When the calling of names dwindled into stillness, the troubadour looked up inquiringly. Then he nodded a note of finality. Soft, gentle music from the harp ensued, allowing the people a spell to grasp the thoughts the reports had brought them.
Then a girl of about eleven pregnancies in age spoke, "Troubadour, tell us a story!"
The troubadour laughed and said that he knew of a fine one for the little ones to send them to sleep with sweet dreams; and he told a tale the adults had heard many times, the children less, and the babies not at all.
There once lived a desert rat. This desert rat was in actuality a beautiful youth transformed into rat form by an Ollave -- master of harp, verse, and curse. When a boy, the youth had angered the Ollave; that was why he was now a desert rat. The desert rat lived in a town like this one. He lived in the town's wall and would scamper across the sand catching seeds that had been blown over the wall by the winds. The rat always carefully examined these seeds before he ate them because the Ollave had told him that one day he would find a seed that was really a troubadour student who had gotten sad and turned herself into a seed. Naturally, the desert rat was terrified he might eat the seed that was really a student troubadour. Then he would be a desert rat forever and have a terrible bellyache too.
So for many years the desert rat lived in the wall, and scurried out to collect his seeds, and lined those seeds up for inspection, and ate them one by one. Carefully so, lest he chew on a troubadour pupil by mistake.
One day, some children threw sand at the desert rat and pulled his tail, and it was quite a while before he was free of them. An oldlady finally freed him of them. She shooed the children away from the desert rat with a broom. Unfortunately, the old lady was not content to shoo the children away! Oh no! She wasn't content until she had chased the desert rat with her broom up and down the wall. Finally, the desert rat, which was really a clever youth and not a desert rat at all, figured out how to get away from her by hiding under her long skirts as she ran. At last, the old lady grew tired and sat down to catch her breath. The desert rat then sneaked away into the wall and out to the sand to collect his seeds before the day died away.
Well, as you can imagine that desert rat was hot, tired, and cranky by the time he got out to collect his seeds. To make things worse he didn't have much time left either. Well, he gathered up his seeds as fast as he could, and at last, he had a good-sized pile to drag up to his nest. Well, the desert rat was so hot, and so tired, and so cross that he didn't line those seeds up like he usually did to get a good look at them before he ate them. He just started to cram them into his mouth and chomp them up. He was just grabbing up the two seeds he hadn't managed to stuff in his mouth with the others when he saw that one of the two seeds looked peculiar.
He swallowed the seeds in his mouth (it took several swallows) and he stared at that peculiar seed. It was the normal color for a seed, light green in the middle and gold around the edges. It was as light as a seed should be. It was shaped as a seed should be. It was the size a seed should be. But what was it about this seed? He just had the feeling this seed was different. Now this must just be his imagination because after all the seed was like any other little seed, so he lifted it to his mouth. But he couldn't do it. He just couldn't eat that little seed.
Well, what should he do?"
Here the children shouted out different answers: "Eat it! Plant it! Throw it in the sand! Eat it! Bury it!"
The troubadour feigned looking appalled. "Eat a magic seed? Throw a magic seed into the sand? Bury a magic seed?" The troubadour shook his head sadly at the immorality of the young generation.
The desert rat spoke to the seed. `Oh Sanda, if it is you, if you are this seed, it is I, Zephro! Your father promised me that if I found you he would turn me back into a human! Oh little seed, please be my little Sanda, turn yourself back into a student troubadour! You must let your father know you are still alive and love him! Even if he breaks his promise to turn me back into a human, you can't spend your whole life as a little seed! Oh, my love, be my beautiful Sanda again.'
And lo and behold, the seed began to shimmer and shimmer and shimmer, and don't you know, the seed was not a seed but a beautiful, beautiful girl newly in the bloom of womanhood!
