The Boy from Ilysies

by Pearl North

  She stood before them, her arms crossed. “My daughter says you are Singers but not Singers. She says you have news of the Redemption.”

  “We do, madam,” said Siblea, bowing. “It is our honor and our joy to bring you tidings of the Redemption of the Word.” He paused.

  She squinted. Her arms still crossed, she seemed to brace herself as if she would repel them all by herself.

  “We come in peace,” he said, turning to point at their wagon. “Feel free to investigate the wagon; you will find nothing there but food, medicine, and books.”

  She pulled her head back at that and tilted it to the side, her look incredulous, suspicious. “Books?”

  Siblea nodded and spread his hands. “The word is Redeemed, madam. It is our mission now to bring the rich store of knowledge housed in the Libyrinth to every living soul on the Plain of Ayor. We have brought with us copies of the most useful books. They are but a small sampling of what the Libyrinth holds, but we will bring more when possible. In the meantime, we will teach you how to read, and then all of you are invited to come to the Libyrinth to study, any time you wish, for as long as you care to stay.”

  She gave him a long, penetrating look. She glanced at the wagon again. Not taking her eyes off the chorus, she slowly approached the wagon and lifted the tarp. She stared. She dropped the tarp and turned to them again. “Wait here,” she said.

  By now, the others were filtering in from the fields—work-worn men and women who were thin and had faces like the plain itself—windswept and spare. Clearly they struggled to feed themselves in this harsh land. And the Chorus of the Word was going to ask them to help feed the Libyrinth should this quest fail? It seemed indecent. The tallest man was barely bigger than Jan, who was short for a male, and not yet fully grown.

  They wore goatskins, mostly, leggings and tunics. Their tools were made of rock, the wood handles fashioned from the thickest part of the silverleaf bush, its fibers used to tie haft and blade together. They gathered around the fire pit in the middle of the huts and they talked. Occasionally Po made out a word—Singer, book, Redemption.

  At last the woman returned and indicated for them to enter the village circle. Before approaching the village fire, Siblea took out one of the medical kits Burke and Rossiter had assembled. It contained antibiotics, aspirin, Ease, antiseptic, and innoculation patches.

  He presented the medicine to the woman who had greeted them. A man had joined her—presumably her husband. The two of them examined the kit, poking at its contents and holding up one of the patches to examine it more closely. Selene prodded Po in the side. “You’re our medical expert; explain it to them,” she said.

  Caught by surprise, Po swallowed and said, “Uh, that’s an innoculation patch? For the babies? The medicine sinks in through the skin and they won’t get spotted fever.”

  The couple stared at him. The other villagers had stopped what they were doing and gathered around, all of them staring at Po with suspicion.

  “It is the mark of Yammon,” said Siblea.

  “Oh! The mark!” said the man and smiled, nodding. “Thank you!”

  “And that is aspirin,” said Jan, pointing out the small round tablets in their packet of woven leaves.

  “For headaches and muscle aches,” said Hilloa.

  “This is Ease,” said Baris. “For really bad hurts—but be careful with it. Only use a little bit at a time.”

  Po stepped back as the other members of the chorus did his job for him. He hardly even cared that Jan and Baris were showing him up. What difference did it make? The important thing was that the people here understood which medicines to use for what—not who taught them.

  After a few minutes, the little group around the medical kit broke up and the woman who had first greeted them said, “Welcome to our village, wanderers. I am Hana and this is Dov. We are the heads of the village. Thank you for your gift of medicine. Please, sit and share the evening meal with us. You can sleep here tonight, too, if you wish.”

  They sat around the fire in a circle. The goat girl and several other young women disappeared into a hut and returned with platters of pulse, oats, and dried goat meat. The oldest woman in the village handed out stoneware bowls, and everyone helped themselves from the platters and ate with their hands. Afterward the young women took the dishes away and returned again with a large, two-handled ewer. Starting with the head woman, Hana, everyone took a drink and then passed it to the next person. When it came around to Po, he peered inside and saw a milk substance. It smelled sour. He took a sip. It had a very high alcohol content.

