“Very quiet, I suppose.”
“Does anyone live there?”
I shrugged. “A few. Not as many as here.”
He grunted and said no more. I sank into the rhythm of my work, listening to the rush of water and wet cloth on stone, the clatter and bleat of goats on the shore.
Petr touched my arm, sending a shock up my shoulder. I pretended it was a twitch.
“Aino. What’s that?” He pointed up the slope.
The women and men walking by were dressed all in white, led by an old woman with a bundle in her arms. They were heading for the valley’s innermost point, where the river emerged from underground and a faint trail switchbacked up the wall.
I turned back to my laundry. “They’re going to the plateau.”
“I can see that. What are they going to do once they get there?”
The question was too direct to avoid. I had to answer somehow. “We don’t talk about that,” I said finally.
“Come on,” Petr said. “If I’m going to live here, I should be allowed to know.”
“I don’t know if that’s my decision to make,” I replied.
He settled on the stone again, but he was tense now, and kept casting glances at the procession on their way up the mountainside. He helped me carry the clothes back through the workshop and into the backyard, and then left without helping me hang them. I knew where he was going. You could say I let it happen – but I don’t think I could have stopped him either. It was a kind of relief. I hung the cloth, listening to the comforting whisper of wet fabric, until Maderakka rose and silence cupped its hands over my ears.
I don’t remember being carried to the plateau in my mother’s arms. I only know that she did. Looking down at Petr in my lap, I’m glad I don’t remember. Of course everyone knows what happens. We’re just better off forgetting what it was like.
Maderakka set in the early hours of the morning, and I woke to the noise of someone hammering on the door. It was Petr, of course, and his nose and lips were puffy. I let him in, and into the back of the workshop to my private room. He sank down on my bed and just sort of crumpled. I put the kettle on and waited.
“I tried to go up there,” he said into his hands. “I wanted to see what it was.”
“And?”
“Jorma stopped me.”
I thought of the gangly doctor trying to hold Petr back, and snorted. “How?”
“He hit me.”
“But you’re” – I gestured toward him, all of him – “huge.”
“So? I don’t know how to fight. And he’s scary. I almost got to the top before he saw me and stopped me. I got this” – he pointed to his nose – “just for going up there. What the hell is going on up there, Aino? There were those bird things, hundreds of them, just circling overhead.”
“Did you see anything else?”
“No.”
“You won’t give up until you find out, will you?”
He shook his head.
“It’s how we do things,” I said. “It’s how we sing.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You said it’s a – what was it? – parasitic ecosystem. Yes?”
He nodded.
“And I said that the hookflies use the goats, and that it’s good for the goats. The hookflies get to lay their eggs, and the goats get something in return.”
He nodded again. I waited for him to connect the facts. His face remained blank.
“The birds,” I said. “When a baby’s born, it’s taken up there the next time Maderakka rises.”
Petr’s shoulders slumped. He looked sick. It gave me some sort of grim satisfaction to go on talking, to get back at him for his idiocy.
I went on: “The birds lay their eggs. Not for long, just for a moment. And they leave something behind. It changes the children’s development … in the throat. It means they can learn to sing.” I gestured at myself. “Sometimes the child dies. Sometimes this happens. That’s why the others avoid me. I didn’t pass the test.”
“You make yourself hosts,” Petr said, faintly. “You do it to your children.”
“They don’t remember. I don’t remember.”
He stood up, swaying a little on his feet, and left.
“You wanted to know!” I called after him.
A latecomer has alighted on the rock next to me. It’s preening its iridescent wings in the morning light, pulling its plumes between its mandibles one by one. I look away as it hops up on Petr’s chest. It’s so wrong to see it happen, too intimate. But I’m afraid to move, I’m afraid to flee. I don’t know what will happen if I do.
The weather was so lovely I couldn’t stay indoors. I sat under the awning outside my workshop, wrapped up in shawls so as not to offend too much, basting the seams on a skirt. The weaver across the street had set up one of her smaller looms on her porch, working with her back to me. Saarakka was up, and the street filled with song.
