Below the Root

by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  They walked on in silence. Finding it impossible to express in voice-speech, Raamo sent his sharing of her sorrow to Genaa in mind-touch, although he knew that she was unable to pense.

  At last in voice-speech Raamo said, “And it was after the death of your father then, that you and your mother went to live in Farvald?”

  “No,” Genaa said, and her voice was again emotionless. “My father was sent to Farvald as a teacher in the Garden there.”

  This was indeed strange. That a man who had been Director of the Academy should be given a position of so much less honor. Suddenly an explanation occurred to him, “Was he, then, already too ill to fulfill the duties of his high office?” he asked.

  “My father was never ill,” Genaa said. “He was taken by the Pash-shan.”

  Something moved in Raamo’s chest like a cold hand. He had heard, on rare occasions, rumors that a person in Orbora or Ninegrund or Farvald had been lost to the Pash-shan. But usually the person lost was a small infant too young to wear a shuba, who had simply fallen to the forest floor. Never before had it been a person closely related to someone he knew—and a full-grown man. Glancing at Genaa, who walked on steadily beside him, her face unchanged except for a vein throbbing in her temple and a blurring of her brilliant eyes, Raamo’s mind darkened with thoughts too terrible to accept.

  He was walking near the edge of the branchpath, and he carefully kept his eyes from straying downward, lest Genaa, noticing, might allow her thoughts to follow his. But although he looked straight ahead, the eyes of his mind would not return from the dark tangle of undergrowth, the damp pungent earth, the yawning mouths of hidden tunnels and the quick quiet movement of sharp clawed hands. He walked on, lost in the darkness of his thoughts, until a joyful shout aroused him.

  A welcoming procession of City-masters and singing Kindar from the city of Farvald were approaching along the branchpaths of the next grundtree.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE JOURNEY TO FARVALD was only one of six long journeys, one to each of the outlying cities of Green-sky. In each of these smaller cities, whether in lonely Farvald or busy bustling Grundbaum, the celebrations for the Chosen made up for whatever they lacked in lavishness and sophistication by their joyousness and enthusiasm. In each of these provincial cities, the entire local community of Ol-zhaan, usually around fifteen in number, took part in the welcoming procession and in all of the other ceremonies and banquets. And every Kindar in the entire area turned out along the public branchpaths to sing and dance and cheer.

  They sang the same songs in all seven cities, songs praising the wisdom and beauty of the Chosen, but in the six smaller places Joy seemed more deep and real than it had in Orbora. Raamo took pleasure in that Joy, even though he suspected that Genaa was right when she said that it was largely because the inhabitants of the quiet provincial cities had few public entertainments and therefore welcomed any kind of diversion. But regardless of the reason for their delight, it was obviously great and real and Raamo shared in it. He liked, also, the long quiet journeys through the open forest, and he would have looked forward to each one had it not been for his sister, Pomma.

  As the year passed, Raamo’s fears for Pomma grew. Daily she seemed to be more thin and pale and her enormous bluegreen eyes seemed larger and larger in her tiny face. Raamo was sure that the long journeys and the excitement of strange surroundings and cheering crowds strained her meager store of strength. However, custom required that the families of the Chosen accompany them on the journeys of honor; and in such matters, custom was not to be questioned.

  Hearba, Raamo knew, was troubled also. Valdo seemed not to have noticed the change in Pomma, or if he did, he made no mention of it to Raamo. Caught up as he was in the duties of his profession and the absorbing responsibilities that had become his as a public figure and person of high honor, Valdo was constantly occupied. Seeing his daughter but seldom, the change in her was, perhaps, less apparent to him. And Hearba had not told him that she had taken Pomma to a Ceremony of Healing, not once, but many times.

  It was already the month of three moons, not more than twenty days before the Ceremony of Elevation that would make Raamo a true Ol-zhaan, when Hearba spoke to him of her hope and fear. Valdo had not yet returned home, and Pomma had gone early to her nid to rest for a time before the evening food-taking. Hearba’s words were for Raamo’s ears alone.

  “I fear for her, Raamo,” she said. “We were again to the Ceremony of Healing today, in the small assembly hall in Orchardgrund.”

