"Well, those of us who fled with the Treeci landed here on the island chain first. Seeing what the Thraish had made of their world, we took it as kind of a religious thing to behave differently. We don't expand much. Small societies in small places. Closeness. That's why we haven't gone to Southshore. As for other people, I don't know. Maybe the place was just waiting for the Noor.''
The Treeci Saleff interrupted them with a long-drawn-out hooting call. There was a response in kind from the shore. "There's Isle Point," he said, turning to her with his cocked-head smile. She looked shoreward to see the water moving around the end of the island, and a little way westward another island, the long line of land broken only by this narrow strait. A village gathered itself beneath the trees, small wooden houses, curling smoke. A mixed group of humans and Treeci stood on the shore, old and young.
"Will you be my guest?" Saleff asked. "Burg would ask you, I know, but he has a houseful just now. New grandchild." Medoor Babji bowed as best she could in the tilting boat. "I would be honored, Saleff."
"You'll be better off," Burg snorted. "Saleff's mama - Sterf, her name is -she's a finer cook than my wife is, that's honest."
"My mother will welcome you. As will my nest sister and the younger siblings."
Medoor Babji bowed again. She was already lost. She had already told them about her need to find the Gift. It would seem rude and ungrateful to mention it again so soon. And yet their invitation had had an air of complacency about it, as though there could be no refusal nor any limit to her stay. She cast a quick look at the horizon. Where was Thrasne? And her people? She swallowed, smoothed the lines out of her forehead, and set herself to be pleasant. The boat was rapidly approaching the shore, and half a dozen people of various kinds were wading out to meet her.
19
Blint told me once there are fliers who can talk, or at least that some people say they can. At first this seemed a silly thing to believe, but as I got to thinking about it, I wondered if it wasn't sillier to believe that talk was something only men could do. I've heard the strangeys calling, and the sounds they make are so large and complicated they must be words of some terrible, wonderful kind. But the sounds the fliers make, if those are words, they are short words and hard words. And I wish I'd heard the Treeci talk, those Pamra spoke of, for if they can talk, then surely the fliers can, too, and all we've thought about them for all our lives must be lies.
It would be interesting to talk with fliers, and strangeys. Except their words may not mean what our words mean at all, and it would be worse to misunderstand them than to just have them a mystery.
From Thrasne's book
At Isle Point, the house of Saleff squatted beneath a grove of stout trees with ruddy-amber leaves that filtered golden light into the rooms and onto the many porches where Saleff's kin moved about like orderly ghosts. Medoor Babji was at first amused by and then solicitous of the silence.
"We have a habit of quiet," Saleff's mother, Sterf, told her. "Originally adopted, I'm sure, out of rebellion against the cacophony of the Thraish. Later it became our own, particularly satisfying trait. The children tend to be a bit loud, of course, and must learn to go into the woods or out on a boat if they wish to shout or yodel or whatever it is they do."
There were three children in the house, three young ones, at first alike as puncon fruit in Medoor's eyes, each then acquiring a mysterious individuality that she found difficult to define. Mintel was the serious one, the quietest. Cimmy was graceful, with a lovely voice. Taneff was the most delightful, curious, always present, full of whispered questions, ready to run quick errands, even without being asked. The three soon named her Cindianda, which meant in their language, they said, "little dark human person." Medoor Babji thought they might be fibbing to her, that the name might mean something very disrespectful, though Sterf assured her not.
"How old are they?" she asked, watching them cross the clearing with amazement. They moved like darting dancers, lithe as windblown grass.
"Oh, just fifteen," Sterf said, a little wrinkle coming between the large orbs of her eyes. It was one of the things that made Treeci so like humans, the way their faces wrinkled around the eyes. If one looked only at the eyes, not at the flat, flexible horn of their beaks, they could have been humans in disguise, got up for some festival or other. "Just fifteen." There was something vaguely disquieting in her tone, and Medoor Babji thought back to everything Pamra had told her about the Treeci. Hadn't there been something? She shook her head, unable to remember.
