“Thyker,” corrected Saturday. “Quarshes were originally from Phansure. I do not like quarsh eggs. Binny eggs are very good, which is a pity, because the Thykerians don’t eat them at all, do they?”
“Only the High Baidee reject them,” offered Ornice, Lord Multron. “The other people on Thyker eat them.”
Jep sighed. “I guess we didn’t know there were any other people on Thyker but High Baidee. I saw some High Baidee once. They came to the settlement, but they didn’t stay long.”
“They were doing an Ancient Monuments survey,” Saturday informed the Queen. “They were sent by the Native Matters Advisory.”
“Advisories!” snorted the Queen. “Unethical. Unlawful. Bribe-taking advisories. A plague on them.”
“The Religion Advisory has presumed to question our blockade of Voorstod,” explained Ornice. “They wish us to remove it while they consider whether the assassination of Stenta Thilion can be considered a religious matter.”
“Well, of course it can,” said Jep, hotly. “I’ve met the prophet Awateh, and he’s very religious, but he’s also completely off his head. It seems to me religious toleration stops when they intend to kill you or hurt you with it. Africa, that’s my aunt, she always said noninterference was a two-way street.”
“See there!” crowed the Queen. “Isn’t that exactly what I said, Ornice? Exactly!”
“Furthermore,” said Jep, “it seems to me we’ve got a duty to convert the people away from such a religion as quickly as possible. Before they kill anybody else.”
“Ah,” said the Queen. “And is that what you’ve been doing, by any chance.”
Jep looked at his feet, flushing.
“Your Sub … Ma’am,” said Saturday, “would you think it dreadfully impolite of us if we didn’t tell you what we’ve been doing. Shouldn’t, I mean. We can tell you what to expect, if that would be all right.”
“By all means,” said Wilhulmia, intrigued. “What shall we expect.”
Saturday cleared her throat. “Some time fairly soon you should expect some of the people in Voorstod to come to the border and say they want to leave. Jep and I are pretty sure about that. If peace comes to Voorstod, there will be some people who just won’t be able to stand it.”
The Queen looked at her counselor, who returned the look. “People so dedicated to violence that they will not accept any other lifestyle?” she asked.
“Can not,” said Saturday, definitely. “Right, Jep? Can not. It tears something apart inside them.”
“One way of saying it might be that certain people are hardwired,” said Jep. “In our equipment maintenance classes, we have to learn a lot about agricultural machines. Some of our machines can be programmed to do different things. But some others, harvesting machines mostly, are hardwired for plucking or mowing or whatever. Saturday and I think that some people are hardwired a certain way, and they invent religions to go along with the way they are. Like they’re hardwired for bigotry or violence or being ignorant—or maybe ignorance is just a kind of bigotry. People say they don’t want to know a complicated truth, you know, because they already believe something simple, something that’s easier on their minds. Well, then those people convince others, followers, who maybe aren’t hardwired, but who are …”
“Impressionable?” offered the Queen.
Jep nodded. “Born followers, maybe. The followers might be able to change their minds, but the leaders, the hardwired ones, they can’t.”
“And Voorstoders can’t?”
“Some Voorstoders can’t. Probably most of the prophets can’t. That’s why they become prophets. Why would you want to be one, otherwise? Why would you want to scream your head off and threaten people with death and torture and Hell and make women cover themselves up unless you were hardwired for being crazy? The point is, if somebody’s hardwired and you’re not, the only thing he’ll let you be is a follower. If an ordinary person tries to talk to a hardwired person and be nice to him, it doesn’t do any good. It’s like being nice to a fruit-plucking machine. It’ll pluck out your eyes if you get in the way, no matter how fast you talk or how nice you are. Punishment doesn’t work, and talking to them won’t work, and arguing with them won’t work, any more than arguing with a plucking machine would work.”
The Queen cast another significant glance at her counselor. “So, some of these hardwired people will come to the border and ask to leave.”
