by Jane Baskin
“Shsh, now.”
“No.” Kir-ye, her jaw set. Her eye, mean.
Dar-agan: “Yes, cousin, the South is like a different planet, apart from our shared language. But since we can’t kill them all, I guess we have to live with them. As you say, we don’t have to like them.” To the rider: “So they have their hands full. Tell me – Andor, that’s your name, yes? (the rider, nodding) What’s your opinion, Andor, on their raiding capacity this year?”
“My opinion is … is that the raids, if any, will be feeble. But let’s wait on a final judgment. I have more riders coming in. When the last of them are here, we’ll have a more accurate sense of the disruption in the South.”
“Good thinking, Andor. Keep me informed. And thank you and your riders, for your excellent service.”
“Honored, Dar-agan.” Andor the rider, a nod. Turned and left. Dar-agan the clan leader, watching him go. Looking at the proud strong back. Feeling love and pride. We breed beautiful young people, here in the North.
Weeks later: Time to gather the gell. Harvest: always just before real winter. A massive effort. Fortunately, most of those sick with fever: recovered. Apart from the hostage.
Harvest: a time of great community. People coming from all over the far North, clansmen and ordinary folk alike. All riding and camping at the ice fields, in the far North. Temp shelters set up, heated with special electric portables. Hadn’t completed wiring the castle, but made sure to heat every temp at harvest time. Campfires roaring round the clock. Giant ganthas, specially bred for such work, hauling great sleds full of the stuff. Even new motorized sleds; not as powerful as ganthas, but getting better every year. Special tools, like motorized scythes, used to slice off the plants at ice level. Even children helping, loading the shorn leaves into bags, into the wagons. Considered a coming of age ritual for boys and girls alike.
Everyone, taking turns at soldiering. Guarding the perimeter of the group. A miserable job, on the outskirts, scanning for signs of raiders. Cold, lonely work. Even with portable heaters. Each man or woman, each gantha: good for only a day or half a night at a time. Rotated the job, to see it done properly.
At the sound of a warning klaxon: all work stopped. Everyone to arms. But this year: no raiders seen.
Long days, beginning at first light, ending at dusk. Yet … much conviviality around the campfires. Innumerable sleds loaded with food and ale just for the harvest. Children, getting their first tastes of heated ale – a convenient way to get them into camp beds early. Leaving the adults to sit around the fires, munching on roasted meats, swilling warm ale, telling outlandish stories and sexy jokes.
More than one Northern baby, getting its start at harvest time.
Nayan and Noar, taking part of course. Along with their parents, cousins, all the lords and ladies of the other two provinces, all the various castle and mansion residents, outlying farmers and villagers. Che and Colwen’s parents, also present. Cooking the most wonderful broths and vegetable concoctions to go along with roasted meat. Experts in how to quickly heat ale without losing the alcohol. In many ways, stars of the event. Northerners, experts at turning grueling work into fun.
Nayan, occasional thoughts wandering back to the dying girl at Cha-Ning. Wondering if it were over yet.
Hauled back to present reality by Che, again reading his thoughts. Stop thinking depressing crap. She was alive when we left. Maybe she’ll make it.
I don’t suppose it matters.
Apparently it does, to you.
A sigh. It just seems unfair, that’s all.
It is. But so is life. Most of life’s a giant cock-up.
But then Noar, coming up with his jokes, his merry laugh. A large group of young men and women forming. Ale-induced friendship, shared experiences. Tales of raids, becoming more and more fantastical.
One young man from Rhymney, even claiming to have “hypnotized” an enemy raider to drop his rifle in a fight.
Nayan and Che: glances. I believe him.
So do I.
The other young people, just laughing. Nayan, not failing to notice: some, laughing nervously.
Most of the males and females pairing up for “sleep.” Considered wise to sleep in pairs or groups, “for warmth.” And so forth.
