Sci Fiction Classics Volume 1

by Vol 1 (v1. 2) (epub)

  —But you responded. I know that now. We know! Oh, yes, in your fierce struggles, shyly you helped me, always at the end each strand fell sweetly into place.… Winding you, binding you, loving Leelyloo!… How our bodies moved in our first weaving song! I feel it even now, I melt with excitement! How I wove the silk about you, tying each tiny limb, making you perfectly helpless. How fearlessly you gazed up at me, your terrifying captor! You! You were never frightened, as I'm not frightened now. Isn't it strange, my loveling? This sweetness that floods our bodies when we yield to the Plan. Great is the Plan! Fear it, fight it—but hold the sweetness yet.

  Sweetly began our lovetime, when first I became your new true Mother, never to cast you out. How I fed you and caressed and tended and fondled you! What a responsibility it is to be a Mother. Anxiously I carried you furled in my secret arms, savagely I drove off all intruders, even the harmless banlings in the grass, in fear every moment that you were stifled or crushed!

  And all the warm nights long, how I cared for your helpless little body, carefully releasing each infant limb, flexing and stretching it, cleaning every scarlet morsel of you with my giant tongue, nibbling your baby claws with my terrible teeth, reveling in your baby hum, pretending to devour you while you shrieked with glee, Li! Lillili! Love-lili, Leelylee! But the greatest joy of all—

  We spoke!

  We spoke together, we two! We communed, we shared, we poured ourselves one into the other. Love, how we stammered and stumbled at the first, you in your strange Mother-tongue and I in mine! How we blended our singing wordlessly and then with words, until more and more we came to see with each other's eyes, to hear, to taste, to feel, the world of each other, until I became Leelyloo and you became Moggadeet, until finally we became together a new thing, Moggadeet-Leely, Lilliloo-Mogga, Lili-Mogga-looly-deet!

  Oh, love, are we the first? Have others loved with their whole selves? Oh, sad thinking, that lovers before us have left no trace. Remember us? Will you remember, my adored, though Moggadeet has spoiled everything and the cold grows? If only I could hear you speak once more, my red, my innocent one. You are remembering, your body tells me you remember even now. Softly, hold me softly yet. Hear your Moggadeet!

  You told me how it was being you, yourself, tiny-redling-Lilliloo. Of your Mother, your dreams, your baby joys and fears. And I told you mine, and all my learnings in the world since the day when my own Mother—

  Hear me, my heartmate! Time runs away.

  —On the last day of my childhood my Mother called us all under her.

  "Sons! S-son-n-nss!" Why did her dear voice creak so?

  My brothers came in slowly, fearfully, from the summer green. But I, small Moggadeet, I climb eagerly up under the great arch of her body, seeking the golden Mother-fur. Right into her warm cave I come, where her Mother-eyes are glowing, the cave that sheltered us so strongly all our lives, as I shelter you, my dawnflower.

  I long to touch her, to hear her speak and sing to us again. Her Mother-fur troubles me, it is tattered and drab. Shyly I press against one of her huge food-glands. It feels dry, but a glow sparks deep in her Mother-eye.

  "Mother," I whisper. "It's me, Moggadeet!"

  "SONNNNNS!" Her voice rumbles through her armor. My big brothers huddle by her legs, peering back at the sunlight. They look so funny, shedding, half gold, half black.

  "I'm afraid!" whimpers my brother Frim nearby. Like me Frim still has his gold baby fur. Mother is speaking again, but her voice booms so I can hardly understand.

  "WINNN-TER! WINTER, I SAY! AFTER THE WARM COMES THE COLD WINTER. THE COLD WINTER BEFORE THE WARM COMES AGAIN, COMES.…"

  Frim whimpers louder, I cuff him. What's wrong, why is her loving voice so hoarse and strange now? She always hummed us so tenderly, we nestled in her warm Mother-fur sucking the lovely Mother-juices, rocking to her steady walking-song. Ee mooly-mooly, Ee-mooly mooly, while far below the earth rolled by. Oh, yes, and how we held our breaths and squealed when she began her mighty hunting hum! Tann! Tann! Dir! Dir! Dir Hataan! HATONN! How we clung in the thrilling climax when she plunged upon her prey and we heard the crunching, the tearing, the gurgling in her body that meant soon her food-glands would be richly full.

