Seven Sides of Self

by Nancy Joie Wilkie

  “But I am curious,” said Jarka, “why did you not mention this color-crossing earlier? It appears as though you made efforts to hide its presence from me.”

  “The Institute thought it unnecessary to address this issue with you and your world. And if it had not been for your chance meeting with the color-crosser, you might never have become aware of the existence of such a thing. We felt you need not know or be concerned with it.” Matan then added in a quiet voice, “As an Earthman, I suppose you do not understand.”

  “As a sociologist, I think I do.” Jarka thought fleetingly of the taboos on his home planet. There were many that might be as strong.

  “We have Casla in custody,” said Palan matter-of-factly. Jarka stared at the two directors in disbelief. So he really had been followed during his walk with Casla. His heart immediately sank as he thought of the likely fate awaiting his friend.

  Jarka blurted out, “May I speak to Casla?”

  “On no account,” came the absolute response.

  Jarka could feel himself becoming agitated. “Is the presence of color-crossers so harmful? Why can’t they be accepted into your society? There is no real difference between them and any other Aurillian!”

  Matan said swiftly, “You do not understand, do you?”

  “And for this one difference, you will condemn an individual to death?”

  “We have no other choice,” said Matan. The agony in Matan’s voice convinced Jarka of the severity this situation caused the Aurillians. “The Supreme Sree took away our ancient anger with instructions that the integrity of the Colors—the eglanti, the tholcon, and the sree—be maintained. Color-crossing violates that condition and we feel the old anger when we think of it. If color-crossers are not removed, they will give a foothold to an emotion that almost destroyed our planet once. We cannot allow this to happen again.”

  “This is totally outrageous! You have no right!” shouted Jarka. Jarka’s outburst puzzled Matan.

  “Is this anger? I have never observed such anger.”

  “Yes! This is anger!” Jarka’s fist slammed onto the table.

  “You now can understand our point. The very presence of color-crossing has given anger the opportunity to rise once again its ugly head in our world. We beg of you not to report the existence of color-crossing to your home-world. It is apparent your kind cannot tolerate our solution to our problem any more than we can tolerate your anger.”

  “No! I will not honor your request!” declared Jarka. “This cannot be allowed to go on if there is to be a lasting relationship between our two worlds. Mistrust is the fruit of ignorance. If we are to be the masons of mutual friendship, we must be willing to share the totality of our societies, all the good, and the beauty, as well as all of the bad, and the pain.”

  Jarka stood in front of the table for several moments. He was content to let the Aurillians terminate the interview. Matan stood up, followed by Palan. Jarka bowed slightly before Matan politely motioned the Earthman to head for the triangular door and the waiting escort who had brought him from the lightship.

  The evening before the lightship was to lift off for Earth, Jarka did not feel much like working. There would be many long months to process and analyze the information he had collected. His mind could not stop thinking about Casla. Jarka wandered aimlessly through the lightship until he ended up in the communications center. He noticed the young lieutenant on duty had tuned into the Aurillian Evening Holocast.

  After a couple of brief news stories, pictures of two Aurillians appeared. Since one was Of The Gold and one was Of The Green, Jarka first thought it was a sree being discussed. Then a streak of horror shot through his consciousness. It was Casla! Jarka moved closer to the holo-set so he could hear the story.

  “—And today the convicted color-crosser, Casla, and his close friend and accomplice, Asdra, were put to death. The traditional waiting period was ignored due to the severity of their offense. In an official statement released by the government shortly before their execution, the Emperors said color-crossing will not be tolerated. They reinforced the warning that anyone who willingly assists someone who is a known color-crosser will share the death penalty. Such was the case today with the second execution.”

  Jarka sat stunned—outraged. He lost his breath. Casla and Asdra dead! Was this Aurillian justice? Were the Aurillians sending him a message—sending Earth a message? Jarka swore he would make Earth aware of the plight of color-crossers, and he intended to do so despite this little demonstration.

