The Book of the Ler

by M. A. Foster

  Back in civilization, Usteyin had finally taken to wearing clothes, and although she was not entirely satisfied with them, and appalled at underwear, she had been dressing ler-style, in long, rather plain homespuns that covered all of her. But she had once, back in their rooms, exposed one creamy delicate shoulder and exclaimed, “A hundred and twenty generations to produce that tone of skin!” She raised the bottom of the robe as if she expected to be surprised by what she would find there, displaying her lower legs, and the fine, copper-colored hair that covered them, furlike. “And that! And now all covered up, for custom and for weather!” But at the same time she had discovered clothes with all the innocent joy of a child in a palace of toys, and however much she said that she would prefer to go about bare, she still wore them with considerable flair and pride. Liszendir had not completely approved of the styles she chose, but she had had to admit the Usteyin fitted well, and quickly. The only noticeable difference in her was her hair color and slighter build. By human standards, she was almost petite.

  Han said, still thinking about the klesh and the new life that was approaching for them, “I’d guess they would form tribes at first, like kinds, but there would be some mixing, even at first, and more later on. There will be suffering and fighting and injustice. But Hetrus says that they are going to send some outside people there to keep a reasonable sort of order, at least within a certain area, and let them go into the wild as they will.”

  “Yes, they will fight. The males will fight over the females, and vice-versa. I would have, in my old life. In some events, I would even now.” She raised an eyebrow archly.

  Then they both, as if by mutual unspoken consent, fell to looking at the sea again. The subtle colors of the rainy afternoon flowed over it, changing even as they watched, but so gradually that they were not aware that a change was taking place, until it was over, and had evolved to something new. The rain stopped, and over the west a pale patch, a glowing warm tan, told of cloud decks breaking up, clearing. The sea took on a silvery surface gloss and lost much of its chop, and on the landing, a tied rowboat stopped its wild tethered leaping and began moving more sedately. The effect was hypnotic.

  They began talking about Liszendir; she was, in fact, having considerable difficulty finding exactly the right braid, and was now spending most of her time traveling around to the many small villages in the area, searching. The situation was somewhat similar to an analogous predicament for a human in a society of arranged marriages; in her own village, she would have been known and it would have been fairly easy for an insibling pair to find her, go through the delicate maneuvers of determining one another’s aspect, begin serious negotiations. But on her own, she had to resort to the town bulletin-board, where strangers usually advertised. Han thought the custom a curious one, even verging on degrading in a way, but Liszendir didn’t see it that way at all. Besides, she had to spend most of her time, now, traveling.

  They had a saying—one of many, in fact, for ler culture seemed permeated with sayings. This one went: “Harder to please than an insibling.” No wonder, there: they were the keepers of the nongenetic family line, the braid continuity, the continuation of the weave. The insibling females picked outsibling females for their insiblings and the males picked males, each one balancing jealousy and fear of strangers with an accurate appraisal of the needs of the braid-identity and the matching of personalities within the group. It was often a hard task, indeed, for no matter that the insiblings were not blood-related to each other, nevertheless they had grown up together in a fashion much like brother and sister, and there was considerable tension between them. So the preweaving arrangements were somewhat of a strain for all parties, and during the period, most were touchy and irritable.

  Usteyin was even more astounded at the weaving customs than was Han. She observed, “I see not so much difference between how we did it on Dawn, and how humans back here in civilized parts order their lives. There is a relation, a bridge between us, however strange things seem at first. But in their thing, Liszendir’s people, they went further and made the family a purely social thing, not part social, part genetics; so for them, the difference between family and society has never arisen. But myself? Oh, no! I couldn’t do that, no matter how well it works for them. I couldn’t share you with anybody now.”

  Han agreed. “It’s been tried in a couple of places by humans. It looks good, but it only works if you have a low birthrate and have been raised on a steady diet of sex from about age nine on. It takes a special kind of personality, too, to make it work right. They have a lot of sex, and a lot of fun, but there isn’t much passion in it. That’s the key. I think only one group survived any time at all, and actually made it a generation. Then that fell apart. A lot of people have to participate in the system or you get ferocious inbreeding. The ler keep elaborate genealogies, but they are designed to prevent that kind of thing.”

