Watson, Ian - Black Current 03

by The Book Of Being (v1. 1)

  Revealing Shooshi! And—"Looks like we're in time!"—Zelya; hovering over you in the palace of the time rites. The mountain is, of course, Mardoluc.

  You're sitting up, gasping, grabbing air. How can you manage to sit up, or grab anything? It's far too sudden. Credence is nowhere in sight. "Where is she? Where's Credence?" Shooshi and Zelya flutter hands in consternation. (". . . only pretending timestop?" "Impossible, Shoo-shoo!") Everyone else who was in a trance is still in a trance. Frozen lovers in the cushion pits, kneelers, hunchers. Peli down on her butt watching time-slowed ecstasy. Peera-pa just next to you, holding nobody's hands in hers. Not you: You're up. You're dancing with impatience. Shooshi and Zelya are gabbling and darting around.

  "Stop it!" you shriek.

  And still you speed up. Not just you—everything else as well! This isn't how it was when Marcialla speeded up. It's the whole world that's racing now. You can't follow what you're doing, you're doing things so fast. So who's doing them? You can't follow what the monitors are doing. You can't follow what they're saying, in then- high-pitched squeaky voices. You can't follow what you're saying, yourself. So who's speaking?

  Oh the wild onward rush of light and sound and action!

  Weren't you supposed to be dead? Weren't you meant to be somewhere else? Wasn't there something about cabins in a ghostly galleon?

  Ghostly is the world. Life is a fleeting wraith. Shadow and sun, places and people flicker wildly by. . . .

  Worm- It was the boat from your home

  Stranger isle of Bark which rescued you.

  Tell of That's weeks gone by, and now

  Danger you and your hostess know each

  other rather better. . . .

  Her name is Infanta Farsi-podwy-fey, though you call her Pod for short. That's her "sunshine name", the name by which she's known to family and acquaintances. Actually the "farsi" and "fey" bits of her name are titles, descriptions. Pod sees fleeting glimpses of events happening far away on her waterworld; that's farsi. She has an instinct for when people are about to die; that's fey. The "infanta" part means that she's an unwed talent of Bark.

  Pod also possesses a "black name". A person keeps their black name private, telling no one. The black name is a talent's powemame: the name which summons their power. If a stranger learnt it he might gain power over her. Or so they fancy, on Bark! The black name comes to a talented person in their dreams; and those dreams are sent by the worm of their world to all talents who inhabit isles in the great "blackwaters" region—sent by Lordevil.

  Some talents on Bark can envision far-scenes more vividly than Pod. Some can heal the sick, or sicken the healthy. Others can pick up lightweight objects with the force of their minds—or even project convincing illusions of simple objects such as chairs or vases. Pod's talents aren't outstanding; though at least she has them, which makes her an infanta.

  Alas, the isle of Bark is right on the very periphery of Lordevil's influence. His ink stains the waters only thinly in this region. Five hundred sea-miles further west, in the heart of LordeviTs Dark, talents are much more powerful and dramatic. You find wizards and sorcerers.

  It's true that such talents remain a minority of the total population throughout LordeviTs Dark. But where the seas are darkest— glossiest with LordeviTs presence—there's more power. A wizard who sails out from one of the central isles to somewhere like Bark loses some of his power; though he would still be a more potent wizard than any of the Barkish.

  Obviously these talents are genetic—whatever Pod supposes about them being linked to eclipses of the various suns and moons. Just as obviously it was the urgent screaming need in her which drew you to share with her mind, rather than with some major sorceress of the inner Dark; with whom you might have been far better placed to contact Lordevil.

  So here you are on Bark, instead. The isle is shaped like the skull of a hound: jaws agape, skerries for teeth, two freshwater lakes filling the eye sockets. Here you are in rocky Bark town, built on the steep brow frowning over the lake called Stare. (Of stairs, carved in rock, there are enough in this town to trump Verrino twice over in up-and-downness.)

  More specifically, here you are ensconced in the Infantry of the Duenna; whence Pod slipped away, up and over the brow and down to the sea-shore on a mischievous cockle picnic—only to be waylaid and kidnapped by those uncouth pirates of Soltrey.

