Zollocco: A Novel of Another Universe

by Cynthia Joyce Clay

  Mom, you remember that dream I had that time that decided me to become a tree pathologist? I decided to conduct a little experiment. Amanda and I went out to where some lilies-of-the-valley were growing and I told her to talk to the plants and tell me which ones felt sick. So Amanda starts talking to the sweetly perfumed little white bell shaped flowers and then she seems to listen to them very earnestly. She pointed out about a dozen plants that looked healthy but had "told" her they didn't feel well. I put a blue ribbon as a fence around six of the plants, and a red ribbon as a fence around the other seven. To the blue-ribbonnned flowers I gave a serum that we have developed for one of the common ailments from which the plants have been suffering. (I'm giving you laymen's description of course.) Three days later, the red ribbonned flowers showed the early signs of the sickness. The blue ribbonned flowers were still healthy. Two more days passed by and the red group of flowers were quite obviously diseased but the blue marked ones were not! Naturally, I am conducting this experiment again in a larger scale and with a more controlled method. Wild, huh? I've read that some religious communities have been having greater success keeping their vegetation alive. Could this be the reason? Do they ask the plants how they are feeling? Please keep this to yourself for now. I need to conduct more experiments. Any way we'll be seeing each other soon for Labor Day. Love till then,

  Your Daughter

  CHAPTER TEN

  Troubadour

  When I opened my eyes, I was lying on my bed; the transporter was tangled in my robe; and the Oasis sun streamed through the window. I cursed inwardly. I fished the transporter out from the folds of my robe. I hadn't taken the safety catch off. I must have been so tired from the day in the desert that I had just fallen asleep when I closed my eyes. I felt awful, sticky, and grumpy from having slept in all of my clothes. I went to the bureau, groped for a change of clothes in a drawer, and grabbed a piece of fruit out of the basket I had set on top of the bureau. I nibbled the fruit and stuffed the clothes in my pack. I would have to wait to bathe and change after I had done the watering. I was late already.

  It was a beautiful morning. The air was sweet and clean. When I arrived at the well house, a few people were there enjoying breakfast in the Spring Room. No one was watering. I sighed. So no one had volunteered yet to help with it. The people eyed my blue robe. Surely everyone knew by now that I was a Priestess. The young man who had given me the basket was certain to have spread the news that I was a Priestess. I changed into the white clothes as required, but I needed something blue to wear since I had promised the old Priest to go about in my robes and remain mute. I went into the Pure Chamber. Sometimes when people did their laundry, they left articles of clothing in there. A basket was at one end of the room for the "lost and found." I rooted around in the basket and to my great good luck, found a blue scarf. Since this was a communal society, no one would mind if I borrowed the scarf as long as I washed it out when I was finished with it. I rolled the scarf into a long strip and tied it around my head. Then I went back upstairs to tend to the watering.

  As the water in the moat slowly filled, I thought about a dream I had had when I had fallen asleep instead of transporting to Zollocco. I dreamed that Neighteeha--only she didn't look like Neighteeha, she looked like Zollocco the Haetrist --said to me, "someone is coming who has some information about the Toelakhan." Then a beautiful, sleek panther with amber eyes ran by. The panther reappeared wearing oxygen tanks strapped to his back. The next thing I knew the panther was leaping over me, and I saw his belly lying over my head. I turned and saw the panther's face looking down from some branches of a tree. "Free me," he said.

  Lost in thought, I had almost allowed the moat to overflow. I turned off that hose for the moment and went to turn the overhead sprinkler system on. Why would a panther wear an oxygen tank? The sudden, cold downpour of the water jarred my head empty of its line of thought. I shivered, and moved on to the other switches to set the rest of the water going. That done, and the hosing of the outer section of the garden started, my reflections were free to turn to the subject of my dream. I decided the first part of the dream must be prophetic. Someone must be coming with some important information. What important information? Well, what was my biggest concern? That the Toelakhan would catch me and turn me into a household pet. Neighteeha as Zollocco had mentioned it was about the Toelakhan. The panther, a creature from my own universe, had asked me to free him.