  Usteyin finished her tea, arose quietly and gracefully from her seat, and stretched like some exotic, piquant feline. “Well, I’m sleepy now, and I should have a nap. Shall we go home?”

  “A good idea. I was watching the waves while we talked, and it was making me sleepy, too. And more . . .”

  “Oh, indeed! I would like that very much, too.”

  They put their cloaks on, and left the teahouse, to walk back to the hotel through the winding streets that still shone with rainwater. Afternoon was drawing to an end, and there was a tang, a scent, in the air, which promised clearer weather on the morrow. They were almost alone in the narrow lanes, for it was the end of the day, shops were closing, and the quiet of evening was settling over Plenkhander.

  When they had climbed the stairs to their room, which they had shared with Liszendir when she had been in town, they found her gathering up the last of her few belongings. She looked tired, worn-down, but underneath that, there was a glow that told them what they had all been waiting for.

  She smiled weakly and said, “You must wish me luck, now.”

  Han asked, “So you have found a braid?”

  “Yes. It was ironic, that. All day, I have been across the mountains, at a place called Thursan’s Landing, a fishing village. A vile place. I did not want to be a fisherwoman! But when I came back here, just now, there was a letter for me, downstairs, and so I went to see her. Imagine! After all this work, this traveling around, their yos is just down the beach road, hardly across the bridge. And so we made our arrangements.”

  Usteyin asked, “Liszendir, when you weave, do you have to do any ceremony, any special kind of act, before someone?”

  She paused a moment. Then said, “If I may ask such a thing of you.”

  “It is no secret. For the insiblings, there is something they do something with the parent generation, the old insiblings, but I may not speak of that. It would not be for me, anyway. But for the outsiblings who are to be afterparents, there is nothing, either in religion or in law. You are accepted and you move in with your braid. They have accepted you, and that is authority enough for any hierarchy. When we are all formed, all woven, then there will be a party, friends and relations will visit, and there will be talk, singing, dancing, all night.” Then she became serious. “But you know that I have never seen him, whom I will weave with. Nor do they have an afterfather yet, either, and he will be my second. But this is all I need. I was worried, deeply. I was beginning to think that no one wanted me. That is very frightening to us.”

  Han thought for a minute, then asked, “Do you like the girl you met? Do you think you will be happy there?”

  “After adventuring, the strange things I have done, the oaths I have broken? Nothing can ever be the same for me again. But they are good people, very deep, as we say. That will be good for me; I need that deep-ness. I am pleased with them, at least such as I know of them. But I am finished, here. Come along. You shall see, too!”

  Han and Usteyin each took a parcel for her, and together they left the room, went down the stairs, and came out onto the street.
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br />   Liszendir said, “It’s not far. Practically under our noses.” She was beginning to relax, visibly, yet at the same time she seemed anxious, anxious to go home. The three of them stood under the soft lights of the doorway lamp of the hotel and looked at one another. Liszendir guessed from Han’s and Usteyin’s faces that they were reading her with accuracy.

  She said, warmly, “Yes, that is true, too. It is my home now. For forty standard years; until the insiblings weave in their turn. Here, right here, in Plenkhander.” She looked around in the dim light at the trees with their sparkling drops of cold rainwater. The odors of the sea filled the air and from the beach, only a row of houses away, the sound of the surf could be heard, a light regular stroking that worked at the brown sand gently with the calming of the sea.

  Han said, “It’s hard to picture.”

  “To you, perhaps. But not to me.”

  They walked eastwards, crossed the ancient stone bridge, and within a few hundred yards came to a low stone wall, overgrown with vines. The yos lay deep in a grove of huge trees, trees with heavy mottled boles that resembled planetrees, still bare, and was brightly lit by the door with hanging lanterns. Liszendir rang the bell, a huge pottery bell that rang with a mellow deep sound, as they entered the garden. After a moment, out of the yos ran a young child, obviously the elder outsibling, the nerh, but what sex it was could not be determined. All Han and Usteyin could see was that it was about three or four years old. It was followed by a ler female, who stood in the light of the lanterns, waiting for them. She was small and dark, pretty-pleasant but not beautiful. She looked busy, and wore her hair, considerably longer than Liszendir’s, tied up in a sort of kerchief. As they came closer, Han noticed that her hands were reddened from washing apparently, but they were strong, capable, busy hands. She would be about five years older than Liszendir.

