Sheri Tepper - Singer From The Sea

by Singer From The Sea(Lit)

  The words went from her like a shot from a great cannon. All tiny, subliminal sounds of the night stopped at once. The song stopped a moment later. A profound and waiting silence pervaded the desert. She leaned against the wall of the circular room, shivering, lips clamped tight shut to prevent any other sound from escaping her, her eyes fixed on the cleat across the room where the coils of the lantern rope were neatly hung.

  The rope was a long one, long enough for the lantern to be lowered to the atrium floor for filling. Which meant it was long enough to bring here, to the outside, and lower over the outer wall. Though the gate was locked, she could climb down the rope and get away! If she didn't want to deal with that sound, she could run!

  She shuddered, blinking angry tears away. Oh, yes, she could run, but she couldn't escape from today, not from Barbara's blind eyes, from the wail of the child, from Willum's sweaty face, his dull, matter-of-fact voice: "Shall I kill it?" His own son!

  Or perhaps not. Knowing Barbara, if Willum had scorned her, she would have accepted passion elsewhere. Had Barbara ever, even for an instant, known what was going on? How long had she been drugged into acceptance? The marriage ritual between nobles required the noble bride to drink from the so-called Cup of Acquiescence. Had Barbara been formally married in that way? Was the drug in that cup? Or did she receive her first dose later, at the wedding supper? Or later still, when she and Willum were alone together? Did all the nobles in Haven use it on their wives, their daughters? Was it routinely served at Mrs. Blessingham's? Did that explain Genevieve's own years of patience and resignation, her lack of rebellion?

  "Oh, I have been so tender," she told herself with scathing self-loathing. "I have been so delicate, so pure. I've been well schooled not to look at ugliness, well trained not to experience life. I've cowered in corners and watched, refusing to take part. All my life I've had these visions and I've let them drift in and out of my mind like cloud pictures, spouting them out on command, all unquestioning. I've gathered information as a child collects shells on a beach, a mere pastime, knowing nothing about them, learning nothing! I loved Barbara, I might have saved her, but I did nothing to keep her from destruction!

  "I've questioned nothing! For all I know, Aufors could have left me in that house in Mahahm just to give the men their chance at me. I could be lying out there on the sand, drugged and dead, blind to it all, deaf to it all! Dovidi could be a drying bundle against my belly for all the good sense I've shown! Now I see what should have been plain all along, and all I can think of doing is to run away!"

  She bit her lip until it bled, tasted the blood, wiped it with her hand and stared stupidly at the dark stain of it as she turned back to the western arch. Here were no white curtains to suggest blown spray, no thrashing foliage to simulate waves. The ocean was present, nonetheless, in great billows of sand half lit by a sailing moon, half concealed by clouds whose scudding shadows lent the illusion of a heaving sea during storm. There was no storm. The clouds were only ragtag edges of a southern squall being swept out to sea. They were not heralds of the great tempest she craved, the cataclysmic event she longed for. She wanted something climactic to happen! Some form of resolution to take place, even a violent one! An end to this! A finality! Something to mark Barbara's passing.

  Now that Willum had provided a candidate for his father, how soon would he remarry? And how much of the truth would he tell Glorieta? Glorieta, who might someday find herself paying someone to hide her daughter or granddaughter, just as the Duchess Alicia had hidden Lyndafal, pretending all the while that she did not know why, that she did not know from whom! But then, women were good at pretending. Women could survive a lifetime on lies, hope, and promises...

  Genevieve had kept her promise. She had done as her mother required, she had gone with Delganor. She had seen what she was supposed to see. She had kept the faith, so now was surely the time to be done with subterfuge and mystery. Now there must be something more, something based on solidity and truth, though at the moment she could not define truth or foresee the results of it.

  Neither the night wind nor the stars offered help. The wind had subsided to a whisper. Even the stars had seemed to still, as though the air that made them twinkle had turned to glass. Far to the west, a constellation swam along the horizon. No. Too low for stars. Very low in the east, on the sands, toward the coast, on that arrow-straight line song-cloven through the dark. On the airship's chart of Mahahm there had been a deep wedge cut into the western side of the land. Given that, and the fact that the western coastline ran diagonally toward the southeast, that cleft might not be far from this refuge. A few hours' steady walk from the sea, a walk made easier, quicker in the chill of night.

  A decided thump on the roof made her flatten herself against the stone. Another thump, then one more, as though something heavy had been shifted. Out on the desert one light in the moving constellation blinked bright, like a nova, once, twice, three times. Another thump from above, then the upper trap door screeched open, and she pressed even more tightly against the wall as long, bare male legs came through the roof, as long arms closed the door above, and a single clad figure climbed down. When he saw the other trap door closed, he turned swiftly, like a man who fears a trap, seeing Genevieve's face clear in the moonlight.

  "Ah," he murmured with a hint of laughter, miming fear as he wiped his forehead on his hand. "My Lady Marchioness. For whom I made such lovely clothing. Who thanked me by wearing very little of it!"

