“I don’t know,” Hiro said. “When they see me, they may be forced to accept the truth; but I am afraid that nothing can prepare them for it. How can you prepare a people to lose, in so short a time, not only their saints, the Ol-zhaan, but their demons as well? I’m afraid that they will not easily relinquish their fear of the Pash-shan.”
They reached the doorway of the great hall then, and entering, they made their way down the long sloping aisle between the rows of tendril benches and mounted the curving rampway that led to the high stage. Soon after, the others began to arrive. First the young Ol-zhaan—Raamo, Genaa and Neric—and with them the two Erdlings, dressed now in Kindar shubas, but still alien in their appearance, with their golden skin tones and dark, uncropped hair.
Genaa was glowing, and Neric’s round eyes gleamed with eager anticipation; but Raamo’s face was shadowed as if by sleeplessness or mind-pain. D’ol Falla would have questioned him, but the others were coming now, the Geets-kel, in groups of two or three. And not long after, the Kindar began to enter the great hall.
In contrast to the Geets-kel, who were tense and strained, the Kindar leaders were relaxed and at ease. Curious, perhaps, at the sudden summons, but entirely unaware of the shattering revelations that were soon to come. Dressed in richly ornamented shubas, many adorned with sashes of high office, they took their places on the tendril benches and addressed their attention to the high stage where the group of Ol-zhaan were seated. And with the Ol-zhaan, two Kindar—odd, swarthy people, groomed in an unlikely manner—possibly visitors from Farvald or one of the other more provincial cities.
But then D’ol Falla, the ancient and honored priest of the Vine, came forward and began to speak to them. Beginning bluntly, without the accustomed rituals of greeting between Ol-zhaan and Kindar, she began to tell them things they had never thought to hear.
The first part of the telling concerned the ancestral planet; and shocking though it was, it did not come as a complete surprise to many of the Kindar leaders. There were many among them who were learned men and women, clear-minded and curious, who had long received the old legends and histories as truthful only in a symbolic way. In song and story, as well as on numberless tapestries and wall hangings, the ancestral planet had been depicted as a dimly distant fairyland, and the flight itself as a birdlike migration led by the shining figures of the legendary heroes, D’ol Wissen and D’ol Nesh-om. But although some suspected that the flight had been made on wings more substantial than those of a shuba, and that it had been undertaken for reasons more compelling than the promptings of the Spirit—they had no words to express their suspicions and no desire to face their implications.
But now D’ol Falla stood before them telling them monstrous things about their ancestors and the fate of their ancestral planet, things that could only be described by using forbidden vernacularisms of the most vulgar sort—grossly obscene in their meanings and painfully embarrassing to hear spoken in a public gathering. But there was more, and worse, to come.
D’ol Falla spoke next concerning the first Ol-zhaan, the two great leaders, D’ol Wissen and D’ol Nesh-om, and how a disagreement had arisen between them concerning innocence and truth—D’ol Nesh-om insisting that the Kindar should know the truth concerning their heritage of violence and the tragic fate of their ancestors, and D’ol Wissen certain that only a carefully guarded and protected innocence could prevent a return to the violent patterns of the past.
“But then D’ol Nesh-om died,” D’ol Falla told them, “and for a time D’ol Wissen prevailed, but he knew that there were some who still believed in the teachings of D’ol Nesh-om. D’ol Wissen feared that, after his death, those who opposed him would reverse his decisions. So at a great age, and feeling himself near death, he made use of his great skill in grunspreking to produce an enchanted and invulnerable barrier between earth and sky, and he imprisoned all who had opposed him below the Root.”
An audible gasp of horror arose from many throats, and although it was unvoiced, it spoke clearly of a single thought.
“The Pash-shan?” D’ol Falla asked. “You are thinking that surely D’ol Wissen could not have knowingly sent humans to certain death at the hands of the Pash-shan? And indeed, he did not. He sent them only to a dark and endless banishment—because the Pash-shan do not exist and never have.”
