Dora shifted her trash can nearer the alley, where the garbage men could get at it. When she rolled it, she saw the area beneath it covered with fine, hairy roots that ripped away with a tearing sound. The fibers had actually perforated the bottom of the trash can and had evidently eaten the contents! Well, if they wanted garbage, what the hell. She went upstairs, got her kitchen garbage, brought it down and put it where the trash can had been, then went upstairs to get dressed for work. When she came down half an hour later, the garbage was gone.
That day, she had lunch with Loulee.
“I don’t believe it,” said Loulee. “All the garbage? What about egg shells? What about orange peels?”
“Gone,” said Dora, chewing on a bit of tomato that had all the taste of cardboard. “The weed eats it.”
“Can I have some seeds?”
“I haven’t seen any seeds recently. How about a cutting?”
“You mean, like to put in moist dirt, to root?”
“It works with some things.”
Loulee came over to Dora’s place that evening. They went out on the stoop and Dora explained to the weed (Loulee giggling helplessly) that Loulee wanted a cutting, so she could feed her garbage to the plant. Dora then went in to get a knife. When she came back, Loulee was sitting on the stoop, very pale, with a chunk of weed in her lap.
“It gave it to me,” she said. “It’s got roots and everything. It dropped in my lap. It just gave it to me.”
10
Opalears: The Journey North
“Traveling southwesterly down the length of the River Fraiburne, one comes eventually to the high dam at Barsifor. This marvelous structure, together with the outlying locks at Giber and the radiating canals which allow access to all the flat agricultural country beyond, inclines one toward true admiration of the kasturic peoples who not only designed but built the edifice. If it were not for kasturic talents in construction, the floods that once ravaged this pleasant plain would be with us once again….
“This diligent and sturdy people, always productively occupied, has long been the inspiration of fabulists….”
THE PEOPLES OF EARTH
HIS EXCELLENCY, EMPEROR FAROS VII
Prince Izakar’s Palmia is split in halves, north and south, by the Fraiburne River. The river has as its source Pangloss Brook, which runs south from the Crawling Sea through that convenient chasm in the Sharbak Range known as the Slash, the only easy access between the lands north and south of the great mountains. By the time the brook reaches Isher, it is much enlarged by tributary streams, and there it becomes even larger through confluence with the River Scruj—which drains the Mellow Marches—to which river was already added the fullness of River Roq, flowing northward from the Wycos Valley.
Thus the stream that comes down to the sea westerly through Palmia is wide and plenteous, a gathering of waters from many mountains, including all those south and east of the Crawling Sea. Much water traffic comes down this river into Lake Barsifor and farther down through the kasturic locks at Giber. Much land traffic goes up alongside the river, on roads well maintained for the sake of commerce. All this I learned from Prince Izakar, who was as well informed on the subject of geography as he seemed to be on any other subject one might mention—or not. He was quite capable of lengthy disquisitions on subjects no one but he knew anything about.
After spending only one day in Palmody, our troop left the town to ride eastward along the Fraiburne, now accompanied by Izzy (which is what he asked to be called), two additional pack animals—burros, said Izzy—one additional body servant named Osvald Orbin, and two bodyguards, Oyk and Irk, who, after the manner of the kannic people, walked on foot at Flinch’s heels. Both were large persons with sharp eyes and many battle scars, capable, so Izzy said, of taking care of him in any of the usual types of brawls.
“They do not bid fair to add intelligence to our discussions of an evening, around the fire,” I remarked with a sniff.
“No,” Izzy replied. “The kannic people tend to be laconic and non-introspective. When some bully decides to take me apart for no discernable reason, however, I find that my usual preference for articulate speech gives way to admiration for mute muscle. Their scars speak for them.”
I knew what he meant. “Some of the guards who worked for the sultan were of the other type, all thunder and no rain, full of the dullest bluster! In the stories I tell, I never include such simple bullies. In my tales, all love is true, all service is honorable, all nobles are faithful to their lord—as well as being handsome and well spoken. Except for great villains, of course, and they are much above mere bullying. I allow them to shine darkly as they seduce, entice, or play the traitor.”
“If there is one thing I have learned for sure,” replied Izzy, “it is that life is not a story.”
“I thought that’s what Ghotians believe,” said Sahir, cantering up and pulling his umminha—a tall white beast with a yellow mane and a ferocious expression—to a walk beside us. “Isn’t your world merely a story told by Ghoti to amuse himself?”
This was said in a purposefully nasty way, as though to provoke Izzy. Though Sahir was sometimes hospitable, at other times he seemed to relish being unpleasant to Prince Izakar, for some reason I did not understand.
Izzy refused to take offense. “The bishops would not use that phraseology, though in essence you are correct. Personally, however, I’ve never accepted the doctrine. If a God is all imagining, as Ghoti is said to be, then why should he wish to imagine a place in which beauty and squalor are so inextricably mixed? If I were inventing a world for my pleasure, I would cover the trash bins and fence off the midden. In fact, I would probably make both trash bins and middens unnecessary. On the other hand, if the world is real, then one understands the necessity for squalor. One understands that though Ghoti, or some other god, may have created it, it is not an arbitrary fabrication but is susceptible to those inexorable natural laws which demand an up for every down.”