Nayan, pairing with the daughter of friends from Rhymney. Had paired with her before, at last year’s harvest. A tall, sleek young woman with long yellow hair. Superior skills at intimacy, her. Hard to suppress his urgent moans, not wanting to be heard through the thin walls of the temp shelter. A silly effort, for the most part. All sorts of sounds coming from young peoples’ tents – and many of the older ones, as well. Nayan, remembering his embarrassment at his parents’ cries, coming from their temp during his first harvest time.
The side-by-side work, the need to fight off raiders together, the campfires, the heightened libido of harvest time: always serving to re-establish the close bonds of Northerners.
No such term as “peasant” in the North. Lords (clan leaders): called “Lord” or “Lady” here and there. More often just referred to by their common names. Those without aristocratic lineage – most people - just called “People” in the North. So different from the South. Had simply evolved this way, over the last thousand years or so.
Work, war, intermarriage, the shared burden of living in a climate where winters were long and summers short. Shared interdependence. The social status so prized in the more populous South: irrelevant here. No need for a peasant revolt. No need for angry peasants. Considered stupid, in the North. Outlandish, even. Most far northerners: could not fathom the concept of social classes.
And the North’s not-so-secret secret: limiting their population. Considered bad form to have more than two children in the far North. In a climate where survival was a constant challenge: wise to limit family size. Even the cities further south, in the temperate zones: self-limiting in size. Maybe a cultural thing, by now. Only Sauran City- the great city on the border of north and south … having a true metropolitan population.
Northerners: truly, a group of isolationists.
So they: hard to conquer. Centuries of raiding and occasional outright war: had never humbled the North. Would never.
Or so they thought.
The harvest: done in just over a week. The unimposing gell, delivered to ice caves at the northern pole, to be processed, preserved, hidden.
These ice caves: a latticework of tunnels and caves under the polar cap. So deep into the crust, the lower levels: some warmth. Fabulously complex; the true extent of them unknown, even to the workers who processed the gell. Completely unknown to all the South and most of the North. The gell deliveries, made only by special envoys. Processed by a handful of workers sworn to secrecy, even from their own families.
A nice secret to have, for territories often under attack.
But. Nayan: just the way he was. Drawn. Every year, drawn like he was a nail and the whole area was a giant magnet.
For the fourth time in four years, volunteering for sentry duty. Volunteering. So that he could ride out. Past the perimeter. To answer the weird call he felt in his gut. Drawing him to a certain place just past the fields themselves. That seemed to call to him from deep beneath the ice. Where he held his gantha still and listened. Just listened.
Something’s here. I know it. And not just the gell caves. Something … important. I can feel it. I know. I know.
Too cold to stay long. Too cold to keep his gantha from dancing to get warm. Turned and rode back to camp. But would come again. And again.
Look. Here he is. Again.
Yes, I see.
Don’t you think it means something?Every year, he comes.
I think he’s sensitive. But it doesn’t mean anything.
(Smile) How cyinical you are! He’s far more sensitive than his civilization’s level of development would suggest.
Precisely. That’s the problem … as we’ve discussed before. Many times before. We’re here too early; you know my op
inion. This civilization has millennia to go before it’s worthy of observation.
Oh, my impatient friend. First of all, we were called to come, at this time.
By the AI? What rubbish. No one’s ever found one of these supposed planetary AI’s.
Because they’re composed of biologics. Over time, they just meld into the planetary materials.
Silly theory.
As good as any. (smile)
So the planet gets a soul.
The planet was born with a soul. They all are. When the AI was absorbed, it got a mind.
(head shakes) So. We were called. Even if you’re right, I still say we’re too early. This civilization is primitive. Their technology –
Don’t judge a civilization by its technology. There are reasons for differing levels. This particular civilization has developed socially far beyond its technology.
Not so in the southern part of the planet, where most of the people live.
We’re not here to observe most of the people.
Who, then?
Why, the seed, of course.
Yes, yes; I’m aware. The seed is far more common in this part of the planet. But … there are wars to come, extinctions … all manner of upsets.
