The small green planet might have continued to circle its unassuming sun forever ignorant of the troubles and turmoil of the worlds beyond. But Oha-Lau was doomed, and its doom came out of the stars as legend foretold.
Doom fell, literally, on Oha-Lau in the form of a spaceplane—a small fighter, to be exact—that crash-landed among the thick foliage near one of the principle villages. The natives were accustomed to spaceplanes landing on their planet, but not to one smashing into the trees, cutting a wide swath of destruction through the vegetation. In vain they waited for something or someone to come out of the wounded bird, but it sat still and silent.
No one dared approach it. The natives had all seen these strange birds shoot flame from their tails and roar into, the night sky, and everyone feared this might do the same without warning. But, finally, curiosity got the better of them. The crippled bird appeared to be near death; it was making the most pathetic beeping sound, and some of the young warriors approached it, spears ready.
The bird was, indeed, dead (or it was after a spear jab killed the object that was beeping). Its pilot was not, however. She was unconscious, suffering from severe dehydration and starvation—a victim of space narcosis, though the natives did not know this. The computer system had saved her life, guiding the craft on controls she had set when she realized she was losing her grip on consciousness.
There was one person in the tribe who cautioned against helping this stranger from the stars, one wise and cynical being who reminded them of the legend and protested taking the woman into their midst. But the gentle people ignored the old man and brought their doom upon themselves.
The warriors lifted the pilot from the spaceplane and carried her to the hut of the tribal healer. He had no idea what was the matter with the young woman, but thought the symptoms appeared similar to those experienced by his people who lost their way in the jungle and were later found, half-crazed and wandering. He treated the young pilot accordingly with herbs and potions and soothing music and—either because of his medicine or in spite of it—the pilot made a complete and rapid recovery.
And thus was the beginning of the end. The natives did not notice, when they buried the bird, the black carbon streaks down the sides of the spaceplane. They saw the wrecked deflector shields but had no idea what they meant. They could not know, in their innocence, that their guest had been involved in some terrible conflict and had barely escaped with her life. They could not know that she was going to bring that conflict to them.
If the young pilot had foreseen the grief and destruction she would inadvertently bring down upon the innocent people she would grow to love, she would have fled to an even more remote part of the galaxy. But her spaceplane was at the bottom of a bog. She herself was wounded in mind and body. Oha-Lau was a sanctuary of peace and beauty, kindness, compassion, smiles, and laughter. She had almost forgotten such things existed. So she stayed on Oha-Lau and let it heal—so she supposed—the deep gash in her soul.
The natives, usually so eager to be rid of visitors, made an exception in the case of the young pilot. She did not ask stupid questions about virgins. She didn't want to know where to find moonrith. She lived among them, yet apart. She learned their language, respected their ways, and, unconsciously, began to exert her influence upon them.
They didn't know why, except that she had, as the old man said, ancient eyes. Certainly the eyes of the twenty-four-year-old woman had seen more grief and suffering and horror than most see in a lifetime. But behind the shadow of pain and sorrow was a wisdom and power that came from centuries of genetic research. She had been born and bred to shape men and events, and she could no more deny this part of her nature than she could deny the sea-gray eyes that came from her barbarian father or the pale, sea-foam color hair that was the gift of her unhappy mother.
The downed pilot began her quiet rule by solving small problems and settling minor disputes. Impressed with her skill and tact, the elders sought her out for advice, particularly on the handling of other-world guests. She had as great a reluctance to encourage these unwelcome visitors to Oha-Lau as did the natives. Her regal presence caused even the most arrogant smuggler to regard her with awe and, without quite knowing how, within a few years, the downed pilot had become the beloved ruler of the people of Oha-Lau.
The woman was content. Her past, with its bitter memories, began to fade away for her as she hoped desperately it would do for others. Everyone must believe her to be dead. She tried to convince herself of that, although she knew in her soul that this was impossible. One man, at least, was aware that she lived. But if she was very, very careful, she might remain hidden from him and be able to rest on this lovely, peaceful planet forever. Like the natives, she avoided looking up into the stars at night.
