Well, I'm not one to bully a God; in future I'll just ask politely.
Ask . . . what?
Oh, of Kas and God-Minds and other things. Of stars and worlds and Eeden.
I’ll be sure to let you know, when I know, myself.
Good. If that's all settled, let’s move! I waved a warning to the Yaleen, then I jerked the rope.
Presently the Worm's head surged out of the Precipice. Propelling itself, I guess, by sucking water into its underside then jetting it out. Or maybe it used the energy it got from burning water. I glanced aside: old Nothing-Bothers-Me was really gawping. Peli was openly weeping with joy. Sal was cheering. I kissed my diamond ring to the two of them. This was the pattern, this the special image: myself riding downriver in the Worm's jaws.
As we swept past Port Barbra a couple of hours later, we weren't of course close enough to shore for me to spot any crowds lining the bank. Nor were any boats likely to sail out and maybe get in our way. However, I still stood grandly at the helm as though steering. Signals were flashing far off, and no doubt numerous spyglasses were trained on me. There are times when one should enjoy one's moments of glory, not shrug them off modestly.
Another four hours, and it would be night. By then we ought to be between Jangali and Croakers' Bayou, and I might as well get some rest. (I wasn't actually steering the current.) By dawn we would be approaching Gangee, and getting near the war zone.
I had a choice to make. A decision before me.
For in my eagerness I'd neglected something fairly basic: namely, how I was going to disembark. Perhaps I ought to have hung on to that laundry tub after all! First the diving helmet, now the tub; I seemed to have developed a habit lately of throwing away things that I might need. If only I'd asked for a mirror, too! And not only to tidy myself. Come to think of it, I could probably use one of those bottles my friends had sent over, to flash a signal. . . .
My choice? It wasn't just a question of how I would disembark; though that little problem did rub home the nub of the matter. And the nub was this: I could halt the Worm at Umdala. I could wait for a boat to put out and take me off. Then I could despatch the Worm's head onward into the wild ocean. By so doing I would have restored the current to the whole length of the river, and our world to itself. By and large. Give or take weeks of warfare to liberate Verrino.
But ought I?
I thought of how "conserver"-minded my own guild was at heart; yet how much freer and finer women's lives were as a consequence compared with life in the west. And on account of the fact that men hadn't been able to sail the river. Surely everyone's life in the east, man and woman, boy and girl, was better as a result?
But then I thought of the frustration and resentment the 'jacks would feel after they had tasted travel to distant ports, and sacrificed lives in the process; unless they were all supremely glad to march home . . . three hundred leagues on foot. (For they certainly couldn't sail the river, with the current back in place.)
I thought of the madness of Josep, who had yearned to journey far, only to see his dreams first drowned then parched to death. And I thought of that boy destroyed for a dare on the ice at Melonby. I thought of Kish caught in a spider-web of domestic bliss in Jangali.
I thought of my own brother, destroyed by restless curiosity— because there was only one outlet for it. I thought of my parents, and Narya. I weighed and I balanced.
The Worm could come just part way out of its lair. It could stop near Aladalia, say—leaving a further hundred and eighty leagues of northern water free for men and women voyagers, both. True, that was only one quarter of the river's length. But it might be a start, a promise . . . On the other hand, this would leave a long stretch of river-border open between east and west. The Westerners would be wise to assume we could close it if we wished. Though were they wise? And would they refrain from raiding and piracy? Would the towns from Aladalia to Umdala thank me for leaving their shores unprotected?
Ultimately, the wisdom or otherwise of stopping short did rather depend on what the Worm might learn of that distant power in Eeden which had sent us all here in the first place. It hung, too, on what the Worm might learn of itself (God or not). I didn't think the Worm quite knew what a God was; did anyone? Maybe a God was just an idea, waiting for an embodiment—like any other invention, such as the mysterious vessel which had brought our seeds here long ago. Which brought me back to the puzzle of the Big Intelligence, bom of men, which ruled in Eeden.
Basically, had I the right to decide to stop short? Had I won this right by restoring the current? Or had I only redeemed the mess I had provoked? In future years would I be seen as a heroine or a criminal idiot?
How could I know the answer to that, till it was far too late to choose a different option? And did this matter? Maybe no one can be a heroine if they set out to be one. And if someone does set out to be one, distrust them.