  “You have taken her many times,” Raamo said. “Do the ceremonies seem to help?”

  “But little,” Hearba said. “And even that little seems to be of brief duration. Twice some months ago, when the ceremony was led by a young Ol-zhaan with strange eyes, she seemed much better for a short time, but only a short time. She spends more and more time lying in her nid or on the balcony outside her chamber, and recently she has eaten almost nothing.”

  “But she ate a nutcake and some fruit this morning,” Raamo said. “I noticed it particularly.”

  “Yes,” Hearba said, “because you were at home. When you are away at a banquet or at the temple, she eats nothing at all.”

  “But very soon,” Raamo said, “I will not be home at all. During the first year of my novitiate, I will not be permitted to visit the home of my parents. You know that this is so.”

  Hearba nodded. “I know,” she said. “It troubles me greatly. When you are no longer here, I do not know if—” She stopped, her eyes averted. She was smiling now, but Raamo saw her hands shaking from the strain it took to produce the smile and the cheerful voice with which she continued. “But I should not be troubling you with such matters on the eve of your Elevation. She will soon begin to eat again, I am sure. And then, when you have become a true Ol-zhaan, with all the power and Spirit-force of the holy healers, then you will conduct a Ceremony of Healing for her, and surely she will be cured. Surely you will be able to heal your own sister ; even though—” Hearba stopped again, abruptly, her eyes shadowing with obvious mind-pain.

  “Even though?” Raamo queried. “I will be able to heal her even though what, Mother?”

  The last trace of Hearba’s smile disappeared and, covering her face with her hands, she murmured, “—even though she is ill of the wasting.” She looked up again quickly at Raamo, and he pensed her entreaty that he deny it was true, but he could only stare at her in horror. “Today, after the ceremony,” she said, “the Ol-zhaan told me that her illness might be the wasting. He did not say for certain—only that it might be.”

  Raamo’s mind recoiled in disbelief. The wasting was rare in Green-sky, although in recent years it had become more common, and more deadly. It was said that, even in the olden days, there were people who moved and ate as little as possible, became thin and silent, and drifted through life without will or purpose. But in the olden days the victims lived on into old age, thin and silent Berry-dreamers, who were often able to continue in their professions, and who troubled the minds of their families but little. In recent times, however, the wasting more often moved swiftly to the final dream of death.

  Raamo leaped to his feet, shouting denials and protests in mind-speech, although there was no one there who could hear and understand. No one, at least, who could pense his words, although Hearba, sitting quietly with bowed head, undoubtedly sensed their meaning. Lifting his arms in a gesture of confusion. Raamo paced to the window of the common room and stood staring out into the soft green shadows of late afternoon. Bird song and the clean sweet scent of the blossoming honey-vine only increased the bitterness of his mind-pain that this should happen now, so soon after the wonder and Joy of his choosing. It was an evil trick, a treachery, like a sharp and deadly thorn lurking in the midst of inviting petals. Pain and sorrow shook and consumed the depths of his being, leaving an aching emptiness. And into that emptiness came a vision, a foretelling.

  At first it seemed only an imaging, a mind-picture summoned up clear
and bright, as children do when playing Five-Pense. He saw, at first, Pomma as she had been some months ago—delicate and dreamy even then, but with healthy color still pulsing in her cheeks and her bluegreen eyes alight with mischief or merriment. But that image faded rapidly, in spite of Raamo’s efforts to hold it, and was replaced by an image so terrifying that he shook his head violently, trying to drive it away. But it remained, a shadowy half-seen figure lying, tiny and alone, on a tapestry-draped platform, while from the darkness around it came the sound of solemn chants and soft wailing.

  But then the image changed, becoming at the same time brighter and yet more indistinct. As Raamo watched, the small figure on the platform stirred and then sat up, reaching out toward another figure that stood in the shadows at the foot of the platform. It was then that Raamo realized that what he was seeing was not of his own imaging and was not, in any way, subject to his control. Wonderingly he watched as the second figure moved forward, holding out hands that seemed to be as small as the hands of a child and as dark in hue as those of a deepbrown sima. And then Pomma, for he could see clearly now that it was she, touched the dark hand with both of hers and, rising to her feet, began to dance. She moved lightly and joyously, singing as she danced a favorite children’s song about a naughty treebear.

