“No,” I said. “Look.”
Far off toward the hills we could see the teeners coming, slowly, clustered together; panthus baskets trailing.
“No failova,” said Lytha as they neared us. She turned her basket up, her face troubled. “No failova and no flahmen. Not a flicker on all the hills where they were so thick last year. Oh, Father, why not? It’s as if the sun hadn’t come up! Something’s wrong.”
“Nothing catastrophic, Lytha.” David comforted her with a smile. “We’ll bring up the matter at the next meeting of the Old Ones. Someone will have the answer. It is unusual, you know.” (Unheard of, he should have said.) “We’ll find out then.” He boosted Eve to his shoulder. “Come on, young ones, the world hasn’t ended. It’s still Gathering Day! I’ll race you to the house. First one there gets six koomatka to eat all by himself! One, two, three—”
Off shot the shrieking, shouting children, Eve’s little heels pummel-ing David’s chest in her excitement. The teeners followed for a short way and then slanted off on some project of their own, waving good-by to ‘Chell and me. We women followed slowly to the house, neither speaking.
I wasn’t surprised to find Simon waiting for me in my room. He sat huddled on my bed, his hands clasping and unclasping and trembling, a fine, quick trembling deeper than muscles and tendons. His face was so white it was almost luminous and the skiff of golden freckles across the bridge of his nose looked metallic.
“Simon?” I touched him briefly on his hair that was so like Thann’s had been.
“Gramma.” His breath caught in a half hiccough. He cleared his throat carefully as though any sudden movement would break something fragile. “Gramma,” he whispered. “I can See!”
“See!” I sat down beside him because my knees suddenly evaporated. “Oh, Simon! You don’t mean—”
“Yes, I do, Gramma.” He rubbed his hands across his eyes. “We had just found the first failova and were wondering what was wrong with it when everything kinda went away and I was—somewhere—Seeing!” He looked up, terrified. “It’s my Gift!”
I gathered the suddenly wildly sobbing child into my arms and held him tightly until his terror spent itself and I felt his withdrawal. I let him go and watched his wet, flushed face dry and pale back to normal.
“Oh, Gramma,” he said, “I don’t want a Gift yet. I’m only ten. David hasn’t found his Gift and he’s twelve already. I don’t want a Gift—especially this one—He closed his eyes and shuddered. “Oh, Gramma, what I’ve seen already! Even the Happy scares me because it’s still in the Presence!”
“It’s not given to many,” I said, at a loss how to comfort him. “Why, Simon, it would take a long journey back to our Befores to find one in our family who was permitted to See. It is an honor—to be able to put aside the curtain of time—”
“I don’t want to!” Simon’s eyes brimmed again. “I don’t think it’s a bit of fun. Do I have to?”
“Do you have to breathe?” I asked him. “You could stop if you wanted to, but your body would die. You can refuse your Gift, but part of you would die—the part of you the Power honors—your place in the Presence—your syllable of the Name.” All this he knew from first consciousness, but I could feel him taking comfort from my words. “Do you realize the People have had no one to See for them since—since—why, clear back to the Peace! And now you are it! Oh, Simon, I am so proud of you!” I laughed at my own upsurge of emotion. “Oh, Simon! May I touch my thrice-honored grandson?”
With a wordless cry, he flung himself into my arms and we clung tightly, tightly, before his deep renouncing withdrawal. He looked at me then and slowly dropped his arms from around my neck, separation in every movement. I could see growing, in the topaz tawniness of his eyes, his new set-apartness. It made me realize anew how close the Presence is to us always and how much nearer Simon was than any of us. Also, naked and trembling in my heart was the recollection that never did the People have one to See for them unless there lay ahead portentous things to See.
Both of us shuttered our eyes and looked away, Simon to veil the eyes that so nearly looked on the Presence, I, lest I be blinded by the Glory reflected in his face.
“Which reminds me,” I said in a resolutely everyday voice, “I will now listen to explanations as to why those six sandals were left on, over, and among your bed this morning.”
“Well,” he said with a tremulous grin, “the red ones are too short—” He turned stricken, realizing eyes to me. “I won’t ever be able to tell anyone anything any more unless the Power wills it!” he cried. Then he grinned again. “And the green ones need the latchets renewed—”
~ * ~
A week later the usual meeting was called and David and I—we were among the Old Ones of our Group—slid into our robes. I felt a pang as I smoothed the shimmering fabric over my hips, pressing pleats in with my thumb and finger to adjust for lost weight. The last time I had worn it was the Festival the year Thann was Called. Since then I hadn’t wanted to attend the routine Group meetings—not without Thann. I hadn’t realized that I was losing weight.
‘Chell clung to David. “I wish now that I were an Old One too,” she said. “I’ve got a nameless worry in the pit of my stomach heavy enough to anchor me for life. Hurry home, you two!”
I looked back as we lifted just before the turnoff. I smiled to see the warm lights begin to well up in the windows. Then my smile died. I felt, too, across my heart the shadow that made ‘Chell feel it was Lighting Time before the stars had broken through the last of the day.
