THE LONELY STAR (Contd. from BD birthday party)

[mark12_30]

"Nitir, I would be glad to help in any way that I can. Thank you for asking me."

Nitir smiled, and pressed Lindo's hand, and he clasped hers, suddenly missing his own mother, and grateful for Nitir's friendship. She lingered, watching him.

Lindo puzzled over what Nitir might have meant by "Strange visitors". Ancalimon had been odd enough, but Nitir was hinting at someone even more strange than he. Ancalimon had already changed his life, though, and not just by bringing his pony into the camp. Lindo studied Nitir, and thought about hope. He wondered what Ancalimon had said to Nitir in private; she already seemed more hopeful. Lindo wished that his own hope would come soon. He had some more grieving to do first, he knew.

"Do you know what Ancalimon's name means?" Lindo asked Nitir.

She shook her head. "Perhaps Maura knows."

Lindo gazed back at the barrow. Nitir thought he was about to say something, and she waited. But he did not speak. Finally she asked him, "Lindo, what are you thinking?"

He sighed, not wanting to talk, and turned to her. "Why don't you look, and see?"

Nitir was caught by surprise. Did Lindo trust her that much? And did she have the skill to explore his thoughts? She thought of Angara; Angara had always done all the work, presenting her thoughts for Nitir to read, and she had simply accepted it. This was intimidating.

Lindo met her gaze, and replied, "Perhaps today is not a good day to try. But someday soon you can learn."

Nitir watched him. "All right, " she said, "another day. But now answer my question. What are you thinking?"

He shook his head. "I was thinking about what Kemba said this morning, that I am welcome at his table anytime; that he would have been proud to have me in his household, and that he would have called me his son."

"That was kind of him to say, " Nitir smiled.

"I know, " Lindo replied. "But nevertheless, it's very painful. It makes me miss my own parents more. And it only proves to me that Niphredil is-- that I miss her, and that-- that I can't be part of her family now."

"Why?" Nitir asked, baffled.

"Because it wasn't meant to be, " Lindo replied, darkly. "I am meant to stay with the little children, and be separated from Kemba and his family."

"Nonsense! It means nothing of the sort, " Nitir snapped, indignant. "It only means that we haven't understood your needs. If you want to visit Kemba and his family during dinnertime, then we will arrange for that. Perhaps we can even arrange for you to spend the night there sometimes. We will do what we can, Lindo. You only needed to speak."

"Nitir, " he said, "I am not sure that I want to."

"Why wouldn't you?" she replied, and watched him. When he didn't answer, she answered for him. "You can't keep withdrawing, Lindo. Maura wanted you to be with Niphredil's family for a reason. And unless you can convince him otherwise, I still believe that that is for the best. Starting tomorrow night, I want you to spend the dinner hour with Kemba at least once a week, preferably more. We will arrange for someone to watch the little ones during that time."

Lindo studied her, and realised that this was not a request. "Yes, Ma'am, " he replied evenly, and suddenly felt greatly comforted. He smiled at her, and then took one last look at the barrow, and turned to go inside the Workhouse.

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Niphredil's family. He pondered that idea, and knew that it still hurt, and thought that he also knew one reason why. He still had something important to do for Niphredil.

Throughout that day, and the next few days afterward, as he exchanged one child for the next and prevented the teeming herd from crawling where they should not, Lindo's heart hovered over a sleeping form far away, and he sang, now a lullabye, now a lament, now a new song in praise of her gentle beauty that he would never forget. Those who came to visit saw fresh sorrow, but less sharp grief.

Had any visitors stopped by the nursery as evening fell, they might have seen, in Lindo, the beginnings of hope. Lindo studied the little faces that surrounded him all day, and that evening, they took on new meaning and new importance to him.

Perhaps, he thought, I will never have children of my own. But here, in this bleak ruin, daily, I am a father to twenty-one hungry children. Their future is woven with mine.

And perhaps Kemba can teach me how best to father them.

[ August 15, 2002: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]