by M. A. Foster
But they forgot, by will, design, or accident, that once buildings had been made to serve men, whatever perverse uses they had put them to, however seldom. The more logical and reasonable life came to be ordered, the more illogical and confusing it became; now people existed to fill buildings to maximum efficiency, just as customers in a queue existed to give the bored clerk something to do. Once buildings had been inspirational; now they were four sides and a top, functional, and reusable. Each one lasted, on the average, less than a person’s lifetime. As with the buildings, so it was with everything else. If one quarter of Earth’s population was at work at a given minute, so it was also true that almost another quarter were deep in their cups, drunk as lords. And if there were no more armies, there were vast numbers of police in their place so that the actual number of armed men was greater by percentage than in the worst of previous periods of world war.
Over the shifts were the members of the hierarchy, most of whose numbers were stabilized on permanent day-shifts, although certain of their order worked other fixed shifts: midnights, eves. Recruited from the upward-striving shifters who had already demonstrated their allegiance, few had other than programmed names, and fewer still had any recognizable family ties. The organization was all.
They called this system civilization, and considered it the best of all possible circumstances; considering the chaos which it obviously held at bay, perhaps it was an excellent compromise. But to Fellirian, it suggested nature at its rawest. And the ancient dynamics of nature, the uncontrolled fears out of the past, had not been eliminated at all, but painted over with a set of new colors. There were strains and tensions everywhere, growing slowly and insidiously daily, monthly, yearly. Man’s runaway population growth had been slowly braked to an agonized halt, but the price had been the complete loss of everything else. And the sad thing to her was that the people of today knew no better life, remembered no wildlife, no freedom, no open-ended self-checked ecology; they thought the ler quaint and eccentric, impractical and superstitious. . . .
The darkened coach moved on through the night. She felt at last the letdown after a full day of work, on her feet, tense with fielding question after question. The motion lulled her, and she became first relaxed, then drowsy. She began to drift in and out of a light half-sleep; there were others in the coach with her, seated away from her, in the far end, and they seemed to be absorbed in their own affairs, or perhaps also just drowsing . . . she thought she saw one of the seated figures rising, surrealistically slow, as if under water, or it might have been a dream, a daydream. She felt her head nod, and her eyelids felt heavy. Was someone now taking the seat beside her?
“Fellirian?”
She came awake instantly and the fog cleared out of her mind. She turned to her left and looked at the person who had joined her. The voice had been male, but the person was hooded. She thought that odd, for the coach was not cold. In fact, the coach was almost too warm. “Yes,” she said. “I am Fellirian Deren. And who is it who speaks from within a hooded pleth in the overheated mono coach?”
The low voice from within the hood said, almost inaudibly, “One whom you once knew well.”
She leaned forward to peer into the hood, caught a quick glimpse of a face, one she indeed knew well. Had known well. It had been some time since they had spoken. Her mouth started to form syllables of a name, but a finger was placed across her mouth. Within the hood was motion, a negation.
He leaned closer, saying, “And so it was, just as now. By the love I have had for you and your house, have I come this way to bring a warning to you.”
She shook her head, as if unbelieving. He noted it, and continued, “One will come to your yos, asking a service which only your house can provide. You must neither delay, nor refuse it. Negotiate as you will, but let it not be in doubt between us now.”
She answered, without hesitation, “It will be according to that you have spoken. But . . .”
“Ask no questions. They will all be answered in time. And not all the answers will be satisfying to you. Indeed, they will trouble you in your heart. I would not have had it so, but events press us, and they belong to one among the Powers. The Air element lies heavy upon us, and only Will counters it. But with this I also warn you to take care in all things relating to yourself from henceforth, and most especially to what you will do for this task, for there will be danger. It is for these reasons that I wear a hood, and ask that you not speak my name aloud. The mono is no place for such dialogue; I have risked much to come as far as I have.”
“You could have met me elsewhere.”