~ * ~
The blow—when it came—was almost physical, so much so that I pressed my hands to my chest, my breath coming hard, trying too late to brace against the shock. David’s sustaining hand was on my arm but I felt the tremor in it, too. Around me I felt my incredulity and disbelief shared by the other Old Ones of the Group.
The Oldest spread his hands as he was deluged by a flood of half-formed questions. “It has been Seen. Already our Home has been altered so far that the failova and flahmen can’t come to blossom. As we accepted the fact that there were no failova and flahmen this year, so we must accept the fact that there will be no more Home for us.”
In the silence that quivered after his words, I could feel the further stricken sag of heartbeats around me, and suddenly my own heart slowed until I wondered if the Power was stilling it now—now—in the midst of this confused fear and bewilderment.
“Then we are all Called?” I couldn’t recognize the choked voice that put the question. “How long before the Power summons us?”
“We are not Called,” said the Oldest. “Only the Home is Called. We—go.”
“Go!” The thought careened from one to another.
“Yes,” said the Oldest. “Away from the Home. Out.”
Life apart from the Home? I slumped. It was too much to be taken in all at once. Then I remembered. Simon! Oh, poor Simon! If he were Seeing clearly already—but of course he was. He was the one who had told the Oldest! No wonder he was terrified! Simon, I said to the Oldest subvocally. Yes, answered the Oldest. Do not communicate to the others. He scarcely can bear the burden now. To have it known would multiply it past his bearing. Keep his secret—completely.
I came back to the awkward whirlpool of thoughts around me.
“But,” stammered someone, speaking what everyone was thinking, “can the People live away from the Home? Wouldn’t we die like uprooted plants?”
“We can live,” said the Oldest. “This we know, as we know that the Home can no longer be our biding place.”
“What’s wrong? What’s happening?” It was Neil—Timmy’s father.
“We don’t know.” The Oldest was shamed. “We have forgotten too much since the Peace to be able to state the mechanics of what is happening, but one of us Sees us go and the Home destroyed, so soon that we have no time to go back to the reasons.”
Since we were all joined in our conference mind, which is partially subvocal, all our protests and arguments a
nd cries were quickly emitted and resolved, leaving us awkwardly trying to plan something of which we had no knowledge of our own.
“If we are to go,” I said, feeling a small spurt of excitement inside my shock, “we’ll have to make again. Make a tool. No, that’s not the word. We have tools still. Man does with tools. No, it’s a—a machine we’ll have to make. Machines do to man. We haven’t been possessed by machines—”
“For generations,” said David. “Not since—” He paused to let our family’s stream of history pour through his mind. “Since Eva-lee’s thrice great-grandfather’s time.”
“Nevertheless,” said the Oldest, “we must make ships.” His tongue was hesitant on the long unused word. “I have been in communication with the other Oldest Ones around the Home. Our Group must make six of them.”
“How can we?” asked Neil. “We have no plans. We don’t know such things any more. We have forgotten almost all of it. But I do know that to break free from the Home would take a pushing something that all of us together couldn’t supply.”
“We will have the—the fuel,” said the Oldest. “When the time comes. My Befores knew the fuel. We would not need it if only our motivers had developed their Gift fully, but as they did not—
“We must each of us search the Before stream of our lives and find the details that we require in this hour of need. By the Presence, the Name, and the Power, let us remember.”
The evening sped away almost in silence as each mind opened and became receptive to the flow of racial memory that lay within. All of us partook in a general way of that stream that stemmed almost from the dawn of the Home. In particular, each family had some specialized area of the memory in greater degree than the others. From time to time came a sigh or a cry prefacing, “My Befores knew of the metals,” or “Mine of the instruments”—the words were unfamiliar—-”the instruments of pressure and temperature.”
“Mine”—I discovered with a glow—and a sigh—”the final putting together of the shells of ships.”
“Yes,” nodded David, “and also, from my father’s Befores, the settings of the—the—the settings that guide the ship.”
“Navigation,” said Neil’s deep voice. “My Befores knew of the making of the navigation machine yours knew how to set.”
“And all,” I said, “all of this going back to nursery school would have been unnecessary if we hadn’t rested so comfortably so long on the achievements of our Befores!” I felt the indignant withdrawal of some of those about me, but the acquiescence of most of them.
When the evening ended, each of us Old Ones carried not only the burden of the doom of the Home but a part of the past that, in the Quiet Place of each home, must, with the help of the Power, be probed and probed again, until—
“Until—” The Oldest stood suddenly, clutching the table as though he had just realized the enormity of what he was saying. “Until we have the means of leaving the Home—before it becomes a band of dust between the stars—”
~ * ~
Simon and Lytha were waiting up with ‘Chell when David and I returned. At the sight of our faces, Simon slipped into the bedroom and woke Davie and the two crept quietly back into the room. Simon’s thought reached out ahead of him. Did he tell? And mine went out reassuringly. No. And he won’t.