`Oh Zephro,' she cried picking up the desert rat, `I will bring you to my father and I will make him turn you back into my beautiful, clever boy!' She put the desert rat in her pocket and ran on her quick feet across the sand. She ran and she ran for days; she ran for pregnancies. She ran until her hair turned dark, and she ran until a faint line appeared in the soft skin of her face. She ran until gray appeared in the dark hair and the line deepened and doubled in the soft skin of her face. And all the while, she ran she sang songs and told stories to the desert rat in her pocket. Sanda ran so far and so long that she sang more songs and told more stories than anybody had ever heard, or sung, or told before. And then, she cried out that she saw on the wall of the town ahead of her, she saw--yes, she saw her father.
She ran up the stairs of the wall to her father. She tenderly held the desert rat out to her father. She told her father the story of a little boy and girl who were in love and how they had heard the father of the girl laughing at them. She told how the little boy stood up to the father and told him not to laugh, that he was a fool not to hear the music of love when it swelled up before him from the lungs of two children. She told how the father was an Ollave who had furiously turned the boy into a desert rat. She told how the little girl, his daughter, was his pupil troubadour and how she in her grief had turned into a little seed and was lost to her father among the reeds at his feet. She told how the father let out a wail that was heard as far as the Forest World and how he told the desert rat that when his daughter was returned to him alive and whole again, he would reverse his spell.
`Now father! I am here! I am your daughter Sanda and I have told more stories than anyone has heard and sung more songs than anyone has sung, for love has carried me from the distant city to you, and I have carried my love, Zephro, who you turned into a desert rat.
At this the old man collapsed to the ground moaning that he could not. His daughter, anguished, asked him why. Afraid for her father, afraid for her Zephro, she knelt at the side of the stricken old man.
`Because you are a little girl no longer; you are a full grown woman; and this little rat who is not a rat, can never forgive me for the wrong I have done to you both!'
At this Zephro, the man who was trapped in the body of a desert rat, jumped to the shoulder of the old man. The little rat tenderly licked the tears streaking the old man's cheeks. The old man wept now in joy. He knew he was forgiven. He smiled, and with great power still unfaltering at his command, he waved the spell away. The desert rat leaped from his shoulder and landed beside Sanda, the most fine and handsome of men.
So ends this tale, for it seems reasonable to assume that Sanda and Zephro were married and lived happily ever after.
There was much laughter and applause at this end. A pitcher of water and a plate of sliced berries were set before the troubadour. While the performer took his break, the townspeople settled their children down on pillows and blankets to sleep. This done, the troubadour stood and asked what we would like to hear next.
"Soft music to lull the children to sleep," a young father called.
"A story of a distant planet!" called a teenage girl.
"Something exotic," agreed the teenager's friend.
"Something sad, mournful, a tragic death maybe," called a jolly middle-aged fellow.
"Yes, a serious story that we can think about, " chimed in a few others.
The troubadour held up his hand to halt the number of suggestions, "A sad story, set in a distant and exotic location, done to gentle music to lull the children and sooth the savage beast within our hearts. I have just the thing, a mie."
"A mie!" the old ones were quite pleased, "A mie hasn't been given to Oasis in over forty pregnancies!"
"What is a mi
e?" asked the teenager.
"A mie is a striking portrait," answered one wizened lady.
"Shhh! If you are quiet you will find out!" snapped another white-hair.
The troubadour placed himself behind his harp and plucked gently sweet strands of music, from the strings. He intoned:
Into the formal garden stepped Lady Mia to walk. Her thoughts gathering chill like the air. The afternoon sun was shrouded. No shadows fell from the cluster of stunted spruces. Mia liked this garden; foliage selected for subtle harmonies of hue. Long-stemmed plants flowered so that one bud colored the composition of one spot, then slowly died, as another flower, nearby, would bloom. For all the intricate cultivation, the garden seemed perfectly natural and simple. Foliage, flowers, rocks; all seemed randomly and unintentionally placed. Yes, the Royal Gardener (who bowed rake in hand to Mia whenever she passed) had tended this garden well. A slight breeze blew.
Within a few days, a foreign princess would arrive for a short visit. Mia's age, she was said to be. The palace, rigorously cleaned to make for an occasion particularly beautiful, was filling with those of import. Most were politicians, some were Nobles. A few artists had been invited to oversee the affair's aesthetic excellence.
