"I suppose," allowed Dad, "I could stay off work today." He sat down again, wearily, confused.
Mum and Dad didn't suddenly accept me as Yaleen, in the way I'd naively expected. There was no overwhelming revelation, no abrupt and wild embrace. There was no single moment of truth, joy and discovery. Instead: a gradual shift, a slow slide in their attitude, away from me-as-Narya, towards me-as-Yaleen. This went on for a number of days, accompanied by occasional forgettings, temporary lapses on their part. Perhaps this was a better way to cope with the shock than the sort of dramatic climax I'd pictured to myself.
Curiously, by the time that my parents had come to accept me fully as Yaleen, the real and only, it was me who felt most keenly the absent "ghost" of Narya. It was me who heard the footfalls of a shadow person next to me. Narya had only ever been an invention —a character in a fiction (of my own devising). Yet she had lived in this very house alongside me, and I had fully believed in her, and in her selfish little wiles. She had been real; now she wasn't. She had never existed; yet indubitably she had. So therefore somehow she still did exist—invisibly in some mirror world of my mind, inhabiting some echo existence. She was a different me, who might have been bom if I hadn't been bom instead. Yet she genuinely had been bom. And now was unborn, once again. Thinking of her, I thought a lot about the riddle of the raven and the writing desk. . . .
Later that same morning—subsequent to my confession over breakfast, and whilst our family relationship was still in flux— Mum, Dad and I did set out together, nonetheless, for the waterfront; there to beard that mercenary, calculating quaymistress in her den.
That particular woman's disbelief I finally dispelled by revealing a certain kinky little initiation ritual of our guild which I had kept quiet about when I wrote The Book of the River, and which I intend to keep hush about here as well. (Always keep a card up your sleeve, eh?)
She believed. She set in motion the summoning of a conclave. Signals flashed up and down stream.
Four weeks later, in front of a conclave, I told all—just as it's set down here. I told of A’«-space and Eeden and Earth and the Moon; of Exotics and Flawed Ones and alien stars; of the Godmind's scheme to build a lens of burning minds to pierce the dark mystery of existence. I told of seedships and rose shows. Of Venezia and California. "Out of the mouth of a babe"—as precog myth put it!
And on board that schooner, Oopsadaxsy, where the conclave was being held, I demanded and was given a slug of the black current to put me in time with my old friend the Worm again.
I drank my slug on the third day of the conclave. That night, like the previous nights, I spent at home; and before falling asleep I fixed my mind on what I would like to dream. If you concentrate hard enough you can carry this trick off; though there'll always be changes which try to take you by surprise so that you're dumped into a different dream, not of your intention, where you'll forget yourself and just float along with the phantasmagorias.
I dreamed, as I'd intended, of a schooner sailing proudly on the river out near the black current. A conclave was taking place on board—since this was also uppermost in my mind—though alas, and unaccountably, this was happening in the open air on deck and consisted not of women but of beasts. Sows, bitches, ewes, turkey- hens and whatnot. Never mind! I paid no attention to the assorted bleating, yapping and oinking which might have tricked me into a farmyard fantasy; and presently from the water the Worm's head rose. The Worm had found me in my dream—to its considerable surprise!
Yaleen? It's you! But how? You aren 7 here. You can 7 be. She’s—
The schooner's deck had emptied; all the animals had faded. The dream was of a different quality now: Worm and me, mind to mind.
Listen, Worm! Whatever you do, don 7 break the psylink with dead Yaleen! Don 7 lose your grip or you ’ll spoil everything! Got it?
Yes. But—
Just listen! I’ve carried out your little mission. I’ve been to Eeden and now I’m back again, but not in the way you expected. . . .
I was getting rather tired of repealing all this! To Mum and Dad; to the Guild; now to the Worm. Obviously I would have to write a book. Then I could just hand out copies.
My account took a while, but at least I didn't have to worry about the dream fading out midway. By now the Worm was clinging on tight.
