The Infinity Concerto

by Greg Bear

  Only a few minutes later, they crossed over into the grassy prairie of the Pact Lands, not far from the river. The group made it to the mound by early morning, and Michael went to his hut and collapsed.

  He was shaking. Not until his body had shivered itself free of every vestige of emotion and tremor of memory did he fall over on his side and sleep.

  Outside the hut, Biri stood to face the newly risen sun, holding his small wand high in the air. He then sat on his chosen spot and his head slumped forward. He, too, slept.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Michael sat up and rubbed his eyes; he had felt, rather than heard, Biri’s presence outside his hut. “Yes? What is it?”

  “My wood was delivered last night,” Biri said. “I’ve built my quarters.”

  Michael pushed through the doorway cover. A new hut, little different from his own, sat on the mound about twenty feet away. He was not fully awake and felt awkward in the Sidhe’s presence. “Good.”

  “Before you, I’d never spoken to a human being. I’d never even heard of the Pact Lands until my journey began.”

  Michael’s bowl of porridge waited to one side of his door. He bent over to pick it up and began scooping it into his mouth with two fingers. “Where are you from? I mean, not that it would do me any good to know…I’m pretty ignorant about everything outside the Pact Lands.”

  “Shall we trade stories?” Biri asked. “The Geen Krona believe if we train together, we should behave honorably, and not dispute. I am very interested in where you are from, and how you came here.”

  Michael agreed, and told Biri about his circuitous route to the Realm. Biri nodded at the key points, and frowned when Michael mentioned the figure in the flounced dress. Michael put aside his empty bowl and said, “Now, you.”

  “To the north, across savannahs and beyond Nebchat Len—that’s a lake, almost a sea, very deep—there is a forest called Konhem. That’s where I was born.” He paused, glancing at Michael from the corners of his deep-set eyes. “Do you know much about the Sidhe?”

  Michael shook his head. “Not really.”

  “We are seldom told who our parents are, especially when we’ve been chosen before birth, sometimes before conception, for the priesthood. By tradition, our fathers are ashamed of showing weakness by loving a female and getting her with child. That is why young Sidhe are so rare.” He turned his gaze toward Halftown. “I think there are more Breeds born than Sidhe. At any rate, I’ve never met another Sidhe younger than myself. And our mothers return to their clan after giving birth, leaving the children to be cared for by the Ban Sidhe. They are the Mafoc Mar, the Bag Mothers, clanless females who serve the members of the Maln, the Black Order.” He stopped and sketched a design in the dirt with his wand. When he lifted his wand up, the design rubbed itself out. “Do you understand?”

  “I think so,” Michael said. “I don’t speak Cascar much at all, but I’ve heard of the Ban Sidhe. On Earth, they’re supposed to come and claim the dead.”

  Biri’s ears cocked forward slightly, something Michael had never seen a Breed’s ears do. “The Clanless Bans not in charge of raising young take Sidhe dead to the Arborals, or to their tombs, whichever is willed.”

  “Where is this forest, and the savannah? We met in a forest…”

  “A small forest, just a patch. The savannah—the Plata—stretches around and beyond this patch, to Konhem, the deepest, darkest forest in the Realm. I lived in konhem for a time. Then I was taken into the mountains called Chebal Malen, the Black Mountains. I was given up to Tarax…”

  Biri leaned forward and stared into Michael’s eyes. An extraordinary thing happened. Michael’s view of the mound and the Crane Women’s hut faded and he seemed to stand before the white-haired, black-robed Sidhe, peering up from a low angle. Tarax bent down and took a small, slender hand—his own, or rather Biri’s. That faded—Michael could vaguely see the hut again—and was replaced by the vista of an enormous flat-topped mountain with jagged slopes dusted by swirling drifts of snow. Then he stood on a perfectly flat plain, surfaced with cyclopean blocks of stone stretching for miles on all sides, cloud shadows flowing over the stonework. Ribbons of cloud flew straight up from the slopes on the opposite side. “The Stone Field is not on the highest mountain in the Chebal Malen, but it is very cold and harsh there. Tarax built a four-room caersidh out of stone and I lived there for many seasons while he tutored me. Finally, I was considered worthy and he took me to the Sklassa, the fortress of the Black Order. Until now, I have never known anything else.” He smiled at Michael. “The trip across the forest and savannah was wonderful. I have never seen so much change.”

