The Book of the Ler

by M. A. Foster

  At first, in the first days, it had been tremendously exciting; he had never known such a sense of freedom, such a feeling of total irresponsibility. Morlenden wandered first northward, then northwestward, sleeping in the open, feeling the chill of night which was now in the air, doing an occasional odd job in exchange for a meal and a bath, or perhaps some small change, at someone’s yos, or again, sometimes an elder lodge, where the silent inhabitants gave him knowing leers, but said nothing, made no disparagements. Those who had been insiblings in a former life had known the vayyon. They knew.

  The great affair had not materialized. Morlenden could not put into words exactly what it was he was looking for, but whatever it had been, there seemed to be an ever-receding chance of finding it. It was not that there were no girls; there were girls in plenty, and his days and nights were not, by and large, totally devoid of dalliance, teasings, flower-fights. But somehow the connection he wanted seemed to be absent. This one was busy, house-bound, and would not wander off, though she had possibilities. One who would readily go off with him was less than hopeless; Fellirian at her worst appeared preferable, even as a companion. Others he only caught glimpses of. In earlier days, Morlenden had delighted in the busy interplay of eye and gesture, of suggestive word. Now that he was free, really free, that whole universe seemed to have dropped away and vanished; what irony—now that he was available, no one was interested. Prospects were few, and he always seemed to be arriving at the wrong place at the wrong time, too early, too late. He began drifting from place to place, becoming bored and dissatisfied, frustrated and full of an ambience he could not put a name to. More than once he had caught himself doubting that this was really the great adventure. Was it all to be summed up in the end as nothing more than the value of a long walk? An unfulfilled expectation? Was it the surrounding matrices of routine life which made momentary exceptions to it exciting? Indeed, was it rarity that gave value? And was the lesson of the vayyon that the adventure wasn’t there, had never been, never could be, but was entangled in the slower growths and procedures of the ordinary life of managing one’s holding, raising the children? To be sure, he sensed that these were basic testings of reality which all have had to learn, individually, over and over again, human and ler alike, but like everyone else he was surprised at the pain of losing many of his favorite illusions.

  For a time, Morlenden grew uncaring, diffident, even a little hostile; his sight seemed to grow crystal-clear, piercing, powerful, solvent. He saw things from a distance, but in his mind the distance grew greater; he saw those ler of parent phase, rodhosi, at their works, in field and shop; younger adolescents, didhosi, learning, pursuing their affairs. And after all that, the elders, retired to their secretive lodges, deep in their own matters. He had waited all his life to be free of that endless cycle, but now free, he found little enough to stay for. The real life was there, not here.

  These were bitter thoughts; Morlenden spent more time along the empty paths of the forest, lost interest in eating, let his weight drop. He became, over the weeks, rather gaunt and hungry-looking; his sharp and somewhat chiseled features became honed and sharper. At one time he tried fasting for a vision, a practice he had heard of. But there was no result there either; he grew tired of it. Either he lacked some innate sense of awe requisite to the religious experience, or perhaps he lacked some basic competence of discipline necessary to make the vision work. At any rate, one never came. He simply grew fractionally thinner, and a lot hungrier.

  He returned to his old ways and returned, tentatively, to the routines of working and eating. His weight began to return. And he thought ruefully to himself that he had indeed learned the last lesson. And it was then that he turned back to the south and began his journey homeward. He tried to imagine how it would be, when he did return: Fellirian would wonder what he had done, and he would smile knowingly at her and let her draw her own conclusions, make up her own imaginings. Perhaps he could drop a cryptic remark from time to time, faintly suggesting, never saying directly, never declaiming forthrightly. It would serve her right. She had probably seen herself the same emptiness he had discovered, whose core was within himself, the basic loneliness that lies at the heart of all sapient creatures in the universe. He knew now that all of them who had been privileged to the vayyon were sharers of this secret.

