Alien Nation #6 - Passing Fancy

by David Spencer

  “I can’t ask you to do that,” Emily said.

  “You didn’t,” Jill responded. “I offered. Besides, you’re gonna need all the help you can get.”

  “. . . I got everybody that mad, huh?”

  “Let me put it this way . . . I like you . . . and I wrote the note.”

  “Good point.”

  And with that, Jill and Emily set about approaching the other members of the gym club and also the club’s supervising teacher, Ms. McIntyre, who was immediately amenable to Emily’s idea. (But then, she rather suspected that if her faculty meeting had not caused her to be late the other day, the situation would not have deteriorated so badly in the first place.)

  However, the clubmates remained somewhat cynical, which made Jill’s participation, as Jill had surmised, essential to overcoming their initial resistance as they were being corralled for a special session of the gym club. Same time: after final period; same place: the reconverted cafeteria.

  The girls sat in a semicircle group, Emily among them and yet not quite. She sat at the end of the arc next to Jill, who served as a tacit buffer between her and the others.

  Ms. McIntyre took her place in front of them, apologized for her previous day’s lateness, and made the announcement:

  “We’re gathered here today because Emily has something to say to you all, and I think it might be worth hearing. Emily?”

  Emily rose as Ms. McIntyre relinquished center stage. Her hearts were pounding with apprehension, and she felt the pressure of peer scrutiny on her back. When she turned to face them, their return gazes covered the limited range from neutral to surly. She took a deep breath and started to speak.

  “It’s no big secret,” she began, “that the Emily Seven was a bust yesterday.”

  There were a few indistinct mumbles of agreement, somewhere among them a clear-sounding, “You got that right . . .”

  “So,” Emily continued, “I’m here today to present Emily Eight.”

  The watching faces clouded over slightly—all but Jill, who winked encouragement at Emily.

  “As in ‘Emily ate her words,’ ‘Emily ate her attitude,’ ‘Emily ate her pride’ ”—the clouds passed; smiles and even some appreciative laughter began to emerge—“and asked her friends to give her one more shot at this.”

  “What do you say, girls?” Ms. McIntyre asked.

  Joannie Delahanty, the redheaded girl who had tripped over the Emily Seven the day before, raised her hand. “What do you think, Ms. McIntyre?”

  “I wasn’t here,” the willowy blond teacher replied. “I don’t mind offering my opinion, of course, but I think it’s your call.” She allowed that to sink in before adding, “I will say this much, though. You’ve just received a pretty mature proposal. What do you think would be a mature response?”

  All faces turned toward Joannie. Being the most seriously offended, she had suddenly become holder of the swing vote.

  Joannie thought about it. Then shrugged and said, “Oh, hell, why not?” And immediately slapped a hand to her mouth, belatedly realizing she had used a swearword in front of the teacher. But the immediate laughter from the clubmates and the release of tension made it all forgivable. “Just don’t make a habit of it,” Ms. McIntyre said, joining in the laughter, and all attention went to Emily again as it subsided.

  “Thanks, Joannie,” said Emily. And, addressing the assemblage at large, “Now, I didn’t really get a chance to rework it. I thought maybe if I started with the basic moves, you could help me modify it, all of you—so that it becomes something we all can do.”

  “Do you mind if she goes through it once more, girls?” Ms. McIntyre asked. “I’d like to see it myself.”

  Again, general consent . . . and Emily did her thing.

  She crossed to the right wall, leaned against one of the huge doors behind which a lunch table was stored and then she took a single hop, bounded up several feet, landed

  Thump,

  deep bending at the knees, arms up, uncoiling like a spring, arms at the side now, pirouetting full in midair, landing,

  Thump,

  kick starting a forward tumble,

  de,

  landing on her hands,

  thump,

  bending at the elbows, uncoiling again, pushing herself into the air, somersaulting backward until she was again erect and landing,

  Ka-flump!

  with a flourish, arms outflung, breathing hard.

  She stole a look at Ms. McIntyre, whose mouth was open in quiet astonishment.

  “Well, my goodness, Emily,” was all she could say—at first.