I saw Petr coming from a long way away. His square form made the villagers look so unbearably gangly and frail, as if they would break if he touched them. How did they even manage to stay upright? How did his weight not break the cobblestones? The others shied away from him, like reeds from a boat. I saw why when he came closer. I greeted him with song without thinking. It made his tortured grimace deepen.
He fell to his knees in front of me and wrapped his arms around me, squeezed me so tight I could feel my shoulders creaking. He was shaking. The soundless weeping hit my neck in silent, wet waves. All around us, the others were very busy not noticing what was going on.
I brought him to the backyard. He calmed down and we sat leaning against the wall, watching Saarakka outrun the sun and sink. When the last sliver had disappeared under the horizon, he hummed to test the atmosphere, and then spoke.
“I couldn’t stand being in the village for Saarakka. Everyone else talking and I can’t … I’ve started to understand the song language now, you know? It makes it worse. So I left, I went up to that plateau. There was nothing there. I suppose you knew that already. Just the trees and the little clearing.” He fingered the back of his head and winced. “I don’t know how, but I fell on the way down, I fell off the path and down the wall. It was close to the bottom, I didn’t hurt myself much. Just banged my head a little.”
“That was what made you upset?”
I could feel him looking at me. “If I’d really hurt myself, if I’d hurt myself badly, I wouldn’t have been able to call for help. I could have just lain there until Saarakka set. Nobody would have heard me. You wouldn’t have heard me.”
We sat for a while without speaking. The sound of crickets and birds disappeared abruptly. Oksakka had risen behind us.
“I’ve always heard that if you’ve been near death, you’re supposed to feel alive and grateful for every moment.” Petr snorted. “All I can think of is how easy it is to die. That it can happen at any time.”
I turned my head to look at him. His eyes glittered yellow in the setting sun.
“You don’t believe I spend time with you because of you.”
I waited.
Petr shook his head. “You know, on Amitié, they’d think you look strange, but you wouldn’t be treated differently. And the gravity’s low when closer to the hub. You wouldn’t need crutches.”
“So take me there.”
“I’m not going back. I’ve told you.”
“Gliese, then?”
“You’d be crushed.” He held up a massive arm. “Why do you think I look like I do?”
I swallowed my frustration.
“There are wading birds on Earth,” he said, “long-legged things. They move like dancers. You remind me of them.”
“You don’t remind me of anything here,” I replied.
He looked surprised when I leaned in and kissed him.
Later, I had to close his hands around me, so afraid was he to hurt me.
I lay next to him thinking about having normal conversations, other people meeting m
y eyes, talking to me like a person.
I’m thrifty. I had saved up a decent sum over the years; there was nothing I could spend money on, after all. If I sold everything I owned, if I sold the business, it would be enough to go to Amitié, at least to visit. If someone wanted to buy my things.
But Petr had in some almost unnoticeable way moved into my home. Suddenly he lived there, and had done so for a while. He cooked, he cleaned the corners I didn’t bother with because I couldn’t reach. He brought in shoots and plants from outside and planted them in little pots. When he showed up with lichencovered rocks I put my foot down, so he arranged them in patterns in the backyard. Giant Maderakka rose twice; two processions in white passed by on their way to the plateau. He watched them with a mix of longing and disgust.
His attention spoiled me. I forgot that only he talked to me. I spoke directly to a customer and looked her in the eyes. She left the workshop in a hurry and didn’t come back.
“I want to leave,” I finally said. “I’m selling everything. Let’s go to Amitié.”
We were in bed, listening to the lack of birds. Oksakka’s quick little eye shone in the midnight sky.
“Again? I told you I don’t want to go back,” Petr replied.
“Just for a little while?”
“I feel at home here now,” he said. “The valley, the sky … I love it. I love being light.”
“I’ve lost my customers.”
“I’ve thought about raising goats.”
