Riyoon's Rebirth, Chapter V - River of Doubt

            “You should make me your Jeli,” Lapli told me, quite seriously. This came at odds with the way he then nonchalantly slouched against me, head  on my shoulder, as if bold. As prostrate as he was, I could feel a certain rigidness in him as he eyed me, looked away, and eyed me again.
            The Jelis had played for a good while, one song blending into the next the way a stream might join a larger river, resonating with each transformation the way a pale of water might with each drop added. In a word, beautiful. It would have continued longer, I imagined, if I had not been there. Now, much of the younger Istmemwa lounged about whilst some of the adults set to making snacks for the afternoon. Among those resting, myself, and Lapli of course; and Toujou who watched the two of us, oddly silent.
            “My Jeli?” I repeated. I shied away from Lapli some, slow enough so that he would not fall over.
            “Sure,” he beamed. “Every hero needs a Jeli. We’d travel around, and I’d keep track of all the amazing things you do. We’d be like partners!”
            The word brought Ngarobah to mind. The Laganwe. A world away now, it seemed. I shook my head.
            “Well, I’m not exactly sure what you’d sing about,” I told him. “But it’s flattering that you’d offer.”
            “I’m serious, Riyoon-sè!”
            “Forgive Lapli,” Toujou told me then, and for a moment, a hint of smugness held her face. “His energy gets the better of him.”
            “It’s no trouble,” I told her, and it was mostly the truth.
            Lapli looked back and forth between the two of us, exasperated.
            “It’s not your place as a Jeli to declare yourself,” Toujou scolded.
            “You’re just jealous that I asked first!” he shot back.
            “I would never ask,” Toujou assured him. “Because it is not our place.”
            “Not your place?” I looked to her, then to Lapli, neither of whom met my eyes.
            “We don’t get to choose our heroes,” Lapli said finally.
            Toujou watched her brother for a moment, then turned to me. “As Jelis, we follow who we are told, and we honor them by recording their deeds in story and song.”
            “A noble calling,” I told them. Neither seemed to think so in that moment. “But again, I have no grand adventure to share.”
            “Just tell me you’ll think about it,” Lapli pleaded.
            My eyes flicked to Toujou, but she looked elsewhere.
            “Sure,” I said. “I’ll think about it.”

            We sat in the shade, eating bowls of peanut stew, and I was as grateful for the silence as I was for the meal; Lapli took to it, apparently satisfied with my words, or overcome by hunger. Toujou still would not look at me. I was worried about them, and rather suddenly; I couldn’t help but feel I had become an obstacle with my presence, certainly among the Istmemwa. This came at an odd contrast to my feelings of Sik Nati as a whole, where I’d felt quite welcomed. Perhaps the Jelis were different. I thanked my hosts for their performance, their company, their food, and I took my leave.
            I returned to the river and settled there. Now, there were no Chaj-Dlo to part the waters, nor Chaj-Peyi to flatten the earth. I had the company of no one, my only conversation the gentle gurgling as the water rolled over itself- the muted thundering as it fell from one level to another. This was enough, thinking back to the songs and the stories of the Istmemwa, the very serious words Lapli had spoken to me. Though I had briefly struggled under the weight of my share of the harvest, now I felt truly heavy. A physical burden meant nothing. Such weights meant only that we ate, that we prospered, that we lived. Other burdens could not be so simple, and I knew this; I also knew that they meant no harm on their own- that Lapli meant no harm. The grave nature of Toujou’s expression, the nonchalance of Lapli’s actions… these meant that they knew too, or at least they knew something.
             I shut my eyes and surrendered myself to my other senses. The sun was not as warm as I needed it to be. The river, though soothing in its rhythm, did not go deep enough. Perhaps the darkness beneath my eyelids brought to mind the night I had left; it felt so long ago now. Perhaps then they had not thought of it, of what it might mean for me, for other women; doubtless, Lapli had not considered such in making so bold a request. Something had escaped him, I was sure; though I knew not the implications myself with respect to the Jeli. Whatever the case, it was not alright, and it would not be alright if I left things as I were.
             It was not apparent here, however, and while I, newcomer that I was, learned more every day, I still recognized that much escaped me, and likely would for a while. Lapli did not know, and perhaps he never would; but Toujou might. I knew then that I needed to ask her. The chajman as well perhaps. Were there a Laganwe in Sik Nati? Tell-tale signals did not exist among the Chajman, nor the workers of the harvest. Men and women, shoulder to shoulder at every turn, with nothing spoken of places or partners, save the Jeli and their responsibilities. And now, Lapli in that vein, but against tradition.  A good sign, if somewhat tragic. All in all, it seemed daunting. I opened my eyes.
            “Have you resolved yourself?” They asked.
            I’d felt Their presence in a way I could not discern, known it and forgotten it between my concerns until They had spoken. Just as They had spoken precisely when I was ready to hear Them and not a moment sooner.
            “No,” I told them. “I need time. I have questions.”
            Renkou nodded. “Let us meet with the Vwa, then. Perhaps we all will grow in our understanding.”