  “Fermented goat’s milk,” murmured Jan as he took the ewer from Po. “It’ll knock you on your ass if you’re not careful.”

  Po tried not to notice how relieved he felt that Jan had spoken to him.

  “We haven’t had visitors since my grandmother’s time,” said Hana, after the food and a few more sips from the ewer had relaxed everybody. “You say the Redemption has come. Tell us of it.”

  Siblea spoke first. “As was foretold by Yammon, when he had his great vision, Song liberated Word, and Word and Song became one.”

  “A great golden wing came from the east and spoke the Name of the Ocean to the library of Ayor, and everyone present was integrated,” said Selene.

  “The Last Wind of the World blew a golden ship across the sky to rain blessings down upon all those assembled, and those who received the blessing became as one,” said Jan.

  “Literacy was freed from its state of tyranny, reunited with the Song and made available for everyone, through us, the Chorus of the Word. The Book of the Night returned to us, and we have copied its words and the words of other useful books. We bring them to you, along with the key to understanding them,” said Baris.

  The villagers all stared at them, puzzled.

  “I guess you could say that the Redemption means something different to every person who experienced it,” said Hilloa. “The important part is that we have set aside our differences and commited ourselves to working together for the betterment of all.”

  “What about the fire of purification?” said Hana’s husband, Dov.

  “That was the light,” Siblea said without missing a beat. “The light was the fire and it purified us all without destruction. To continue our mission, to make ourselves worthy of the blessing we’ve received, we travel, to bring the Word to others.”

  Dov leaned forward, pointing at Siblea with a piece of dried goat meat. “And what of this key you speak of? The key to understanding The Book of the Night?”

  “The Book of the Night is a tome of many mysteries,” said Siblea.

  “Do you know how to make Eggs now?” asked an ancient woman on the other side of the fire.

  Siblea tilted his head. “That miracle is yet to come. For though the words of the book are plain to those who have been taught how to read them, their meaning is not always as plain. That is another reason why we bring you copies and we hope that many of you will allow us to instruct you in reading them. The more people who read the book, who meditate upon its wisdom, the more chances there are of comprehending its deepest mysteries.”

  The villagers looked at one another, frowning.

  “You want to teach us to read the book so we can figure out for ourselves how to make Eggs?” said Dov, skeptical.

  Siblea’s eyebrows rose. “That’s one way of looking at it,” he said.

  “Another way is this,” said Selene, glancing at a small boy on the fringes of the circle who was leaning forward, craning his neck to get a better view of them. He had a light in his eye. “The Redemption has made us all brothers and sisters. Once the Chorus of the Word has instructed you, you are every bit as important as any Libyrarian, Singer, Thesian noble, or Ilysian queen. Someone right here in this village might be the one to unravel the secrets of the Ancients.”

  The boy’s eyes were wide, his mouth open. The adults glanced among themselves uncomfortably. At last Hana spoke. “That is a nice thing to say. But
the queen of Ilysies does not have to plow the fields for her food. How are we to have time for reading? It’s all we can do to survive in this barren land.”

  Selene nodded. “Of course, you must do what is necessary to survive. But you sit around the fire at night and tell stories before you go to sleep, don’t you?”

  Reluctantly, they nodded.

  “Then might not you also read to one another?”

  Hana got a thoughtful look. In the back, the boy squirmed. Dov and the old woman and several others scowled, but more of them seemed thoughtful. Dov glanced around and saw this. “But we have not seen these books,” he said. “Perhaps all that you say is a dream tale. Something that would be beautiful, if it were true.”

  Selene looked at Po, Hilloa, Baris, and Jan, and nodded. They each scrambled up from the ground and ran to the cart, bringing back with them armfuls of books. It was now dusk, and the palm-glow-infused pages shone softly. At the sight of this, Hana, Dov, and several other adults jumped to their feet, and the old woman began herding the children into a nearby hut. Someone whispered “witchcraft” in a low, terror-laden voice.

