The festival of Madopolōī was a few days later, and although I have no particular reverence for Madopolōī, I do enjoy the prospect of a table full of food. Even in a port city like Edazzo, the Parako have never struck me as a people who are especially gifted in culinary matters. Olive oil and barley are very well in their way, but a certain martial austerity stands gloomily over Edazzo. Nevertheless, Phumalluo is reputed to have a very fine table indeed, and I was looking forward not only to the feast itself, but to seeing how things would turn out with Bekrao and Ripāti.

I did not see Bekrao at first among the servants who were offering perfume to and washing the feet of the guests, but Ripāti was sitting at her father’s side. It was strange that she was not with the ladies in the other room, I thought. Surely Phumalluo wouldn’t put his daughter at risk of Madopolōī’s wrath? My neighbors, whom I did not know and who must have been from some other part of the city, seemed similarly confused. One of them even asked me if I didn’t think that Ripāti was a man made up in a feminine manner. This seemed unfair to Ripāti’s figure, which was not generous but was still clearly that of a woman.

In Edazzo it is the custom to celebrate the reunion of Madopolōī and her children by hiring a bard to sing some portion of the sacred hymns, yet I saw no bard, which made me wonder even more than Ripāti’s presence did. I even considered whether Phumalluo didn’t plan to have Ripāti sing, but dismissed this as absurd. More likely he planned to have us all join in song together, which would be an interesting innovation, though I feared I would face difficulties both in my philosophical convictions and lack of musical ability.

To my immense surprise, when the appropriate time came in the evening, Ripāti stood and produced a lyre. I heard someone drop a plate somewhere behind me, but didn’t pay it much mind at first, being more interested in what Ripāti was doing. But Bekrao startled me by whispering in my ear, “She’s going to sing?”

“Impudent knave,” I declared, enjoying this opportunity to play the tyrannical master. It was alarming how much I enjoyed it, in fact. Edazzo is in many ways a crueler part of the world than where I came from, and I try to avoid letting it change me into something I would prefer not to be. “What are you babbling about? Leave me alone! Does Phumalluo hires lunatics now?”

This seemed to remind Bekrao of the part he himself was playing, and muttering something that I presume was an apology, he left me. I knew he was not such a fool as to approach Ripāti in his disguise, so I sat back again and permitted myself to enjoy the song. As I have mentioned, I cannot always appreciate songs in the way I would like, thanks to the Bird’s interference, but the best of these songs tell stories whose power is undiminished by the loss of artistry in their telling.

It was a new song that Ripāti sang that afternoon: its melody was a familiar one but the story spoke of the gods and their affairs in a strange way. It must have been from the old tablets, though I was never able to find a chance to confirm this theory of mine.

In the story that is usually told concerning Madopolōī and her children, the goddess watches her children with a watchful eye until she is drawn away by a strange bird that the Bountiful Lord created (different stories give different names to this bird). Servants of the Bountiful Lord than rise up from the underworld to drag her children down into the pit. He marries her daughter and makes her son his vizier. Through various forms of trickery he prevents Madopolōī from recovering them, though some say she is permitted to visit them for part of the year: this is a convenient explanation for the seasons. Bereft of her children, Madopolōī waters the earth with her tears and wanders from land to land looking for something to please her again: this is a convenient explanation for the festivals that are held in Edazzo and the rest of the Parako cities.

The story Ripāti told went like this. The Father Above was in love with Madopolōī and in the normal course of things he begot upon her a son and a daughter. The Bountiful Lord saw and seethed with jealousy (in this story he also was in love with Madopolōī, who seemed very popular), so he took a heap of dust and created children for himself from it. These children were of a violent nature and did all kinds of terrible things until finally they seized Madopolōī’s children and served them to the kings of men at a feast. It was this detail that put an end to my appetite, and I would suspect that of my fellow guests also. I maintain that Phumalluo showed an extraordinary lack of consideration for all of us by choosing this song. But I have lost the thread of the story.

The kings of men were outraged and appalled, with good reason, and called upon the Father Above to avenge his children. So the Father Above stirred up the heavy clouds and the deep springs and drowned the earth, which seemed excessive, and I couldn’t help wondering how this story connected with the one Bekrao had drunkenly recounted about the wrath of the gods.

