”

Ortega pursed his lips. “Do you know why she would have hired Weller if she already knew what her husband was doing?”

Behoola shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense. But I’m sure that apen, Kazrah, had something to do with it. I’ve always suspected him of being evil.”

Ortega glanced at his wrist watch. Behoola noted it was of an old design, not Terran, Senitte perhaps. “Marsha will be calling the Karda soon as planned.”

Behoola suddenly stood up. “Brother Ortega, please excuse me for a moment.” Behoola left the surprised hospice worker with tea in hand and strode quickly to her bedroom. She knelt at the chest at the foot of her bed, unlocked, and opened it.

She rummaged through its contents for a moment and then pulled out a small book, an album of lasepics. She touched it lovingly, almost caressing its beautifully-bound exterior.

Tears sprung to her eyes again as she turned the pages. So long ago, she thought. Mother, Father--so long ago.

Here she was, as a child, playing with Arshelle; here they were again with their parents, vacationing in the mountains; both sisters, smiling and laughing at their combined name-day celebration.

I must be able to reach her somehow, she thought, hugging the book to her chest. Despite the monster she has become, I must break through to the Arshelle that I knew.

She carried the album back into the living room, her heart pounding. “Brother Ortega, I think I have a plan to communicate with my sister.”

Ortega raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“I’m not sure it will work but, when the time comes, I have to try.”

“Yes, but...”

“I know. If it doesn’t work...” She stopped, her breathing fast and heavy. “If it doesn’t work, either Arshelle or I, or both of us, will die.”