The Elementalist

3. How Pirates Affect Business & Other Important Aspects of Life-2

“But that’s the thing, Paul: you don’t really know any other emelesiacs besides me.” Unlike Voi, Paul didn’t have an aunt who endlessly babbled on about “primordial energy flows” or “global telepathic networks” or “government conspiracies” from the confines of her mental ward. Paul never had to look a close relative in the eye knowing she’d never belong to the outside world again simply because her condition worsened with time. Paul never had to listen to a madwoman’s fruitless attempts at scrounging for shreds of stability in her deteriorating, increasingly surreal reality.

How much of the general public’s understanding had been mired by ignorance, or urban legend and mysticism? The very idea of the emelesiac had become a societal taboo. “Don’t run with the emelesiac.” “Don’t touch the emelesiac.” “Never kiss a girl who has emelesia.” But perhaps this mentality wasn’t entirely unwarranted; after all, Voi’s condition was as much hereditary as it was genetic.

Paul gave a long sigh. “Look, I know things have been hard for you, Voi, but you can’t give up hope.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll figure something out.”

Voi touched his hand and leaned her head against it, returning a wistful smile. She decided to leave the matter unresolved, bidding farewell to her friends before gathering her belongings. She wandered off behind the hangar, where she’d parked her motorcycle, then pulled on her goggles and her flying cap, kicking the bike stand back. After successfully eliciting a satisfying put-put from the engine, Voi rode home.

From all the dust she was sure to kick up, she was going to need a change of clothes and, perhaps, another bath.

With urche, of course. For now.

* * *

“Ms. Lamónd, the students from the university are here. Shall I—” Voi stopped abruptly at the office door when she noticed how pale the curator’s face was.

The woman held the telephone receiver limply to her ear, her expression petrified with shock. “Yes, thank you,” she said, nodding to someone on the phone. “I’ll do that at once.” She hung up then stared at the telephone blankly, failing to acknowledge Voi.

“Dammoir?” Voi adopted an appropriate accent—a sign of respect towards her elder. Seeing her like this, Voi began to think that the war had finally caught up with the curator.

Marí Lamónd didn’t look terribly old for her age, to be fair. Her hair had begun to grey, yes, though the normally subtle lines in her face seemed more pronounced than usual, due to her state of distress. She’d emigrated from Tryste, Borellia over a decade ago to escape the threat of Haran pirates in their quest for lost treasures of ancient lore. It was here, at the Chandra City Museum of Art, that Marí had found her place as an assistant curator, protector of Western culture and history.

She was now head curator, with Voi as her attendant—not archivist, or assistant, but merely ‘attendant.’

Each day, Voi feigned contentment with receiving calls, booking museum tours, greeting guests, and sometimes assisting the archivists and other assistants in their duties when allowed. Ultimately, however, she yearned to take on more curatorial responsibilities. But no, the stubborn old tart was not yet ready to grant an emelesiac such responsibility, even if Voi had been only three weeks shy of graduating with top marks from a distinguished Borellian liberal arts school.

But Voi’s incomplete education was not the most prominent issue at hand.

Still staring incredulously at the telephone, Curator Lamónd finally answered Voi. “Edwin has been awaiting the arrival of the Savage Women vases for over two hours at the aeroport. He’s been trying to speak with port authorities to figure out what’s going on.”

Voi listened with an expression of alarm. “What did they say?”

“It seems our latest addition to the museum has been… pirated.”

Voi kept her eyes on the curator as she felt blindly for the chair in front of the desk. “Pirated?” She took a seat. “Don’t you mean ‘stolen’?”

“I’m afraid not, Voi.” Dammoir Lamónd massaged her eyes. “Actual pirates,” she spat, “reportedly attacked the airship the vases were being delivered on after crossing into Apexia. Worse yet, the entire ship has seemingly disappeared.”

Voi’s face went numb. If pirates were indeed responsible for the theft, then they’d grown bolder since the war. Apexia had remained virtually untouched by the struggle, providing only auxiliary support to their besieged Borellian allies.

The curator shook her head. “Someone is going to make a nice little profit from those vases on the black market if they aren’t reacquired.”

Voi looked away, knowing what the loss meant to the curator.

The Savage Women collection had been a gift from the Centre d’Art Borellienne di Du Mon. The rare vases had been unearthed about six years ago, during one of the many archaeological excavations that had been taking place in the Borelli Jungle since the turn of the century. These particular vases depicted belligerent scenes of pre-Trysteese life during a time when males and females had formed separate tribes, which continually warred with one another—a discovery that provided valuable insight into the origins of Borellian culture.

