This one is from Chapter 2. Terrill, a young member of the Vushlu species who has just watched his father's death ritual, is on the way homeward.
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Terrill
should spend this time remembering his father, calling up all the memories he
wanted to preserve. What was his earliest memory of Da?
His
earliest memory of any kind . . . he would have liked a more pleasant one.
Someone had smacked his hand, on the unarmored palm, for making some mess or
other. But he couldn’t remember who had done it. It wouldn’t have been Da, not
for such a young child making a mess. Ma, maybe, in a moment of exasperation.
Or his uncle, visiting.
Terrill
might have been a couple of years older the time Da gave him a ride, telling
him to put his arms around Da’s torso and hold tight, Terrill’s baby legs
splayed wide across Da’s broad back. Da had put just a little bounce in his
gait, enough to be thrilling, but not enough to loosen Terrill’s clasped hands
. . . .
What
arose next was from a few years later, but still from childhood. A hot day, the
hottest so far that year, with the end of the season seeming forever away. Da
going from creek to creek to find the coolest one, and pouring a bucket of
almost-cold water all over Terrill, Terrill gasping in pleasure and relief . .
. .
Another
memory, very different, almost as far back: Terrill standing outside, watching
the sky colors shift from day to night, wondering if the sky looked the same
everywhere, even in the far-off cities where his older siblings wanted to go.
He had turned to go back inside and only then seen Da, walking back and forth,
slowly, in the road a few paces away, his shoulders slumped, a posture Terrill
could not remember having seen before. Something was wrong, and Terrill had no
idea what it was. He had never had the courage to ask about it.
He
would never know.
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