  “Your deaths will not be in vain!” vowed Jarka as he left the communications center and made his way back to his room. “Your deaths will not be in vain,” he repeated.

  As the starship left orbit, Jarka looked out of his visi-port at the sphere known as Aurillia. He had come to know something of this, the first extraterrestrial community, and had learned to appreciate their culture and their beliefs. As he watched Aurillia slowly shrink, he knew he would likely not get the chance to visit this wondrous and dreaded place again in his lifetime, let alone get a chance to travel through the vast expanses of space. His attention focused on the huge volume of tapes and notes accumulated in just twenty-one days. Despite the deaths of Casla and Asdra, he grinned at the thought of the countless years it would take to study and interpret this incredible amount of information. He thought it only appropriate he write a brief conclusion of his impressions of the distant world known by its inhabitants as Aurillia.

  MEMORANDUM

  January 27, 2307

  TO: The International Association of Exosociology

  Journal of Aurillian Studies

  FR: Jarka Moosha, Ph.D.

  Mission Specialist and Principal Investigator, AE3

  RE: Commentary on Aurillian Society

  Individuals in Aurillian society are virtually identical in almost every way except two, the Color of their outer attire and the small ornament in the middle of their forehead. While the miracle of genetics unfolds to produce each new life, fate seems to dictate the Color each new Aurillian will wear. By Earth standards, the Color of one’s clothes is trivial; meaningless for all practical purposes. And yet, in the absence of any other difference, this relatively inconsequential factor has become something monstrous on Aurillia—something that can, if disturbed, invoke nausea, arouse suspicion, and lead to death. The logical summation of this set of circumstances is that the more identical those within a society are, the less tolerant the society is of any difference. So intolerant of this difference are the Aurillians, that it is the only reason one is put to death on this otherwise crime-free and war-free planet.

  Greed and lust and anger fill Aurillia’s past. Their Deities—the Supreme Sree—took away those distasteful emotions from the Aurillians. Now, thousands of years later, they have been replaced with the fear of returning to the old way of life.

  The welfare of the two hundred twenty-seven million individuals has been placed on one side of the sociological scales; the just demands of an uncounted group on the other. Could one say those who color-cross deserve to die? Injustice by what standards? Earth’s? Aurillia’s? And who are we that we should judge?

  Perhaps mankind will learn something about itself by studying Aurillia. Maybe looking in this extraterrestrial mirror will show the stupidity of the artificial boundaries mankind has erected throughout the fiber of its societies. If man can observe Aurillia with open eyes, open minds, and open hearts, it is possible the often terrible consequences of having divisions will make themselves blatantly apparent. Then, GOD willing, mankind can finally let go of its need to segregate, scrutinize, and ostracize itself without fear of ever going back.

  “Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as braided hair and the wearing of gold jewelry and fine clothes.

  Instead, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in GOD’s sight.”

  I PETER 3:3-4

  JOURNEY TO PRADIX

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nbsp; (The Seeker)

  MARION TURNED HIS HEAD around to get one last, long look at the village he had called his home for over fifty years. The late afternoon breeze caught a strand of his long silver hair, causing it to wave in front of his bearded face. The waning sunlight snuck through the break in the trees to warm his chilled cheeks.

  “Good-bye, my old home—I shan’t see the likes of you again,” he said softly to no one but the surrounding woods. He sent a parting salute and then faced the upward slope of the narrow path once more. His hand came up to move the fallen hair back behind his ear. He leaned gently on his walking stick as he continued his relaxed pace toward the large rocky ledge up ahead—the goal for the first stint of his journey.

  The ridge of the Livon Mountains ran from the barren plains of the Norther Lands to the thick forests far away in the Souther Lands. He had made this hike many times as a young lad, though not so much in recent years. As he climbed, Marion felt a mixture of emotions cross his consciousness—sadness at leaving Arvonia, so full of wonderful memories, and a joy filling his heart with the knowledge of what might lie ahead.