  “See, Ms. McIntyre?” said Mei-Mei Harada. “I appreciate Emily’s apology, but how are we going to make that into something we can do?”

  Emily watched Ms. McIntyre’s face nervously. It was clear from her expression that the Emily Seven was of a much more advanced order than perhaps even she could do.

  And then the gym teacher’s face changed. It was a small moment, of no dramatic import—her mouth closed, she huffed air briefly out of her nose and half-lidded her eyes—but Emily would remember it for the rest of her life. Because she knew in that moment that Ms. McIntyre had quickly analyzed a thorny situation and discovered how to turn a liability into an advantage. And Emily marveled that such things were possible.

  “Well, it’s not the actual movement that sends the message, you know?” Ms. McIntyre said thoughtfully. “It’s the exuberance. I mean . . . there’s a uniquely Tenctonese zest for life conveyed in it. Even if we can’t do those specific steps, the feeling behind them is still valid. I bet you can all figure out a way to put that across.”

  It began slowly. With Joannie suggesting that maybe that step was a little too involved, but wondering if there was another, maybe from some Newcomer folk dance Emily knew, that might go in its place . . . and Emily demonstrated one and Joannie, forgetting herself again, said, “Hell, I can do that,” and promptly did . . . and then Mei-Mei asked if she might simplify one of the moves in the Emily Seven to achieve a similar effect with a little less risk, and Emily replied, “Sure, what do you mean?” and Mei-Mei showed her, and now that move was incorporated . . . and a rapidly increasing string of What about thises and Let’s try thats followed, and the excitement grew, and the little dance exercise transmuted into a truly collaborative dance routine, one which, in the end, all were performing with gusto and glee.

  And as Emily moved with them in choreographic unison, a small part of her mind wandered, for she realized that this thing was no longer hers alone, the glory of this belonged to all of them.

  And that had never been the fantasy.

  But it was still pretty good.

  Which was close enough . . .

  Meanwhile, at an entirely different place of learning . . .

  Buck cut his afternoon classes because he was impatient and could do it without incident. After all, his teachers considered him a good student, and as a Newcomer, Buck was identified as having an intellect superior to his human classmates. Racism in reverse had its advantages.

  He arrived at the local Sanctuary of the Kewistans just prior to the warning sounds of thunder in the darkening sky. He had called his Elder-Master the night before, right after the charged and disturbing dinner with his family. He had insisted that now, more than ever, he was ready for his Tighe Marcus-ta, and his Elder-Master had replied: “Then come tomorrow. It will be done.”

  This particular Sanctuary was a reconverted two-storey house in Sherman Oaks, two blocks off Ventura Boulevard. The house was pink and spacious, its interior also done in soft pastels. There were a good number of bedrooms within, and virtually all the walls were lined with shelves upon shelves of books: books of Tenctonese spiritualism and those of a more secular, Earth-bound orientation. When one entered, one spoke only in Tenctonese.

  The living room area, just inside the front door, had already been reconverted to a ceremonial circle when he was admitted in. An oval brocaded carpet of deep purple was laid u
pon the rose-colored rug; incense-producing tapers were spaced about the perimeter of the room, in anticipation of being lit; and in the center of the carpet was a jewel-inlaid goblet plus a small, lidded cast-iron kettle—which sat, incongruously, upon a plugged-in hot plate. An articulated notch in the lid of the pot allowed the handle of a ladle to poke through.

  It was disappointing in a way. Like holy writ on a budget.

  Buck’s Elder-Master, or personal tutor, was named Feshnar. Feshnar was the closest, in Buck’s opinion, to what the archetypal image of an Elder-Master—a great teacher who had once walked upon the Homeworld—should be:

  He was at least as old and wizened as Buck’s Uncle Moodri had been, easily over a hundred and fifty. He was given to epigrammatic wit, existential/philosophical observation and answering questions with questions (the better to make a student examine his/her knowledge and convictions). He wore the traditional vestments of the order, pastel-colored silks under a belted kimono-style robe. And, without pretension or pomposity, he conveyed the signature aura of serenity naturally associated with Those Who Are in Touch with the Secrets of the Universe. A comforting presence when the wisdom of the ages is sought.

