Another little vignette; this time a Zoë story. She sure is a tough nut to crack. Here is my best effort; it’s a bit clunky, and I made up a name or two and some history that might not be quite canon. Apologies if details are amiss.

Most characters borrowed from the Firefly ‘Verse, property of Joss Whedon and Fox. Not profiting, just playin’. All feedback is welcomed! __________________________________________________________________

NOT FORGOTTEN By Nina Clark, 2008.

Ah. So, the moment had ultimately arrived. She stared into the tea, its murky waters reflecting a distant look upon her elegant face. Thoughts stewed around her mind like proverbial tea leaves in a pot, stirred up into turmoil, only to settle at the bottom. I finally forgot, she thought. In the long years since the war, she had had a ritual. A construct of guilt, possibly, in the face of things lost and gained by virtue of her luck and survival. Fanciful, to have let it go on for such an age, but she had clung to it, kept it close. Her bond to something passed.

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In the first days after her release from Genchart, she had made her way to find him. He had left word at the guard-station that he could be found at a boarding house in the Latin Quarter.

At the intersection of two of the town’s less salubrious streets was a house named Saudade. With her battered regulation day-pack swung over her shoulder, she looked up at the building before her. It had endured the rigours of the Alliance occupation thus far unscathed, for despite its slightly run-down, ramshackle appearance it had a kind of proud regality about it.

She felt something at her feet, and looked down at the ginger cat winding its body around her boots. She crouched down to stroke its arching back. It almost raised a smile. Another survivor, she thought, looking back up at the house. In the doorway there now stood a man.

“Made a friend already?” His voice was rough with unspoken emotion, in that hidden way he had.

Her face was set, it must be, they had learned the repression together through long winter nights in hard conditions. He had not seen her for seventy four days, but it seemed longer. Male and female prisoners had been segregated during processing, and the time had dragged for them both, each wondering desperately how the other was being treated, caring little for their own situation. His release had preceded hers by two weeks, both of which he had spent pacing the courtyard at Saudade and making daily calls to his superiors in aid of her liberation.

“Always liked cats. Seem they like me too.” She stood up, her hand tracing the tom’s back and up his tail. It sauntered past the man in the doorway, and disappeared.

Neither moved for a beat, wavering uncertainty hanging in the air between them.

“Sir.” Her voice bore no hint of the joy she felt at seeing him, safe and apparently sound. He was comforted by this, it was their way. Had there been even a tremor, the steadfast bond upon which their fellowship rested would have been thrown into disarray. He was glad of her resolution. It assured him of her strength and stoked his own.

“Now, Zoë, I ain’t your Sergeant no more, all this ‘Sir’n…”

“That ain’t the case, and you know it…Sir.” Her voice was steely, implying her own passionate thoughts on the subject, but at length her full lips unpursed and broke into a bleak if heartfelt smile.

Returning the gesture, he crossed the few steps into the street and embraced her with stoic warmth, a contradiction only soldiers can achieve. She squeezed him back heartily, allowing a fraction of her pleasure at his presence to show, and felt him wince then hide the reveal. Breaking the clinch, her head pulled back, their eyes meeting in a question. She lifted the coarse material of his shirt, batting his objecting hands away, dismissing his protestations in a matronly fashion. She briefly glimpsed an angry wheal covering his left side before he gently took her hands and replaced the material, this time tucking it into his pants. He stepped away from her, and adjusted his belt to keep from meeting her eye.

When he did, he said “It ain’t nothin’…” and raised his eyebrows as if that settled the matter.

“It’s a broken rib, so if that ain’t nothing…” her frown deepened.

“It ain’t. It’s…healing, is all. Not to fret.” He flashed a reassuring eye-crinkle at her, hoping she would drop the subject.

“Ain’t frettin’.” The no-nonsense tone affirmed this.

“No, I figure that ain’t a look I’ve seen on you before. The frettin’..I mean.” This was getting awkward. Sensing his discomfort, she let him off the hook, and turned her gaze upon the house. Grateful for the reprieve, he extended an arm towards it, gesturing to the entrance. “Welcome to Saudade.”

-------------------*--------------------*-------------------*-------------------*-------------------- The landlord was a handsome older man by the name of Dori, his manner warm and convivial. Whilst his Independent leanings meant his establishment was the first port of call for most local Browncoats since the wars end, his ties in the community, both Independent and Alliance, gained Saudade a neutrality of sorts. In the heated political climate, this was a closely guarded treasure, as he explained to Zoë in the entrance hall.

“You are my guest Miss Alleyne, and I your humble host! You are very welcome in my home; Mal has spoken of you often and well. Saudade is a haven if you like, a place of recuperation. These are uncertain times, despite the Alliance’s recent…victory.” All three exchanged a look. The word bred tension. “What I mean to say is, my home is a place for peace.” The look now bore significance.

Thinking he might have overheard the exchange over the broken rib, she levelled her gaze at Dori, and said calmly “Ain’t lookin’ for trouble Mr..”

“Just…Dori.” He smiled at her reserve.

“Dori. Just lookin’ to take my ease for a while and move on.” She nodded a little to affect persuasion.