  He halted periodically to adjust a strap on his backpack or to take a sip of well water from his saucer-shaped canteen. He listened to the rustle of the leaves and the calls of the many birds making their homes in the treetops. He smelled the sweet aroma carried by the autumn breeze and took in the richness of the scenery and its many colors—spread out before him as if it were a prepared feast. All of this underneath a restful blue sky brought him a feeling of contentment.

  As he continued his ascent, Marion began to reflect on his life, feeling and seeing everything that had ever happened to him. He relived the carefree days of his youth, roaming the hills and exploring the countryside. He thought of the walks taken with his grandfather and the countless hours asking the old man the names of trees and flowers. His grandfather’s answers would always include all sorts of interesting facts about the habits of animals, the cycles of nature, and the art of living in harmony with the land.

  As rich as those early memories were, none could equal the day he met Larilyn. One year later, he joined with her. Without question, it had been the happiest time of his life. He recalled the joy he felt as they took the Sacred Vows of Joining in the Central Hall. When he stood in front of his friends and family, he beamed with the knowledge that the most beautiful woman in the kingdom had agreed to join with him.

  Larilyn was, indeed, a proud woman, a person full of confidence and grace. The daughter of Arvonia’s only doctor, her upbringing was intellectually stimulating. And, like her father, she took an interest in all areas of healing. The only sorrow in their early lives together was their inability to have children. Soon after their joining, they realized Larilyn was barren. After their initial disappointment, they grew to accept their lot. Together they came to see each other as blessing enough and cherished one another each and every day.

  He again felt the grief borne at the loss of his beloved Larilyn three years ago. His agony had been great and was only now starting to fade. Marion wondered why man must experience memories of one’s life. Man was unique from the rest of the world’s creatures in this ability. The process could bring much pain. Thankfully, man was given another gift—the ability to choose. Marion concluded memories are to be cherished and enjoyed. If one chooses to recount bad memories, then pain will fill one’s consciousness and slowly erode one’s spirit. “Relish the good and the aftertaste will linger sweetly,” Larilyn wisely said before her passing. Marion was not perfect, but lately, he knew he would much rather enjoy warm thoughts about his beloved than painful ones.

  While he strolled along the trail leading up the mountain, his mind continued to wander along the path of his life. After the recollection of Larilyn’s passing, his memories turned to lighter fare. Marion found himself whistling as he walked. Only when evening fell and the stars came out did the need to stop and rest for the night enter his thoughts.

  At the peak of the ridge defining the Livon Mountains, he found a small clearing giving him an unobstructed view of Arvonia and the Lowlands. A prime spot to spend the night, he thought. After a satisfying meal and a cupful of wine, Marion took out his favorite pipe. His grandfather carved it out of a deer antler many years ago. He filled it with a rich golden blend of tobacco, sat back to enjoy the aromatic smoke, and looked out across the landscape below him. He could just make out the cluster of lights from the village. It never occurred to Marion there might be so much pleasure in viewing his old home.

  Glades of maples and birches framed his private panorama. The choruses of insects had not yet surrendered to the chill autumn air. Marion wondered about the purpose of their nightly serenade. There were old wives’ tales telling how crickets were really kind spirits playing their songs to assist the recently departed in finding their way to the afterlife.

  Marion finally allowed himself to think about his destination—Pradix. Stories about the peaceful place had been handed down from generation to generation, promising it would be filled with all the pleasures of this life, but none of its burdens. Many times he read the ancient text pledging eternal tranquility. All one needed to do was believe in its existence—and Marion did—and the path to Pradix would become clear. Marion hoped his faith in Pradix would be enough to show him the way. By leaving his heart and mind open, Marion counted on the Creator to guide him—much the way the wind carries a fallen autumn leaf to its final destination. Marion didn’t know how long the journey might take. He prayed he had packed enough supplies and trusted in his own survival skills should the trip prove to be a long one. But once there, the burdens of life would vanish. He looked forward to that.