  When the vision faded, Raamo still stood at the window, lost in wonder. Foretelling, the art of seeing visions of events yet to happen, was one of the rarest of the Spirit-skills. According to the old histories, it had once been much more common, but in recent times it was almost unheard of, at least among the Kindar.

  “But some say the Ol-zhaan still practice foretelling,” Raamo thought. “And I am almost an Ol-zhaan. Perhaps—”

  He turned suddenly and approaching Hearba he said, “Mother. I have just had a vision—a foretelling vision. In the vision I saw that Pomma will not die of the wasting. I saw that she will be very ill but that she will be healed.”

  He spoke firmly and with a show of confidence, and the change in Hearba’s face showed plainly that she accepted and shared his confidence. Her lips trembled, the tense lines in her face softened, and her eyes shone with hope and relief. Tonight she would sleep as she had not slept for weeks.

  But Raamo lay sleepless, troubling not only over Pomma’s illness, but also over the false assurances he had given Hearba—false because he was in no way certain of the meaning of his vision, or even if it had been a true foretelling. He knew very little about foretelling—how it was done or in what manner the future was made known to the foreteller. It was quite possible that he had only been imaging and building beguiling dreams on hopes and wishes, as Berry-eaters did on too many Berries.

  But if his vision was not a true one, there were, perhaps, other ways to make sure that the hope he had given Hearba was not deceitful. It was true, as Hearba had mentioned, that he, himself, would soon be an Ol-zhaan, and as an Ol-zhaan he would surely be taught the skill of healing. Of course, he would not be able to conduct a public Ceremony of Healing until the end of the three-year-long novitiate; yet surely he might be allowed to heal privately before that time. But if it should happen that his force for healing was as faulty as his memory, or if he learned too slowly—what then?

  The next morning before the novice D’ol Salaat appeared at the doorway to escort him to the temple, Raamo spoke to his mother concerning the Ol-zhaan with the strange eyes, the one who had been able to improve Pomma’s condition, at least temporarily.

  “Last night you spoke of a young Ol-zhaan who twice conducted the Ceremony of Healing some months ago. Do you remember his name?”

  He had thought it quite likely she would not, since she would not have used his true name in any way. She would simply have called him D’ol-zhaan, because it was considered disrespectful for a Kindar to address an Ol-zhaan by his true name in a public place. However, she answered Raamo’s question with a quick nod of her head.

  “His name is—” she paused, lowering her voice to a respectful whisper, “—D’ol Neric. And his eyes are round and dark and they dart around.” Hearba made her own eyes flicker from place to place. “Like Baya when she is trying to catch moonmoths,” she added and then blushed, fearing that such a remark about an Ol-zhaan would be considered improper.

  “I know the one,” Raamo said. “I’ve noticed him often in the temple and at celebrations, and he accompanied us on the journey to Farvald.”

  “Yes, yes, that is the one,” Hearba said.

  “But I have not seen him lately. I think he was sent to one of the smaller cities some months ago.”

  “It has been many months since he last conducted the ceremony,” Hearba said. “I have watched for his return.”

  “I, too, will watch for him,” Raamo said.

  “Was he the one, in your foretelling, who healed Pomma?” Hearba asked.

  “It was not clear,” Raamo said uneasily. “In the foretelling there was one who reached out to Pomma and healed her, but the healer was shrouded in a hooded shuba and stood in the shadows. But the thought came to me last night that until we are certain who it will be, it could do no harm to take Pomma again to the Ceremony of Healing led by the young Ol-zhaan of whom you spoke, since he seemed to have helped her somewhat in the past.”

  Once again Raamo was speaking deceitfully to his mother. He had, indeed, thought of what his mother had said concerning the young Ol-zhaan. But his thought had been that, even if the help given was only temporary, perhaps it would at least give them some time. Time for Raamo, himself, to learn the skill of healing—time for the Ol-zhaan to find a way to cure the wasting—time, at least, to hope.