  "Veswees?" she said, wonderingly. "Is that you, Veswees?"

  He laughed, putting his arms about her and thumping her back kindly, as he might thump a friendly dog. "So, you have come to Mahahm and survived. I was worried about you."

  "My friend, Barbara," she cried, "You knew about her. She..."

  "I know," he murmured sadly. "They told me. As my own mother ended, so did she."

  This gave her pause. You were one of the rescued babies," she asked wonderingly,

  He nodded. "There are a good many of us, reared in Galul, but working either in Haven or among the malghaste in Mahahm-qum. Some of us were looking after you."

  "Looking after me?"

  "Um. A footman or two. A coachman. A dressmaker..."

  She shook her head in wonder. "Enid has Barbara's child," she said. "And an old woman named Awhero has my child. And Aufors is gone with the airship."

  "I know, I know." He thumped her again, between the shoulder blades, making a drumlike sound. "Hear that? You are all hollow in there. You have been crying, and your heart is elsewhere, no? You are worried that Aufors is lost, or even worse? That he may be part of this evil? Yes, I know that feeling of doubt. Well, Aufors has no part of it. I know some of those who are involved. I wish I knew them all, for if I did, we would think of some way to destroy them. Aufors I do know, he is commoner through and through, and he has no wicked aspirations."

  "My father?"

  Veswees frowned, shaking his head. "I wish I could tell you he is not, Genevieve. It is true that in Havenor he was so naive that some men joked about it, but since he left Havenor... I don't know. There was a member of the Tribunal in your group, was there not?"

  "Yes. He spent a good deal of time with Father."

  He patted her again. "Then I'm afraid your father was enlightened-if one may call it that. Now. How are you getting along?"

  "I don't know! I'm unsure of everything! While I had Dovidi, I felt quite complete, as though that was all I needed. That must be why some women have babies, over and over. One needn't worry about being anything else. Being a mother is a marvelous excuse for being nothing else. But with Dovidi gone, I feel like an arrow, shot a long time ago, flying all this time in thin air, carried by my own velocity until now I've come down with this great thump, throwing up the dirt, and I have no idea why! I've been up here yelling at myself for being so stupid."

  "You yelled very quietly," he said, pulling her to the opening and pointing away across the desert where the light came closer, larger, breaki
ng into disparate stars. "There is part of the answer. Here come the chieftains of the people of the islands. They come with their warriors and their singers and dancers. Their predecessors were the ones who talked with the depths generations ago. From among them Zenobia, Tenopia, was shot into the air as you were. Perhaps she, too, wondered where her duty lay and what was required of her. Now you may yell at them instead of at yourself. They are coming to hear what you will tell them."

  "About what?" she cried.

  "What we are to do," he replied. "When Zenobia was sent, when Stephanie was sent, the depths told our people that in the fullness of time, Zenobia's daughters would return and tell us what to do. You are the first of those daughters."

  She simply stared at him. "Veswees, since I was tiny, I have been taken to church and taught to be godly. My earliest lessons told me of my soul and of all I had to do for its sake, the meekness, the submission. I have believed... sometimes... that I could feel my soul. There were times in my tower when I heard the nightwind, saw the sky, felt the motion of the trees and felt a kind of joy that was... huge and marvelous. I told myself I was feeling my soul. Now, now they say that what I felt was no personal me-like thing, but something... what?"

  "You already know," he said softly. "You felt something huge and marvelous of which you are part, and in the moments you describe, you forgot yourself for you were one with your world and with the sky above it, and even the stars looking down. There is nothing larger or more wonderful than that. Still, there are those who would prefer self. They will accept any belief, no matter how foolish, if it guarantees them personal immortality. I know people like that. But there are others who know themselves well enough to realize how limiting that is."

  She drew a deep breath. "If I am to help, I would have to believe..."

  He shook her gently, saying, "No, no, dear lady. No one ever has to believe! The universe is, it does not require belief. Do you think it will stop existing if you do not believe? Do you think far galaxies will harbor resentment against you if you do not believe? Do you resent the ant who does not look up and admire you? Never! Your disbelief can kill a world, but not the spirit of life within that world, and to that spirit, the sincere questioner is of more good than a thousand meticulous believers." He laughed.

  She scowled at him, only for a moment. "Veswees, how quickly could you return to Haven?"

  "Very quickly," he said in a dry voice. "More quickly than the Lord Paramount or the Prince might imagine!"

  "You've been ordering equipment from off-world, haven't you? On the Lord Paramount's account."

  "Now how did you know that!"

  "Inference. You have some quick way to go, do you? An airship? Or some kind of powered boat?"

  "I do, yes. I can get there very soon."

  "Then go, my friend, for I am about to tell you something that will be useful to our world. Though I am confused about most things, there is one thing I am sure of. The evil that besets Haven must be ended, and perhaps what I tell you will help to end it, when the time is right

  "And how will I know when that is?"