“Probably,” said Saturday, agreeing to another helping of eggs offered by a liveried serving man. “If it happens, you should send them as far away as you can. If you can’t send them out of the System, then try to send them where there aren’t any people they can hurt. They’ll make slaves out of people if they can. It’s just wired into them, and by now their religion is all set up to make it even worse. It’s never going to come out right unless there’s some race of beings somewhere who like to be made slaves of. Then I suppose it might come out even.”
“I see,” said Wilhulmia, after a considerable pause. “And when will these men come out?”
“Not for a while yet,” said Jep. “How long is the year on Ahabar?”
“Four hundred and three days.”
“Well, probably less than a quarter year from now.”
“And then what?”
“Well, after the men leave, you can remove the blockade. That’s all.”
“And then the Voorstoders will come out and start setting off bombs once more?”
“No. They won’t. Everything will be fine. You’ll build a tomb to Stenta Thilion, maybe in Green Hurrah, a beautiful big one, in her memory. And maybe the people will build a little temple nearby. And that’s all. You might even start talking to the Voorstod people about their becoming part of Ahabar.”
“How do I know this is true?”
“You don’t. We don’t either, really. But from what we know about things … well, it’s what probably will happen. All we can do is wait, and watch. Meantime, you don’t want anybody killed who doesn’t have to be, so don’t kill anybody. Just wait, and watch, and pretty soon it will probably happen the way we said.”
“And you won’t tell us how, or why?”
“I could, but it would be better not to. No, I’m not even sure I could. And I know it’s not a good idea. Putting things into words is sometimes a bad idea. Other people take the words and twist them, and the real thing becomes something else, something it wasn’t intended to be.”
Queen Wilhulmia, who had heard words being twisted during most of her life, understood exactly what they were saying and did not press them. She sent them back to Commander Karth with instructions to keep them safe, watch them closely, and hold everything status quo.
• On Authority, acrimony gave way to violence. The Voorstod prophet assaulted one of the Phansuri sect leaders, and was prevented from killing him only with great difficulty. The Phansuri had merely questioned the ethical basis of the Voorstod idea of God when the prophet had begun frothing at the mouth and demanding that the Phansuri be executed for insults to the Faith.
Rasiel Plum, reminding Notadamdirabong Cringh that he, Rasiel, was only a cat’s-paw in this matter, suggested that the discussions be halted. “They’ll begin coming to meetings armed,” he warned Cringh. “They’ll start killing one another, mark my words.”
Cringh had already come to the same opinion. When the questions were withdrawn from discussion, however, he found to his dismay that it was too late. The entire Advisory had been drawn into the matter, had, as it were, taken sides. Messages had gone to religious bodies on Thyker, on Ahabar, on Phansure. Messages had gone to the Confreres of Theoretical Theology at six universities. A professor emeritus was to speak on the subject at an upcoming interplanetary conference on Faith as a Species-Specific Phenomenon. The matter of “Four Questions Relating to the Departed,” as the whole controversy had been labeled, had already spread far beyond the Advisory and become a subject of dispute by groups throughout the System, including by the Circle of
Scrutators at the Temple of the Overmind. It had thus come to Howdabeen Churry’s attention, and Howdabeen Churry decided the time had come for action.
The prophet who had assaulted the Phansuri was sent home in disgrace, encountered the blockade, and was interred in one of the camps at the rear of the Ahabarian lines, though not before he had passed on certain messages for the prophets inside Voorstod, which he had lately received from certain persons on the moon Enforcement. Overmajor Altabon Faros and Submajor Halibar Ornil had been busy. They had put together the final phoneme, and ultimate success was now within the Awateh’s grasp.
When Commander Karth received a message from the camp director telling the Commander they had a prophet interned, Jep suggested that the prophet not be allowed to return to Voorstod.
“The people inside Voorstod don’t really know what’s happening,” he said. “It’s sneaking up on them. The prophet from Authority might notice the difference or have some new information which could interfere.”