  Then I realized something: my continual frustration in this universe was not that I was here in Imenkapur. It wasn't that I unconsciously sought to get back to Earth. I liked this universe better, in fact. My anger, my frustration, was entirely due to the fact that I was constantly on the run, constantly in danger, constantly in hiding. I wasn't confused and lost because I was disoriented; I was confused and lost because somebody else was controlling my life. Raiboothnar had trapped me, and the Toelakhan held me in bondage, that is, if the Toelakhan ever got their hands on me, they would hold me in bondage. I strolled around the garden, hosing the plants. So, what could I do about this? Maybe I could find the List the Toelakhan kept and destroy it. Then I would be free and so would the few other people they had ensnared as zitams, and the wild animals they had captured from other universes. Surely this List wasn't a piece of paper. It was probably in a computer somewhere, but how would I find it?

  "Troubadour, Troubadour!" a child shouted as she ran by the gardens. The people in the Spring Room called to me urgently, "Priestess, turn off the water, we want to greet the Troubadour!"

  I almost said "Okay" but I remembered not to just as I opened my mouth. I turned off the water and the people ran towards the town's hypotenuse wall. I stood there watching them. Should I dry myself, change, and follow them?

  "Come on, come on!" my landlady called as she ran by.

  It seemed the whole town was surging past the town gardens. I got caught up in the excitement. I turned off the hose, decided the gardening clothes I wore would dry in the sun, and followed the crowd to find out what was happening. Everyone was climbing up the stairs of the wall. I joined the throng and clambered up also. It was quite warm up there in the direct sun, but my wet clothes kept me cool. Those who bumped into me, or jostled me, pulled faces upon contact with my dripping clothing. The top of the wall was getting so crowded that some braved their fear and climbed part way down the outside stairs. Below us, others were opening the few doors set in the wall, and happy mobs crowded those openings. I wanted to ask what this was all about, but of course I couldn't.

  "See, there he is!" a child on top of his father's shoulders pointed to the horizon, and we all squinted in that direction.

  Sure enough, far, far off, a figure could be seen approaching. A great shout rose from the top of the walls to the skies. The figure advanced, a twig of bright color blown across the desert. I could see that it would take about an hour for the troubadour to reach the town. My clothes were drying rapidly and I was beginning to feel the heat from the sun and the tight press of bodies. I was distracted from these physical sensations by a loud, long, sonorous note; I looked up.

  Precariously balanced on the shoulders of two men, a woman was blowing into a long, simple horn. The entire town assembled on top of the wall, the steps leading to the sand, or at the wall's now open gate, hushed. The long low note ceased. Each head craned in the direction of the approaching figure. All animation stopped. Breath was held; torsos were frozen; hands anchored themselves on shoulders, on wrists, in hands; arms ceased elbowing, eyes fixed on the distant sight. Even the babies looked alert and ceased their sounds. It seemed the figure carried a large burden and stopped to shift it; no, stopped to swing it down onto the ground and open it. And then distantly--if you breathed you wouldn't hear it--the sweet high chords of a harp returned the hello of the horn and died away. Such a cheer of exultation as I have never heard before or since erupted from the myriad voices of the townspeople. Then groups were rushing down the stairs towards the Spring Room.

  "Priestess
, you must finish the watering, we must prepare the Spring Room for the Troubadour's concert."

  I was carried by the currents of the moving throng in the direction of the gardens. Several people helped me to finish the watering. When we were done, about fifty people rushed past us to the Spring Room. About half of them got the boards out that were used to cover the pool. With astonishing speed the huge swimming pool was covered with boards, a carpet was thrown over the planks, a small platform was set at one end, pillows were tossed down in a semicircle around the platform, stubby little chairs were set behind the pillows, conventional chairs were placed behind these, and risers were put in place.