“These people will never accept you completely,” I said. “You can’t sing. You’re like me, you’re a cripple to them.”
“You’re not a cripple, Aino.”
“I am to them. On Amitié, I wouldn’t be.”
He sighed and rolled over on his side. The discussion was apparently over.
I woke up tonight because the bed was empty and the air completely still. Silence whined in my ears. Outside, Maderakka rose like a mountain at the valley’s mouth.
I don’t know if he’d planned it all along. It doesn’t matter. There were no new babies this cycle, no procession. Maybe he just saw his chance and decided to go for it.
It took such a long time to get up the path to the plateau. The upslope fought me, and my crutches slid and skittered over gravel and loose rocks; I almost fell over several times. I couldn’t call for him, couldn’t sing, and the birds circled overhead in a downward spiral.
Just before the clearing came into view, the path curled around an outcrop and flattened out among trees. All I could see while struggling through the trees was a faint flickering. It wasn’t until I came into the clearing that I could really see what was going on: that which had been done to me, that I was too young to remember, that which none of us remember and choose not to witness. They leave the children and wait among the trees with their backs turned. They don’t speak of what has happened during the wait. No one has ever said that watching is forbidden, but I felt like I was committing a crime, revealing what was hidden.
Petr stood in the middle of the clearing, a silhouette against the gray sky, surrounded by birds. No, he wasn’t standing. He hung suspended by their wings, his toes barely touching the ground, his head tipped back. They were swarming in his face, tangling in his hair.
I can’t avert my eyes anymore. I am about to see the process up close. The bird that sits on Petr’s chest seems to take no notice of me. It pushes its ovipositor in between his lips and shudders. Then it leaves in a flutter of wings, so fast that I almost don’t register it. Petr’s chest heaves, and he rolls out of my lap, landing on his back. He’s awake now, staring into the sky. I don’t know if it’s terror or ecstasy in his eyes as the tiny spawn fights its way out of his mouth.
In a week, the shuttle makes its bypass. Maybe they’ll let me take Petr’s place. If I went now, just left him on the ground and packed light, I could make it in time. I don’t need a sky overhead. And considering the quality of their clothes, Amitié needs a tailor.
GOOD BOY
Nisi Shawl
“As out of several hundreds of thousands of the substrate programs comes an adaptable changing set of thousands of metaprograms, so out of the metaprograms as substrate comes something else … In a well-organized biocomputer, there is at least one such critical control metaprogram labeled I for acting on other metaprograms and labeled me when acted upon by other metaprograms. I say at least one advisedly …”
Feels like floatin. Wrong smells come under the right ones, like the last few times. She got the table polished with lemon oil, or somethin similar, but what is that? Stronger than before, what is it, fish? Also stinks like Fourth a July, after all the firecrackers set off. I look around but only thing burnin is the candles, big circle of ’em, waverin on the table in front a me.
Her daughter sittin on the other side, lookin damn near white even with them African beads and robes she wear. Wonder she don’t put a bone through her nose. I laugh at that picture, and the poor girl jump like I shot her. The music stops. It been playin soft in the background, but it cuts right off in the middle a Billy Strayhorn’s solo.
I remember what she named her daughter. “Kressi,” I say, “what you do to that record? Put it back on, girl, don’t you know that’s the Duke?”
“Sorry, ma’am.” She sets back up this little white box she knocked over with her elbow when I laughed. “Chelsea Bridge” picks up where it left off, and I get outta my chair for a look around.
Room always seem to have way too many walls, twelve sides or maybe more, and they don’t go straight up to a proper ceilin, but sorta curve themselves over. All plastic and glass and metal. I don’t like it much. Cold. Black outside; night, with no sign a the moon.
On a bed in one a the too many corners is a man, the reason why she brought me. Face almost black as the sky, and shinin with sweat. He got the covers all ruched up off his legs and twisted around his arms. Fever and chills, it look like. His eyes clear, though.