During that time Pamra Don and Medoor Babji had known one another - a misnomer of sorts, Medoor felt, since she did not feel she knew Pamra Don at all - Medoor had been so busy wondering what it was about Pamra that held Thrasne in such thrall she had paid too little attention to what Pamra had said.
"Trial and error," she murmured to herself, being contrite. When Queen Fibji learned how many times Medoor Babji had remembered that particular lesson on this trip, she would no doubt be greatly gratified.
Also in the house was the mother of the young ones, Arbsen, who was also Sterf's daughter and Saleff’s nest sister: Of them all, Arbsen was the most silent, the most withdrawn. Some days she sat on one of the porches, her eyes following the children, broodingly intent. Other days went by during which Medoor Babji did not see her at all. She seemed to spend a great deal of time shut up in her own room at the top of the house, carving things. They were not Thrasne kinds of things, not definable images, but rather strange, winding shapes which seemed to lead from the current and ordinary into realms of difference, strangeness. Several of these articles decorated the walls of the house, and seeing them, Medoor Babji thought of Jarb Houses, wondering if the Treeci had such things. "Though I don't suppose Treeci ever go mad," she commented.
"Of course we do," said Saleff, amused. "We are in all respects civilized."
"You mean primitives don't go mad?"
"I mean they don't consider it madness. They would probably consider it being possessed by the gods, or in thrall to ghosts. Something of that kind."
"How do you know all this? You've never seen a primitive."
It came out as more of a challenge than she had intended, but Saleff did not take offense. "The humans have books, Medoor Babji. There is a printing press on Shabber's Island. There are archives on Bustleby. There are men on Jake's Island who spend all their time collecting information and writing things down. During the hunger - that is, the period before and during the Thraish-human wars after the weehar were all gone - the humans who came here brought many things with them. Books. Musical instruments. Equipment for laboratories where they make medicines. It was part of the reason they came, to preserve their knowledge. The humans called what was happening on Northshore a 'new dark age.' You understand that? We have learned from men, but we have also taught them. It has been an equitable exchange."
Medoor Babji had that flash of elusive thought again, as though someone had just told her the answer to a long-asked question, but it was gone before she could grasp it, leaving her shaking her head in frustration.
She walked in the groves with the children. "Cindianda," Taneff begged, "tell us stories of Northshore."
"What do you want to know?"
"Tell us of the Noor. Tell us of the great Queen."
So, she invented, spinning incredible tales into the afternoon. Taneff was insatiable. Whenever she stopped, Taneff wanted more, more and more stories, and she began to look forward to these sessions under the trees during which she could let her imagination spin without fault. Nothing hung upon her stories but the day's amusement, and she relished that.
Each morning when she woke, she resolved to get the boat repaired and set out in search of Thrasne. Each evening, she resolved it anew. Still, the days went by in placid grace, full of quiet entertainment.
One morning she rose early, conscience stricken or dream driven, determined to go to the shore and examine the Cheevle. She was amazed to find it had been almost entirely repaired. On
ly one of the planks remained to be replaced. Saleff had said nothing to her of repairing her boat, and she felt shamed that so much had been done without her help or thanks. She looked up to find him beside her, head cocked in that smiling position.
"Soon," he said. "Some of the young people will want to go journeying soon, and they can go with you to find your friends."
"When?" she begged, suddenly aware of how many days had passed.
He pointed skyward. "After Conjunction. Not now. The tides will be treacherous for a time. When Conjunction passes, they will fall into a manageable state."
She examined the moons, surprised she had not noticed how near to Conjunction they were. It would be weeks before she could go. "I'll never find him," she said hopelessly. "Never."
"Oh, we think you will. We've sent word by island messenger to all the settlements, east, west, south. The word is spreading among the island chains. Even the strangeys know we're looking for it. The Gift of Potipur will be spotted somewhere, don't fear."
She went walking with the children. Cimmy and Mintel ran off into the woods, saying they smelled fruit ripening. Taneff stayed with her, leaping into the path, then out again, whirling about, seizing her by the hand to drag her, protesting, to the top of a pile of rocks.