Speaking into a stunned silence, D’ol Falla went on to explain how the secret had been kept over the many years that followed. How even the Ol-zhaan were kept in ignorance concerning the true nature of the Pash-shan, except for a select and secret few who were chosen to become Geets-kel—a society dedicated to the maintenance of prisons, the prison in which the minds of the Kindar were held in bondage, as well as the great underground dungeon that confined the exiles and the ever-growing number of their descendants.
“I, myself, have for many years been a Geets-kel, a prison-keeper,” D’ol Falla said, “as have most of these others whom you see before you. But now you must learn why we will no longer be prison-keepers, and why many things will no longer be as they have been in Green-sky.”
D’ol Falla turned then and summoned someone who came forward from the wings of the high stage and approached to stand beside her. It was—surely it could not be—Hiro D’anhk. Most of the Kindar leaders had known him well when, as Director of the Academy, he had been an honored scholar and a leader among them. His lean, well-favored face was still written in their memories, although he had been gone—dead—lost to the Pash-shan, more than two years before. And yet, he now stood before them—one more unbelievable fact out of many. But this fact appeared to be of flesh and blood.
“My old friends,” the apparition was saying, “as you can see, I have not been dead these last two years, but only among the banished, and now, I think, you are beginning to understand where I have been and why.”
Hiro went on speaking, and the Kindar sat before him, but some of them had ceased to listen. Standing above them on the platform, Raamo could feel the force of their denial, a cold tension, full of confusion and fear. In the second row an old man wearing the gray-green sash of a grund-master reached furtively into his waist pouch and, bending low, brought his hand quickly to his lips. Watching him, Raamo could almost taste the thick cloying sweetness of the Berry and feel the soothing numbness that would soon flood the grund-master’s mind, drowning his anxiety in calm clouds of oblivion.
Hiro had begun to speak of the Erdlings—the banished Kindar—and of how their increasing numbers had doomed them to constant hunger and, if help did not come soon, to death by starvation. Calling forward the two Erdlings, Kanna and Herd Eld, Hiro gave their names and had them each speak briefly to the audience. In their unfamiliar accents, slow and slurring, they spoke of how they had come as representatives, to seek first food and eventually freedom for their people.
The Kindar listened in total silence. Raamo could pense a strange dark confusion, touched here and there with revulsion—as if there were some who saw these thin alien humans as monsters in disguise—as if they could not possibly be other than monstrous, since they had admittedly come from below the Root.
“I would ask a question, Hiro D’anhk, if it is you, indeed, returned to us from the dead.” It was Ruulba D’arsh who spoke, the city-master of Orbora, and at one time a close friend of Hiro. “I would ask how it is that these Ol-zhaan—these who have called themselves the Geets-kel—have decided to speak out now, after so many years of silence?”
Hiro raised his arms in the embracing gesture used at the meeting of intimate friends. “Greetings, old friend,” he said, smiling. “It is like you, Ruulba, to remain clearheaded at a time of confusion and to come forward with questions that need asking. The answer to your question can be shown as well as told.”
Turning, Hiro motioned Raamo, Neric, and Genaa to come forward and stand beside him. “The answer to Ruulba’s question stands here before you,” Hiro told the Kindar leaders. “These three young Ol-zhaan, whom you have known as D’ol Neric, D’ol
Raamo, and D’ol Genaa, discovered the secret of the Geets-kel, and it was their actions that brought about this meeting—this moment when the truth is given back to all the people of Green-sky. It was Neric who first began to suspect the truth,” Hiro said, putting his arm across Neric’s shoulders and leading him forward. A sharp gasp arose from the audience, and Hiro realized that he had made a mistake. There would be time later to question old traditions and taboos, such as the use of the respectful title D’ol and the taboo against physical contact between Ol-zhaan and Kindar. There were more urgent changes to be accepted—and shock enough in the acceptance.
Stepping back to a respectful distance, he gestured to Raamo. “And it was the Spirit-gifts of the novice Ol-zhaan, D’ol Raamo, that helped to verify D’ol Neric’s suspicions.”
