Below the Root

by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  Raamo blushed. The chant had not been one of his favorites.

  “I think I do,” he said. “At least most of it.”

  “You recall then the line that says ‘forgotten errors are soon repeated’? The words are true, and not only for children, but for civilizations as well. Therefore it has been decided that we, as Ol-zhaan, must bear the burden of memory, so that the tragic errors of our ancestors will never be repeated. Are you unwilling, D’ol Raamo, to bear such a burden?”

  “No, no,” Raamo said quickly. “I didn’t mean that I was unwilling. It was just that I wondered about—” He paused and then finished lamely, “It was only that I wondered.”

  Raamo had always been tempted to spend too many hours on fruitless thought-taking, and now that he was an Ol-zhaan he did not seem to have conquered the tendency. As the voice of D’ol Regle rolled on, Raamo quite often found himself wondering about many things.

  In particular, of course, he wondered about the terrible things that Neric had spoken of in the Temple Hall. About the Geets-kel and their fearful secret; about the fact that D’ol Regle himself was of their number; and about the possible connection between the Geets-kel and the Pash-shan. He wondered, too, of course, if what Neric had said was really true. As it happened, there had been no chance to talk further since Neric had again been sent away.

  Only two days after their meeting in the temple, Neric had waylaid Raamo on a branchpath near the novice hall and told him briefly that he was being sent with a message to Farvald. He would not be gone long this time he said, no more than a dozen days, and in the meantime Raamo was to keep his eyes open. There had been no time to say more.

  As the days passed, D’ol Regle eventually reached a period in the history of Green-sky that was much more familiar and much less shocking to his two students. The glorious early years on the new planet had been the subject of many of the songs and stories learned in the Gardens, and here, for the most part, D’ol Regle’s telling differed but little from the traditional account. Raamo and Genaa heard, once more, in great detail, of the struggle to find food before the development of the huge orchards, of how the people had lived for years on little besides birds’ eggs and tree mushrooms. But with the growth of the Spirit-skills and the art of grunspreking, the grunds and rooftrees were caused to die away in large areas, leaving open ground where carefully guided mutations of saplings brought from the old planet were then planted. These saplings adapted well to the rich soil of Green-sky, increased in productivity and, due to the light gravity, increased greatly in size. Soon food supplies were no longer a problem on the new planet.

  D’ol Regle spoke also of the growth in the ability to pense, during those early days, when people of all ages were able to communicate beyond speech easily and fully. There were, of course, even then, differences between individuals in their ability to use the skills of the Spirit. There were those who could pense only with the aid of eye- and palm-touch; but there were also many who could pense anyone who was not blocking—and in those days mind-blocking was very rare. And since it was impossible to lie or dissemble in mind-touch, it was also a time of great honesty and openness in all relationships and in all situations.

  The ability to kiniport was also almost universal, and teams of kiniporters, working in unison, could lift large logs and branches from one grund-level to another with little difficulty. Among the Ol-zhaan. Spirit-healers and mesmerizers were quite common, and they were able to cure nearly every ailment of mind and body. And Peace and Love and Joy had abounded throughout the land.

  “But why is it no longer so?” Raamo asked. “What is causing the death of the Spirit-skills?”

  “It is the Pash-shan. The Pash-shan are to blame.”

  Raamo had directed his question to D’ol Regle, but it had been Genaa’s voice that had answered—Genaa’s voice, but greatly altered in tone and pitch. Turning to look at her, Raamo saw that her face was tight with emotion.

  “You are right, D’ol Genaa,” D’ol Regle answered. “We do not know just how it is accomplished, but undoubtedly the evil Spirit-force of the Pash-shan rises up from their dungeons and somehow blocks the Spirit-force of Kindar and Ol-zhaan alike. We have known for many years that this was so, but we have not yet found a way to prevent it.”

  “Some say there are many evils caused by the heat-clouds that rise up from the mouths of the Pash-shan’s tunnels,” Raamo said. “I have heard that the wasting is caused by breathing air that has been made poisonous by the cloud columns of the monsters. Is this true, D’ol Regle?”