“Not so much as you imagine. I am watched. So are you, although not so much now. But do you not feel a change in the Institute, a shifting of balances?”
“Yes. Yes, I have, this last time. I was disturbed, but there was nothing I could see. What is it?”
“Times change always. There is nothing fixed; only varying degrees of the skill by which the riders ride the wave of the present. We enter different waters now, and the waves change. An accident, perhaps more malice than we anticipated, and perhaps something more—these things have made turbulence at a critical time when we do not need it. And now questions are being asked, sensors are being activated, old thoughts being rethought.” He gestured at the outside, at the sky-glow visible beyond the treetops. “There, they are stirring again. Something bad has happened. We cannot make it as it was, but we can find out of it what we must, so that we may know how much has befallen us.”
“What has happened?”
“I will not speak of it; to tell what I know, and to add what I suspect, is to describe something which may not be spoken of openly here, even between such as you and me. Not even hints will I give; you do not know it now: you will have to unravel it as you go along. I want no preconceptions. But you must do it, when you are asked, and you must be careful.” The last word was emphasized so strongly it came out almost a hiss. Fellirian drew back.
She paused, and said, “You speak in riddles.”
“I speak as only I may, now. I fear in the end of it you will know what I do. I would have spared you the weight of it.” Now the hooded shape moved, as if looking away from her, to the front of the coach. “Your stop will be soon; how say you of this?”
“It will be as you have said. We shall, we Derens. I only ask why there was haste.”
“Because the one who will ask of you is either approaching your yos now as we speak, or is already there.” He added in a suppressed half-chuckle which spoke much of some private joke, “I came to use my influence and ensure your response.”
Fellirian looked to the front, and glimpsed familiar landmarks passing by. She felt the mono slowing for the halt. She stood, and the hooded figure moved to allow her to pass into the aisle. She turned to him and said, “So it will be as you have asked. I wish only that we might have met more openly. We parted so.”
“We will meet again, I think. And after that, who may know the future? But however the past was, we know that it is only shadows in our minds now. Pleasurable they were, but not to be repeated. We have lived other lives. And hard decisions lie ahead for me. For you. I will not trouble your heart with them now; when the time comes you will face them better with an innocent heart.”
The mono stopped, fairly smoothly, but fast enough to cause Fellirian to sway slightly. He said, “And now, your stop.”
“You will come with me along the long path?”
“I cannot. There are others yet to see this night, along this way, and in the north where lies my yos.”
The coach doors opened. Outside it was so quiet the dripping of rainwater could be heard. Fellirian said quietly, “I have kept the tradition of the vayyon.”
“As have I. But in time all secrets may have to go overboard. But think not of the past, and prepare to wrestle the future.”
She nodded. “Just so . . . it was good to see you again.”
“And you. I do not forget. And may it be with your Toorh as with you.�
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“And so with yours as well.” She turned to depart the coach.
The doors opened, and Fellirian focused on the immediate now, where she was. Her memory had distracted her, disoriented her, reinforced by the voice of the man who had spoken. She stepped down out of the coach into the cold dampness. There was fog now; the rain had stopped, yet only recently, for all things dripped. It was almost noisy after the muffled quiet of the coach, her attention single-mindedly riveted. It was an elevated platform made of wood, shingled, charmingly rustic. To her left was the waiting-shed, open on the side facing the track; a sign, weather-beaten and stained, displayed the name of the stop: Wolgurdur, it said in the plain shapes of the Singlespeech alphabet. Flint Mountain Halt. The cold air touched her, and she shivered, adjusting from the warmth of the coach. Then she took a deep breath, clearing her head, and started slowly for the stairway which wound down to the forest floor.
At the head of the stairs she turned back to see if she could still see inside the coach. The doorway was open, and within it was the same figure, his face obscured in the shadows of his hood. She raised her voice and called to him, in a clear but still quiet voice, “Never fear! I will do it for you.”