Ripāti concluded her song with a beautiful description of the new world after the flood. It is possible that she had more poetry in store for us, but if she did she was interrupted by Bekrao, who chose that moment to run up to her, fall on his knees, and proclaim his immortal love. I have my doubts as to whether this was part of Yaretzamu’s plan. When I brought it up with Yaretzamu later, he only looked pained.

As my readers can imagine, this caused a great deal of confusion and uproar in Pullamuo’s hall. I expected Phumalluo himself to find his ax and cut off Bekrao’s head, which would have been a distressing end to his story and the feast. Instead Ripāti laughed and said, “Father, someone has fallen into your trap already.”

“What’s that? What did she say?” my neighbor asked.

“I don’t know,” another neighbor replied. “What language was that?”

My Bird does have its advantages, I admit. I considered whether I should have a work with Bekrao, who was standing in the center of the hall looking remarkably pathetic, but was forestalled by Phumalluo’s next words. “He is not such a one as we want, daughter. Release him at once.”

Ripāti knelt and whispered in Bekrao’s ear. He jerked back, as if her words were a stinging fly, and with a bow returned to his supposed work of clearing away our dishes. For the first time I noticed that he was doing a remarkably clumsy job of it. No doubt he would lose his position before the evening was over. I was exceedingly curious to know what Ripāti had said to him to send him away like that, but found no opportunity to speak with him until the end of the feast. Little else of note happened during the feast itself, and even Ripāti withdrew into the other room.

The conversation during the remainder of the dinner was somewhat subdued. We were all bewildered by Ripāti’s song, and Pullamuo did nothing to make the mood more convivial. In fact, he sat watching us all like a cat watching mice until one by one we began to leave, somewhat earlier, I think, than any of us had attended. On my way out, Bekrao caught me by the shoulder and told me that he wanted to talk with me.

“So?” I asked him. “What did she say to you?”

“She said that I wasn’t who she was looking for, and she wasn’t what I was looking for. For some reason I believed her entirely at the time, but I’m not so sure anymore. You heard her sing, didn’t you?”

“Yes, and I didn’t know what to make of it,” I said. “I don’t think I liked it.”

He looked at me as if I had just admitted that I dined on minced infant every evening. “It was beautiful,” he insisted.

“Very well, it was beautiful. But what are you going to do now? Clearly she’s rejected you.”

“I was foolish in my first approach. Why, after all, should she love a random man who interrupts such a beautiful performance as she gave, only to babble nonsense? If I want to win Ripāti, I’ll have to be cleverer than that. Or rather, Yaretzamu will have be cleverer than that.”

Here I took my leave of Bekrao, feeling rather over-stuffed with food and drink as I was. It was no surprise that my dreams were strange and dark, but I do not remember them and doubt it would be necessary to report them if I did. Dreams are often significant portents, but these signified nothing except a heavy meal the preceding evening.

It was with some dread that I anticipated what Bekrao’s plans for his further wooing of Ripāti might be. Dressing up as a servant had already been absurd enough, and my mind was filled with fairly distressing images of Bekrao masquerading as a priest of Adāī, as a woman with beard shaved off, as a clown.

My guests the next day did nothing to relieve my mind. I had barely finished my morning bread when I was accosted by a priest who demanded to know what his son was thinking. I had met Bekrao’s father once or twice, but even though I like to think I have an excellent memory for faces, it took me a moment to recall who he was. “I don’t know,” I said politely and honestly.

“I am a fool to ask you. You don’t even know what you’re thinking most of the time. Come in here, Sāletinai.” And Sāletinai entered, looking meekly down at the ground. I had met her once or twice also, and had rather more pleasant memories of her than of Bekrao’s father. “Look at this poor girl, abandoned by my son.”

This was awkwardly phrased, I thought, and suggested rather indelicate things about Bekrao’s treatment of her. I was pondering how to ask the inevitable question when he asked me if I would spy on Bekrao for him.

“Bekrao is my friend,” I said. “I will not.”