  Po came to a halt, Hilloa and the others doing the same. They stood ten feet from the fire pit, awkward, hearts racing, as the villagers glared at them.

  “Do not fear,” said Siblea. He and Selene remained seated. They could easily be cut down where they sat, and Po saw the old woman come out of the hut with a scythe. But the two oldest members of the chorus just sat there, holding their hands up in reassurance. They would do nothing to protect the others either, if they were attacked. “It is only palm-glow. We know that you must work in the daylight. So we made these for you with the glowing lichen so that you may read them at night.”

  Everyone stood stock-still, assessing the situation. Suddenly the boy with the bright eyes ran out of the hut and came straight for Po. “I want one! I want one!”

  “Lerrit, no!” shouted Hana. Dov ran to grab him as the old woman broke into a sprint, the scythe high over her head. Po dropped the books and fell to his knees. Just like the Barley King, he closed his eyes and bent his head, waiting for the death stroke.

  “Pir! Stop!”

  Po opened his eyes again to see Hana restraining the old woman and Lerrit bent over Dov’s knee, getting the spanking of his life. “Don’t you ever disobey your grandmother!”

  “Mother, it’s all right. Go back in the house. Stay with the children,” said Hana.

  Pir looked at the glowing books all tumbled around Po’s knees, at the other members of the chorus sitting quietly by the fire, and finally at her daughter. “You are too bold, Hana.”

  “That’s what you’ve always said.” Hana’s voice carried resignation, and affection. “But you know I won’t let harm befall us.”

  The old woman nodded at last and retreated inside the hut.

  “We apologize for causing concern,” said Selene, standing now at last. “We should have explained about the palm-glow.”

  The rest of the villagers still eyed the books and the chorus members with suspicion. But Hana came to where Po knelt. “Are you all right, boy? My mother is a terror, isn’t she?”

  Po swallowed and managed a breathy laugh and nodded.

  “Palm-glow, they say. We’ve never seen it. But we’ve heard of the glowing lichen. That’s what makes these pages glow?”

  Why she was asking him, and not Selene, or Siblea, Po had no notion. But he nodded. “Yes, ma’am. The paper is made from silverleaf, with a little of the lichen mixed into it, so it glows. So you can read what’s written on it at night, like”—for once he got it right—“Selene says.” With a new burst of confidence, he went on. “It’s harmless. Can I show you?”

  She nodded. Po picked up a book and got to his feet. He opened it and ran his hands over the softly glowing pages. He held his hand out to her. “See? It doesn’t burn or anything. It just glows. Look.” And he buried his face in the book, rubbing the pages against his cheeks. “Harmless.”

  Hana nodded. She held out her hand and Po gave her the book. She touched one finger to the page. “It’s not even warm,” she said. She looked at Po. “You have an honest face, boy, and you did not run from Pir when she came at you with the scythe. You were willing to die rather than dishonor your cause. I believe you.”

  She turned to the others. “It must be as they say,” she said. “The Redemption has come to pass and now the books glow, purified. We would be fools to turn our backs on the blessing these people offer us.”

  That night they slept near the fire pit for warmth. “How could you just kneel like that?” whispered Baris as they rolled out their pallets. “She was really going to cut you down.”

  Po glanced at him. For once Baris seemed to be genuinely curious, not mocking him. “What else was I going to do?”

  “Not make it easier for her to lop your head off! Run, or fight her. She’s a crone, for Song’s sake; even you could take her.”

  Po stared at Baris. He honestly had no idea what blasphemy he spoke. “It would be unthinkable for me to strike a woman. And she is an old woman. Most worthy of respect.”

  Baris snorted. “Unthinkable? Nothing’s unthinkable. I’ve always wondered why you Ilysian guys don’t rebel. Most of you are bigger and stronger than most of the women. Why do you put up with playing second fiddle?”