Prince Sahir said idly, “What natural laws? Wouldn’t the creator manufacture those as well?”
“I prefer to think of them as intrinsic to time and space,” said Izzy in his most serious voice. “In this universe, one and one always make two. Not two and a half. Not three. But two. In this universe, things fall…ah, down. Not up. Not sideways.”
“You mean this world?” I asked, confused by all this talk of universes.
“Of course,” said Izzy hastily. “That’s what I mean. This is the nature of the stuff of which the…world is made.”
I persisted, attempting to understand. “But if the deity had made the world of other stuff, then other things might happen.”
“Possibly, but they would be consistent other things. As, for example, things would buoyantly fall up, and one and one would always, synergistically, make two and three-quarters. However a world is made, or whatever it is made of, each world must be consistent to its own laws. This, to my mind, is the main difficulty with Bubblism. The world is supposedly created only in the mind of Ghoti, where, presumably, anything may be imagined, but in fact, anything is not; only some things are, those which are consistent. One and one, do, in fact, always make two.”
“Ghoti may have made up the laws first, as children make up the rules to games they play,” I argued. “Allowing exceptions for himself, of course.”
“Possible, but trifling if true. I prefer to think the laws are a consequence of materiality, which may itself be a consequence of the nature of space and time. An immaterial universe…ah, world…might have no laws. This one does, however, which leads me back to the point I made at first. This is not a story. Because it is not a story, it is unlikely to contain only honorable persons, and it is therefore entirely possible we will encounter at least a few unpleasant ones who will attempt to do away with us for any reason or for no reason other than a customary dislike of creatures other than themselves.”
“We will protect you,” said Sahir in his sneering tone. “Fear not.”
“This is very pretty country,” I said, trying to change the subject. Though I liked Prince Izakar very much, he had a habit of going on and on about things that made no sense. He talked of Mathematics. He talked of Science. And he questioned everything, all the time, leaving a person no firm place to stand! Though we were little different in age, he made me feel very young and stupid. Far better not have learning if all it did was make things uncertain. Now I would have to worry about being attacked by some person who didn’t like other kinds of people. Though, as I came to consider the matter, almost all the kinds of persons were already represented in the troop. Izzy and I were ponjic, and Prince Sahir was suinic. Most of the guardspersons were feledic, while Izzy’s body servant was marsian and the handlers kapric. What type of person was left to attack us? Were we to be assaulted by kastori? Or armakfatidi?
Impossible! Armakfatidi were far too concerned about comfort and elegance to go about attacking persons!
Izzy had been watching my face. “I’m sorry,” he murmured with a sympathetic smile. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Even though I don’t believe in Bubblism, I’ve been affected by it. Ghotians tend to discuss the most outré possibilities without discomfort because they believe nothing can happen which has not already been ordained.”
“Well, talking about such possibilities in advance is just worrisome,” I retorted. “If I’m going to be attacked tomorrow, I’d just as soon not think about it now.”
“When ignorance is bliss…” said Izzy, then had to explain the saying, which neither Sahir nor I had heard before. We knew nothing of life insurance.
Thereafter we talked of the scenery. There were rafts of logs coming down the Fraiburne, each with its complement of forest tribesmen. The forest people provided wood for building and for fuel, as well as doing some construction. They were mostly kastori, known as a diligent, hardworking people, and they waved at us from atop their bobbing rafts, enjoying a rare opportunity for relaxation.
The farms along the way were mostly psitid. Some of the psitid peoples are less vocal than others, and those of larger size tend toward the agricultural arts. I saw numbers of them in the fields, tweaking out weeds as their long legs stalked along the rows.
“Look there,” roared Soaz, as he galloped his steed from the head of the column to join us at the rear. “The joining of the rivers!”
We stared ahead, seeing a vast lake of disturbed water where the River Scruj met Pangloss Brook.
“The snows have melted,” explained Izzy. “The rivers are bursting their banks. We must stay on this side until we reach Bannock Gorge, spanned by a high bridge across the flood. Then we will come back on the other side to Isher, which lies somewhere beyond all that water.”
“You are Lord of Isher?” asked Sahir.
“Only in a manner of speaking,” Izzy answered. “I may be, someday. Before leaving, I obtained letters of introduction from Uncle Goffio to the factotums in Isher and Fan-Kyu Cyndly, and I imagine we can depend upon their hospitality as we are traveling through.”
I thought privately that if the hospitality extended to baths, preferably hot ones, it would be quite good enough. All this travel made one itchy, and the baths in Palmia had offered only cold water. “Beyond Fan-Kyu Cyndly we come to Estafan?”
“Fan-Kyu lies inland of the shore counties,” Izzy replied. “The shore counties are high tundra, which is settled, where at all, by a water-loving people who dance in the flood as we would on floors. They are called the onchiki and they are ruled, if it can be called that, by the Onchik-Dau, an overseer caste of great antiquity. Basically, they are fisherfolk, though they also maintain flocks of veebles who graze on the downs along the sea.”