Doom did not fall swiftly.
The woman had a gift of vision—"longsight" the natives called it. She could see in her mind a fearsome beast approaching camp and send the warriors to kill it before it could harm anyone. She could see unwelcome visitors approaching their planet as well, and these often found an "honor guard" waiting for them upon their arrival. What the natives did not know, of course, was the true power of the woman or her gift. With it, she could see to the ends of the universe. It could reveal, if she chose to use it, the events transpiring in the galaxy. She did not choose to use her gift, however, having made up her mind to shun the worlds above. But the gift was not one she had complete control over, and sometimes the visions came to her unbidden.
This happened the first time seventeen years after she had arrived on the planet. One evening, while walking with her attendants to her simple hut, she frightened them all by crying out in anger and fear for no reason whatsoever—no reason, at least, that they could see. She covered her face with her hands, but she could not blot out the sight that was transpiring before her mind's eye.
"Stavros!" she cried through her tears, forced to watch as the dear friend and companion of her childhood died in unspeakable agony.
And she knew, as he died, that he had revealed the secret.
Doom was poised, ready to fall.
Her people watched her in concern after that. The woman was preoccupied, given to pacing the smooth grassy stretches of the garden they had made for her. Muttering strange names, her hands twisting together, she walked back and forth, back and forth. Then she would begin to weep and, shaking her head, run to her hut and hide like a child in the darkness.
Hide from what? Her people grew terrified. Was there some dread beast in the jungle coming to attack them? Something more awful than anything they had ever previously encountered?
The woman tried to reassure them. "It has nothing to do with you," she told them.
But this time they were more gifted with foresight than she.
Doom fell.
A heartbroken scream shattered the tropical night—a scream of such fury and hatred, such loss and grief, that the people, after a moment of frozen fear, rushed to their ruler's hut in terror, expecting to find her murdered, torn apart by some savage creature. Instead, they found the woman, shaking with sobs, crouched on her knees beside her cot. Her attendants sought to comfort her, but she would not be comforted. Seventeen years of peace and beauty and safety had ended.
Her piercing cry had awakened everyone in the village, filling those who heard it with vague, unknown terror. But the woman's cry had gone far beyond the village. It echoed beyond the green planet into the stars, carrying its message of grief and anguish out into the galaxy. And so it was that, even as the sword pierced her brother's body, his killer heard that cry and knew, deep in his soul, who it was that mourned. Her hatred and sorrow and pain touched him as nothing had touched him in seventeen years. And he knew, if not where she was, how to find her. The mind-link between these two, broken seventeen years ago, was reforged.
The fate of Oha-Lau was sealed. For the first time in the planet's history, one man now began to actively search for it. And that made it only a matter of time before his atte
ntion was drawn to the speck of green, sparkling like a tiny jewel on the fingertips of the great galactic arm.
Maigrey sat cross-legged on a rattan mat inside her hut. Her eyes were closed. She leaned back wearily against the sturdy, living walls formed by the mothering tree—so called because this tree, with its strong trunk and sheltering branches, could be uprooted from its home, replanted in new ground, take root again, and flourish. Plant many mothering trees together, side by side, and the trunks would fuse, forming walls, the leafy branches intertwining to create a roof so thick that only minimal thatching was added to protect the dweller from the heavy jungle rains.
Once Maigrey had loved the thought of living within a living tree. It spoke to her of the reverence and respect these people held for life. She was touched and amused by the name—the mothering tree. Often, when she had awakened in the night, tormented by some dreadful dream she could never remember, she lay upon her bed, cowering in nameless fear, only to hear the whispered lullaby of the leaves of the mothering tree. Though she had never known her own mother, never heard her own mother's voice, she thought she knew the words of that lullaby, words that came only in fragments and could never be recalled, words spoken in a language she only vaguely remembered. Comforted, she would fall into sweet, dreamless sleep.