There was pride in Hiro’s voice as he finally gestured towards his beautiful daughter. “And it was my daughter, Genaa—D’ol Genaa—who joined them when she learned that my disappearance had been the work, not of the Pash-shan, but of the Geets-kel.”
How much to tell the Kindar on that first day of truth had been carefully considered, and it had been decided that it would be best to say as little as possible about the role played by D’ol Regle—about his incredible threat, and how near he had come to making use of the tool-of-violence. There would be time enough later for the Kindar to learn of such great evil so narrowly escaped. So Hiro finished his story simply by saying that the three young Ol-zhaan had been joined by D’ol Falla, and together they had finally been able to convince the Ol-zhaan that the truth must be told, and thus they had all come today, to stand before the Kindar and share in the telling.
It seemed to Raamo that Hiro’s words were falling into a great emptiness. There was no response at all. The Kindar leaders sat before him, their eyes on his face, but there were no comments of understanding and approval, nor any of doubt and denial. There was only a distance that seemed to grow constantly greater and more dense.
D’ol Falla turned to Raamo, but he only shook his head, and she knew that he pensed nothing more than she—a kind of retreat, a pulling back and turning away that grew stronger and more desperate with every moment that passed.
Hiro was still speaking, telling the Kindar of the decision that had been made to form a council, a Joined Council, made up of leaders from the Erdling community as well as from the Kindar. This council would consider the problems involved in uniting the two societies, and the best possible solutions.
“All of you who were asked to be present today are leaders, men and women of high honor and proven ability,” Hiro told the silent Kindar. “And we will need your help in the days that lie ahead. Who among you will come forward now to serve on the Joined Council and lend your strength and wisdom to the building of a new Green-sky—a Green-sky of freedom and truth?”
There was movement then, among those who listened, as the Kindar let their eyes fall and turned their faces away from Hiro’s entreaty. Stepping to the edge of the platform, Hiro spoke directly to some who had been well known to him, a few of them even since his youth hall days.
“Guraa, Savaan, Ruulba,” he said, “will you not join us? Will you not offer your services to the Council and to all Green-sky? We will need such talents as yours desperately in the days ahead.”
There followed a long and painful waiting, and at last D’ol Falla came to stand beside Hiro and speak again to the assembly.
“Honored leaders and scholars,” she said. “Perhaps we ask too much, too suddenly. It is understandable that there must be time to consider so great a commitment. But in the meantime there is another matter—a smaller commitment, but one that must be undertaken without delay. I am speaking of providing food for the Erdlings. We will need help from those of you who are experienced in organizing and directing projects that require the efforts of large numbers of Kindar. We will need guild-masters and grund-leaders, who can provide teams of workers to carry large quantities of food from the public warehouses down to the forest floor where they can be transferred to the tunnel openings that lie near the underground city of Erda.”
The result of D’ol Falla’s request was near panic. It had seemed to her that the Kindar’s obvious reluctance to assume the awful responsibility of leadership at a time of such crisis might be lessened if the task to be accomplished was simpler and more limited. But she had not taken into account the great power of old fears—of fears implanted in infancy and carefully nurtured. The faces that turned upwards towards D’ol Falla as she spoke were stiff with shock, and everywhere eyes gleamed with unreasoned fear.
D’ol Falla knew what she had done even before Raamo stood beside her and whispered in her ear. “They are frightened, D’ol Falla,” he said. ‘They fear the forest floor, and the dark tunnels and those who dwell below the Root.”
“They don’t believe what we have told them?” D’ol Falla asked.
“I think they believe,” Raamo said. “They think ‘Erdling,’ but they still feel ‘Pash-shan.’ ”
An old woman, a guild-master, struggled to her feet and rushed blindly out of the assembly hall, and others began to stir furtively, as if gathering themselves for a quick retreat. It was only too clear that something had to be done and quickly. It was D’ol Falla who made the decision.