  Which is why Buck found it unsettling when Feshnar said, “I will place you in the care of your Tighe Marcus-ta guides, and then I shall leave you to it.”

  “Leave me to—you mean, you won’t be there?”

  “No, Buck. It is important that I am not.”

  “But why? I thought I was your best student!”

  “That is why. For both of us, the principles of Kewisto must be inviolate. If you are to be absorbed into our way of thinking, you must not be guided by my influence, to which you are partial. And I must not offer you any unconscious aid. Objectivity is the key. There would be none with me present.”

  “. . . If you say so.”

  “Tradition says so. But if I were worried about you, I would not have sponsored you to the others. Are you worried?”

  Soberly, Buck replied, “Not about me, no.”

  “What then? Your family still?”

  “I just wonder what it will do to them, that’s all. The change in me.”

  “If your feelings remain conflicted, feel free to call a halt to the proceedings. There are no ‘marks’ here, no ‘stepping backwards,’ no shame in a reconsidered decision. You will simply continue your studies as before.”

  There was a niggling uncertainty in the back of Buck’s mind, but he consciously suppressed it as a natural reflex. Most of him wanted to do this very much. And most of him, he thought, was what counted.

  “I don’t wish to reconsider,” he asserted gravely.

  A tall, lean, and powerfully muscled Elder appeared—towered, really—over Feshnar’s shoulder, looking down upon Buck just at the moment he had spoken. This one’s name was Von, and he had the advantage, for Buck had never heard him speak. Every Elder’s approach to Kewisto was different, and Von’s manifested itself in a studied silence. But his face—when he chose to let it reveal his thoughts, which was sparingly—was expressive enough. As now, when at Buck’s words, Von wrinkled his brow meaningfully, his expression one of droll bemusement.

  Taking their places behind Von were the other two Elders who would perform the initiation ceremony with him. There was Lewski, an unusually fair-skinned Newcomer with small eyes and a startlingly deep, resonant voice . . and there was the head of this enclave of Kewistans.

  Her name was Ru.

  If Feshnar resembled the archetypal Elder-Master, Ru resembled its opposite. She was female, for a start, and even though the Tenctonese culture celebrated male-female equality, female Masters were unusual and therefore much more highly revered. Ru did little to act as if she should be the object of such reverence, however. Her personality, far from mystical, was sprightly, that of an ever-youthful great-aunt. Furthermore, she eschewed the ceremonial garb as too drafty; today she wore a simple open-necked blouse under a vest sweater, and yellow slacks. The wrinkles around her eyes were laugh lines; and when she laughed, which was often, she tended to explode into great, delighted, alto gales of it.

  Utterly incongruous in this place, to Buck’s way of thinking; and much as he enjoyed and admired her, he couldn’t help but feel his Tighe Marcus-ta would be diminished in spirituality. But he dared not say so.

  Feshnar delivered Buck into her hands—literally, as the first thing she did was put them on his shoulders—and padded upstairs. Separating himself. Buck willed himself not to feel the loss. Kewisto, he reminded himself. Don’t favor one Kewistan over another.

  “Well, my fine, young Buck,” Ru said, a twinkle shining in her eyes, very aware of the pun she’d made, “are you ready to find out if life is a fountain?”

  This was a reference to the punch line of an irreverent old Earth joke about spirituality—he knew because she’d told it to him some months earlier.

  “I’m ready,” he replied, wondering if her levity would possibly endanger his psychic journey.

  “Oh, goody.” She smiled, and then laughed. Arm around his shoulder, she led him to the place he would occupy on the rug, facing the kettle in the center.

  “That hot plate looks so weird in this setting,” he said.

  “I know. I begged my colleagues to let me have an open pit with red-hot coals but they outvoted me. Said it might burn the house down, can you imagine? And I must tell you, it made me very cross.” She laughed again and bade him sit, which he did, cross-legged. Opposite him sat Lewski and Von, the latter of whom had already lit the ceremonial tapers, which were making the air sweet and fragrant. Ru took her place between them.