Questions, questions. At least I had a choice. A free choice, for once. On behalf of everyone living, and quite a few who were dead.
The bow-wave rolled foaming away equally towards east and west. I laid down my harness rope and burrowed in the canvas bag, unpacking dried fish, sweetcakes, fruit, a bottle of water, a bottle of wine.
I drank some water then scoffed a few cakes and chewed on a fish-stick. The wine I would reserve to toast Jangali when we passed. A swig or several would help me get to sleep that night; to sleep upon my little problem.
By the time we reached Verrino next day, I would certainly have made my mind up. That's what choices are for. To savour them while you can, and then to seize one. Or the other.
So here ends The Book of the River.
My Book of the River, that's to say! The book that the river guild asked me to write, here in Aladalia, even while the war was being fought and won a hundred leagues away. I guess they felt it necessary to explain to everyone from Umdala to Tambimatu exactly what had happened, even if this meant spilling secrets in the process (and perhaps bruising a few egos!). Otherwise, who knows what scare stories and wild rumours would have been flying about for ever more?
Before this book is printed up Ajelobo way they'll probably change the title, though. And maybe some committee of guildmistresses will go through it first with a pot of black ink . . . And then again, maybe not.
At first I imagined that writing a book might be as daunting a task as swimming the river or walking to Manhome South. But once begun, I found to my relief (then delight) that my story flowed easily enough. My reading of all those Ajelobo romances came in handy at long last! I think I even got better at it as I went along. In fact, I can hardly bear to put down my pen.
What else?
Oh yes: I have nutbrown hair and hazel eyes. I'm slim, rather than skinny (except when on my way to Manhome South); and in bare feet I stand just over five spans tall—or short. I have a chocolate mole on the side of my neck. I forgot those little details. That proves I'm modest. Obviously. (Should I add them in? No. . . .)
But of course there's more; which is what these last few private words are really about—for my eyes only.
This part doesn't belong in the book, but I'd better write it down in case I get struck by lightning or something.
For the Worm has kept its promise—just last night. (As if it had watched and waited till I'd finished my whole writing task.) Last night I dreamed I was out alone upon the river in a rowboat; when the grim head (which is actually loitering south of here) rose from the depths. Suddenly I was wide awake in my dream, and in my head I heard these words:
Yaleen. I was made, aeons ago, to keep this world empty of mature minds. I was put here as a destroyer.
Recently I brushed against the God-Mind of Eeden and it cried, "Wretch! On six worlds since this one, I found your likeness. Habitable worlds, with no high life on them. You aborted intelligence on them, you kept them lying fallow. You injured my people when they came! What made you, Demon? Name your Master! War will go on between us till I own you and can use you, to fin
d what made you lie in wai1 a million years, as a trap and barrier.
But Yaleen, I think I've found how to etiter Eeden. I believe I can send a suitable human agent along the psylink. To fabled Eeden, Yaleen! And back again!
Even in a dream I was able to figure this one out. And retort, Don 7 look at me! I like it here.
Come, come, Yaleen, chided the Worm. One fine day you ’ll die, then your
Ka will be with me to send wherever I wish. Its long white eyes winked, and its head sank back beneath the water.
Me, travel to Eeden along the psylink? As an agent in a war of the Gods?
In the words of some sensible lads of Melonby: not likely! And, no fear! I've some items of human business to attend to.
I still haven't seen my parents, to bring them up to date. Maybe I ought to wait till my book is printed and send them a copy first? But that would be churlish. We've been strangers too long. I still haven't bounced Narya on my knee; Narya my sister, not of the river but of flesh.
I'll certainly go to Verrino to begin with. Not merely because it's on the route to Pecawar—nor to gawp at the damage or the prisoners, or to collect horror stories. I very much want to find out if Hasso is alive. I want him to know how much Nelliam appreciated his final kiss. And maybe repay him in kind.
I might stay in Verrino a while, maybe help a bit with reconstruction. But then I'll head on home for sure; back to Pecawar.
Before leaving home again ... to go where?
I do fear that there's a big "where" waiting for me. And that may well be another tale, just as long as this Book of the River (new version, by Yaleen of Pecawar). If there is another tale, it may be longer than the river itself—for maybe it will stretch all the way from here to the stars.
I can always hope I'm wrong.
Right now, I just can't tell.
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