  He returned slowly. There was no hurry now. He had covered much of the distance, leaving only a few more days of leisurely travel and work, when he happened to pass close by a place called Lamkleth, meaning “resin-scented,” which was a combination of many things: faded resort, hostel, elder lodge for a lodge organization which seemed to have been forgotten by most elders. It carried the name of a settled place, or town, but it seemed to be no more than a random collection of cabins, rambling wooden apartments built to a high-gabled, eccentric style, rambling worksheds, and seedy pavilions along the lake, all half hidden and subtly blended into and among the conifers of the forest. The site was a gloomy defile, a rocky, narrow valley which opened up suddenly into a wide lowland. At the mouth of the valley was a still, enigmatic lake, bordered by a mixed sand and rock beach on the east, the valley side, and on the west by a watery, tree-choked swamp. The area all around the defile and the lake was dense with pine and cedar, swamp fir and arborvitae, deodar and chamaephyte, ground yew and retinispora. A pungent, resinous odor hung in the air, and the smoke of the fires was rich, and fragrant. A moody place, which was doubtless much of the reason why it had never been popular.

  Nevertheless, Lamkleth was known for one thing; adolescents gathered there, with the force of tradition behind them, to meet like-minded others, to seduce and be seduced, to dance in the night under the colored party lanterns, to sing and listen to the last heart-songs of yearning before the halter was finally put on them. Personally, Morlenden had never cared very much for the place, and as a fact, although he had passed it often, had never stopped or visited before. But this time—passing Lamkleth on the ridgeline above the valley and the lake, the dark water, the deep shadows, and the bright lanterns—he thought once again of last flings, of last opportunities. . . . He wandered slowly down into the settlement. He caught in himself the last shreds of anticipation, that here at last he would find the one, her, an insibling like himself, also in the last of the vayyon and likewise illuminated. He imagined. He projected images.

  With the money he had accumulated, Morlenden secured for himself a small but comfortable little cabin with an attached bath and wood-stove. A pile of faggots had been conveniently deposited outside by the door. The cabin was not close to the lakefront but was situated farther away, far up the valley, under the ridge, half invisible under the trees, buried in a grove of ancient arborvitae, their feathery fronds hanging over the mossy roof. The odor of resin was in everything. The elder who accompanied him to the cabin said little, noting only that the season was apparently over, and that most had already left. Remaining were only a scattered few latecomers and hangers-on. The nights were quite cool now, and this had apparently dissuaded most of the late summer visitors. Morlenden, thinking how gay and festive the lanterns and their reflections along the water had been, listened to this news with sinking heart.

  Nonetheless, he was tired of walking, and a good rest here in a comfortable little cabin was an improvement over sleeping in the forest under a tree. So he bathed and dressed in the last dress-overshirt remaining to him, carefully removing it from his rucksack and pressing it out with his hands. It was his favorite, tastefully patterned with the heraldic emblem of his aspectual sign—Fire, the Salamander. It had been dusk when he had wandered down from the heights; it was fully dark when Morlenden left the cabin and wandered down the hill to the lakeshore. The path was smooth and well-tended, swept free of twig and pebble, groomed of roots and knots.

  From a distance, it seemed as if the summer season were still in full swing: the lanterns still swung above the pavilions, sending brightly colored reflections dancing along the water. There was music in the air as we
ll, floating from an unseen source, lending a further anticipation. But all these things were faded reflections and shadows; most of the painted tables were empty, the pergolas and gazebos abandoned, and the music, upon closer listening, seemed to be slow and reflective of mood rather than exciting and gay. Emerging from the pines and entering the pavilion along the shore, Morlenden was able to confirm his worst suspicions: the place was almost empty. Within sight, in an area which could easily hold a crowd of terzhan21 young adventurous bodies, there seemed to be only a handful, most of whom had already paired off for the night, or who sat quietly and rather disinterestedly looking out over the water into the darkness.