Don’t you see?That’s precisely why we’re here at this time. What we have to observe is how the seed performs under exactly those conditions. Under the stresses of uncivilized acts. Of stupidity. Did it breed true, or not?Are its people better than others, or not?
Nayan, Noar, Che and Colwen. All returning to their rooms at Cha-Ning. Along with their parents. The other lords: home at last, with their own children. The critical time of year, survived once again.
Nayan, flopping onto his big bed. Tired, yes. Being in the cold day and night for two weeks: taxing on the body. His eyes, closing.
A knock at the door. Startled awake. Wondered – hoped? – it was his blonde partner from the harvest. Rarely visited him at home, her. A disappointment for him, that. Starting to like her. A lot. More than a harvest partner. Maybe too much?
Opened the door. Mother. Oh, okay.
She: motioning for him to return to the bed. “I know you’re tired. I just came to give you some news.”
“What news?” Back to the bed, propped on pillows. Mother, sitting on the edge.
“I just came from the girl’s room. Zoren-te, you remember.”
Nayan, a soft laugh. “It’s only been two weeks, Mother. I wouldn’t forget a woman I tried to kill quite that quickly.”
“Good. Well, I came to tell you … she’s not dead.”
Sitting up quickly. “Really? She made it?”
“Possibly. Probably, the doctors say. Her fever broke a few days ago.”
“Gods alive, Mother, that was a long goddamned fever.”
“It was. She was sick for close to three weeks. She’s lost a lot of weight, they say. But she’s been taking food, the last few days. The doctors told me, they didn’t expect her to live. But apparently, she’s a tough little thing.”
Nayan, remembering the girl’s expert use of the knife in close contact; her quick, bold moves – even while sick. “Yes, she is.”
“It’s odd, you know. That she almost died of an illness her own family probably spread here.”
“That thought occurred to me as well.”
A few moments of silence. Then Mother: “You won’t have to fight her again, Nayan.”
“I wouldn’t even if you ordered me to.”
A raised eyebrow from Mother. “Is that so? You’d defy a direct order from your father and me?”
Nodding. “I’m sorry, Mother. But it’s too much like murder.”
“I thought you didn’t like the girl.”
“I don’t like her or dislike her. I resent her being here, that’s all. Okay, I resent it a lot. It shouldn’t have happened.”
“But it did, and you were wise enough to propose a solution.”
“Not one I can live with, as it turns out. Have someone else kill her, if you must.”
A soft laugh from Mother. “I doubt we’d get any volunteers.”
“Have Noar do it.”
The laugh, louder this time. “Your brother could never do such a thing. He’d probably try to seduce her in the middle of a sword fight.”
“He’s welcome to her.”
“Whatever the case, she’ll recuperate here. The rest of Andor’s riders have come in, now. They confirmed the black flags at the keep of Vel. They also confirmed Andor’s opinion that the South won’t be raiding this year … which of course we already know, since there was no trouble at the harvest.”
“They’ll come later, Mother. You know that. The winter force is always lighter. Their major forces always come in the spring.”
“Probably not this year. It appears they have their hands full with another peasant revolt. According to the riders, it’s shaping up to be a big one.”
“Bastards.”
“Most definitely.”
Nayan, pondering the southern economy. Almost entirely agricultural, that. Takes a lot of labor to run. But … why does it have to be peasant labor? Virtual slave labor? Such labor: poor quality. And risky. “I can’t understand why they function the way they do. It doesn’t make any sense.”
A sigh. “Not to us, Nayan. We’ve developed an economy that depends on shared labor and shared wealth. Work here is reliable. We don’t have to worry about managing unhappy people. But our way is as incomprehensible to the South as their way is to us.”
A shrug. “Well, it’s their problem. Idiots.”
Mother, rising to leave. “Oh, one more thing. The girl … I’m afraid we’re stuck with her, for the time being. Your father and I, the other lords … well, everyone. The People, the priest; no one supports killing her. The priest gave us a terrible tongue lashing.”