In spite of—or perhaps because of—the excitement that had been building up in me all evening, I felt suddenly drained and weak. I sat down, gropingly, in a chair and pressed my hands to my face. “You tell them, David,” I said, fighting an odd vertigo.
David shivered and swallowed hard. “There were no failova because the Home is being broken up. By next Gathering Day there will be no Home. It is being destroyed. We can’t even say why. We have forgotten too much and there isn’t time to seek out the information now, but long before next Gathering Day, we will be gone—out.”
‘Chell’s breath caught audibly. “No Home!” she said, her eyes widening and darkening. “No Home? Oh, David, don’t joke. Don’t try to scare—”
“It’s true.” My voice had steadied now. “It has been Seen. We must build ships and seek asylum among the stars.” My heart gave a perverse jump of excitement. “The Home will no longer exist. We will be homeless exiles.”
“But the People away from the Home!” ‘Chell’s face puckered, close to tears. “How can we live anywhere else? We are a part of the Home as much as the Home is a part of us. We can’t just amputate—”
“Father!” Lytha’s voice was a little too loud. She said again, “Father, are all of us going together in the same ship?”
“No,” said David. “Each Group by itself.” Lytha relaxed visibly. “Our Group is to have six ships,” he added.
Lytha’s hands tightened. “Who is to go in which ship?”
“It hasn’t been decided yet,” said David, provoked. “How can you worry about a detail like that when the Home, the Home will soon be gone!”
“It’s important,” said Lytha, flushing. “Timmy and I—”
“Oh,” said David. “I’m sorry, Lytha. I didn’t know. The matter will have to be decided when the time comes.”
~ * ~
It didn’t take long for the resiliency of childhood to overcome the shock of the knowledge born on Gathering Day. Young laughter rang as brightly through the hills and meadows as always. But David and ‘Chell clung closer to one another, sharing the heavy burden of leave-taking, as did all the adults of the Home. At times I, too, felt wildly, hopefully, that this was all a bad dream to be awakened from. But other times I had the feeling that this was an awakening. This was the dawn after a long twilight—a long twilight of slanting sun and relaxing shadows. Other times I felt so detached from the whole situation that wonder welled up in me to see the sudden tears, the sudden clutching of familiar things, that had become a sort of pattern among us as realization came and went. And then, there were frightening times when I felt weakness flowing into me like a river—a river that washed all the Home away on a voiceless wave. I was almost becoming more engrossed in the puzzle of me than in the puzzle of the dying Home—and I didn’t like it.
David and I went often to Meeting, working with the rest of the Group on the preliminary plans for the ships. One night he leaned across the table to the Oldest and asked, “How do we know how much food will be needed to sustain us until we find asylum?”
The Oldest looked steadily back at him. “We don’t know,” he said. “We don’t know that we will ever find asylum.”
“Don’t know?” David’s eyes were blank with astonishment.
“No,” said the Oldest. “We found no other habitable worlds before the Peace. We have no idea how far we will have to go or if we shall any of us live to see another Home. Each Group is to be assigned to a different sector of the sky. On Crossing Day, we say good-by—possibly forever— to all the other Groups. It may be that only one Ship will plant the seeds of the People upon a new world. It may be that we will all be Called before a new Home is found.”
“Then,” said David, “why don’t we stay here and take our Calling with the Home?”
“Because the Power has said to go. We are given time to go back to the machines. The Power is swinging the gateway to the stars open to us. We must take the gift and do what we can with it. We have no right to deprive our children of any of the years they might have left to them.”
After David relayed the message to ‘Chell, she clenched both her fists tight up against her anguished heart and cried, “We can’t! Oh, David! We can’t! We can’t leave the Home for—for—nowhere! Oh, David!” And she clung to him, wetting his shoulder with her tears.
“We can do what we must do,” he said. “All of the People are sharing this sorrow, so none of us must make the burden any heavier for the others. The children learn their courage from us, ‘Chell. Be a good teacher.” He rocked her close-pressed head, his hand patting her tumbled hair, his troubled eyes seeking mine.
“Mother—” David began—Eva-lee was for every day.<
br />
“Mother, it seems to me that the Presence is pushing us out of the Home deliberately and crumpling it like an empty eggshell so we can’t creep back into it. We have sprouted too few feathers on our wings since the Peace. I think we’re being pushed off the branch to make us fly. This egg has been too comfortable.” He laughed a little as he held ‘Chell away from him and dried her cheeks with the palms of his hands. “I’m afraid I’ve made quite an omelet of my egg analogy, but can you think of anything really new that we have learned about Creation in our time?”
“Well,” I said, searching my mind, pleased immeasurably to hear my own thoughts on the lips of my son. “No, I can honestly say I can’t think of one new thing.”
“So if you were Called to the Presence right now and were asked, ‘What do you know of My Creation?’ all you could say would be ‘I know all that my Befores knew—my immediate Befores, that is—I mean, my father—’ “ David opened his hands and poured out emptiness. “Oh, Mother! What we have forgotten! And how content we have been with so little!”
Ingathering - The Complete People Stories Page 38