  "Priestess, thou art still in thy watering garments, make thyself ready for the troubadour!" urged one of the young women who had the other day been one of those who had gone into the Kiva for her womanhood initiation. She hadn't been sent into the desert yet for her ordeal and therefore must use the holy dialect to indicate that this was a time of spiritual importance to her.

  I smiled thanks and bowed agreement. Since I had had to restart the overhead sprinkling systems in order to finish the watering, I was drenched anew. I dripped all the way down to the pure chamber. There I wrapped myself in a towel and did my laundry in one of the big sinks. Large eggbeater looking gadgets were hung on the walls above the sinks and were to be lowered into the sinks to produce the agitation needed for washing clothes. This way when the eggbeaters were raised to the walls again, it left the sinks free for other purposes. I pinned the now clean clothes to the clothesline and then yanked on the rope to send them out to dry in the sun. The pulley squeaked in a busy, friendly way as the clothes flapped and jerked on their way upward and outward. I then popped into the shower. By the time I returned upstairs, the Spring Room's transformation into a theater was complete.

  Now the townspeople were draping cloths over the tables and setting out the dishes, cutlery, and napery. My robe was too hot to work in, so I hung it on a peg and tied the blue scarf like a cord around my head to hold back my loose and wet hair. I took one of the lovely embroidered cloths, flapped it out full above the table, and guided carefully its waiting descent to the table. As I carried a stack of hand-painted plates to the table more towns-people arrived in a procession of steaming platters, sparkling pitchers, mountainous tureens, and enormous baskets, all laden and filled with food, food, food. My stomach growled for its share.

  The troubadour arrived. He was quite a contrast to the thin, dun-clad people of Oasis. He was stocky, muscular, and he had a big belly. His clothing was a brilliant assortment of colors. His robe was made up of the colors representative of eight of the twelve Forests' religious sects. His trousers were navy blue, his shirt was white, ruffled, and had lace cuffs. He wore a navy blue skullcap that had a red band shaped like a crown encircling it. A large orange case was strapped to him and protruded from his back. He was followed by a mob of children who imitated his hunched but athletic gait. He marched straight to the platform, shooed away the children who hid behind chairs to watch him, removed his burden in a surprisingly rough manner, and proceeded to warm up his vocal chords.

  Something, I thought, was not quite right. Everyone else had already surged to the tables, and people were piling their plates with food. I joined them, happy that I had not left Oasis after all. I filled a plate of food with some of everything and took it to the troubadour.

  "Thank you, thank you," he said looking quizzically at my blue scarf.

  I gave him a "you're welcome" kind of smile.

  The old man with the furry ears hobbled up to us and plonked himself down beside the Troubadour, "Sir," he said, offering the Troubadour an embroidered towel and a bowl of water that had flower petals floating in it, "We are honored that the desert has granted you a safe journey here. But, you know, we were, um, as you know, we were expecting an ollave. By your robe, we see you do not have that rank. Also, we thought the troubadour who usually visits us was supposed to come again this year in the full dignity and glory of the ollave office."

  During the old man's speech, the Troubadour had taken the bowel and towel and washed his hands. Before speaking, he carefully set the things down beside him. What you say is quite fair and true.

  No ollave does lack the brilliant blue. The man you miss sends his regret.

  He was delayed to his test

  by winds of sand, and now don't fret, Next year you will hear that Bard's best. For now my songs to you belong,

  The Toelakhan sent me along.

  At the mention of the Toelakhan, the old man started and looked at me. Wheezing he asked me to help him back to the tables of food. I took his elbow firmly and led him away, glad to have this small duty to shield my nerves from view.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Troubadour Tales

  Later, after all had feasted and put away the leftovers, the troubadour signaled his readiness with the brisk initial strum of his harp. The townspeople looked up pleased at the prospect of digesting to the music of the harp and the stories of the man. The evening was growing cool and so I wrapped my blue holy robe about me. I settled myself comfortably in one of the chairs set at the garden's edge, where the sweet smells of the growing things could reach me. Everyone else also made themselves comfortable. The audience, the entire town of Oasis, quieted.