  While the child ran around them, staring shyly when it thought no one was watching at Usteyin’s hair, the girl came up to them, embraced Liszendir, pressing her cheeks to the new girl’s quickly, and turned to them, smiling shyly. Han repressed an urge to laugh: she had a missing tooth. But he didn’t, for it added a certain charm to her face, which was painfully ernest. Her face was plain, like Liszendir’s, but different, narrower, more oval, and her hair was darker. She had a soft, generous mouth and clear, direct eyes, eyes that were the color of rainwater, or the color of the sheen on the sea after a storm.

  She spoke. “I am Hvethmerleyn. I am sorry you cannot meet the kadh, the forefather, for he is still up in the vineyards and will probably be out for several more days.” Her voice was clear, a pure tone. She pronounced the “hv-” of her name with a breathy inflection that added some essence, some indecipherable attractiveness to her manner. “Will you join us tonight? Please stay for a while, for this is special, and we have few visitors. I would be very happy.”

  So they all went into the yos under the trees and spent the evening eating, drinking, telling part of their story over again to Hvethmerleyn, who listened to what she heard with hardly concealed amazement. If Han left some parts out, neither Liszendir nor Usteyin corrected him. And as the night went onwards, he noticed that the two females seemed to be warming up to each other well, becoming confidential, intimate. He wondered not so much how it would be for Liszendir: that he already knew, at least part of it; but rather for Hvethmerleyn. To spend your whole life with one male, more or less, and then pick yourself a second mate for him, bring her into your house, the house of your own family group . . . He tried to imagine it. He could not.

  They learned that the braid-name was Ludhen. Ludh meant “wine” in Singlespeech! They were vintners! Hvethmerieyn laughed her warm laugh, and Han, now wise to some ler ways, saw, just for a moment, that Hvethmerleyn was, in ler reference, very warm, very sexy. That would be exactly what Liszendir needed, for he had begun to suspect something about her, something about a thing missing in Liszendir’s life. She was pleased that Han recognized the Singlespeech word-root, and insisted that he and Usteyin take a bottle of wine to remember them by. And she talked about the forefather, her insibling, who was called Thoriandas.

  It seemed that Hvethmerleyn suspected that his remark about being up in the vineyards was just an excuse to go out and look for a suitable male outsibling for her. Thoriandas, apparently, had a robust sense of humor, and had promised that he would dig up the worst sort of riffraff, a drunkard and a reprobate, and probably a thief to boot. Usteyin laughed out loud.

  “And what will you do with such a one?”

  “Oh, I’ll reform him,” she answered, suddenly coy, arch, demure. “Or,” she added, “I’ll wear him out in the process!”

  The child, Tavrenian, had proved to be a boy, and had tumbled off to bed earlier. As they talked on, Han saw that Hvethmerleyn was also getting sleepy, and he knew that Liszendir would be about run down herself. Ler went to bed early, and got up early. So they made their goodbyes, in short form, without ceremony, and made ready to leave the yos. Liszendir came with them to the door, while Hvethmerleyn stayed behind, sensing that they had one more thing to say that was private, part of Liszendir’s old life. In the yard, it was dark and quiet, save for the remains of the dripping of rainwater, now almost stopped, and the mutter and gentle splashing of the surf behind the yos. Somewhere hidden by the trees and houses, a wagon was slowly rattling along the cobblestones, blending into the water sounds in a stream of sound that fitted together perfectly.

  Usteyin broke the silence, saying, “Liszendir Now-Ludhen, you have a piece of loveliness here I wish deeply we could share. But I wish you, in your life to come, the same of what we have found in ours and hope to keep for the time that will fall to us.”