  Smiling impishly.

  Thunder exploded and lightning flashed from outside. And suddenly rain started hitting the windows in furious sheets.

  Ru caught Buck’s gaze and laughed again, this time guiltily. Buck guessed she must’ve found his expression far too solemn. Then she said, as if to chide herself, “All right, let’s get serious here.” Never entirely losing her smile, though, she added, “Before the fun starts, you must vow not to describe the particulars of this ceremony to anyone.”

  “I do so vow,” he averred formally, in the futile hope that his sense of occasion would discourage Ru’s informal gaiety.

  She gestured to the pot. Lewski, using a cloth to protect his hand from the hot metal, removed its lid. He put down the lid, handed the cloth to Buck, and Ru said, “Go to it, Buck. Ladle yourself some brew.”

  He took the cloth, hesitated.

  “What’s wrong, Buck?” Ru asked.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “ ‘Ladle yourself some brew?’ It sounds so . . .”

  Ru smiled with—it seemed to Buck—something like affection. “Pragmatic? Demotic? Unceremonious?”

  “Well . . . yes.”

  “You’re about to undertake a life-style that embodies those qualities. I like initiates to remember that before the ceremony gets underway.”

  “Then . . . why do the ceremony at all?”

  “You’ll see.”

  There was no way to prepare for the Tighe Marcus-ta; its rituals were never revealed beforehand to those about to go through it. The oath of secrecy assured that each new initiate was at its mercy. Buck felt very much that way now.

  Raindrops were landing with such force on the roof of the house, they actually clattered.

  He took the cloth, lifted a ladle full of the “brew,” and poured it into the goblet before him. The aroma was tangy and a little foul.

  Having no protocol to follow, Buck reacted instinctively. He pulled back a bit and said, “What is it?”

  Lewski and Von exchanged glances at that. Knowing glances. Insider glances. Oh, how Buck wished Feshnar were here.

  “It’s a beverage of herbs,” Ru replied. “It’s harmless.”

  “I beg your pardon, madam,” intoned Lewski, playfully indignant.

  “I take it back. It’s healthful, the way Lewski makes it.” Lewski nodded his satisfaction at the amendment. “But it do
es have a certain mind-sharpening potential. If you’re ready to be absorbed, that readiness will absolutely be clarified for you under its influence.”

  Buck stared at the goblet warily.

  Ru said, “Go ahead, ask. It would seem unnatural to us if you didn’t.”

  “All right,” said Buck. “What happens if I’m not ready?”

  “You’ll see.”

  And she laughed again.

  When her laughter subsided, Buck asked, “When do I—I mean, at what point do I—”

  “Whenever you’re up to it. The Tig he Marcus-ta doesn’t begin until you’ve drunk the contents of the goblet.”

  Buck lifted the goblet to his mouth, and the fumes assaulted his nostrils even more strongly. He closed off his nasal passages, hoping to minimize what he expected would be a hideous taste.

  He was pleasantly surprised. It was sweet and grainy. He let air through his nose again, enhancing the flavor.

  That’s when the aftertaste hit him, making his tongue feel as if the grain had been recently fertilized. It was a powerful aftertaste, almost as noxious as the first had been pleasant. Reflexively he pulled the goblet away from his lips.

  “All of it,” said Ru.

  Her gaze upon him seemed impassive now, as did those of Lewski and Von on either side of her. Buck braced his stomach, tightened his chest, and chugged. It wasn’t as bad as before.

  It was worse.

  Trying not to reel from the awfulness of it, he put the goblet down, sucking in air through his mouth to dry out and numb his tongue. And Ru said three of the most unnerving words he’d ever heard:

  “Fill it again.”

  “I’m not sure that I—”

  “—For us.”

  Not hiding his relief, Buck ladled more “brew” into the goblet and passed it over to Ru. She took a few healthy swigs, clearly savoring them. Off Buck’s disbelieving expression, she said, “It’s an acquired taste.”

  She passed it in turn to Lewski, who finished the contents without comment or readable reaction and placed the goblet down . . . where it stayed.