Worm, you still there?
Hmm? Oh yes.
Like the pillow talk of lovers, yet!
A fin for your thoughts?
Oh . . . You've flooded me, Yaleen . . . I'll have to think about all this. But well done, don 7 you know! Well, well done! Can you sail out to me so I can get all this directly from you in the Ka -store? I promise I'll return you safe and sound. You 're so important to me!
Thanks. I’m flattered. Another swim in you: is that what you want?
It would be friendlier if you visited my head.
Off Aladalia? What, and wake up poor old Raf again?
I could come and collect you off Pecawar.
Withdraw yourself to Pecawar? That wouldn’t make me very popular with people!
Do come to Aladalia! I’ll reorganize my body. I'll provide excellent accommodation. You could stay a while.
I'd heard that kind of offer before. How about spending the rest of my life in a seedship pod?
We 'll have to think about it, I said. These one-night stands are sweet, but I wasn’t exactly thinking of moving in with you.
Oddly enough, to my amusement I found that in a weird sort of way I'd missed the Worm during my absence!
And maybe I'm a bit young for you yet? I said. A bit tiny to go jumping into black currents, and down Worms' throats?
If you came inside me, Yaleen, I could grow your body up—while your mind romped in the Ka-store.
How long would it take to grow me up?
I don't have vats and soft machines, I only have me. It would take as long as normal growth. Another twelve, thirteen years or so would see you all set up. You certainly wouldn 't feel bored in the meantime.
Thirteen years? That's hardly fair on my Mum and Dad. No, I couldn't possibly.
Do try to take a swim in me at least.
Sure. Why not? Just so long as you'll promise to tell me what it's all about. What Ka-space is. How the psylink works. How we can stop the Godmind. And where you came from. And how time got twisted.
And why a raven is like a writing desk?
That too.
I may have enough clues. It could take a while to fit them all together.
So start trying, will you! There has to be a way to stop the Godmind from burning us all up.
Has there? What if there isn 't?
Then I shall be quite annoyed with you, Worm.
Oh dear.
Mad, in fact.
Hmm, I think I'd best be going. . . .
In that case . . . goodnight, Worm. Be with me in my dreams again.
I will be. 'Night, Yaleen.
The next morning Mum walked me down to the waterfront again to board the Oopsadaisy for the final session of conclave.
There, in a cabin panelled in expensive ivorybone wood and hung with a remarkable collection of fish-masks, I told the assembled mistresses of my night-time chat with the Worm, concluding thus: "How about me having a swim? A black sort of swim?"
Which is when, as ever, things started to go wrong.
I don't know whether I'd been putting these good ladies' backs up during the past several days. Had I been acting too pert by far? Truly I hadn't intended to. I thought I'd become a whole lot more considerate, subtle and persuasive recently. (Besides, in memory at least, my bum still ached from Dad's smacks!) On the other hand, why had I dreamt of these 'mistresses as a gang of honking geese and bleating ewes?
"A swim? Not yet," said one ‘mistress.
"No, we can't have you running off and disappearing," agreed another.
The quaymistress of Pecawar, Chanoose by name, was particularly adamant. (I'd already crossed swords with her previously on the to
pic of my literary earnings.) "When all's said and done, you belong to the Guild, remember!" She waved at the fish-masks on the wall to remind me.
Another 'mistress whom I knew from way back—two lives earlier, at that other conclave held in Spanglestream—was dusky old Marti of Guineamoy. She challenged me with, "How do we know you're telling the truth?"
"The Worm can back me up any time!"
"Oh, I'm not disputing that you're the same Yaleen as I met before. Or that something truly remarkable happened to you. You were murdered; then reborn. But when did you really come back to life? Can I credit that you waited whole years to reveal yourself? Maybe your spirit has possessed Narya, after all? And what actually did happen in between your death and resurrection? You may have dreamt all this business of your trip to Eeden in the /uf-store. Or even made it all up. Can you prove otherwise? The Book of the River is a somewhat inventive document in places, I suspect. I've read it, and I don't entirely believe in that giant croaker which tried to squash you in the jungle."