Dreamless sleep. Maigrey squeezed her eyes tightly shut against the sun's bright glare that shone through the open doorway and filtered down among the leaves of the tree. Dreamless sleep.
"Heavenly Creator, is this too much to ask?" she muttered, pressing her hands against her burning forehead. "No!" She stared defiantly up into the branches tangled above her head. "It is not too much and I will have it." She glared at the inoffensive leaves, which trembled in the jungle's slight breeze, yet seemed to be trembling at her tone of bitter anger. "I know Your law! I will argue my case before Your Heavenly Tribunal! 'See!' I will cry. 'See what You have made me endure! And I have borne it all—the pain, the suffering— without complaint. I kept my vow. I did,'" she repeated angrily. "'Did You keep Yours?' Ha!"
That vicious "Ha!" startled an old man entering the hut. Cringing, he made as if to back away, but Maigrey—seeing him—rose hastily to her feet.
"Please, Healer, please come in. I am sorry if I offended you. I wasn't talking to you. I . . . was talking ... to myself ..."
Nodding and shrugging, the old man hobbled into the hut. He was a very old man, this ancient healer. So old that the children of the companions of his youth were now dying of old age.
"I am meant to see the end," he used to say, and he always said it in the tone of voice of one who is cursed.
Shuffling across the dirt floor of the hut, he eyed Maigrey with a shrewd, eager gaze in which there was a gleam of hope. The woman spread a fresh mat upon the floor of her hut, knowing that the old man would appreciate the gesture of respect. He did so, lowering himself onto the mat awkwardly and slowly with a great show of infirmity. Maigrey knew this bone-creaking was show—the day the tiger wandered into the village the spry old man outran most of the young warriors. But the shaking legs and snapping bones gained him many advantages—the best place by the campfire, the choicest bits from the dinner pots, nubile young women to aid his feeble steps.
Kneeling down on her own mat facing him, Maigrey smiled at the old man nervously. "Have you brought it today?"
The old man glowered at her, as if wondering why she should ask such a fool question, though he had been three days before without bringing it. Of course he had brought it. He made a major production of fumbling at the knot of a ragged scrip hanging from a rope tied around his shriveled middle. Maigrey's hands twitched to snatch it from him, but she dared not anger him and could only sit and wait in impatience that the old eyes were quick to note.
He drew it forth slowly and tossed it onto the mat between them. "I have brought what you requested, Sea-Eyes," he said in a quavering voice that was probably as phony as his creaking legs.
"Will it work as they say?" Oddly she made no move to touch it now that it lay within her reach.
"Yes, yes!" The old man waved a gnarled hand at the pouch. "Boil the bark in water until the green foam rises. Drink it, then—"
"Slowly? Swiftly?" Maigrey stared at the pouch in fascination.
"Oh, slowly. The taste is said to be quite exquisite and you might as well enjoy it going down."
"And then?"
"You will begin to feel very tired."
"No pain?"
"None. Lay yourself down. It would be of help to your women," the old man hinted, "if you were to dress yourself in the burial gown beforehand."
"I understand," Maigrey said, swallowing a sudden wild burst of laughter that welled up from her knotted stomach.
Reaching out with a firm and steady hand, she lifted the pouch and opened it casually, sniffing at the contents as if she were buying spices in the market. The smell was pleasant, even enticing. The old man watched her without expression.
"Will your death stop the grandfathers?" he asked suddenly.
"I—I don't know," Maigrey faltered, unable to meet his eyes. "I hope so."
"We will hold the funeral many days," the old man promised pathetically, spreading his hands. "Many days we will celebrate and beat the drums. Surely they will hear and go away?"
Maigrey had a sudden vision of her corpse, lying for days in the jungle heat. "Yes," she murmured. "Yes, they will hear and they will leave." Rising to her feet, she was about to offer the old man food and drink, as was customary.