  He also noted as he looked out over the whole of the pavilion that the ages of the remaining celebrants appeared to be wildly varied, as if the low density had made it more noticeable. Some were late-adolescents like himself, of comparable age. Others were obviously younger, still deep in their first span, country bumpkins down from the farm in the period between the end of the growing season and the beginning of the harvests. A scattered few were much younger, veritable urchins, playing rowdy chase-and-tumble games among the old whitewashed stands and under the trees; some of these were barely adolescent, while a few were yet little children. These he ignored.

  For a time, Morlenden wandered up and down along the pavilion, looking over the prospects, as it were, hoping that certain among those he was looking at were harboring similar thoughts. If they were, none of it showed. Everyone he saw seemed to be immersed deeply in his own thoughts, his own projections of the subtle manifestations of reality, emerging from the end of summer about the precincts of a faded resort. Failure and the ambience of second thoughts lay in the lamplight like a tincture.

  Morlenden, while savoring this air, was not daunted and attempted to make the acquaintance of a pair of girls who were diffidently lounging at one of the pavilion tables over glasses of mulled wine. The first was convincingly uninterested, and the second hardly less so, although she did give her name, Meydhellin. She also mentioned a certain young man with whom she would conduct a rendezvous presently. Morlenden excused himself, after a tactful and strategic pause, and wandered some distance away to a table of his own, where he seated himself and brooded, watching the scanty crowd evaporate into even lower densities as individual members of the vacationers and pleasure-seekers drifted away one by one. The noise of the urchins behind him faded. After a time, he observed that at the least the girl Meydhellin had been truthful; a boy appeared and joined her at the table. The other girl uttered something rendered enigmatic by the distance, and departed. Meydhellin and her friend greeted one another with a reluctant formality. Morlenden grew disinterested.

  From the cookhouse nearby and behind him, an elder approached Morlenden, informing him discreetly that the cookhouse was on the verge of closing for the night, and that perhaps the discerning young gentleman would like to order some of the remainders, at reduced stipend. Morlenden nodded enthusiastically, for he was suddenly aware that he hadn’t eaten all day and was ravenously hungry. He inquired into the bill of fare; unfortunately, nothing remained but some dner, a preparation made by arranging paper-thin slices of various meats along a vertical skewer, roasting it along the outside by rotating it past the grates of a vertical charcoal burner, and then slicing off slivers of it. It was a heavy, over-rich dinner, and Morlenden ordered it without great enthusiasm, selecting to wash it down a small jug of the local wine, Shrav Bel-lamosi, tart and resinous. Presently, with no great ceremony, the meal arrived, along with a tray of local wild greens. Morlenden ate, because he was still hungry, but it was with no great sense of culinary relish. He thought, Indeed, this is the very end of it. Tomorrow I’ll go home.

  Gradually, the wine and his somber musings led him to disregard his immediate surroundings and he ignored the comings and goings of the few patrons and proprietors remaining. They all receded into a common background. He no longer heard the noises of the urchins.

  As Morlenden ate, thinking random and somewhat moody thoughts, he slowly came to suspect that he was being observed closely by someone, someone nearby; in fact, someone who was standing by his own table, cautiously positioned to his right and just out of his field of vision to the rear. Morlenden stopped, fork halfway between plate and mouth, and looked.

  It appeared to be one of the children he had noted earlier, one of the nondescript gaggle of noisy urchins playing tag and grab-’ems along the shadow line under the trees beyond. This one, he thought, seemed to be female22, and perhaps even adolescent, dressed in little more than a ragged pleth which had seen better and cleaner days. He looked at the girl again; there was immediately apparent a certain dashing quality about her, a piquancy of expression, an adventurous quality, a recklessness. Morlenden thought that she would have made a very good approximation of a bandit, but a bandit constantly poor from careless expenses. Indeed, almost a desperate look about her. A brat for sure. An urchin of dark skin, large eyes, sharp, predatory features.