  “It may be.” the master said. “There is much concerning the Pash-shan that is uncertain. But it is sure that there have been many changes in Green-sky since the glorious early days, of which we have most recently been speaking. And it is of these changes that I must speak to you now.”

  D’ol Regle spoke with sad solemnity, and Raamo and Genaa found his words disturbing, although much of what he told them they had heard before as whispered rumors. But coming from the mouth of one of the oldest and most respected of the Ol-zhaan, the rumors became solid realities, and infinitely more frightening.

  It was indeed true, D’ol Regle said, that the Spirit-skills seemed to be fading. With few exceptions, pensing had disappeared except among the very young. And while the Ol-zhaan, of course, still managed to retain much more Spirit-force than did the Kindar. it had waned there, too, to some extent.

  D’ol Regle leaned forward confidingly. “It has been many years,” he said, smiling benignly at Raamo, “since we have been joined by a novice with the Spirit-force of our young D’ol Raamo.”

  Perhaps it was because he was speaking with such a show of open frankness, that, for a fleeting instant, the novice-master’s blocking was incomplete. He spoke approvingly of Raamo’s skill, but even as he spoke, Raamo pensed, behind the smiling words, a deep distrust and anxiety.

  Until that instant Raamo had made no firm decision concerning Neric and his strange revelations. He had tried to convince himself that Neric had been wrong—and at times he had almost succeeded. He had decided only one thing firmly, and that was that he would do nothing until Neric returned and they had spoken further. But now suddenly, listening to the smiling words of D’ol Regle, and pensing beneath them a coldness that spoke of fear or worse, Raamo found himself saying quickly, “But I have but little skill, D’ol Regle. And what I have had seems to be fading. I am no longer able to pense anything except that which is purposefully sent.”

  He spoke hastily, lowering his eyes before the surprised stares of not only D’ol Regle, but Genaa, also.

  “Indeed?” D’ol Regle questioned. “I had heard that you were able—that your skill was greater?” He paused thoughtfully, and Raamo felt he detected a measure of relief behind the outward show of disappointment. But if D’ol Regle’s response to Raamo’s lie was devious, Genaa’s was frank enough. Although she had no skill at pensing, Raamo found her sending was quite clear and distinct.

  “You’re lying, Raamo,” he pensed. “Why are you lying?”

  Under the eyes of the novice-master, Raamo could only acknowledge Genaa’s sending with a glance and a nod, and Genaa stared back demandingly. Apparently unaware of the exchange between his students, D’ol Regle had returned to his accounting of the troubles besetting Green-sky. Kiniporting, he was saying, once a useful as well as an entertaining Spirit-skill, had almost entirely disappeared, and the much more important and crucial art of healing was even more completely lost. Illness, and in particular the distressing disease known as the wasting, was increasing, and every year fewer healthy babies were being born. But most troubling of all was the matter of the Blessed Root.

  As D’ol Regle spoke, his full firm voice faltered uncertainly. “There is no doubt,” he said, “that the Root is withering. In many places it has been observed that small offshoots have died completely, and in large sections the surface appears to be cracked and rough. There have been many processions, many attempts to control the condition, but to n
o avail. If a way cannot be found to bring the Root back to its full strength and invincibility, the Pash-shan may soon be free to roam at will in Green-sky.”

  “There are rumors that some have already escaped,” Genaa said. “Are these rumors true?”

  “Not to our knowing.” D’ol Regle said. “We have not yet found a flaw in the grill of Root large enough to permit the passage of any creature larger than a very small child. But if the withering continues—”

  “Then it is not possible for a Kindar, a grown man, to have been taken alive by the Pash-shan?” Genaa interrupted.

  “Not alive,” D’ol Regle said. “It is thought that when a grown Kindar is taken by the Pash-shan they are—” He paused suddenly, and it occurred to Raamo that the novice-master had only that instant recalled the story of Genaa’s father. As he faltered, obviously uncertain of how best to proceed, Genaa spoke again, her voice harsh and bitter. “They are killed,” she said. “Killed. The word is, indeed, a useful one—just as it was to our ancestors. They are killed and cut to pieces by the sharp claws of the Pash-shan—and some say they are eaten.”