Jep was right in assuming so. He was wrong in assuming that the information had not yet been passed along. The good news from Enforcement had already been received by the Awateh.
• In Voorstod, the underground networks of fragile fiber spun and spun, widening with every passing hour. At a farm above Sarby, a God was Dawn Discovered and raised, and the Gharm began plastering the temple there. In Selmouth there were manifestations, and it was rumored that the Gods of the Gharm, the Tchenka, had visibly returned.
Sam took a job on a farm east of Sarby in order to get the wherewithal to travel south, out of Voorstod, back to the blockade lines. With every person or Gharm who passed, he sent a message as to his whereabouts. Maire, he knew, would be looking for him.
Queen Wilhulmia fretted and tried to be patient, not unaware that there were spies in Ahabar asking questions, for there were usually spies in Ahabar asking questions.
On the moon Enforcement, Altabon Faros cached the recorded phonemes which would make mobilization of the great army possible, prayed to whatever force of mercy there might be in the cosmos, wept yet again for Silene, and went to confer with his colleague.And on Hobbs Land, shallow under the soil, the network of the Gods—which had long since reached the escarpment and made the laborious, slow climb upward through the pillared stone of the ramparts—reached the fertile soil at the top and sped through its moist depths toward the memorial park of the settlers, the memorial park laid out within the arms of great, radiating, thought-to-be-dormant mounds.
SIX
• At home on Thyker, Shan Damzel dreamed of Porsa and screamed.
Volsa came into his room and shook him awake.
“Why are you doing this again?” she asked. “I thought the doctors taught you how not to do this.”
“They taught me self-hypnosis,” Shan gargled, struggling to come awake. “I’ve been … I’ve been too worried about this other thing. It’s hard to concentrate.” He settled himself, almost upright upon his bed, feeling shamed. “I’m supposed to do the exercise each night, before I sleep, particularly when I’m not physically tired, but I keep thinking about this other thing instead.”
“This other thing? Being, I suppose, Hobbs Land?”
“Hobbs Land. Yes.”
“And the matter of the Four Questions, the Hobbs Land Gods.”
He frowned, sulkily. “You’ve heard about that, have you?”
“Hasn’t everyone? What are you afraid of, Shan?”
“I’m afraid … I’m afraid of being swallowed. Being … being inside something suffocating that won’t let go.”
“And you think the Hobbs Land people are inside something that won’t let go?”
He nodded, angrily. No matter what anyone said, he did think so.
“They’re good, remarkably contented people.”
“I don’t care. That’s not the point.”
“What is the point, Shan?”
“If what swallowed them gets off Hobbs Land, it could swallow me too. It could have swallowed me, while I was there!”
She sat beside him for a time. After a while, he fell asleep. There were no more dreams that night.
When he rose in the morning, he went directly to the information stage and demanded, “Find Howdabeen Churry. Tell him I need to see him at once.”
• Sam left the farm near Sarby after working on it for about a hundred twenty days. He was almost sorry to leave. The farm owner was a kindly man, one who had recently cut off his long hair, so he told Sam, because it seemed to get in his way. His wife and children were also good people, in the way that Hobbs Land people were good, in that they worked efficiently, enjoyed life, and were considerate of one another’s feelings.
“I want to go to Cloud,” Sam told the farmer. Sam thought his best chance of getting information about Maire would probably be in Cloud, though he had asked questions of the Gharm in Sarby, to no avail. Nils and Pirva were away, probably creating more Tchenka, so he couldn’t ask them. “What’s the best route to Cloud?”
“I’d stay out of the mountains just now,” he replied. “I keep hearing of bad things up there. Men leaving the towns and going up there, rampaging about. Fighting. Killing each other. I’d stick to the roads if I were you. East from here to Panchy, then take the southwest road out of Panchy around the mountains’ feet down into Bight. Will you want to stop at Scaery?”
Sam thought about it. “Yes. I’d like to stop at Scaery.”