  "Oh, you will know, Veswees. Believe me, you will know." And she drew him close and murmured into his ear for a long time, while he nodded and nodded, murmuring, "Yes. I can do that. Yes, that can be done."

  When she had finished, he stared at her, mouth open. "You're sure this is right?"

  She laughed softly. "Sure? Oh, Veswees, who of us has time to be sure a thing is right? I am sure it is necessary. Will that do?"

  He leaned forward, kissed her on the forehead, then lifted the trapdoor and went humming down the stair. She did not follow him, for he had given her the idea that she could act on her own, without having to believe anything. He had told her she could decide what needed to be done, and that warranted thinking out.

  She had not really believed Aufors when he had told her she was an intelligent person, though his flattery had pleased her. She knew she was clever, yes, at scholarly things. Able to remember and compare. Able to feed back what had been taught. But intelligent? Or wise? Oh, if only she could believe that she was wise! If she could believe she had spent her life mastering something of value when so much of what she had learned was valueless, even evil! But, if she knew, if she claimed to know, she would have to make herself do all those things she had learned not to do. She would have to speak out, claim much, and spout like a geyser! She would have to assert! Demand! Rally!

  "Genevieve?" Melanie's voice from below.

  "I'm up here," she admitted, just loudly enough to be heard.

  "I know. Veswees said. Will you come down now, or will you be busy thinking?"

  The idea was startling! Busy. Thinking. Was it acceptable to be busy, thinking?

  "Yes," she called, with only the slightest quaver. "I am busy thinking, Melanie. I will be thinking for some time."

  "Later will be fine. There will be a lengthy welcoming ceremony, and the chieftains need to have something to eat and a bit of rest first. Take as much time as you need."

  Genevieve did not ask "first" before what. No doubt Melanie thought that she already knew. She leaned in the embrasure once more, staring at the dawn and thinking of the lichen.

  * * *

  Mankind had always sought cures and reliefs in the local herbage, looking for omens in the shape of a leaf or the color of a pod. A leaf that was shaped and colored like a lung became lungwort, not because it actually cured sick lungs but because it should. A bandage-shaped leaf must be woundwort, a bladder-shaped pod, bladderwort. So the original observer of P'naki-the one who had first seen the lichen's rapid growth in response to blood-must have believed that anything burgeoning like that had to be a treatment for wasting diseases. Such as aging. So, he tried it, perhaps on himself, and the patient lived, and lived, and lived.

  Now that discovery threatened thousands, maybe millions of lives, a fact that was known long ago by the powers that be, whatever they were. Stephanie-Tewhani and her sisters had been sent into Haven to breed up a crop of long-nosed cellar singers, female visionaries, presumably either to come up with or to expedite an answer. Genevieve was apparently one of them. So much effort on her behalf should culminate in an epiphany at least!

  Take a deep breath and await the descending fire.

  Nothing. Not a spark.

  All that enormous effort had to have meant something! Had Mother known what it was for? Certainly Lyndafal had known nothing of what Genevieve had learned. Nor had Alicia. The song-line had failed in that line of descent. Perhaps in other lines as well. Despite all Zenobia's daughters, perhaps it had failed, over and over, leaving only Genevieve to hear the voice in the deep, only Genevieve to reply, only Genevieve who knew what she knew, though only heaven knew what it was good for?

  Did it matter whether she was one or the only one? No. It really made no difference. A duty devolved upon one to the same degree as upon only one, if the one or the only could figure out what it was.

  Now she could see the approaching company in some detail, a dark people, as dark as Stephanie had been, with tattoos on their faces and arms and legs. Their hair was knotted on top of their heads and decorated with sprays of green leaves. The group came toward the refuge in a choreographed movement, those at the center tall, facing forward, those on either side rowing their way across the sands with actual oars, carved and painted, flashing as the sun crept above the horizon. The assembled corps came in the guise of a fabulous ship, and she was reminded of canoes, marvelous canoes hewn from huge trees, with sails made of woven mats, moving across the stars. These were the descendants of the Kaikaukau Whetu, the star swimmers, the servants of those in the deep.

  Of many such thoughts are understandings grown.

  She went from window to window in the tall tower while light flooded the desert, while the nighttime cool leaked away, while the sun skipped into the sky like a released balloon. She saw a black-toothed wheel in the sky to the north, a gyre of carrion birds that plunged a few at a time while other
s assembled from the far hills and the shores of the sea, come to tidy up after the butchers. She put her face into her hands and shed tears once more for Barbara's son, somewhere in the fortress below her, and for her own son, somewhere unknown and unreachable.

  Then she dried her eyes as the gates opened below her. Her mind heard the singing before her ears did, a woman's voice inside the tower singing an invitation: the kai karanga calling to the guests, Haeremai, Haeremai, tvbakaeke mai-welcome, welcome, come forward. She knew that song. Mother had taught her that song.

  A woman from among the visitors sang an equally familiar reply, the karanga whakautu: We are the servants of the spirit, come from far islands to hear the words of the singer.