  Suddenly I see a black streak down below—a big brother is running away! Mother's booming voice breaks off. Her great body tenses, her plates crash. Mother roars!

  Running, screaming down below! I burrow up into her fur, am flung about as she leaps.

  "OUT! GO OUT!" she bellows. Her terrible hunting-limbs crash down, she roars without words, shuddering, jolting. When I dare to peek out I see the others all have fled. All except one!

  A black body is lying under Mother's claws. It's my brother Sesso—yes! But Mother is tearing him, is eating him! I watch in horror—Sesso she cared for so proudly, so tenderly! I sob, bury my head in her fur. But the beautiful fur is coming loose in my hands, her golden Mother-fur is dying! I cling desperately, trying not to hear the crunches, the gulps and gurgling. The world is ending, all is terrible, terrible.

  And yet, my fireberry, even then I almost understood. Great is the Plan!

  Presently Mother stops feeding and begins to move. The rocky ground jolts by far below. Her stride is not smooth but jerks me, even her deep hum is strange. On! On! Alone! Ever alone. And on! The rumbling ceases. Silence. Mother is resting.

  "Mother!" I whisper. "Mother, it's Moggadeet. I'm here!"

  Her stomach-plates contract, a belch reverberates in her vaults.

  "Go," she groans. "Go. Too late. Mother no more."

  "I don't want to leave you. Why must I go? Mother!" I wail, "Speak to me!" I keen my baby hum, Deet! Deet! Tikka-takka! Deet! hoping Mother will answer crooning deep, Brum! Brrumm! Brumaloo-brum! Now I see one huge Mother-eye glow faintly, but she only makes a grating sound.

  "Too late. No more … The winter, I say. I did speak.… Before the winter, go. Go."

  "Tell me about Outside, Mother," I plead.

  Another groan or cough nearly shakes me from my perch. But when she speaks again her voice sounds gentler.

  "Talk?" she grumbles. "Talk, talk, talk. You are a strange son. Talk, like your Father."

  "What's that, Mother? What's a Father?"

  She belches again. "Always talk. The winters grow, he said. Oh, yes. Tell them the winters grow. So I did. Late. Winter, I spoke you. Cold!" Her voice booms. "No more! Too late." Outside I hear her armor rattle and clank.

  "Mother, speak to me!"

  "Go. Go-o-o!"

  Her belly-plates clash around me. I jump for another nest of fur, but it comes loose in my grip. Wailing, I save myself by hanging to one of her great walking limbs. It is rigid, thrumming like rock.

  "GO!" She roars.

  Her Mother-eyes are shriveling, dead! I panic, scramble down, everything is vibrating, resonating around me. Mother is holding back a storm of rage!

  I leap for the ground, I rush diving into a crevice, I wiggle and burrow under the fearful bellowing and clanging that rains on me from above. Into the rocks I go with the hunting claws of Mother crashing behind me.

  Oh, my redling, my little tenderling! Never have you know such a night. Those dreadful hours hiding from the monster that had been my loving Mother!

  I saw her once more, yes. When dawn came I clambered up a ledge and peered through the mist. It was warm then, the mists were warm. I knew what Mothers looked like. We had glimpses of huge horned dark shapes before our own Mother hooted us under her. Oh, yes, and then would come Mother's earthshaking challenge and the strange Mother's answering roar, and we'd cling tight, feeling her surge of kill-fury, buffeted, deafened, battered, while our Mother charged and struck. And once while our Mother fed I peeped out and saw a strange baby squealing in the remnants on the ground below.

  But now it was my own dear Mother I saw lurching away through the mists, that great rusty-gray hulk so horned and bossed that only her hunting-eyes showed above her armor, swiveling mindlessly, questing for anything that moved. She
crashed her way across the mountains, and as she went she thrummed a new harsh song. Cold! Cold! Ice and Lone. Ice! And cold! And end. I never saw her again.

  When the sun rose I saw that the gold fur was peeling from my shiny black. All by itself my hunting-limb flashed out and knocked a hopper right into my jaws.

  You see, my berry, how much larger and stronger I was than you when Mother sent us away? That also is the Plan. For you were not yet born! I had to live on while the warm turned to cold and while the winter passed to warm again before you would be waiting. I had to grow and learn. To learn, my Lilliloo! That is important. Only we black ones have a time to learn—the Old One said it.