“Well then, you turn east at a place called Bilsville, and that takes you into Scaery. From there, the road runs straight down the coast to Cloudport, and there’s public transport between those two towns. Lots happening in Cloud, I hear.”
“What do you hear?”
“Oh, lots of fulminations. The prophets are unhappy with things, so I’m told. They’re thinking of going back into the mountains, too, and setting up a new county there.”
“What’s made them unhappy?” Sam asked, wanting to know how the farmer saw things.
“No one knows.” The farmer shook his head, a confused, slightly angry expression on his face. “Everybody tells me about it who comes through, but nobody knows why.”
As Sam went east into Panchy, he saw only a few men wearing the big caps of the Cause, and they seemed, by and large, to be either drunk or bewildered. Most of them were headed for the hills, and Sam was grateful the farmer had told him to avoid that route. Panchytown was on the coast, out of his way, so he did not go there, but he heard of Panchytown’s temples from a traveling merchant who gave him a ride into County Odil. “Funny little round buildings,” said the man, shaking his head. “Never seen anything like them.”
There was little traffic on the back road along the mountains, but Sam was lucky enough to get rides to take him through Bight County into Scaery. “Watch yourself,”
said the last driver, as he let Sam out in front of an inn.
“Things are in a mess here in Scaery”
“What kind of mess?” Sam asked.
“The Gharmgods,” said the man. “They’ve invaded the town. They’re marching every night. With the prophets countermarching. On the edge, the prophets. Very vehement, they are. They could do anything. Just watch yourself, that’s all.”
Tchenka? What else could it be? Sam took himself into the inn and got a room facing the street. If there were to be parades, he wanted to see them.
They came after midnight, when the lights of the city were out, down the dark streets in undulant processions. A snake the length of several houses, green as emeralds, with Gharm capering after it, making a happy noise on bells and cymbals and tiny drums. A roof-high bird stalking behind the snake, brooding violet veils of feather sprouting from its wings. And again, Gharm behind, singing.
A gong banged, a trumpet blatted, the snake and bird vanished. Into the street surged a crowd of men with robed prophets leading them. Carrying the symbols of their Cause, whips and banners, they paraded down the street, blowing their trumpets, banging their gongs, screaming in uni
son, “Ire, Iron, and Voorstod.” When they had gone, the green snake came out of an alley and coiled itself before the inn, looking up with glowing turquoise eyes into Sam’s face. Bird and snake moved away to be succeeded by other creatures, who were driven away by the prophets, only to return again. All throughout the night, the Gharm danced, and laughed, and sang, and tum-te-tummed on their tiny drums, making a noise like rain in a dry and thirsty land.
“Coribee,” they cried when they saw Sam watching. “Coribee.”
Sam had breakfast in the inn tavern, meal cakes and cheese and lorsfowl eggs, which he had never eaten before.
“D’ja see the parade?” asked the cook, a bulky woman of uncertain age. “D’ja see that big serpent. Wan’t he somethin’.”
Inspiration struck Sam between one bite of egg and another. “They’ve come as a sign from the Almighty to the prophets,” he said. “That the prophets are to leave this land and go to a new place.”
“I din’ know that,” she said, amazed. “Whafor?”
“Ah, because their work will be accomplished sooner from the new land,” said Sam. “So says Almighty God.”
“I’ll be,” said the cook, shaking her head in amazement. For some time she went on with her work, interrupting herself every now and then to say, “I’ll be.”
“Do you remember Maire Manone?” Sam asked after a time.
“I do,” she said. “I’uz on’y a wee brat when she left, but I ’member those songs of hers. ‘Scaery in the Mist.’ ‘Little Boat.’ ‘Crows Among the Corn.’ We still sing em.”
“Do you know where she lived, when she was here in Scaery?”
The cook didn’t, but she told him who would know. Later, as Sam was going out to find that person, he heard the cook telling a group of workers from nearby buildings that the Almighty was sending a message to the prophets.
“Where’d you hear that?” someone asked.
“It’s the truth,” said the cook. “The prophets know it themselves.”
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