“I did not know veebles could be herded!” I cried. Grandfather had had a pair of veebles on the farm, and they had lived in a pen.
“Only by the onchiki,” Izzy averred. “They seem to understand the veebles as no other people do.”
“Can these onchiki talk? Or are they like the armakfatidi, always grummeling at one?”
Izzy shrugged. “Since I have been at some trouble to learn what is purported to be their language, I hope they do indeed talk.”
We reached the confluence of the rivers and continued beyond it, upstream along the River Scruj. Far ahead on our right, we could see a great fall plunging from the broad height of the Wycos Valley, the River Roq that flowed between the Big and Little Stonies. Between ourselves and this cataract a high, arched bridge spanned the river from rocky pinnacle to rocky pinnacle, the riotous flood pouring beneath. On the near side of this bridge we espied an indistinct clutter which, as we rode closer, turned out to be a great number of wagons and persons and beasts, all waiting to cross.
We rode to and through the crowd, the umminhi snarling and striking out with their forelegs to make space, Oyk and Irk growling curses in their throats, Flinch nervously tip-tupping along in the rear. By the time we reached the bridge, a considerable path had been opened for our company.
Izzy rode forward. “Is the bridge closed?” he asked mildly.
The person in charge, while casting nervous glances at the umminhi, muttered, “Just warning the people, is all.”
“Against what?” asked Sahir.
The guard jittered, shifting from foot to foot, jerking his head from side to side. “Them trees is all stirred up,” he muttered, only to be replaced by another guard.
“Purpose of your travel,” he demanded.
“I am Izakar, Prince of Palmia,” said Izzy rather loftily. “I am traveling to Isher and Fan-Kyu Cyndly to familiarize myself with the needs of the inhabitants prior to ascending the throne.”
The guard’s jaw dropped. A mutter began among the crowd. “It’s the prince. Izakar. Him, the ponji one. You know, Izzy. The one they cut his dah’s head off! Lookit his hair. It’s red.”
The guard’s mouth shut with a snap. “These are your…your people, Your Highness?” He gestured at our troop.
“Certainly they are my people,” Izzy said loftily. “Would I travel with someone else’s people?”
Sahir started to say something, then subsided with a glower. The guard opened the barricade and motioned us through, then approached within a handsbreadth of Flinch. “Watch out for them, Your Royal Highness, sir.”
“Them who?”
“Them trees and the ones who’ve stirred them up.”
Izzy told the guard we would indeed watch out for anyone stirring up the trees, but which trees had been stirred up?
“Them trees, you’ll see ’em.” He made a gesture that was half a bow, then stood scowling as we passed.
We heard the barrier clang behind us. The feet of horse, umminhi, Oyk and Irk drummed the bridge: cadop bawhop—shoof shoof (pit-pat), cadop bawhop—shoof shoof (pit-pat). The structure beneath us strummed to the current boiling by, red as a brickmaker’s bathwater. Over the shivering arch we went, high above the flood, staring ahead where the bridge sloped down into the road. All along the road were trees in clusters and clumps and copses, filling all the space between the road and the river.
“The trees look quite all right to me,” said Izzy to no one in particular.
“I’ve been this way before,” said Soaz, “though it’s been many, many years. I thought there were hayfields along here. Of course, the woods could have grown up since then….”
We rode into the woods, into a comb of gold-green light, a fluttering shade, a dazzle of molten
gold seen through a sieve of shadow. Blossoms of light burned in the grass, vanished in shade, only to reappear once more like sheaves of stars, twinkling. I took note. This was an excellent story place. I could use it in a tale or two. The road sloped downward, parallel with River Scruj, and we had not gone a great distance before we saw the great expanse of turbid water ahead of us, where the road turned away to the north along the mere that was normally Pangloss Brook.
Beside the broad water an untidy encampment spread itself, canvas and hide tents and a charred rock circle surrounding a smoldering fire. At the shore, fishermen plied their nets, while out on the water little boats bobbed to and fro, struggling in the wind.
“I hear the broad accents of Isherian speech,” said Izzy, as he rode forward to engage someone in conversation. He returned shortly to report that the trees along the road, though of fairly recent growth, were perfectly nice trees who were not at all stirred up and to which no one had any objection. These trees, said the fishermen, were very good trees indeed, if people minded their manners. Them trees, said the fishermen, were another thing altogether, but they were further north, and the lords of Isher and Fan-Kyu Cyndly had barred the bridge as a kind of quarantine, to keep them trees from bringing their disturbance southward.
“He says we will know them when we see them,” Izzy remarked.
We rode on, northward, up a long steady slope toward a break in the cliff wall, the canyon where the Pangloss, in some former incarnation, had either eaten a way through the Sharbak Range or had held place while that range moved up on either side. Or so Izzy said, at least, though I detected no movement in the mountains. The trees continued beside us, extending all the way from the stream to the feet of the cliffs and up the slopes of scree at their bottoms. Here and there on the high rock walls tufts of the same green sprouted from the stone, indomitably arrayed.
The Family Tree Page 13