  “Yes, it is so. This is a good place; I think I will grow into it. And it is as you say. So I will not say goodbye to you, nor will I forget. I have seen your lives, and you have seen mine, and we have all walked in one another’s shoes for a time. And it ends, well, more than what I once thought would never be.” She stopped, biting her lower lip indecisively. Then she impulsively embraced them both, briefly, and ran back into the yos, stopping only in the doorway to say to them, “Many children! And many years!” She quickly disappeared within.

  Outside, in the dampness of the night air and deep in the sounds of raindrip and surf, Han and Usteyin turned and walked up the path to the gate, and from there, back over the stone bridge, back to their room, through the wet streets alone, silent, deep in thoughts, occasionally touching one another as they walked.

  AN EXPLANATORY AFTERWORD ON LER NAMES

  AS IN MOST speculative stories, some of the names of beings, particularly the alien or the strange, may strike one as hard, odd, or impossible to pronounce. This is not the case, at least by intent, as far as the ler names used in this tale are concerned. After a moment’s investigation, they should be both possible and easy to sub vocalize.

  All ler personal names were composed of three Singlespeech basic root-words or syllables, coupled directly together and pronounced as one word. Each root-word in Singlespeech ends in, and only in, a vowel-consonant pair. In the English spelling convention we use here, this may appear at times to be more extensive, but the units are always single phonemes. Knowing this, we may break up the name into its three parts, correctly, by finding the vowel-consonant ends of each root. An example of this is the name “Liszendir,” which breaks “Lis-Zen-Dir.”

  Now while the generation principle behind the structure of the root words of Singlespeech was modeled on the Chinese example (i.e., few patterns of basic words, using all possible combinations), the phonetic values used to fill in the blanks were equivalent to those values in use at the time of the origin of the ler in the country where they happened to be, which was an English-speaking country. Modern English of the standard American variety is close enough. Only two consonants out of the whole thirty-six-character alphabet were not natural to that context, and they were kh and gh, added to the system to make it regular, both in a phonetic sense and a ler-qabas
listic one.

  Ler personal names had, for the ler, a curious duality in regard to meaning which is difficult for us to understand fully. For us, civilized men, personal names have largely lost their function of totem and meaning; Georges do not, as a rule, imagine themselves to be workers of earth, nor do Leos emulate lions, nor Leroys imagine themselves kings, no matter how much self-esteem they may have. Our names are derivative, meant to honor a family namesake, a famous person, or—even sound pretty. (The girl-name Pamela is reputed to have no denotative meaning whatsoever!) So when we think of names having literal meaning, we think, perhaps, about more primitive kinds of men, American Indians of the Southwest, or of Africans of the equatorial forests.

  For the ler, however, names could be, according to circumstance, very meaningful, as for the tribesman, or completely meaningless, far more so than for us, since it was the ler custom that no child could be named for anybody. The names were supposed to be as original as possible. If one by chance repeated, it was strictly by chance. Ler would not knowingly repeat a name, certainly not one used within their local area. Because of the secret nature of the “aspect” (Lssp: plozos) of the individual, a ritual part of ler culture, and the relation of the “aspect” to the particular meaning out of four possible meanings for each root, a person’s name-meaning could not be determined unless one knew the aspect. Within the braid, of course, such things were known, if not discussed, and one’s name tended to form a basic guide to character. A ler whose name happened to mean “fire-eating devil” (Pangurton*) would in fact be prone to a certain amount of belligerence and irrationality, and others would also be guided by the meaning attributed to their names, in like manner.

  *Fire (Panh) aspect.

  Outside the braid, however, it was another matter; one’s “aspect” was not told to anyone, except for weaving-custom, and without the context of discourse-speech to aid meaning, a translation could not be determined. In the case of the ler girl Liszendir, no ler outside her birth-braid knew her aspect, or the meaning of her name, until she was accepted by Hvethmerleyn into Ludhen Braid (Klanludhen). That she told the human Han first what it meant, and later that she was fire in aspect, can be viewed as a measure of her feelings, as it was a major sacrifice on her part.