  Her eyes caught his glance immediately: they did not move about, looking at this or that, but seemed to stare glassily, unfocused yet intent at the same time. The set of her face showed that she missed nothing. Morlenden looked more closely at the startling expression in her eyes. He saw movement in the spaces framed by the angular face. She seemed not to regard directly, but to scan in a regular pattern, using her peripheral vision. This lent her expression a dualistic quality, glassy yet deeply animated as well.

  Morlenden had quite forgotten his fork. The girl observed Morlenden’s notice. She said, in a flat tone with a hint of nasality, “Enjoying yourself?”

  Morlenden thought the question boorish. He recalled the fork, thoughtfully took a mouthful of dner, and answered, equally boorishly, “As a fact, no.”

  “How does one call you?”

  “I have responded in my time to endearments and curses, anonymous hoots and hoarse whispers. I have been known to reply to ‘you, there,’ although I deplore the practice. I am called Morlenden Tlanh Deren.”

  “I am Sanjirmil Srith Terklaren. I, too, respond to other addresses.”

  Morlenden thought, hearing the form of her name, Aha! An adolescent after all, however scruffy and abrasive.

  She added, “What do you here in Lamkleth?”

  “Going home,” he said, trying to ignore her, hoping she would receive his intent and depart. A brat.

  “Can I have some of that Bel-lamosi?”

  “Are you old enough to drink fermented spirits?” he asked, aggressively.

  “Fourteen less one and didhosi? Of course! Old enough for other didhosi things, too.”

  “I can imagine . . . well, here. Drink the wine.” He offered her the jug, which she took, shyly for all her previous belligerence, and turned up, drinking deeply. He looked closely at the girl, Sanjirmil. On a second inspection, perhaps she didn’t appear quite so childish as he first thought. Her shape, under the ill-fitting overshirt she wore, was already full and ripe; no, not childish at all. She was dark of complexion, olive skin and coarse black tousled hair which fell carelessly about a face of planes and angles, a face that could be harsh and peremptory, yet a face of a certain beauty as well. The strange eyes were of an indeterminate color, dark and brooding, and her nose was delicate and fine. The mouth was thin-lipped and determined, the chin set, but there was also an intriguing pouty set to her lips as well. In the poor lighting of the pavilion, her skin seemed dark enough so that there was little contrast between lips and face; it gave her face an odd expressiveness. You had to watch the shadows. This Sanjirmil could very well be just the unwashed and underage brat she seemed. But there was also about her an unknown quantity of something more.

  He asked, as she set the jug back on the table, “Have you eaten?”

  “No.”

  “The cookhouse is closed now.”

  “I know.”

  “My serving was overlarge. They were cleaning up for the night. You may have what you wish of it. And what would one
be doing out adventuring without money, begging for a supper? Or do you sing as well?”

  Sanjirmil took the proffered food shyly, but she could not conceal her hunger and ate quickly in swift, catlike bites. In between mouthfuls, she haltingly said, “No sing, no dance. Had some money, but it ran out. Was going to go home tomorrow . . . maybe tonight, if I had felt like it. You know of the Terklarens?”

  “The Second-players? Of course I know of them. But I had never met one.”

  “Northwest. Day and a half.”

  “A long walk. You’re a young one to be so far out in the forest.”

  “No, not us. We’re adventurous . . . besides, we never take the vayyon as you are doing.”

  “How would you know what I might be doing?”

  “Watched you, I did. Mavayyonamoni, they’re always the same, looking for something and not finding it. I guessed; and I was right. I come here a lot, at least this year.”

  “Meet a lot of friends?”

  “Some. Not always the ones I want. When do you weave?”

  “Soon, this year. I think sometime around the winter solsticeday. My own Toorh has already done hers and returned. We have felt the tension at home.”

  “Hm. And I am free for a time yet . . . as little good as it will do me. So: if you are on-vayyon, then you are Toorh also.”

  “Just so; Fire aspect. And you, Sanjirmil?”

  “I also—both, just as you. That is very good.”

  “Not so necessarily for you. You’re too young.”