“I don’t support it myself. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
A warm smile from Ilia-te. “You’re still young enough … that sometimes you speak before you think.”
“Mmn. I guess you’re right. What’ll we do with her, then?”
“I suppose we’ll just keep her. When the time’s right – or possible – we’ll send her home.”
“Have Noar do the delivery.”
Mother’s laugh: always like birdsong. She, chuckling to the door, through the door; the pretty sound trailing after her even after the heavy door was closed and she, far away down the hall.
The after-harvest party, at Rhymney, this year. Nayan, glad of that. A chance to see his blonde paramour again. Kiome-ye, her name. Feeling warm in places, whenever he thought of her.
There. Look. Kiome-ye, over there. Wearing a long dress and cloak, warm burgundy velvet. Her hair, braids and swirls, some pinned up on her head and some, trailing down her back. Northern women: vain of their hair at party times.
Beautiful, this one. Nayan, staring. She, finally noticing him. A warm smile. Came over to him. Nice. Encouraging.
Their conversation: mostly inanities. The way young lovers talk when they have nothing much to say. When all they really want to do is fall into a soft bed together.
Kiome-ye, called away by her parents. Needing help in passing out the heated ale, before it got cold. Not long after, Nayan: called away by his parents as well. To greet their hosts, Lord Augan and Lady Kir-ye. Only polite.
And they, actually relatives. Lord Augan and Lord Dar-agan, cousins. Rhmney and Cha-Ning, actually bound by blood.
Nayan’s cousins, Augan’s daughters: Aterya-te and Alina-ye, joining the conversation. Beautiful young women, both. Unusual red gold hair; reminded him of the girl imprisoned back at Cha-Ning. Oh hell, don’t think about her. It’s a party.
Always liked his cousins. Wild, northern women: warriors, both. Remembered learning to ride with them, racing ganthas over the wide rolling hills of Rhymney Province. Had heard recently that Aterya-te had a serious beau. A fellow student at the medical school in Sauran City. Son of the owner of the most popular saloon i
n Rhymney Castle, or so they said. Wondered if she were considering marriage. Her blushing denials: oh, yes. Confirmed his suspicions. She: a few years older than he. Still somewhat young for marriage; but not out of the realm of possibility.
I’ll bet she marries him within the year.
Stop it, Nayan.
What just happened? What – ?
Looking up at Aterya-te, locking eyes. His face: desperate. Hers: amused.
Don’t be so surprised, Nayan. You’re not the only one.
What?I mean, Che says … but I didn’t believe him.
Silly. Half the people in the far North have the ability, Nayan. Probably half the people in the cities as well. My mother says it’s the gell. Kyrugan and I – and no, we’re not engaged – are designing a study at the medical school. We think it’s hereditary.
Aterya …
Shh. You worry too much.
Nayan … had never forgotten the times Mother forbade him … forget forget forget … But Aterya … my mother told me never to speak of it … she said it was dangerous … people had died for it …
Aterya-te, laughing. Oh, Nayan. Maybe in the South. Where people still believe in witches and goblins. But here in the North …
My mother was very insistent.
She’s scared, Nayan. My parents are pretty quiet about it too. But that’s for old folks. We … I mean young people – uh, modern people – we’re pretty open about it. There are so many of us … and we don’t even have to say it out loud. A grin, a motion of keeping silence. Nayan, thinking of Che …
Talked for a while longer to Aterya-te; also to her “not-fiance” Kyrugan. Talked about their studies on genetics, the new information. Much to think about, that. After a while, returning to the main party.
Seeing at once: Noar, chatting in his usual way … with Kiome-ye. Standing so close to her. An arm, pressed against the wall behind her. Leaning into her.
And she, blushing like a lover.
Nayan, instantly angry. Strode over to the pair.
“Having a good time, Noar? You drunk yet?”
Noar, startled. Stood up straight. “Uh … you know I don’t get drunk very often.”