  As Genaa spoke, her voice rose in pitch and intensity, her whole body trembled, and at last she jumped to her feet and hurried from the chamber.

  “May I be permitted to leave, also?” Raamo asked. “I would like to speak to D’ol Genaa.”

  The novice-master frowned. “Go,” he said, “and tell D’ol Genaa that the Ol-zhaan do not allow their reason to be swayed by emotions. Tell her, also, that this discussion will be continued tomorrow.”

  Hurrying from the class chamber, Raamo found Genaa only a short distance away. She was standing near the edge of the branchpath with her head bent and her shoulders pulled forward. But when Raamo called to her, she turned quickly, smiling her mocking smile. Except for the liquid film that blurred the brilliance of her dark eyes, she seemed to have completely conquered her agitation. Before Raamo could find words for what he wanted to say, she began to speak.

  “There you are,” she said. “I was waiting for you. I want to know why you lied to old Regle about pensing. I know you can pense people who aren’t sending because you’ve done it to me. Why did you lie about it?”

  But at that moment a familiar figure appeared on the branchpath below them, striding swiftly in their direction. He passed by without pausing, with only a brief nod in their direction; but Genaa’s eyes narrowed sharply as she noticed D’ol Neric’s glance meet Raamo’s and the sudden change that came over Raamo’s face. She had seen him look that way before—his glance stilled and focused—his face radiant with Spirit-force.

  D’ol Neric disappeared from view in the direction of the great hall, and Raamo turned hastily to Genaa and said, “We will speak of this soon, but for now I must go quickly. I have an appointment that must be kept.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  FOLLOWING NERIC AT A distance, Raamo watched him turn aside on a narrow branchpath and disappear from view. After waiting a few minutes, Raamo took the same branchpath and, climbing steeply, he came soon to a thick curtain of Wissenvine. As he approached the Vine, its leaves trembled and parted, revealing Neric’s face.

  “Come,” he whispered. “This way.”

  On the other side of the Wissenvine curtain, a network of small branches formed a secluded hideaway. As Raamo squeezed past into the enclosure, Neric continued to peer out.

  “What are you looking for?” Raamo asked.

  “Did she follow you?” Neric asked.

  “Follow me? Do you mean Genaa? Why should she follow me?”

  Neric shrugged. “It occurred to me that she might. Out of curiosity, if nothing else. She is the kind that must know everything. It seemed to me that she was aware of something passing between us just now. Are you certain she cannot pense?”

  Raamo smiled. “I’ve just discovered that she can send rather strongly when she wants to,” he said. “But I’m quite certain she is not able to pense.”

  Neric frowned and once more peered out, carefully scanning the path by which they had come. At last, evidently satisfied that no one was approaching, he settled himself comfortably on a moss-covered branch.

  “Well,” he said, his dark eyes blinking rapidly as they searched Raamo’s face, “what have you learned? What has happened while I was away?”

  “What have I learned?” Raamo repeated smiling. “A great deal more than I could tell you quickly. I have been in classes almost every waking moment since I last saw you and I have learned—”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Neric interrupted impatiently. “I mean have you learned anything concerning the Geets-kel? Have you pensed anything, observed anything—” He broke off suddenly, staring at Raamo. Then he nodded sharply. “I see,” he said. “I move too fast. I had taken it for granted that you were with me, that you would work with me against the Geets-kel. And I see now that you are uncertain. Am I not right, Raamo?”

  Raamo nodded. “I have thought about what you told me in the Temple Hall, and I am certain that, if there is a Geets-kel and if they do know something concerning a danger to all Green-sky, they should be exposed, and their secret with them. But I have not been certain that these things are true.”

  In answer Neric held out his hands, and with palms and eye-touch made his sending as clear as voice-speech. “I have told you nothing that is untrue.” And then in voice-speech he said, “Do you believe me now? You know that I could not lie in mind-touch.”