  “First of all, our role is important and we’re honored to fulfill it. Secondly, what you describe would require cooperation, and as you may have noticed, males don’t do that very well among themselves. Third—” He stopped.

  “What?” Baris whispered. Everyone else had bedded down and the clearing was quiet now. “What’s third?”

  Po lay listening to everyone’s breathing. When they all sounded like they were asleep, he said, in a voice just barely audible, “There is nothing worse a man can do than harm a woman. One who does that dishonors not only himself but his entire family.”

  “So? What does that mean, dishonor? Could it really be worse than living like a slave?”

  “The man himself is killed, of course. So are his sire, and any brothers and sons he may have. But of course it is understood that the women of his family are the ones truly responsible. His mother, his sisters and daughters, even his grandmother, are branded, and may never have consorts again. It is the end for the entire line.”

  “You sound more troubled by what happens to them than to the men.”

  “It’s very like you to frame it as if men and women can be separated from one another. As if our interests are independent and competing. You don’t understand.”

  “Maybe not. But none of this explains why you knelt.”

  Po couldn’t explain that, except that in that moment, with the embodiment of the Destroyer herself coming at him with the ritual implement, he’d truly felt like the chosen Barley King, blessed with the honor of spilling his blood to bring fertility to the land.

  They stayed in the village a week. By the end of that time, Lerrit and Hana, their two most enthusiastic pupils, understood the alphabet well enough to read most of The Book of the Night and to teach the others. When they finally left, everyone gathered to see them off, waving and asking when they’d be back.

  14

  A Fly Story

  At the next village, the chorus received a very different welcome. While most of the villagers kept to their huts, the head man came and spoke to them. He had a pitchfork in his hand, and from one of the nearby doorways Po caught the gleam of an adze held in readiness. “We don’t want any more trouble,” the head man said.

  “More trouble?” said Selene. “I’m sorry, we don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh, yes you do. Another group of you people were through here two months ago,” said the man. “First you told us that the Singers had been overthrown, and that reading and writing were good now. And then you said we had to learn, but when we got things wrong you got mad and beat us with mind lancets. Then you stole our food. The Singers used to help us, not like you lits. If
this is what the Redemption’s done, then you can keep it.”

  “I don’t know who it was who came to your village before,” said Siblea, “but it wasn’t the Chorus of the Word. We would never strike a student. We are here to help you. We have medicine and books for you. Look.” He showed him the contents of the wagon. Fortunately, in the brightness of midday, the palm-glow didn’t show.

  All the same, the man recoiled. “Are you insane? Those aren’t approved. Get them out of here before we get in trouble!”

  “Approved?”

  “Yes. You should know. There’s a list of books we’re supposed to read and copy, and if we stray from the list, they’ll come back with their mind lancets. My boy is still ill from what your people did to him.”

  They all gaped at the man.

  “I tell you, sir, we are the first expedition of the Chorus of the Word from the Libyrinth. Whoever these other people are, we will do our best to help you fend them off if they return.”

  “You dress the same.”

  “That may be.”

  “We might be able to help your son,” said Hilloa. She glanced at Po. “We have some experience treating the shaking sickness.”

  The man looked at them warily. “I don’t see any mind lancets. Are you hiding them?”

  Siblea stepped aside and gestured at the wagon. “You may search for them. You will not find any weapons.”

  The man did so, pausing as he uncovered the food. “Is that peabea?”

  “Yes,” said Siblea. “We will be happy to share it with you.” He exchanged a glance with Selene. Any hope of the villagers helping to feed the Libyrinth was misplaced.

  The man pursed his lips and scanned the gathered chorus. “Wait here,” he said, and went into one of the huts. They heard arguing, though they couldn’t make out what was said. Finally he emerged again, accompanied by a woman. “Which of you are healers?” she said.

  Po stepped forward. He grabbed Jan by the arm and pulled him along with him.