“Wait,” she cried. “Stop and listen. There is more. You have heard many strange and terrible things, and you are fearful and confused. But there is more, and if you will listen, you will be greatly comforted.”
So, on impulse and in desperation, D’ol Falla changed the decision to say nothing, on that first day, of the children and D’ol Regle. Turning to the others on the high stage, she said urgently, “I am afraid that all is lost, unless—the miracle—uniforce ...?” and the others nodded in agreement, except for Raamo, who held out his hands to D’ol Falla and cried, “Wait, wait!”
But D’ol Falla did not hear him, or if she did, she felt she could not wait. So she turned back to the Kindar and began to tell them the story of the two children—who they were and how they had come to live and play together—and of how D’ol Regle, the novice-master, had stolen them to hold them hostage in order to force the rebels to give up their plans to take the truth to the people.
She told the story well, and it soon became apparent that the Kindar were listening. They continued to listen as she described the tool-of-violence, the ancient artifact brought to Green-sky from the ancestral planet, and the terrible use that D’ol Regle had threatened to make of it if his orders were not obeyed.
She told of her own plea to Raamo for a foretelling that would show them how to meet D’ol Regle’s threat, and how the prophecy had come to him in the form of a song—a song that they had all known as children. Then, as Raamo had sung the song, the bound and helpless children had stretched forth their hands and released a great power—a power that raised the ancient weapon from the table and sent it drifting lightly as a mist-borne petal, surrounding it with a flowing force, which seemed to blur and soften its deadly form and meaning.
Finally D’ol Falla spoke of faith—of the faith that had returned to the Geets-kel and caused them to forget their fears and to pledge themselves to the cause of the Rejoyning. And of Nesh-om’s faith, which had proclaimed the possibility of a world where no hand would be lifted except to offer Love and Joy.
The silence returned when D’ol Falla ceased to speak, but it was not the same silence as before. The fear was still there and the confusion, but now there was also an openness, a seeking. After a long time, someone spoke. A woman, an instructor at the academy, rose to her feet and asked to see the children, and immediately many others repeated her request.
“The children,” the Kindar were saying. “Show us the children.”
So Herd Eld left the hall and went hastily to fetch his daughter, Teera, and Pomma D’ok. While he was gone, those who remained behind in the assembly hall waited in a breathless hush, so delicately balanced on the edge of hysteria that no one on the platform dared to speak f
or fear the sound of his voice might be the trigger to chaos. But the stillness held and, at last, Herd returned with the children.
Raamo waited for their arrival in a state of great anxiety. He could not understand his apprehension. Clearly, the story of the children had brought about a good change in the people. But when, at last, the children arrived and were led out onto the stage, it seemed to him that his fears were justified, although he could not have said why.
As Herd Eld led them out onto the great platform, the children clung to his hands, their heads drooping. Raamo could see that Pomma’s blue-green eyes were wide with fear, and her fragile paleness made her seem almost a ghost child, formed of mist and shadow. Even Teera’s rich, warm beauty seemed dulled and faded, and she ducked her head so that her long dark hair shielded her face from the staring eyes of the Kindar leaders.
Slowly Herd led the children forward to the edge of the platform and, pushing them gently ahead of him, he stepped back, leaving them standing alone. For a moment they stood stiffly, their eyes downcast. Then Pomma’s hand groped for Teera’s, and suddenly they were clinging together, as children will, for strength and comfort.
And that was all. There was no return of uniforce. No miraculous reversal of the laws of nature. Nothing at all happened—except that suddenly everything had changed. The great warm wave that swept through the assembly hall carried fear and doubt before it and brought many of the Kindar leaders forward to pledge their support and to volunteer their services as members of the Joined Council. There were even two or three who, wild-eyed with terror at their own daring, offered to take part in the carrying of food to the forest floor.
For the moment Raamo, too, was caught up in that great warm wave, so that, for a time, he forgot the inner voice that warned him to protect Pomma and Teera from something that he did not understand.
Chapter Three
Until the Celebration Page 2