  Such small learnings at first! To drink the flat water-stuff without choking, to catch the shiny flying things that bite, and to watch the storm-clouds and the moving of the sun. And the nights, and the soft things that moved on the trees. And the bushes that kept shrinking, shrinking—only it was me, Moggadeet, growing larger! Oh, yes! And the day when I could knock down a fatclimber from its vine!

  But all these learnings were easy—the Plan in my body guided me. It guides me now, Lilliloo, even now it would give me peace and joy if I yielded to it. But I will not! I will remember to the end, I will speak to the end!

  I will speak the big learnings. How I saw—though I was so busy catching and eating more, more, always more—I saw all things were changing, changing. Changers! The bushes changed their buds to berries, the fatclimbers changed their colors, even the sun changed, and the hills. And I saw all things were together with others of their kind but only me, Moggadeet. I was alone. Oh, so alone!

  I went marching through the valleys in my shiny new black, humming my new song Turra-tarra! Tarra Tan! Once I glimpsed my brother Frim and I called him, but he ran like the wind. Away, alone! And when I went to the next valley I found the trees all mashed down. And in the distance I saw a black one like me—only many times as big! Huge! Almost as big as a Mother, sleek and glossy-new. I would have called, but he reared up and saw me and roared so terribly that I too fled like the wind to empty mountains. Alone.

  And so I learned, my redling, how we are alone even though my heart was full of love. And I wandered, puzzling and eating ever more and more. I saw the Trails; they meant nothing to me then. But I began to learn the important thing.

  The cold.

  You know it, my little red. How in the warm days I am me, Myself-Moggadeet. Ever-growing, ever-learning. In the warm we think, we speak. We love! We make our own Plan. Oh, did we not, my lovemate?

  But in the cold, in the night—for the nights were growing colder—in the cold night I was—what?—not Moggadeet. Not Moggadeet-thinking. Not Me-Myself. Only Something-that-lives, acts without thought. Helpless-Moggadeet. In the cold is only the Plan. I almost thought it.

  And then one day the night chill lingered and lingered and the sun was hidden in the mists. And I found myself going up the Trails.

  The Trails are a part of the Plan too, my redling.

  The Trails are of winter. There we must go all of us, we blacks. When the cold grows stronger the Plan calls us upward, upward, we begin to drift up the Trails, up along the ridges to the cold, the night-side of the mountains. Up beyond the forests where the trees grow scant and turn to stony deadwood.

  So the Plan drew me and I followed, only half-aware. Sometimes I came into warmer sunlight where I could stop and feed and try to think, but the cold fogs rose again and I went on, on and up. I began to catch sight of others like me far along the mountain-flank, moving steadily up. They didn't rear or roar when they saw me. I didn't call to them. Each one alone we climbed on toward the Caves, unthinking, blind. And so I would have gone too.

  But then the great thing happened.

  —Oh, no, my Lilliloo! Not the greatest. The greatest of all is you, will always be you. My precious sunmite, my red lovebaby! Don't be angry, no, no, my sharing one. Hold me softly. I must say our big learning. Hear your Moggadeet, hear and remember!

  In the sun's last warm I found him, the Old One. A terrible sight! So maimed and damaged, parts rotting and gone. I stared, thinking him dead. Suddenly his head rolled feebly and a croak came out.

  "Young … one?" An eye opened in his festering head, a flyer pecked at it. "Young one … wait!"

  And I understood him! Oh, with love—

  No, no, my redling! Gently! Gently hear your Moggadeet. We spoke, the Old One and I! Old to young, we shared. I think it cannot happen.

  "No old ones," he creaked. "Never to speak … we blacks. Never. It is not … the Plan. Only me … I wait.…"

  "Plan," I ask, half-knowing. "What is the Plan?"

  "A beauty," he whispers. "In the warm, a beauty in the air … I followed … but another black one saw me and we fought … and I was damaged, but still the Plan made me follow until I was crushed and torn and dead.… But I lived! And the Plan let me go and I crawled here … to wait … to share … but—"

  His head sags. Quickly I snatch a flyer from the air and push it to his torn jaws.

  "Old One! What is the Plan?"

  He swallows painfully, his one eye holding mine.