"Oh don't you? Well it did!"
"Maybe you were hallucinating, from starvation and exhaustion. And maybe you weren't. But to my mind that part of your story does verge on romance, of the Ajelobo brand. Likewise I have my doubt about the dead man of Opal Island. Strange and marvellous things certainly happened, yet perhaps at times you also let your imagination run away with you? Which allows you to be as rude as you please, under the guise of honesty and frankness. I'm thinking now of your remarks a propos our other conclave at Spanglestream. 'Mistress Nelliam, with the face of a prune, indeed!"
"I didn't say anything rude about you, Marti."
"No, but you blithely and impertinently made me an 'ally' of Nelliam's. And whether or not I agree with your character assessments of Tamath and Sharia in some respects, you hardly do justice to the other fine qualities which deservedly made them Guildmis- tresses."
"That's a matter of opinion."
"True. And we're very tolerant of your opinions, are we not? But mightn't all your revelations about Earth and Eeden simply be . . . matters of opinion, too?"
"The Worm—"
"The black current believes what you told it. Or at least you tell us so. I suppose, since you rode the current all the way from Tambi- matu to Aladalia, we must allow a large degree of credence to this. . . ."
What was Marti getting at? I felt perplexed. That other meeting of a conclave at Spanglestream had taken me on trust; they hadn't cast sly doubts. The present conclave seemed to be up to something. They were hunting around for justifications—but for what?
"Myself, I look around and I see our world; and the black current, yes indeed. We know what you say it is; and we accept this, basically. We know that originally we came from a distant star. But I don't see any concrete evidence of Eeden or Venezia or that huge moon."
"What did you expect? That I'd bring back a rose, clutched in my soul's teeth?"
Marti pursed her lips. "That might have helped. The problem for us is this: the happy balance of our world and the prestige of our guild have suffered upsets lately. I think we need a breathing space. Quite a long one, too. Approximately as long as it takes a little girl to grow up. Yet some things can't be gainsaid. Such as the Ka-store of souls. Such as the fact that a dead person can be reborn. Or the fact that the black current watches over us and knows us; as our Guild chapbook, handed down from forever, tells."
"It's hardly handed down from forever. If you don't mind my saying so, 'Mistress Marti, you seemed a lot more analytical in Spanglestream."
"Dear child, I am being very analytical—of the situation. Incidentally, your book is published now. Consignments arrived here yesterday in bulk."
"Well, thanks for telling me!"
"You can collect your copies afterwards, from my office," said Chanoose.
"It's already being read with the greatest excitement upriver," Marti went on. "You're becoming a heroine to people. Yes, a heroine, from the ranks of our Guild! We did worry whether people might assess your chaos-causing career uncharitably. Wonder of wonders, not so; from the reports we have already. A heroine," she repeated softly, "and a martyr too. What better way to speed a book to dizzy heights than the murder of its author? We're encouraging newssheets up and down stream to gossip."
"Publicity pays," said Chanoose. "Expect to be famous in your home town presently."
"A heroine," Marti enthused, "who has now been reborn out of the black current—as its, and as our, infant priestess. Reborn as she who proves that when we die into the bosom of the current, we live."
"Oh no. Look: most people don't die into the Worm's bosom. Weren't you listening at all? Most people go to Eeden. To Godmind territory."
"Against that, may the black current defend us ... If your account should be real, and not fantastic! Yet doubtless with an intermediary of your calibre on tap, and given enough time, we may be able to offer the hope that everyone—woman and man alike—will benefit equally from the /ftf-store—one day in the future. If everyone supports us." Marti smiled. Wryly? No, slyly! "The /T«-store sounds much more convenient than a trip to Eeden. So much closer to home. So much more convincing. Why, news of this may even convert those Sons across the river; it could make them see sense, and change sides.