“Just keep him away from Ripāti. That’s all I ask. Remember that I am a priest of Adāī. I know her mantras in my heart. If I ask, I can bring her wrath down upon you.”

“I am not afraid of Adāī.”

“No, I suppose not. In time you will learn better. For now maybe Sāletinai can convince you.”

Sāletinai bowed her head even further than she already had, but she didn’t say anything. I felt sufficiently awkward that it was almost a relief when yet another visitor appeared, a young man who genuflected to us all, to me, to Sāletinai, and to Bekrao’s father, but with a sort of tension in his movements that I admit made me flinch. I couldn’t be sure whether he was going to kneel or strike me.

“Get out of my sight,” said Bekrao’s father. I was impressed by his tone, which struck me as the appropriate one to use when addressing a worm or some such vermin. I wondered if he addressed worms often.

“My uncle wouldn’t be pleased to hear you say that,” the young man said.

“This is not Lord Phumalluo’s affair.”

“But it is mine.” This was very dramatically said. I generally try to avoid paying attention to gossip and who is in love with whom, but all this had piqued my curiosity.

“Adarzamu, no,” whispered Sāletinai. I don’t think Bekrao’s father heard her, which was probably for the best.

“Your son is a drunkard and a wastrel,” said the young man, whose name was Adarzamu if I interpreted Sāletinai’s whisper correctly. “Sāletinai deserves better.”

“Oh?” said Bekrao’s father. “I suppose you think she deserves you? Let her say so, then.” At this he turned his face on Sāletinai. She trembled, understandably so given the expression on his face.

“No,” she said quietly.

“What was that? I didn’t hear you.”

“No,” she repeated. “I will marry your son.”

At this, Adarzamu undid one of his sandals and threw it on the ground in front of Bekrao’s father. “That is what I think of you!” he said. Bekrao’s father only smiled and took Sāletinai by the shoulder.

“And here’s a good daughter-in-law,” he said. This was all very uncomfortable for me, a stranger, and I could only imagine how Sāletinai and Adarzamu felt. I wondered whether it would be good manners to return Adarzamu’s sandal, but he left before I could make up my mind. “As I was saying. Keep Bekrao away from Ripāti. He already has Sāletinai waiting for him.”

It should go without saying that I was not persuaded by these arguments, and indeed inclined to do the opposite. I have my honor and my compassion, and I was not about to watch as three young hopes, or rather, the hopes of three young people, were ruined. (Ripāti’s hopes were and are a mystery to me.)

My worries about Bekrao’s plans returned to me, so I was relieved when I paid him a visit and discovered that Yaretzamu had talked him out of any further schemes involving disguises. “Based on the outcome of her father’s feast, I don’t think it would be prudent to trust Bekrao to govern his passion to the necessary extent,” Yaretzamu said, or something to that effect. I was too busy trying to catch the olives that Bekrao kept throwing at me for some unfathomable reason to listen properly.

“So what do you two have planned?” I asked.

I did not like the looks that the two of them gave me then. I am no fool, so I wished them both a good day and turned to leave.

“Ripāti will of course not allow Bekrao near her, so a substitute must take his place.”

I sighed and explained to them that I was not the man they wanted to plead Bekrao’s cause.

“But your words are always so poetic,” said Bekrao. This was new to me, and I suppose it has to be counted to the Bird’s credit, not mine. “I’m sure that Ripāti will listen to you if you tell her all my good points.” I considered making a joke here, but restrained myself. There are times to joke with a friend and times to help him.

“Indeed, I have often admired the speed of your thoughts,” said Yaretzamu.

While it is true that I can be eloquent and quick-witted on most occasions, this was obvious flattery concocted to convince me to do something I had no intention of doing. I wasn’t sure what Phumalluo and his daughter were up to with those tablets and her song, but I wanted to stay as far away from it as I possibly could. I said this, and although the two of them were obviously disappointed, they accepted my decision. I turned and was about to leave when I almost bumped into a woman with striking yellow hair.

I stammered for several minutes before I was able to put my thoughts into words. “It’s you!” I said.

“Yes, it is,” she replied. “Are you a friend of Bekrao’s? It seems you are everywhere in this city.”