“Well, I hope you will not think of leaving us too soon. Once again, you are welcome.” The last words he filled with such gentle influence that she could not help but genuinely feel the sentiment.

“I’m grateful.” She nodded again, and looked to Mal, who barked a laugh.

“Alright then! Who’s for a drink?”

***

Saudade’s kitchen was it’s heart. Dori offered a well-worn chair to his new guest, and waved that Mal should sit too. Moving about the room, he gave Zoë a potted history of the house, his ancestral home, which his maternal Grandmother had run as a boarding house after his parent’s death in his childhood.

“This house could tell more stories than a troubadour! Oh my..” he sighed with dramatic flair, “the players these walls have seen. A marvel she still stands!”

Resting her head on one hand comfortably, Zoë let her eyes wander around the ochre walls, over shelves of containers, stores and racks of spices, and evidence of a lifetime of contented habitation. Turning back to her host, she tilted her head further.

“Seems I’ve heard the name before.”

“Dori? Oh, yes, a long line of poets and artisans! Oh…you mean Saudade.” He smiled easily. “Saudade is an ancient word. On Earth-that-Was, it was from the land of my fathers, Brasil. There is no direct translation for it in English, only an approximation, a feeling. It means sadness, longing…and love.”

“Huh.” said Mal. This could get gloomy.

“There was a song?” she closed her eyes, as if trying to recall a distant strain of a melody. Dori’s face took on a remote stare.

“Yes… Maybe later, I will sing it for you.” He started from his reverie, and engaged Mal with an air of involvement. Placing a bottle and three glasses on the table before him, he said “Mal, my friend, would you do the honours?”

Taking the bottle, Mal politely poured meagre shots into each glass, before Dori simultaneously frowning and laughing, waved him to re-pour generous measures.

“Bless you Mal, this is a celebration! We drink to friendship” they clinked their glasses together “ – silver and gold, new and old!” and with that he heaved vigorously on the golden liquid. “Aaahhh…mead! Glorious.”

They passed the time happily, with easy banter, Mal heaping praise on Dori’s hospitality and remarking frequently on his prowess as a first-rate chef.

“What this guy can’t cook, I ain’t eatin’! A veritable feast we had Sunday last. Been more folk passin’ through than I’d know what to do with.”

“Talking of, I think it might be time for another. Mal has been kind enough to help me out since his arrival.”

“Yeah, I imagine he enjoys loitering near food! Well, I’m happy to help too Dori; what can I do?” Zoë pushed back her chair, and rolled up her sleeves.

“No, nooo, dear lady. You have just arrived. I hadn’t Mal slaving for at least three days!”

“That’s just ‘cause I’m a slacker; hell, put her to work!” Mal, having imbibed more than was usual for six-thirty pm, felt like holding court and went to put his feet on the table grandly, thought better of it and opted finally for a nearby chair. Watching the display with pleasure, Zoë threw her head back and laughed, a full-thoated release.

“Now that is glorious.” said Dori, more to himself than to his guests. Louder, he said “Well, my dear, if you wish to be of help I thank-you! I think a pan of boiling water to start, and I shall chop some onions…”

He continued talking to them both, and still chuckling, Zoë took down a hanging pan and moved to the sink. Placing the pan in the basin, her hand alighted on the tap, when she paused.

Slowly she turned the tap and watched the water flow freely into the pan. It struck her suddenly what a wonder this was. A luxury. Fresh, running water. From a tap, a most unremarkable feature of normal life. And yet utterly remarkable. They had had no taps in Serenity Valley, and extremely meagre rations. Just a nearby stream, which had quickly become polluted and undrinkable. Her mind flooded with memories, battles, bodies, deprivation, and desperation, clogging her throat and brimming her eyes.

In that moment she made a silent pact with her memories, to honour them every day. To never take for granted such a miracle as this water. This plenty. Her luck to have made it out, to be here in good company. It seemed important, the water running over her fingers, as they stretched and clenched and tried to grasp the meaning of it all. She would never forget.

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It had infiltrated her life so seamlessly from that day on, that the form it took would differ, grow and change as she did. It was never again an epiphany, as it had been that evening in Dori’s kitchen. It was subtler. The next time had been more intense, as she experienced her first shower as an emancipated woman. There was some bitterness to that despite the physical awe, but that faded.

In time the water ritual became a slight nod of the head, like a prayer, a rite of blessing that went unnoticed by those around her, a private melody played over and over, but always evolving. As with such habits, there came the day when she didn’t give thanks, or make a point to think on the miracle. Quite by chance, it just…slipped her notice.

It wasn’t until halfway through her cup of tea that she realised, and she had literally gasped. What did it mean? Guilt flooded her mind, blowing the event out of all rational proportion. Then, even acknowledging the irrational nature of her feelings about the omission felt like a betrayal. She was not a traditionally religious person, had not suffered the extra burden of a crisis of faith as Mal had. She knew she could not pick up again the torch she had dropped. That would seem wrong.

Grief and finality washed through her, wracking her body with heavy sobs until they turned slowly to laughter and relief. A while later, taking huge steadying breaths, she wiped the tears from her face and placed both her wet hands on the table and smiled. Salt water was her benediction. It was over.