"And if what you say about the Godmind is true, what better way to thwart it than to rob it of this world? How better can we save ourselves from this universal doom you speak of—should there be any such thing!—than by detaching ourselves from that Godmind? How better than by forging a compact with the black current on behalf of all our people? A compact to which our own guild holds the key—in the person of your own good self, Yaleen? Our own priestess.
"If you did indeed sabotage the colony programme on that giant Moon and set it back—or rather, if you will do so in future—surely we have ample time. If doom there be a-waiting. And if doom there isn't, and it's all a fantasy of yours, no matter!"
"Oh," said I. What Marti had just said made a crazy sort of sense. For this priestess scheme to work, it needn't even be based on truth.
I can't say I cared for it! What sort of life would an infant "priestess" live? How could anybody who read The Book of the River be daft enough to imagine me as a priestess? And besides, outside of the pages of a few old fables hardly anybody knew what a priestess was.
Maybe that would make things easier. Maybe people would be daft enough. Suddenly the Worm's offer seemed almost attractive.
"Okay," said I, "I was lying all along I admit it. I'm not Yaleen. I'm just Narya."
Marti laughed. "Too late for that! You've been far too persuasive. May you persuade many other people too!"
"This is the judgement of the river guild sitting in solemn conclave aboard the Oopsadaisy," said Chanoose formally. "May the black current show us our true course. Through you, dear river- daughter, Yaleen of Pecawar."
"You might at least make me a guildmistress," I grumbled.
"What, a little girl a 'mistress?" asked Chanoose incredulously.
"Tush, this is much more important than being a 'mistress." Marti favoured me with a dusky smile. End of conclave.
By the time Dad got home from work the evening after, a few townsfolk were hanging about outside our door, looking somewhat embarrassed and sheepish.
By the following evening, numbers had swelled. The hopeful spectators seemed more sure of themselves now, more ardent. They wanted to see us, touch us, hear us, just for a moment please. For this was the family home of Yaleen, heroine and martyr. On Dad's advice, which was sensible, we all stayed indoors. Some people kept up their vigil till quite late that night.
And on the evening after that, Dad fairly had to force his way home through a crowd packing out our lane. Mum and I were upstairs watching from behind a curtain. A lot of copies of my book were being brandished, clutched to bosoms, or still being feverishly read, A fair number of newssheets were flapping like flags. I recognized some neighbours in the crowd, amongst them Axal and Merri. Their faces looked
different, changed.
"So this is what it's like being a successful author!" I quipped to Mum.
"Fame at last," said Mum, trying to match my mood.
"How awful," said I.
"How scary," she agreed. "Still, it's a great thing, isn't it?"
I only had myself to blame—plus the Guild, who had set up a fair old rumour factory, now working overtime. The day before yesterday, the newssheet had simply boosted my book. Yesterday, it went on about how I'd been murdered recently, and dropped hints of more amazing revelations to follow. Mum had folded those two newssheets away (after almost learning them by heart) as though they were printed on gold leaf. I don't know that she was looking forward quite so avidly to this evening's news.
But maybe she was.
Dad finally barged his way through and got safely indoors, shutting out folks with difficulty. He tossed the newssheet on the table and headed for the kitchen. I hung on to the table top on tiptoe while Mum spread the sheet out. I never knew that such large type existed as I saw bannered across the top. Maybe it had been specially made for the occasion. My resurrection was officially announced.
Dad returned with a bottle of ginger spirit and poured himself a stiff drink; which wasn't like him at all.
"Oh, I can't tell you what it was like at work after this came out! Didn't get a thing done for the last hour or so. I should have quit and come straight home." He drank half the strong liquor in one gulp.
I shan't go into the details of the news story. Basically they were all perfectly true. Merely—how shall I put it?—angled somewhat.
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