The figure answered, “Not for me, but for us all. You will see.” Then he looked to his left, into the shed, back to her. “Is someone waiting there, in the shed?”
Fellirian turned back. She could not see around the corner, so she walked over to the edge of the shed, looked within. Sure enough, there was a person there, wrapped against the night damp, huddled over, apparently asleep. Fellirian shook her head, chuckling to herself. Here was some night-wanderer who had come the long walk down to Flint Mountain to await the mono, and, tired from the exertion, had taken a catnap in the corner; now not even awakened by the arrival of the train, nor their talking across the platform. The mono was waiting. Fellirian approached, and gently shook the traveler’s shoulder, an adolescent by the feel of it. The person awoke, and looked up with the blankness of one awakened suddenly, undoing the hood of her overcloak.
Fellirian smiled, then laughed aloud. She said, half to herself, “Well, well, well! Whoever should I happen upon in the mono halt waiting-shed, but my own Nerh, Peth-child.” She turned and waved to the train, that they should depart, and turned back again to Pethmirvin. “Whatever are you doing down here in the very bowels of the night?”
While Pethmirvin collected her wits, the mono began to move. The coach in which Fellirian had been riding moved past, slowly accelerating. In a moment, it was gone. Pethmirvin, the elder outsibling of the Derens, Fellirian’s firstborn and her secret favorite, looked up at her foremother blankly for a long moment, and then away, averting her eyes, deeply embarrassed to have been caught thus dozing in the shelter. Fellirian’s child and favorite she might have been, but the girl resembled neither her mother nor her forefather, Morlenden. Peth was another quality. She was slender, thin as a reed, awkward, self-conscious. Her hair was a pale, washed-out light brown. She was tall already for a ler, and very pale in color. But in the summer, her hair bloomed into a warm, rich golden color, and her skin turned the color of lightly browned toast. In her face, there were faint reminders of Fellirian, in the large, expressive eyes and the broad, generous mouth; yet there was a crispness there, too, something which subtly echoed Morlenden: the long face, with its suggestions of boniness, the hard chin. Pethmirvin was variable as quicksilver: lovely one moment, homely the next.
The girl tried to speak, but since she was not yet completely awake, the words came all tumbling out, like a badly wrapped parcel suddenly coming undone, then falling completely apart. But one way or another, it somehow all got out. “Madheliya, here. I was supposed to meet you here. Am supposed. Here I am. When did you come?”
“Just now, sleepyhead.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, really I am.”
Fellirian reached into the hood, ruffling the girl’s hair gently. “No sorries, Peth. Although you would have felt funny had you missed me, and waited all night down here.” Fellirian laughed warmly. “But why have you come all the way down here, and in the cold, too? Was it to fetch me home? It’s not as if I didn’t know the way. Nor am I afraid of the dark. And, inasmuch as time has treated me somewhat cruelly, no lovers to make rendezvous with along the way.”
Pethmirvin stood up, a little stiffly, and stretched, shivering in the damp night air, even though she was dressed quite warmly, as if she had been out for some time, and knew she was going to be. When she stretched, she was taller than Fellirian.
Fellirian watched her, thinking to herself. Fifteen and already she’s taller than me. Prettier, too, in her own way. And cast into the outsibling’s lot. I worry about her, poor thing; she hasn’t the temper for it.
Pethmirvin continued, “Kadh’olede13 is supposed to be at the yos by now; he had not yet come when I left, but he was expected at any moment. One of the Morens had seen him in a tavern by the old ferry crossing on the Hvar. They sent me down to tell you to hurry along, and not to stop along the way for tea at the Morens, nor visit with Berlargir and Darbendrath14, because we have guests, important guests, and they won’t talk until all the parent phase Derens are present.”
Fellirian had been half listening. Morlenden seen in a tavern! Of course they saw him in a tavern! She had been hearing that kind of tale for many years now. But the words about important guests brought her to full attention, remembering what he in the mono had said. She interrupted Pethmirvin. “Kel’ka Arnef? Who was it?”