  “What does a priest do?” Michael asked.

  Biri drew back and sighed. “That I cannot tell you.”

  “I mean, do you attend Adonna, take care of sacrifices, that sort of thing? I’m just curious what—”

  “I cannot tell!” Biri said, standing swiftly. “I’ve spoken too freely already. No human must ever know what happens in the Irall.” He stalked off to his own hut, leaving Michael to ponder Sidhe moods and Sidhe secrets.

  If anything, he thought, it was the Black Order, the Maln, that sounded like it should be kept secret. Was training novices the only thing the Black Order did? Even among the Sidhe, Tarax had been impressive—if only for overshadowing and cowing Alyons.

  The Crane Women walked up the side of the mound opposite Halftown, pushing their knobby knees with their hands as if going up some long, exhausting grade. They cackled softly among themselves and shook their heads. Nare saw Michael sitting on his boulder and straightened sharply, regarding him with large, piercing eyes.

  Their faces are so strange, he thought. So human, but the way their eyes curve up, the way they blink almost from three-quarters to one side…

  Spart called across the mound, “Boy! You’ll come with us today.” He sighed, climbed down from the rock, and reached into the hut for his shoes.

  They walked several miles away from Halftown, due east. He wondered why Biri wasn’t going with them and Coom seemed to hear him think. “Sidhe trains different,” she said. “Share some, not today.” She cackled softly again and Michael felt his neckhair rise.

  “He already knows what you’ll need to learn today,” Spart said. She walked ahead of the rest, holding out her wand and pointing it here and there at the horizon. Soon a mist began to rise, swooping across the river and enveloping them. Spart rejoined the group, and they squatted to rest—all for Michael’s sake, he imagined, since the Crane Women never seemed to tire.

  “Do you remember the color of the flower, boy?” Span asked, shuffling nearer to him and peering intently at his face. She grimaced, wrinkles distorting the snakes and vines tattooed in red and purple across her features.

  “I remember it changing,” he said.

  “What advantage does the Realm give you?” she asked.

  “There are ways to change it.”

  “What is magic, boy?”

  “I… I don’t know. Yet.”

  “Will you ever know?”

  He didn’t answer. Coom came closer, her goosedown hair curling in the mist. Nare stood behind him; he could hear her breathing.

  “Some think the Crane Women will be here forever, training and teaching,” Spart said. “Do you believe that?”

  Michael nodded. “I don’t see why not.”

  Spart chuckled in the back of her throat and pushed her wand into the dirt. “Biri is a curious novice. He made you see today. What do you think of the Sidhe now?”

  “Strange,” Michael said, squinting in a stray shaft of sunlight.

  “Will you ever understand Sidhe, or Breeds?”

  “Probably not,” Michael said.

  “Because you’re human,” Nare offered.

  “No, because you’re Breeds… and he’s Sidhe,” Michael countered, uncertain what he meant.

  “At this stage, your mind is all confusion,” Spart said, tying in to his uncertainty. “You don’t think c
learly. You are slack. You can’t feel what we teach. You spirit is like a limp sail on NebchatLen.”

  “You have sailboats?” Michael asked.

  Spart sighed. “You see? Every breeze pushes you this way and that. Now listen close. We have less time to teach you now. Other tasks await us.” She looked at her companions. “Less time than you think. You must learn quickly. Remember the flower. Remember, the Realm works for you. And you…” She stood. “You have less time.” She pulled a flower from her pouch and dropped it to the ground before him. “What color?”

  “Blue,” he said. He looked up from the flower. The Crane Women were gone. He turned quickly, trying to catch some glimpse of them in the mist. They had deserted him.

  The flower was yellow.