"Ouch!" She bit the word off. "Damn, it, Taneff, that hurt." There was a long graze on her arm where it had been dragged against the black stone. "I'm bleeding."
Taneff stood, looking at her stupidly, saying nothing, shifting from foot to foot, a dark shadow moving behind the eyes, utterly unlike their usual expression. Then the eyes cleared, and Taneff smiled, a little uncertainly. "Sorry. I am sorry, Cindianda. I got carried away with the running and leaping, I guess. Everything in the village is so... so..."
"Circumscribed," she offered with a wry laugh. "Orderly."
"Well, yes. Lately it just seems to irritate me." Legs stamping, wings held slightly away from the body, Taneff began to gyrate, a mockery of a dance. "I need to get it out of my system."
Medoor Babji repeated this to Saleff with a laugh, "I'm glad to know it isn't only among the Noor that young people get tired of order."
Saleff received it in silence, with only a few murmured words of apology for Medoor Babji's injury. "Yes. The young people need some excitement," he said at last. "We'll have some dances."
They had one two days later, drumming and a lot of very elegant prancing on a dance floor, all the young mixed in together, leaping and jostling. Among the crowd were half a dozen who were magnificent dancers, the feathers around their eyes flushed a little with the unaccustomed noise.
"Cimmy and Mintel are going to visit some kinfolk," old Burg announced one morning, apropos of nothing. "Next island over. Would you like to go along?"
Medoor Babji allowed that she would. They left early in the morning, Sterf, Burg, Cimmy, and Mintel in a little, light boat with Medoor Babji perched in the stern like an afterthought, trailing her fingers in the water and humming to herself.
"I need to see some of my colleagues over on Jake's," Burg told her. "The Treeci are better with boats than I am, so I hitch a ride whenever anyone is going."
"There are a lot of boats going," she answered him, pointing them out, counting them off. Six boats from Isle Point, all setting out in various directions, all with young ones aboard.
"Bringing home the brides," said Cimmy in a depressed little voice, at which Sterf said something sharp in admonition. Medoor Babji started to ask, but Burg shook his head at her. A taboo subject. Very well, she would not ask.
On Jake's she went with Burg to meet the humans on the island, spent the day, the night, and a greater part of the next day doing so. They were many, garrulous, and eager for new faces and new information. Every word Medoor Babji uttered about Northshore was soaked up by an eager audience, and by afternoon her voice had given out.
Burg gave her puncon brandy and let her sit in a corner of the laboratory while he talked shop with his kinfolk. She dozed, warmly content after a night with almost no sleep. "Arbsen was here last week," someone was saying to Burg.
"Arbsen? She hardly ever leaves her room, except to walk with Taneff in the woods."
"She was here, Burg. She wanted the blocker hormone."
"That's illegal. Unethical, too."
"It's only illegal for Treeci to use it, not for us to give it."
"Don't be silly. We live with the Treeci; of course we obey the spirit of their laws... Have you told Saleff? Have you told any of the Talkers?"
"Not yet. I was waiting for you to come over. You know the family."
"I'll talk to him. What did you tell Arbsen?"
"Just what you said. It's illegal."
In her corner, Medoor Babji stirred uneasily. This was evocative of something she had heard before, something Pamra Don had said. Something.
Burg roused her sometime later, and they walked together to the shore. There was a strange youngster waiting with Sterf, wide-eyed and frightened looking.
"Treemi," Sterf introduced her. "Coming back with us to Isle Point."
"Will Cimmy and Mintel be staying here long?" Medoor Babji asked. "Will I have a chance to see them before I leave?"
The question somehow went unanswered in their bustle to load the boat. She did not ask it again. Taneff met them back at Isle Point. Taneff was carrying flowers for the visitor and was unwontedly silent. He did not even answer Medoor Babji's greeting.
There were other visitors. All the youngsters seemed to be paired off, one local and one visitor, the locals wandering around a good part of the time with the visitors in attendance. Taneff, who had not let Medoor Babji alone in his demand for stories, now seemed almost to avoid her.