For example, scholars had only recently learned from such artifacts that the tradition for Borellian males to maintain their father’s surnames and females those of their mothers came from a history of gender-exclusive tribes. This tradition was unique to Borellian culture—not one typically practiced by the Apexians or the Windi of Windsor. As such, a great sense of pride and strength ran deep amongst both sexes in Borellia.

It rather flattered Voi to think she was a descendant of a long line of female warriors, but even this hadn’t been enough to overcome the shame of being an emelesiac. She raised her gaze from the desk and looked at the curator. “Should I inform the students that we’ll be unable to commence with the tour this evening?”

“No!” Curator Lamónd looked up sharply, appalled by the suggestion. “No, of course not. My gods, the tour must go on.” However, she went back to staring at her desk, seemingly forgetting Voi’s presence again.

“The students… they’re waiting in the lobby, dammoir.” Voi didn’t wish to sound too matter-of-fact, but somebody had to give the tour.

Still, the curator remained motionless in her chair.

“I’ll go and keep them occupied.” As Voi began to leave the room, the curator raised her hand.

“Wait,” she said. “Edwin will be handling things with the authorities, but the curator in Borellia will also need to be made aware of the situation. Perhaps a telegram would be best at this hour? It’s getting rather late.”

Voi said softly, “I could send the telegram, if you’d like.”

“No.” Dammoir Lamónd rose wearily to her feet. “I’ll need you to give the tour, Voi. From one curator to another, I ought to deliver this news myself.”

Voi stared wordlessly with her mouth half-open, for she’d never been given the opportunity to run a tour before. Sure, she’d been left alone to finish up late night filing, close the museum, and even entertain the inquiries of curious laymen who’d wandered in from the streets on a whim. But guiding a group of twelve reasonably astute second-year art history students from Chandra University was something else entirely, as they were all terribly opinionated and newly versed in their subjects.

However, Voi was intimately familiar with the current exhibition’s pieces—a skill honed by continued education through voracious reading and attendance at lectures and other art galleries. The curator wouldn’t put Voi to the task if she thought her incapable of handling it, after all.

Perhaps things were starting to look up for Voi.

“Of course,” she said, nodding. “I’ll see to it right away, dammoir.”

“Thank you.” The curator took full notice of Voi, giving her a smile.

Voi kept her expression neutral, not wanting to seem excessively grateful for this rare appreciation from the curator. Instead, she inclined her head.

With the curator gone, Voi gave an exaggerated sigh as she gazed about the office with a scattered state of mind. “Well, let’s just hope this tour fares better than my last one,” she said, thinking of poor Annie.

She decided to tidy the museum’s patrons and donations records, which the curator had unwittingly left spread out on the desk. After locking the records away in their proper filing cabinets, Voi made sure her hair was pulled into the neatest bun she could muster. She smoothed out her calf-length skirt as well as the collar of her chiffon blouse then stepped out of the office, hurrying down the marble hall with the clickety-clack of her pumps to greet their university guests on time.

Upon noticing the size of the group, however, Voi immediately stopped; more students had arrived since she’d first greeted them. Twelve. He’d said there’d only be twelve… Not so. Voi recounted the numerous young faces that acknowledged her presence.

There were thirty-four of them.

Voi looked at the group’s leader, a dowdy spectacled man who hastily made his way over, providing an explanation. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I know we discussed plans for a much smaller group than this, but the turnout really was poor, given the total size of the class.” He stood a little taller, then folded his hands together as if asserting his authority. “I decided to make the tour an extra credit assignment.”

Of course you did. “I see.” Voi cast a worried glance past the man’s shoulders down the hall. Remembering that the other guides had already left, Voi realized she was destined to bear this burden alone. Suppressing an overwhelming urge to flee, she rubbed her sweaty palms on her skirt. “Well, let’s get started then, shall we?” She smiled then turned around. “Excuse me! Yes, excuse me? Hello! May I have your attention, please?”

Gradually, the students quieted.

Voi surveyed the group, rubbing her hands together. “Hello there, all of you…” She realized she was stalling then cleared her throat. “For those who’ve just arrived, my name is Voi, Miss Voi Román.” She glanced uncertainly at the instructor.

He nodded with an encouraging smile.

One of the students asked whether the curator would be joining.

“Unfortunately,” said Voi, “a situation has developed that the curator must attend to. It appears, then, that I will be giving you all the grand tour this evening.”

Hopefully, she wouldn’t screw it up.