  A deep, bass humming ascended and swept over the grass like the passage of a huge helicopter. The mist swirled and was blown away in translucent spirals. The grass began to fan out and wind scoured at his face.

  Michael walked a few steps backward and came up against a square-cut stone marker about as tall as he was. A few yards away, emerging form the mist, was another. Both had been carved with circled swastikas that faced each other over a stretch of fresh-cropped grass.

  The more the mist cleared, the more obvious it became that a kind of path was aligned between the markers; not a path traveled by horses, people or even carts, however. The grass had not been trampled—only neatly cut short.

  Again came the humming and the sensation of motion overhead. The hair on his arms erected and his whole body tingled.

  Something white wavered at the boundary of the mist, a few dozen feet down the path. It detached itself and swept along, a human-like figure from the waist up, a trailing blur from the waist down. As if Michael didn’t exist, the figure passed by and vanished in the opposite haze.

  The Sidhe of the air, Michael thought—a Meteoral like the one he had seen on the road from Lamia’s house. He picked up his stick and scurried to the edge of the path, where he squatted in the taller grass, shivering, trying to be inconspicuous.

  Several more flew by, the air swirling in their wake. They weren’t immaterial but he could almost see through them. They cast only the vaguest of shadows in the muted sunlight. The tops of their heads floated a good eight feet above the ground, and they seemed in proportion to that height. At first he could not tell whether they had male or female features, but he soon realized they were all female, with slender, hard-edged faces and somber expressions. Soon, a steady stream of Meteorals came down the path, growing more and more distinct as the sun burned away the mist.

  At first, none of them paid him any attention. He tried to hide in the deeper grass, however, and stepped on a dry stick. It snapped loudly. He felt his heart convulse around his blood like a closing fist.

  The stream of Meteorals scattered in all directions. Michael heard whisperings overhead, then all around, as if they had regrouped and were lowering themselves in a surrounding canopy.

  Directly in front of him, the air glimmered and crackled.

  His skin tingled painfully as a rush of white filled his view. He caught a glimpse of a hideous, angry long face drawn into a scream, fingers shaped into claws. His cheek stung and he grabbed it with his hand. His fingers came away bloody.

  “Sed ac, par na antros sed via?” The voices came from all directions, from a hissing multitude, exhaled like a chill wind.

  “You are on a trod,” came a softer, no less menacing single voice right next to his ear. He turned slowly to face a Meteoral stooping in the grass. The grass seemed to pass right through her. He could feel her breathing on him, the breath sweet as ether. “You are the human from the house of the Isomage, no?”

  Michael nodded. His legs froze and pins and needles traveled up his thighs.

  “You should not be here.”

  “The Crane Women—”

  “Have no power over us.” The face shimmered and stretched, becoming even more hideous. The eyes were large, the most substantial things in the face, completely white and without pupils. A hand rose to one side of his head and the fingers stretched and clenched. Blood from Michael’s cheek dripped onto his jacket.

  “They brought me here. Talk to them—”

  “We despise Breeds as much as we despise you.”

  The face vanished. Michael’s legs were too numb to support him. He fell back into the grass and cried out through clenched teeth at the pain as the circulation returned to his legs. He looked down at the spots of blood on his shoulder and the front of his jacket, and saw that his clothing had been neatly sliced to ribbons. The leather of his shoes was in shreds, as well.

  “Help me,” he murmured, crawling away from the trod. He left scraps of cloth behind. “Please help me. God, please take me back…”

  A long ribbon of pearly white formed over his head. He looked up, cringing, and saw a chain of meteorals swooping low above him, each face conveying some new expression of curiosity, anger, irritation, even humor. And with each passage, his clothes became more and more ragged. Their trailing arms drifted over him like smoke, silently slashing, flaying.

  He closed his eyes and leaned on his arms, lowering himself to the ground. He buried his face in the grass, certain he was going to die. He just didn’t want to see it happen. Where were the Crane Women? Had they done all their work, the weeks of training, just to let him be sectioned like bologna in a deli?