"All right, Burg," she asked, seeking him out and peering around to be sure they were alone, human to human. "What's going on?"
He shook his head at her, making a taciturn, pinch-lipped face.
"No, don't give me that. I know it's a taboo subject, but you've got to tell me what's going on or I may transgress. I don't want to do that."
He sighed. "I suppose you're right, Medoor Babji. It's Conjunction, that's all. Conjunction in a year in which some children in the community reach mating age."
"Breeding age?" she asked, suddenly remembering something Pamra Don had said. "Couldn't they put it off a few years? Gods, they're only children."
He shook his head. "No, actually, they're at exactly the right age. Biologically speaking, that is. Or so my friends over at the lab on Jake's tell me."
"So the visitors are what? What was it Cimmy said, 'brides'?"
"Yes. Cross-island mating, to prevent inbreeding. Do you know anything about that, Medoor Babji?"
"I know you breed champion seeker bird to champion seeker bird if you want the traits passed on. I know if you breed too close for too long, though, sometimes the chicks don't live."
He nodded. "It's the same for all creatures. Inbreeding intensifies characteristics, both desired and undesired. With seeker birds, you can destroy the faulty ones. The Treeci wouldn't approve of that, so, Cimmy and Mintel went over to Jake's Island to meet a couple of the young roosters over there, and little Treemi came back here to meet Taneff. That's really all there is to it."
It was not all there was to it. There was a great deal more to it than that, but someone came to the door of Burg's house, and the conversation ended.
As she was walking back to Saleff's house, she met Taneff on the path.
"Hear you've got a new friend," she called, teasing him a little.
He looked at her, head down, wings slightly cocked. "Friend," he said. His eyes were glazed, dull, as though a film lay over them. The visitor, Treemi, came out of the woods and took him by the wing, her fingers caressing him as she cast a quick, warning look at Medoor Babji.
"I've got fan fruit for you, Taneff," she said. "Fan fruit."
"Fan fruit," he said, turning toward her, feet dancing, wings lifting.
"Fan fruit," she sang, leading him away, half da
ncing. Arbsen came out of the wood and followed them, at some distance, her eyes wild and haggard.
Medoor Babji stood looking after them, more troubled than she could explain. Of the three children, Taneff had been her favorite. Taneff, as he was, not this strange, withdrawn creature who talked in monosyllables. She shook her head, annoyed at herself.
That night she was wakened by voices. She rolled from her mat on the floor and went to the window to close it, only to stop as she recognized the voices coming from the room below her.
"I want you to give it to Taneff." Arbsen's voice, husky with pain, anguish. "Saleff, you've got to."
"Arbsen, you've been eating Glizzee, haven't you."
"What difference if I have? Glizzee is the only thing keeping me sane. That has nothing to do with what I asked you. I asked you to give the hormone to me. For Taneff. He's my child, Saleff. I can't let him die."
"Arbsen. You, of all people, should know the folly of that. Remember Kora? Kora and her son, Vorn. Remember them?"
"Taneff isn't in the least like Vorn. I think Taneff's a Talker. Vorn wasn't."
"No, Vorn wasn't. And Taneff isn't a Talker, either, Arbsen. I've been testing him myself, the last time just yesterday. Do you think I wouldn't do that, carefully, with a member of our own family?"
"You made a mistake," she wept. "I know you did. He's a Talker. I just know it."
"If he were, my dear, I would know it. Can't you resign yourself, Arbsen? Go to Sterf. She'll help you."
"How could she help me! She never had this happen to her. She had a damn Talker. She had you!" The sound of wild weeping erupted into the quiet glade. In the houses, lights went on. Silence fell below.
Medoor Babji shut the window, hideously uncomfortable. There were things she felt she should remember, things she wanted to ask Burg on the morning.
And on the morning, she could not. Burg had gone to Jake's for a time, she was told, taking his family with him. He would be back for her after Conjunction.
The Awakeners - Northshore & Southshore Page 39