  Luckily she jumped bravely overboard; so the Duenna frowns, but she hasn't decreed Pod's public humiliation. Whether Pod will now be traded westward, deeper into LordeviTs Dark, well-dowered by Barkish standards and in exchange for a dowerless maid of stronger talent who can breed Wizz-brats on Bark, remains a moot point.

  (This whole business of trading maids is something to which you take considerable exception! Pod can't understand what you're rabbiting on about; so you've rather given up on the propaganda. As Pod sees it, how else could talent be improved out on the fringes? How else could powers best be stirred, so as to flow in a current, in and out?

  (Why not trade stud-boys instead, say you!)

  Here you are, looking from a stone casement down over roofs and stairs—and over Lake Stare—on a mom when Bigmoon is eclipsing Blindspot, sending temporary shadow across the town.

  Blindspot is the sun which you don't even glance at if you value your eyesight. It's tiny and intensely bright—though its light isn't steady, more like a mirror flashing, flashing fast. There's also the giant sun Redfog, which is currently approaching hidden Blindspot; and elsewhere in the sky is the more sensible, yellow Homesun.

  Moons also come in three sizes: Bigmoon, Midmoon and Babe- rock.

  So Lordevil is spread throughout the blackwaters region, eh Pod? But he can clump together and rise up anywhere? In the sea off Bark, for instance?

  He never has. That was desperate wishful thinking on my part—hoping he might somehow save me from the louts' ship. There isn V enough of him here at his edge.

  Hmm. And Lordevil gathers in the Ka5 of the dead? So that they can relive their lives in the Lord for ever after?

  Oh no. I hardly think so! When people of the dark waters die, Lordevil sucks back the powers he gave them—and he sends those powers forth to young new talents. Now do you understand?

  Yes. Lordevil is kin to the black current of my own world. Obviously Lordevil stores Ka5, the way those 'lectric batteries on Earth store power. He must have been dumped here once to soak up any native talent that emerged. Now he’s gone his own way. He can make certain people in his domain powerful. And the good folk of the clean water hate him deadly. Does Lordevil understand what he is? Do you, Pod? Does anyone?

  Some of the Wizzes of Omphalos may. I once farsaw a Wizz communing with Lordevil. It was just a glimpse, quick as a Blindspot flash.

  You must get yourself traded to Omphalos!

  I thought you were opposed to that sort of thing?

  I am. But you must.

  What, me? A half-baked farsi-fey from a jewel-less isle on the very verge?

  "Look, they're coming," she says aloud.

  Way below, four men who are wearing great white bone-combs in their oiled black hair are escorting a bald young woman, whose face is painted orange, up Plunge Stair. Those are the talent-traders from Tusk, a hundred sea-miles inward, accompanying their merchandise.

  If only you could demonstrate a new talent, Pod!

  I can't even show much farsi. As for fey, why fair enough if one of them's about to die! Which should make him very happy, I’m sure! The seer amongst them shall hear my Duenna's affidavit and shall peep me, and that shall be it. That’s supposing I didn't throw all my chances away when those Vicars' lice took me.

  Your Duenna said you were brave and adroit to get away into the waves.

  Oh to save face she said it.

  What if you could astonish the seer?

  They should re-trade me further inward. Fat chance!

  I'm with you, Pod. Maybe he could peep me.

  You aren't talent, Yaleen. You re only a visi
tor squatting in me.

  All the things I could tell you, to tell him!

  So? He should have to peep them for himself

  (So . . . sew. Sew tapestries! You'd almost forgotten about those other cabins! Is it possible to show their tapestries?)

  Listen, Pod: I'm many persons. Each of me weaves her own vision. I want you to try as hard as you can to farsee my other selves. Your talents spring from Ka -space —that's the key to my other cabins.

  I don’t understand.

  Let the seer peep tapestries of other worlds. You ’ll be the farsi who sees furthest of all! Try it! Together we ’ll get to Omphalos.

  A distant bell begins to dong, summoning Pod and other infantas to the deep-hewn rock-room called Cave of Scales, where fates are weighed and talents are traded.