  With the promise of the young man named Jhovan who first spoke of Pradix and its richness echoing through his mind, Marion felt himself slip off to a deep and satisfying sleep.

  The next day was delightfully warm—quite uncharacteristic for late fall, especially at the higher altitude. Marion followed the footpath away from his campsite up toward the mountain pass. Once through the narrow gap, he quickly came upon Livon’s Ledge. He stopped at the top of the sharp vertical drop. Looking out across the expanse of the prairie, he could see the majestic Meherrin Mountains off in the distance. He could even detect the winding course of the Rivanna River as it cut the tableland in half. The sight made his legs eager to start their day’s work.

  He turned back to the trail and began the descent off the mountain. The beauty of the day and the amazing scenery filled his mind. His thoughts then turned to which direction he would head when he reached the flatland. He halfheartedly scolded himself for not relying upon the Creator for guidance. Once he reached the plains, Marion decided to head due east. After a time, a man appeared on another path leading down from the north.

  “What a fine day it is, sire. What might yer destination be, if you don’t mind me askin’?” The stranger’s accent reminded Marion of the folk who lived in the Wester Lands, but the smoothness of his speech made him seem special somehow.

  “I’m looking for Pradix,” replied Marion, not at all certain he should have admitted his intent. Some folks thought the legends about Pradix pure fantasy, the creation of the downtrodden after drinking a bit too much summer wine.

  “Well, now. That’s a mighty fine place to be lookin’ fir, if I do say so me’self,” the stranger answered while scratching his chin—contemplating the full impact of Marion’s revelation.

  Marion sized up the stranger and saw a compassionate face with a questioning smile and piercing eyes of some indeterminate shade of gray. He seemed quite harmless. But something about him could not be categorized. The more Marion looked, the more he realized there was little hint of his age.

  “My name is Marion. And yours?” Marion finally offered.

  “O’lie Peters, me name, though people often call me just plain Pete.”

  “Do you have any family?” Marion thought maybe that might help determine Pete’s age.

  “Yes, indeed.
I got me a father and a—well, I guess he is sort of a brother, I’m not really sure. Anyway, I don’t see ’em much on account of I’m always out travelin’,” he said.

  “And what do you do that causes you to travel so much?” asked Marion. He almost tacked on the phrase “for a man your age” but thought better of it.

  “Oh—I travel about helping people, listenin’ to their problems and doin’ what I can to assist. Perhaps nudgin’ them one way or another. But today, I’m headed to the Souther Lands and I thought I might cross this flatland. It is one of my favorite hikes. Make it quite often.” Pete continued on after a brief pause, “But tell me more about yerself, if you don’t mind me joinin’ ye for a spell. Pradix, you say?”

  Marion stood still for an instant, trying to determine whether Pete might believe the stories about Pradix or simply thought them fairy tales. He asked the man, “You do know of Jhovan and his journey to Pradix?”

  “Oh, sure. I’ve heard of it,” O’lie Peters said matter-of-factly. “But why don’t ye tell me yer version of it. You’d be surprised how the story changes dependin’ on where yer from.”

  “All right,” Marion responded. He always did like a captive audience. The two travelers started down the path leading out to the heart of the prairie.

  “Once upon a time—as bards tell it—there lived a young man in the Wester Lands named Jhovan. Evidently, there was nothing terribly special about this young man’s early years. But, when he came of age, he told his father he wanted to have an adventure before he settled down.

  “His father said to him, ‘What in blazes do ye want to go and travel to some strange place for when ye have all the adventure ye could want right here in the Wester Lands?’

  “But the young man was insistent and made plans to set off as soon as the snows of winter melted—despite his father’s objection. He left the Wester Lands and journeyed east, always toward the rising sun.