Her eyes opened wide. The words caught in her throat; she nearly strangled.
The old man, watching her closely, saw her pale face become paler still, her eyes stare in disbelief. His back to the door, he turned his head quickly to see what had terrified his ruler.
It was a spirit.
The old man had never seen a spirit, but he wasn't particularly surprised by this one's appearance in his camp. At the old man's time of life, nothing much surprised him anymore. He might have been frightened if the spirit had appeared hostile. It didn't. It just looked tired, as though it hadn't slept in a long, long time. It made no threatening move or gesture, but stood in the doorway, staring inside with a wistful expression.
And it suddenly occurred to the old man that no one had greeted the spirit or asked it to enter.
The old man gathered himself together and rose to his feet.
"Welcome, spirit," he said with a bow that sounded—from the cracking bones—as if he'd been snapped in two. As near as he could recall, a spirit had to be invited inside a dwelling or it couldn't pass beyond the threshold. He glanced at Maigrey. It was her dwelling, after all. She said nothing, simply stared at the spirit, the bag of lovepoison clutched tightly in her hand.
Edging over to the woman, the old man gave her a poke with his finger. "Ask it in!"
"Platus!" Maigrey whispered.
The old man looked back at the spirit, thinking that perhaps this was some sort of invitation, spoken in the strange language that the woman spoke to herself sometimes. But apparently it wasn't. The spirit remained standing in the door, regarding the woman with sad eyes.
Maigrey turned her back on the spirit.
"No, no!" screeched the old man, appalled. He'd never visited with a spirit before, and, by the gods, he wasn't going to lose this one. "Come in, honored spirit, " he said, shoving his own fresh mat across the floor with his foot. "I am not the owner of this lodge"—a rebuking look at Maigrey—"but I am the elder of the village"—a proud lifting of the head—"and as such I invite you to be our guest."
The spirit looked from Maigrey to the old man and back to Maigrey again with some astonishment.
"I don't know," Maigrey said in a helpless tone. "I don't know why he can see you, Platus. Unless Whoever sent you needs a witness."
"He needs no witness, sister," Platus said in the mild voice Maigrey remembered so well, though she had not heard it in seventeen years. "He is all-seeing, all-knowing. And all-forgiving, as I have reaso
n to know."
The old man had no idea what was being said, since the two spoke in an unfamiliar language. He saw the spirit still standing in the entrance to the hut and poked Maigrey again.
"Come in," she said dully, with a halfhearted, despairing gesture. She pressed the knuckles of the hand that held the bag into her mouth, but it did no good. She began to cry.
The spirit entered and came to stand beside the woman. Its hands reached out to comfort her, but there is no comfort the dead can offer the living. It must be a new spirit, the old man thought, not to know that.
The spirit was kin to the woman, the old man realized: slender build, pale hair, the features were similar though the mold from which they had been cast seemed to have been made stronger when it formed the woman. This was a family matter, then. The old man knew he must leave. He did so, but not before he had spoken his mind.
"I mistrust you are from the grandfathers, spirit," he said. "Perhaps you have been sent to lead your kin to her rest. I hope she will not keep you waiting long." The old man cast a meaningful glance at the bag Maigrey held in her hand. "Tell the grandfathers they do not need to come. The funeral will be a fine one, very fine." He repeated this several times, bobbing in the entrance of the hut. Then, finally, he was gone.
The evening air, fragrant with the perfume of growing things, drifted into the hut. It was the wind's gentle touch that Maigrey felt on her shoulders, not the hands of the spirit. But the fingers grazed her soul, if not her flesh. Raising her head and moving away from the spirit, she stared straight ahead defiantly, blinking the tears from her eyes.
"It's good to see you, Platus. How have you been?" she started to ask casually, then broke off with a hysterical giggle that ended in a sob. God! What a stupid question!
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