Pethmirvin replied, “An elder, the Perwathwiy Srith, accompanied by a didh-Srith, a bit older than me. Sanjirmil Srith Terklaren.”
Fellirian leaned back. “The Perwathwiy, indeed! At our yos. I wonder what would bring her there.”
“Madheliya, neither she nor Sanjirmil would speak of it. And you know elders; wouldn’t set a foot in the yos. But that Sanjirmil thing did, though. Came right in and helped herself to my supper she did.”
“Peth, you know the way of the hospitable. We must share with the stranger. Sanjirmil would expect supper. And as for the Perwathwiy, I’d expect the full rigor of discipline from her.”
“Do you know her?”
“Only by repute. Not personally. She was a Terklaren herself, first born insibling and Klandormadh in her day . . . many years ago, of course; she is the foremother of Sanjirmil’s fore-mother. If she’s a day, she’s perh meth sen-dis15 years.”
“Yes, that’s her. She’s all gray. She stood outside in the rain until Kaldherman went out and unlocked the shed.” Pethmirvin giggled. “He said, so Sanjirmil wouldn’t hear, that if she wouldn’t come in, the old bat could stand all night in rain for all he cared.”
“Pethmirvin Srith Deren!”
“That’s what he said, Madheliya, not me! But Cannialin told him that the old woman would put a curse on him if he didn’t give her some shelter. And that if she did, that she, Cannialin, would probably help her.”
“Peth, you know an elder’s not supposed to enter a yos; that’s one of the Basic Arbitrations. When one’s insibling children complete the weaving ceremony and the initiation, then one leaves the yos forever. Not just your own, anyone’s!”
“I know. But a lot of them do it anyway, on the sly. And besides, it was cold and rainy.”
“Doesn’t matter. She would stand there anyway. But good for Ayali. So now, my sleepy girl-child; come along then. We won’t get home standing here in the mono shelter and talking the night away.” Fellirian put her arm around the younger girl’s slender shoulders, giving her a quick hug; and so together they descended the worn, unpainted staircase to the ground, wet and quaking from the rain which had ended. They said no more, but set out directly under the bare dripping trees, northward, into the central provinces. Fellirian reflected as they began the walk homeward that in most circumstances she would have been irritated to find Peth out so late at night; yet this night she felt comforted by the girl’s presence. Perhaps it was just the cold and dampness. Or more likely d
isturbing impressions, augmented by the cryptic rejoinder she had received riding the mono. No doubt about it: the future had become a troubled and uncertain one, and it was measurably easier to face such an uncertain future when your future could walk along for a time with you.
And her thoughts insisted, The Perwathwiy Srith is then she of whom he spoke; she would ask something of us. Perwathwiy and her own Toorh’s Toorh, Sanjirmil. Her mind raced, seeking data: Perwathwiy was hetman of Dragonfly Lodge, the elder commune reserved for the Gameplayer Braids. And Sanjirmil? Fellirian had no knowledge of the girl directly. She recalled images of Braid Linebooks, reference logs, registered births, deaths, weaving ceremonies. There: she had it. Sanjirmil Srith Terklaren. Eldest Toorh and Klandorh-to-be of the Secondplayer Braid. Age, one and two fourteens, almost mature. Was there a connection? And was there a connection with the events in the Institute? She could see none. But that failed to comfort her, for she could see no reason why the Perwathwiy should come to her yos, and that what she would ask be agreed to beforehand. Fellirian shivered, and not entirely from the cold.
The path soon narrowed as they walked upward out of the valley in which the mono ran; had it been dry, it would have been wide enough for the two of them to walk abreast, but with the rain, the worn path was too slippery along the edges, so they walked single file, silently, Pethmirvin leading with her long-legged stride. Apparently the girl was taking her instructions seriously, for she wasted no time and set a steady pace. Fellirian, used to walking many miles, found that she needed her breath for the walk.