  "In us," he says thickly, stronger now. "In us, moving us in all things necessary for the life. You have seen. When the baby is golden the Mother cherishes it all winter long. But when it turns red or black she drives it away. Was it not so?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "That's the Plan! Always the Plan. Gold is the color of Mother-care, but black is the color of rage. Attack the black! Black is to kill. Even a Mother, even her own baby, she cannot defy the Plan. Hear me, young one!"

  "I hear. I have seen," I answer. "But what is red?"

  "Red!" He groans. "Red is the color of love."

  "No!" I say, stupid Moggadeet! "I know love. Love is gold."

  The Old One's eye turns from me. "Love," he sighs. "When the beauty comes in the air, you will see.…" He falls silent. I fear he's dying. What can I do? We stay silent there together in the last misty sunwarm. Dimly on the slopes I can see black ones like myself drifting steadily upward on their own Trails among the stone-tree heaps, into the icy mists.

  "Old One! Where do we go?"

  "You go to the Caves of Winter. That is the Plan."

  "Winter, yes. The cold. Mother told us. And after the cold winter comes the warm. I remember. The winter will pass, won't it? Why did she say, the winters grow? Teach me, Old One. What is a Father?"

  "Fa-ther? A word I don't know. But wait—" His mangled head turns to me. "The winters grow? Your Mother said this? Oh, cold! Oh, lonely," he groans. "A big learning she gave you. This learning I fear to think."

  His eye rolls, glaring. I am frightened inside.

  "Look around, young one. These stony deadwoods. Dead shells of trees that grow in the warm valleys. Why are they here? The cold has killed them. No living tree grows here now. Think, young one!"

  I look, and true! It is a warm forest killed to stone.

  "Once it was warm here. Once it was like the valleys. But the cold has grown stronger. The winter grows. Do you see? And the warm grows less and less."

  "But the warm is life! The warm is Me-Myself!"

  "Yes. In the warm we think, we learn. In the cold is only the Plan. In the cold we are blind.… Waiting here, I thought, was there a time when it was warm here once? Did we come here, we blacks, in the warm to speak, to share? Oh, young one, a fearful thinking. Does our time of learning grow shorter, shorter? Where will it end? Will the winters grow until we can learn nothing but only live blindly in the Plan, like the silly fatclimbers who sing but do not speak?"

  His words fill me with cold fear. Such a terrible learning! I feel anger.

  "No!" We will not! We must—we must hold the warm!"

  "Hold the warm?" He twists painfully to stare at me. "Hold the warm.… A great thinking. Yes. But how? How? Soon it will be too cold to think, even here!"

  "The warm will come again," I tell him. "Then we must learn a way to hold it, you and I!"
>
  His head lolls.

  "No … When the warm comes I will not he here … and you will be too busy for thinking, young one."

  "I will help you! I will carry you to the Caves!"

  "In the Caves," he gasps, "in each Cave there are two black ones like yourself. One is living, waiting mindless for the winter to pass.… And while he waits, he eats. He eats the other, that is how he lives. That is the Plan. As you will eat me, my youngling."

  "No!" I cry in horror. "I will never harm you!"

  "When the cold comes you will see," he whispers. "Great is the Plan!"

  "No! You are wrong! I will break the Plan," I shout. A cold wind is blowing from the summit; the sun dies.

  "Never will I harm you," I bellow. "You are wrong to say so!"

  My scaleplates are rising, my tail begins to pound. Through the mists I hear his gasps.

  I recall dragging a heavy black thing to my Cave.

  Chill cold, kill cold … In the cold I killed you.

  Leelyloo. He did not resist.

  Great is the Plan. He accepted all, perhaps he even felt a strange joy, as I feel it now. In the Plan is joy. But if the Plan is wrong? The winters grow. Do the fatclimbers have their Plan too?

  Oh, a hard thinking! How we tried, my redling, my joy. All the long warm days I explained it to you, over and over. How the winter would come and change us if we did not hold the warm. You understood! You share, you understand me now, my precious flame—though you can't speak I feel your sharing love. Softly …

  Oh, yes, we made our preparations, our own Plan. Even in the highest heat we made our Plan against the cold. Have other lovers done so? How I searched, carrying you my cherry bud, I crossed whole mountain ranges, following the sun until we found this warmest of warm valleys on the sunward side. Surely the cold would be weak here, I thought. How could they reach us here, the cold fogs, the icy winds that froze my inner Me and drew me up the Trails into the dead Caves of Winter?