  So it was that Raamo’s heart lifted when, only two days later, while crossing the temple courtyard, he came face to face with the Ol-zhaan D’ol Neric. Raamo had just entered the courtyard accompanied by the novice D’ol Salaat, and Genaa. They were on their way to the great Temple Hall where the Ceremony of Elevation would be performed in a few days’ time. On this day D’ol Regle was to instruct them and test their knowledge of the rituals and responses that would play a part in the coming ceremony. Fearful lest his memory should fail him and make him appear stupid in Genaa’s eyes, Raamo had been silently rehearsing the words of the responses as they made their way across the great central platform, and he almost failed to recognize the dark-eyed, sharp-featured face of D’ol Neric.

  Passing near them, D’ol Neric was several steps away before Raamo, suddenly realizing whom he had seen, whirled and hurried after him. But when D’ol Neric, hearing pursuing footsteps, turned and saw Raamo, he hastened away, striding so swiftly that Raamo would have had to run to overtake him.

  Stunned with surprise, Raamo stood staring after him, mindlessly, until he realized that he was pensing a sending that seemed to fade away as if with the increasing distance of the sender.

  “Raamo, go back,” someone was sending. “We must not be seen together, now or ever.”

  The sending trailed away into silence, and at the far end of the central platform, D’ol Neric entered a doorway and disappeared from view.

  “Come, Chosen,” D’ol Salaat was calling impatiently. “We are already late for the meeting with D’ol Regle. What are you doing?”

  “I wanted to speak to D’ol Neric,” Raamo said as he rejoined Genaa and D’ol Salaat. “I wanted to—to greet him—on his return—to Orbora.”

  Though his eyes were averted, Raamo knew his two companions were looking at him strangely; but he was too stunned to really care. “So it was he,” he told himself. “It was D’ol Neric who sent to me once before here on the platform and again during the Ceremony of Choosing. It was D’ol Neric who called me Twice-chosen.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  IN THE DAYS THAT followed, Raamo thought often and with great bewilderment of the strange actions of D’ol Neric, and of the even stranger sendings that must, surely, have come from him. However, with the Ceremony of Elevation approaching, and with the obvious worsening of Pomma’s condition from day to day, there was much
else to occupy his mind. Several times he caught a glimpse of D’ol Neric’s sharp-edged face and lean figure in a crowd of Ol-zhaan. but he invariably moved away quickly if Raamo tried to approach him. When the day of the Ceremony of Elevation dawned, Raamo still had not succeeded in speaking to him. On that day, a day that would bring great honor and glory to Raamo, and should also have brought him great happiness, his mind was a shambles of conflicting thoughts and emotions.

  He arose early, long before the procession of Ol-zhaan would arrive to escort him to the temple, and alone in soft gray light of early dawn he searched for Peace and calm, as he had searched a year earlier on the day of his Second Counseling. Sitting cross-legged on the balcony outside his nid-chamber, he strove to become one with the calm beauty of the forest. By song and chant and meditation he soothed the torment of his mind until, as the sunlight broke through the thinning clouds and sent its gleaming shafts through the rain-wet forest, the woman, Ciela, appeared in the doorway and summoned him to the morning food-taking.

  The Ceremony of Elevation began with a grand procession led by many musicians and accompanied by troupes of children wreathed in honey blossoms and carrying enormous plumes of paraso feathers. The columns of Ol-zhaan, rank on rank of stately white robed figures, seemed endless. For this one ceremony of the year, every Ol-zhaan in Green-sky was present, even those who had to journey to Orbora from distant Paz or Farvald. And at the end of the procession, dressed for the first time in the pure white shubas of their holy calling, marched the new Ol-zhaan, D’ol Raamo and D’ol Genaa.

  The ceremony itself, in the vast, dimly lit Temple Hall, passed swiftly. Raamo sang the words of the sacred songs, made the responses, and repeated the solemn vows that transformed him forever from carefree Kindar to holy Ol-zhaan—leader, counselor, healer, judge, and priest, one of a small number, less than 150, in whose hands lay the destiny of thousands of Kindar men, women, and children. At the climax of the ceremony, Raamo and Genaa, having completed their vows of commitment, were led before the seated ranks of Ol-zhaan. There, from her central seat of highest honor, D’ol Falla presented each with a wand of office. Then, in their first symbolic duty as Ol-zhaan, they each in turn led the assembly in the sacred Oath of the Spirit.