  The troubadour played the opening notes of his song on his beautiful stringed instrument. He inhaled, easily, fully, and opened his mouth to sing.

  "Pardon me troubadour," called the older woman who led the girls' rite. "We have consulted with each other and are not sure we should listen to your words tonight." Her soprano voice carried clearly in the still night air. Her razor like but dignified form I perceived dimly on the opposite side of the audience from me.

  "And why is that good woman?"

  "Because you admit to being sent by the Toelakhan. The troubadours of our world have always maintained their independence from all allegiances except that of their Poetry. Even the Beloved Forest World respects our troubadour's rightful independence. Yet, you allow yourself to become a mouthpiece for demagogues. That you are the willing tool of the Toelakhan, an organization that our planet has the distinction of first recognizing as twisted and corrupt, is appalling to us."

  "Good woman, I have heard your words. Must I speak in my own defense? I would rather bring you the stories you have waited to hear, the news of other places you need to know, the history you wish to learn, and the musical power you must use to heal."

  The troubadour set aside his harp and stood up. He looked out across the audience, squinting at the light. He gaze fell on me. "Is that a Priestess I see in the audience?"

  By my Holy orders, I was not to answer this until he asked for me in the ritual way.

  "Yes, that is a Priestess!" the young man who had given me the basket rose to his feet to answer, "Forests let the dark night of our indecision be illuminated by the Blue Dawn of a new day."

  I cursed inwardly. I was being called upon to speak, and because of my vow, I could not say one sappy stalk of a sentence. As was required by ritual, the townspeople repeated twice over the invocation already raised by the young man. I stood. At least my robe of Holy Orders gave me the stature of drama and authority the moment called for. I kept to my oath, saying not one word.

  "Ah, Priestess if you say so I will pack up my harp and leave no music, no history, no stories. In short, I will leave no Poetry of any kind in this place. I will leave a barren Oasis."

  The petri dish was threatening me, threatening the people with a terrible curse if I spoke against him. I ground me teeth together. How I wanted to expose him, tear his words apart to reveal the rotten threat. But not one word could I speak. I was bound. I kept to my vow, saying not one word. The troubadour waited. The Townspeople waited. I could not turn from the confrontation until granted dismissal by those who had invoked Forest aid, but I must keep my vow. The troubadour smirked and tried to hide his smirk. The audience was perplexed and agitated.

  At last
a young woman whom I could not discern in the dark stood and spoke: "Good Priestess, truly of the Forests do you speak! Your message here is clear. We must hear out this false troubadour and form our own conclusions. Does not the Poetry of our own history warn us that we must `listen to the Poetry of our enemies'? By listening to him, we will learn how to protect ourselves from Toelakhan guile. Thank you for this most profound lecture."

  The audience smiled in relief and understanding. I smiled sweetly.

  The townspeople chanted thrice over the ritually needed release, "Thank you Forests for this streak of blue light, the dark night of our indecision has passed."

  The troubadour, not too pleased, sat behind his harp and played a snappy, cheerful tune. Absorbed in his playing he lost his aggravation and moved on to melodies of different moods.

  Then he stilled his harp and looked out over the myriad faces surrounding him. "Call out the names of your relatives, and I shall report to you the news I have of them," he invited the townspeople and then played a soft, sweetly sad hint of a tune on the long glimmering strings of the harp.

  The names came, some eagerly, some nervously, some with vexation, some with longing: "Sweetspring! Toughwall? Shimmersand. Dunestar."

  The answers told of schooling mastered, of health regained, of prosperity, of marriage.

  More names were called out: "Dawnheat. Drystone? Sandprint! Wellkeep. Yellowsand. Redheatsun? Nightdry! Coldune! Lonewind. Bigsand? Shimmerair?"

  His answers continued. Sometimes the troubadour had knowledge of a death, of a birth of twins, of a safe arrival, of an infirmity. Sometimes the troubadour had no knowledge, sometimes just a rumor. The troubadour embellished each piece of news with the humming of his instrument: a commendation here, a eulogy there, a story about this one, and a tale about that one...