  He felt a rush of cold air on his naked back. His jacket and shirt had completely fallen away. The first stab of pain hit him, slow, excruciating, as something moved along his back. No. He felt a burst of anger. God damn them all. Why did everyone have to be so cruel, so full of hate? He didn’t hate them.

  Suddenly, he seemed to be sitting somewhere else, watching but not seeing in the midst of incredible stillness and calm. He had had the same feeling when poetry flowed from his pencil so fast he couldn’t tell where it was coming from.

  It was a kind of looseness, in his hands as much as his head. He watched himself stand, sweep at the air with his stick, grimace. He seemed to be grinning back at the Sidhe hovering around him.

  The stick was little use. He’d have to take advantage of the chaos. Blue flower, yellow, really pink.

  Grass, actually, and air, right here.

  He ran, holding the stick before him, knees parting the hip-high grass smoothly. Part of himself had been left behind like a squid’s decoy cloud of ink. Not magic, but interesting; the Meteorals didn’t seem to notice where he really was.

  Naked, he ran through the sunlight and warm gentle breezes, legs pumping on their own, lungs drawing in and growing, heart strong and leonine. He imagined his heart growling, surrounded by a wind-tossed mane. He imagined himself a glass gazelle, a Sidhe horse turning into a quicksilver blur. The grassland fled beneath him, afraid of his feet; he was the center and the Realm passed under, not the other way around.

  Meteorals flanked him. He dodged. Blue flower, pink.

  Here, he thought in a place below thought, you can reach down and use your mind to accomplish things impossible on Earth. Because Adonna is not a mature god, and the Realm isn’t quite polished. Was that what the Crane Women wanted him to learn?

  He dodged, leaving shadows. The Meteorals were farther away, swirling around one of the shadows like a snow-devil.

  Long after he knew he had escaped, he continued to run. There was no body carrying him, only eyes. He could not feel his muscles, only the stick he held before him. He was the stick, and his body was the comet’s tail of its flight.

  Michael Perrin fell down and rolled, stuffing grass and dirt into his mouth. The stick bruised his ribs. He came up squatting with legs and arms splayed. His head fell forward and his arms went out from under him.

  The whole world was suddenly filled with agony. His body wanted to curl up like ash, his muscles burned so badly. His vision was red and uncertain.

  And he was scared again. His heart was a small, tight snake, not a lion. “God,” he gasped. “God ple
ase.”

  “Quiet.” Spart stood over him, hands on hips, arms elbowed out like bird wings. She bent down and felt his arms and back with a worried frown. He heard Nare and Coom conversing in Cascar to one side.

  “You did well,” Spart said. “Much too well, actually.”

  The agony and fear faded. Is it night?

  No.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Did they want him dead? Why did they leave him between the markers—to put him out of the way, so they could concentrate on Biri? Or was there something else—a conspiracy, perhaps—of which Michael knew nothing?

  When he opened his eyes and stared at the roof of his hut, it all seemed like a dream. In the Realm, however, there was no dreaming… perhaps because one cannot dream within a dream. In the mind, anything can happen. Anything can be accomplished, given control of the milieu. Was that what the Crane Women were trying to tell him?

  Spart leaned over him and peered into his face, making him jump. He hadn’t been aware she was in the hut.

  “I was good, huh?”

  “Survived again,” Spart said laconically. “When you can do what do did at will, you will be acceptable.”

  “What did I do?”

  “Out-seeing. In Cascar, evisa. You threw a shadow. Do you remember what it felt like?”

  He tried to recall the sensation, like picking out the muscles to make ears wriggle. He had never been able to make his ears wriggle, however, or his nose. On Earth, he had often dreamed of flying. It had been so simple to fly: Just by discovering and flexing a certain muscle in his neck and head, he could lift himself from the ground a yard, two yards, higher with more strain. Upon waking, he could never locate the muscle—nor could he now.

  “I’m awake,” he said. Spart pulled her hand away from his chest. “Maybe I’ll just do it when I really need to.” He sat up on his elbows.

  “What if you do not know you need to until it is too late? You are just beginning. Don’t get your hopes up.”