“Hello there, young man,” I say to him, bendin over. This body light, almost too easy to move. I like to throw myself on the bed with him. “What seems to be your problem?”
“Hey,” he says back, smilin tired. “You must be Miz Ivorene’s Great-Aunt Lona, yeah?” I nod. “Well, I hate to admit it, Miz Lona, but nobody seems to know exactly what the problem is. At first it was just tiredness, and they made sure I was getting a proper diet—”
I keep noddin while he talks, though a lotta the words he uses don’t tell me a thing. Words very seldom do, even at they best. It’s his cloud I’m interested in, his cloud a light. The light around his body, that should tell me what’s wrong with him and what he needs to fix it.
But I stare and stare at this man’s cloud, and I don’t see not one thing wrong. He ain’t sick.
But sweatin and in pain like that he ain’t well, either.
By the time I figure this much out, I have stayed long enough. The young man stopped talkin, and he and Kressi lookin at me, waitin for golden truths. All I know is I got no work to do here. Place starts gettin dimmer and I turn back to the table, to the candles, I go back to the light. As I’m leavin I think of somethin I maybe could tell them; it’s pretty obvious to me, but they so stuck in time, never know a thing until it’s already done happen to them. “Good Boy,” I say, on my partin breath. “Good Boy. Go deeper out. Get Good Boy.” And wonder like always if they’ll understand.
“Some kinds of material evoked from storage seem to have the property of passing back in time beyond the beginning of this brain to previous brains …”
Ivorene McKenna slumped forward in her chair. Her head lowered slowly toward the tabletop, narrowly avoiding setting fire to her short locks. Her daughter Kressi slipped a bota into Ivorene’s hand and cradled her shoulders as she sat back up, helping her guide the waterskin to her lips.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” Edde Berkner had propped himself up on one wobbly arm. He peered anxiously through the gloom.
“Nothing. Lie down and rest
. We have to play the session back and talk before we decide what to do.” Kressi did her best to sound cool and professional. Like the rest of the colonists of Renaissance, she placed a high value on the rational and the scientific. They called themselves “Neo-Negroes,” and they didn’t have much use for anything that couldn’t be quantified and repeated.
As a child on their outbound ship, Kressi had enjoyed the lessons on Benjamin Banneker, George McCoy, and technology’s other black pioneers. She’d wanted to be Ruth Fleurny, maverick member of the team that perfected the Bounce. It was because of Fleurny’s stubborn insistence on cheap access for all descendants of enslaved Africans as a condition of the “star drive’s” sale that the Neo-Negroes and a handful of similar expeditions had gotten off the ground.
In her daughter’s opinion Ivorene was as intelligent as Fleurny, and just as stubborn. Maybe misguided, though. Ivorene’s controversial theories, while couched in scientific terms, had a hard time finding acceptance among the Neo-Negroes. Sometimes Kressi wished she would just quit, right or wrong.
“That’s enough, sweetheart.” Kressi laid the bota on the table and picked up Ivorene’s arm by the elbow, walking with her as she took her shaky body to bed. It was always this way, afterwards.
Kressi set her player on “sound curtain,” and the rush of a waterfall filled the room. She aimed it towards Edde’s bed and then stepped behind it into her mother’s silence. The red-brown skin of Ivorene’s face seemed slack and lusterless. Her long-boned hands were clammy. Her daughter chafed them briefly to warm them.
“Well, Kressi, what did Aunt Lona have to say?”
“Nothing. Nothing much.” Kressi shrugged, trying not to show how much she hated having to act like anyone else besides her mom and Edde had been in the room. “I knocked the player over, and she scolded at me to put the music on again.”
“What about Edde?”
“She looked at him, but he did most of the talking. I can show you the—”
“No, save the record for later. If she didn’t say anything … Who else can I ask?” Great-Aunt Lona, the New Orleans rootswoman, had been her only hope. Other egun, accessible ancestral spirits, were available. But none of them knew much on the subject of healing.
The Mammoth Book of SF Stories by Women Page 46