  The walls of the Cave of Scales are scalloped by the chisels of long- dead stonemasons. The main body of the rock-room is a dome. Four subsidiary cupolas sprawl like paws. Two rock-shafts are the eye sockets of the room. By now Bigmoon has shifted aside from Brightspot, and Redfog is starting to eclipse the white dazzle; the light admitted down those shafts grows golden, amber. You're inside the shell of some great armoured beast eaten hollow by ants; only its corset of scales remaining.

  Beneath one of the cupolas is a stone block whereon stand weighing pans of copper—a more obvious kind of Scales. (As so often on Bark, there are two levels of meaning. One is insufficient.) Both pans are piled with Barkish treasure—since you could hardly fit a talented maid into either of those pans, and if you did, it would likely bankrupt Bark to balance her weight. A relatively humble dowry is on show, though displayed to best effect. There are well- sheened nacre shells, goblets of volcano-glass, jars of seacumber salve, a conch-trumpet with silver clasps.

  Candidate infantas occupy benches beneath the second cupola Under the third cupola, alone on a low stool, sits the young woman with shaved head and orange face. She looks disdainfully amused by her out-isle cousins. The fourth cupola shelters her escort of talent-traders. Centre stage—the dome itself—is occupied by the Duenna, her face and figure enveloped in black fish-net garb.

  "Farsi-podwy-fey," creaks her voice. Now it's Pod's turn to show off her wares.

  As Pod rises and advances, the seer from Tusk adopts a poised, intent stance.

  Now, Pod!

  Pod whispers her black name to herself in an undervoice which you cannot hear.

  Shift! Shift cabins in your ship of Ka-space. Linger. And while you linger, a sister of yours shares Pod's mind.

  Shift back.

  Yes?

  Oh yes.

  Pod farsaw a tapestry of bile-green swamp and silt isles. A honeycombed cliff reared high. She hung frozen on a breeze: birdwoman. Suddenly the woven threads had writhed into reality. She plummeted, to snatch a swimming snake. ... It was Marl's world.

  Shift! Linger. Shift back.

  This time Pod farsaw a world of yellow clay, flat as a platter. Several great globular vegetables, crowned with homy leaves, broke the monotony; also a pear-shaped plant, its midriff plated with stiff leaves. From the top of this pear rose a thin erect stalk like a root tapping the air. In the crown of the pear three hauntingly human eyes stared fixedly ahead. Energy crackled in a cloudless eggshell sky. Stabs of lightning slashed at one another. . . .

  The seer, astonished, kneels before Pod.

  With a lurch, the flickering lights and shadows slow abruptly. . . .

  Oh wasn't Donnah furious when you and Peli got back aboard the Crackerjill after your truant trip to the temple! That's when she muttered darkly, "Just you wait, little priestess. Just you wait."

  Wait for what?

  Wait for weeks. Weeks while your priestess's progress took you onward to Tambimatu. Weeks more while Crackerjill sailed back north again.

  On the return voyage Crackerjill only called in quickly at the towns en route: barely half a day in port to stock up on fresh fruit and veg, and no stopover whatever at Port Barbra. Presently you docked at smoky Guineamoy.

  Fortunately it's wintertime, so you don't have to open the port for ventilation; the outside air is none too sweet. (To the people of Guineamoy, does the air of other towns smell wild and raw, uncivilized?) Through the glass port, in the grey sky over the town, you can watch a huge balloon blundering through its paces. . . .

  You can. You.

  This is the weirdest thing. Many weeks have flown by at utmost speed, far too fast for you to notice anything beyond the rushing and the flickering, the tick-tock rhythm of day and night. You can't say you've "lived" through those weeks. Yet now that time has suddenly resumed its normal pace, you can recall everything that happened in the interval, just as though you'd been a conscious part of everything that occurred.

  You've been part of a living tapestry. One which alters and evolves. One which shows you what will happen if you start from such and such a point, and move in a certain direction. Why, after a while you must reach Guineamoy.

  "Yal-eeeen!" Boots bash along the corridor. The cabin door wrenches open. Donnah bursts in.

  "Why, you little—!" She's livid with anger. She brandishes papers, pages of newssheet.

  "This is on sale all over town!" She thrusts what she's clutching under your nose.