  “I know now that you were not lying,” Raamo said. “But I was quite certain of that before. But for a time I did try to convince myself that you were mistaken. That you perhaps misunderstood what you overheard in the counsel room, and that it was your nature to make great issues out of matters of less than great importance.” He smiled ruefully. “I tried not to believe you, but I found that your words had made me wonder about many things. And then, today—”

  “Today?” Neric prompted eagerly.

  “Today, in the history class, D’ol Regle spoke with approval of my Spirit-skills, but his blocking was not complete, and I pensed that, in truth, he had not wanted me to be a Chosen, and that he was, for some reason almost—” Raamo paused, shaking his head unbelievingly, “—almost afraid—of me.”

  “You see,” Neric cried excitedly. “I knew it. I knew if only I could get your help that we would be able to discover the truth.” He reached out and grasping Raamo’s shoulders he said, “You are with me, then, Raamo? We will work together to discover the secret of the Geets-kel?”

  Raamo sighed. “Yes,” he said. “I will work with you until we find out the truth concerning the Geets-kel and the Pash-shan. I see now that I must.”

  Neric’s round eyes gleamed, and his white teeth flashed in an excited grin. He gave Raamo’s shoulders two quick shakes as he said, “Good! Good!” Then, moving with his usual jerky quickness, he rearranged himself on his moss-covered perch. “Now then,” he said when he had his long angular body settled to his satisfaction with his legs folded under him, “we must begin to make our plans. With whom will you be studying in the days ahead?”

  “With D’ol Regle, of course,” Raamo said. “I believe the history class is to continue for some time. But I will also soon begin a special study of grunspreking and the rituals of the Vine with D’ol Falla.”

  “Aha,” Neric said. “Does your fellow novice, D’ol Genaa, accompany you in this study?”

  “No,” Raamo said. “She is to go, instead, to D’ol Wassou for further study on the conducting of courts of judgment.”

  “Just as I thought,” Neric said. “This means that your assignment to a field of service has already been decided upon. You are to be a Vine Priest, and your sharp-witted fellow novice is to be trained to pronounce judgments in the Kindar Courts. It is as I expected.”

  “No,” Raamo said. “It can’t be. Only a few days ago we were asked to state the service for which we felt we were best suited, and it was Genaa who asked to be assigned as a Vine Priest, not I. I asked that I be
allowed to serve as a healer.”

  Neric’s bitter smile was becoming very familiar to Raamo. “And you believed that you were to be given your choice? Have you not yet learned that there is little choosing done on our beloved planet, except by a very few? You were destined from the very beginning to minister to the ailing Root. Remember you would never have been chosen had it not been for the desperate need to find someone whose Spirit-force might be strong enough to guide the Wissenroot back to its former state. You will begin your study with D’ol Falla soon, and in a short time, perhaps next year, you will take your place as one of the nine who, in holy procession, descend almost daily to the forest floor.”

  Only a quick clenching of his teeth prevented Raamo from making an audible gasp. Daily—to the forest floor!

  Fear and revulsion swarmed over him in a strange entanglement with other emotions that felt almost like exhilaration and anticipation.

  Neric was watching him curiously. “Have you never thought of being a Priest of the Vine?” he asked. “Of visiting the forest floor?”

  “Not really,” Raamo said. “At least I had not really considered that I might someday be visiting the forest floor in a procession of Ol-zhaan, since I truly expected to serve as a healer. But as a child I sometimes climbed down nearly to the floor, and at such times I felt, somehow, that I was drawn there almost against my will—that I was some how destined, or doomed perhaps, to walk there.”

  “I, too,” Neric said. “How strange that we should both have felt such an attraction—such an irresistible curiosity. Perhaps—” Stopping in midsentence, he seemed to fall into deep thought.

  Raamo, too, was silent, pursuing an idea that had just occurred to him. “Neric,” he said at last. “I’ve been thinking—Genaa has, I know, a deep commitment to finding out more about the Pash-shan, and she is gifted in many ways that would be of great use to us. I wonder if it would not be wise for us to speak to her of these matters. I feel sure that she would feel as we do and that she could be of great use—” He broke off, noticing that Neric was staring at him in disbelief.