“Not everywhere,” I said wittily.

“What does that mean?” This question of hers puzzled me, as I wasn’t sure what exactly I had meant, only that I had meant it wittily.

“I hate to interrupt this reunion,” said Bekrao, spreading out his arms as if to embrace us both. “I hadn’t realized the two of you knew one another! And I had thought Edazzo was a large city.”

“I never mentioned her to you? I could have sworn I did at least once,” I said. I was, I admit, somewhat displeased by the apparent fact that Bekrao had developed a close acquaintanceship with this woman while she remained almost a stranger to me.

“Probably I was inebriated at the time. In any case, do you have that ring for me, Rosédan?”

“I do,” she said, and slipping one of the rings off her fingers handed it to him.

“If you intend to woo Ripāti by hiding your face, I commend your humility,” I said, bewildered. “If you intend to woo Ripāti as an invisible thief, I condemn your deviousness.”

“Nothing like that!” Bekrao said, and dropped the ring so that Yaretzamu had to pick it up and give it to me for examination. “What do you think this ring does? Explain it to him, Rosédan.”

“It is not a disappearing ring,” she said.

“Or an appearing ring,” I added.

“I made this ring at Bekrao’s request so that he could read the tablets Ripāti took from him,” said Rosédan mildly. It was wonderful to have learned her name at last, and I repeated it silently to myself several times. “You mark the seal on the top?” I did: it was a flat oval with the image of an open eye. “With this ring, Bekrao will be able to see something far away. In this case, those tablets.”

I scratched my chin. It did not seem the most straightforward way for Bekrao to accomplish his aims, but I was not about to criticize any strategy that had brought me to see Rosédan again. “Ingenious,” I said, and returned the ring to Bekrao.

He slipped it on his finger and peered at it intently for a long time before he lifted his gaze and said, “How do I get it to work?”

“Patience,” said Rosédan in a way that I found thrilling. To avoid wearying my readers, I will try to abstain from rapturous accounts of her charms, but they can be assured that said charms were plentiful. “You must concentrate on the tablets and be patient.”

But Bekrao’s patience didn’t last long before he threw his hands up into the air. “No, I must find another way. This makes my head hurt worse than drink.”

“I am sorry it didn’t work right away. You should keep trying with the ring.”

He gave the ring to me instead and asked me to find out if I could see anything in it. “If it works for him, I’ll give you the rest of your payment, Rosédan. But I don’t intend to throw away money on a useless trinket.”

Her eyes flashed. (I am tempted to break the promise I just made to you.) “I do not sell useless trinkets, and I demand my payment.”

“I will give you what he owes,” I said as I examined the ring. “I, at least, trust you.” I stared very hard at the seal on the ring and thought about the tablet I had read before Ripāti took it. For a moment I thought I saw a line of characters in place of the eye, but there is an excellent chance I was deceiving myself. Nevertheless, I doubted Rosédan was a liar, and I resolved to keep trying as often as I found opportunity.

“Thank you,” she said, frowning at Bekrao. As soon as she had left I realized I hadn’t asked her where I could find her, but was cheered by the notion that I could simply ask Bekrao or better, Yaretzamu.

“There,” Bekrao said. “Two plans drowned in the water. I think it’s time for a drink.”

“I think not,” said Yaretzamu. “I have yet a third plan waiting, if you would care to hear it, sir.”

“Oh, go ahead. Let’s see if it stands up any better.”

“It is a sort of combination of the first and the second, using the failures of both to accomplish its aims.”

“Yes, yes, go on.”

Yaretzamu turned to me, and with my keen intuition I felt a shadow fall over me. He was, I could tell, about to say something that I would not like. “You would like to meet the beautiful Rosédan again, wouldn’t you?”

“I would,” I said, though I had the feeling of having stepped into a trap.

“I can tell you where you can meet her.”

“Oh, that’s good.”

“On one condition. You must go to Ripāti and do your best to persuade her to allow Bekrao to court her.”

“All right,” I said. The trap had caught my feet fast. “I’ll do it.”

Bekrao clapped his hands. “That was clever, Yaretzamu!” I found it hard to share his enthusiasm.