  It's The Book of the Stars by Yaleen of Pecawar, printed in neat columns on big smudgy sheets of newsprint. Of course. What else?

  "Right here in Guineamoy, where we've had the most trouble persuading people to take their medicine!"

  "Good. Maybe this'll do the job better."

  "Will it really? Well I'll have you know that I've sent urgent signals north and south."

  "What for?"

  "To search all cargoes, dear girl! To intercept the rest of these."

  Should you tell her the truth about the way your book has been published? Should you keep mum about it? Which?

  The entire boat trembles. The cabin and Donnah are suddenly double before your eyes. Two Donnahs, two cabins occupy the same space, superimposed. In one of these cabins you tell Donnah. In the other you don't tell. Whole tableaus of ghost events weave forth from this moment, till whenever.

  Donnah steps back and sneers. "That'll settle you, my child. Don't think we can't manage to contain this. Difficult, I admit! But possible. Possible indeed."

  "You could have saved yourself the bother of signalling, Donnah."

  "Oh really? This certainly wasn't on sale in Spanglestream a few days back. And we haven't received any signals from Gate of the South, have we? I presume it appealed to your sense of vanity to have this thing published just as you arrived in town."

  "Wrong. It's on sale everywhere from Tambimatu to Umdala. Simultaneous release, today." (At least you hope so.) "It's a fate accomplished, Donnah, that's what it is. A fate accomplished. But don't worry. The book won't do any harm. Only good. If good can be done."

  "I see." There's great restraint in her voice. But not in her hands. She hurls the sheets of the book at you; though since these are loose they simply unfurl and flutter variously to the floor. "Yours, I believe. May a drunken spider have misprinted everything."

  You recover a sheet. "Looks okay to me."

  "Oh, by the way." Donnah pauses at the door. "I believe the guild will now wish to shift the current further north—before anyone hatches fancy ideas of exporting your words to the Sons, for their salvation."

  "But . . . but what about all that land that'll be left vacant over there? After the Sons get brainbumt? I thought your plan was. . . . I mean, if you completely block passage over the river. . . ."

  "Look out that port. Balloons are coming along famously here. On a calm day it shouldn't take much power to push really big passenger balloons across the river, nice and high above the current. Balloons crammed with colonists, eh?"

  "Oh."

  "Ever had a hankering to sail the wild ocean, in a Worm's wide mouth?"

  "I shan't do it."

  "I wouldn't force you. That's the honest truth. You know how much it
appalled me when your boyfriend Tam lost one of his hands. But I'm not in Pecawar, where Tam is. Where your dad is. Both of them within a stone's throw of Quaymistress Chanoose! Chanoose is a ruthless character; be warned."

  "That's how things stand, is it?"

  "I wouldn't say they stand this way; or that way. I'm simply speculating."

  "That's a pretty poisonous speculation."

  "Blame the Sons for poisoning us."

  "It's foul! Don't ever bother washing, Donnah. You can't cleanse yourself. You smell—inside."

  "Ho, ho; now the little innocent speaks of cleanliness, after spreading that document across the land without permission."

  "I only needed my own permission."

  "Did you? Why, in that case maybe anything is permitted to anybody to achieve what they want. Sauce for the goose, Yaleen!"

  "Um . . . how would I get back from the ocean?"

  "Nothing simpler. The Worm gulps you down, and wriggles you back through its body—to some agreed pick-up point, hmm? Fate accomplished, Yaleen! Yours. Most likely."

  Everything rushes into a blur.

  It's been a good few bigmonths, many midmonths and lots of babemonths since you and Pod set out from Bark, escorted by those Turkish traders with the bone-combs in their hair. Everything has taken far too long.

  At last you're on the isle of Omphalos. This island is a ring of hills lapped by the black sea. Set on the tips of the crags are the keeps of the Wizzes. In the broad bowl of valley within, are farms, forests, lakes of flying fowl—and a town called Tomf. The name Tomf sounds like the dull throb of a giant kettledrum. Imagine vellum stretched from crag to crag across the fertile cauldron of the valley. Consider the homes of the Wizzes as drum-screws. Sometimes the most powerful Wizzes play strange music upon Tomf from their heights.