Mia, pausing to gaze at the patterns in the mulch, was thankful for this break in selecting robes, screens, and tea cups. Some kind of scandal concerning the foreign princess's father was rumored to be the cause of the visit. Mia walked along the flagstone path. Cobblestone, pebble, gravel, one was never sure where a path would lead. A path would wind through plants growing in width thinner until it dwindled to an end. Another path would turn abruptly to surprise the walker with a bed of flowers. Or a path would halt with a jagged, black rock. Mia admired all of this. She found herself thinking of the old man whose creation this place was. Two days ago the Emperor had been walking through another palace garden with a young, visiting diplomat who, during a pause in the walk made some small criticism. The Emperor had agreed. The Royal Gardener, hearing of this, felt he had lost face and committed suicide.
Mia, stopping a moment, chose a path which led to a little bridge crowning a stream. Standing, reflecting on the little bridge, Mia felt a sympathy for the foreign princess. A pair of leaves floated down the spring. The old gardener did not have the reason to commit suicide this princess did. When the princess did not choose to die, why did the gardener? Small winds scented with rain -- time for Mia to go back inside.
The harp strums faded into the night. The stars shone; the nearby planets hung like neighbors' lanterns above us. The subdued audience allowed their feelings to settle into reaction. They applauded quietly at first, but then the clapping grew until it burst into whistles and calls of “ih! Ih! Ih!"
The troubadour stood and bowed. "My last offering this evening is to tell you of the advances and contributions to Imenkapur made by a dedicated group of business folk."
Cynical laughter broke out from the townspeople.
"Now for the commercial we have all be waiting for!" a young man jeered.
"Ah, young man, if you think information about one of the most powerful political organizations in all of Imenkapur worthy of ridicule; if you think interplanetary trade of no account; if you think an open invitation to all citizens by the Toelakhan to visit the greatest technological feat of all combined history an opportunity to be missed, then by all means laugh until those who oppose the Toelakhan strip you of all independent thought. Laugh until you think as well as a mindless piece of vegetation that is reaped by the will of its planter. By all means, ignore the means to exchange culture and learning with other planets. Ignore the necessity of a fleet of spaceships ready with emergency supplies for those places that must give up farmlands so wild woods that benefit no one take over once prosperous lands. Deny yourself the thrill of soaring among our united planets, seeing and using the most intricate computer ever built."
The woman who had led the girls' rite of womanhood rose and spoke, her high voice taking a note of command.
"Troubadour, you do wrong to so malign our Beloved Forests. We, a desert people of a desert world, understand better than most the magnificence and precious nature of sentient, yes sentient, Forests. Life itself was almost snatched from this planet from lack of vegetation. We, foolish that we were, believed money, commerce, and economic progress to be all. But we came to our senses before it was too late, and the little trees of the mountains sustained us until we were able to reestablish communities such as this; communities dedicated to reclaiming the prairies and gardens that once covered so much of this planet. We look forward to the day when the `wild woods' as you call them grow again on the flat of the land as well as on the mountains. Our trees were never the varied and tall trees of Ipernia; yet humble as they were we grieve for their loss, and work to bring them among us. Some day, we dream, Great Rivers will flow again in our ten Great Valleys. Our wide ocean had broken forth from the bedrock when our stupidity ignored its presence. Thanks to the Forest's presence, in the being of priestesses and priests, our ocean now supports seaside cities and villages, an unheard of thing on Aridia. And we are grateful for that. Do not, do not ever malign the Beloved Forest World Ipernia to us!"
Vehement applause supported this speech.
"Does all of this mean your ears are closed to the news of other points of view?" reproached the troubadour.
"Troubadour, you may tell us of this computer. Some of us may choose to visit it, if it is in fact such a marvel. But for the comings and goings of the Toelakhan, we have our ways of following that organization's movements, so you may keep your glorification of the Toelakhan for yourself."
The troubadour's eyes burned with insult and rage for a moment, but he got hold of himself and even managed a smile.
"Our spaceship, the Know-All, can tap into any of our spaceship computers and access any and all information about almost everything. About the only information it can't get is information that nobody knows. We are inviting the various planets to send parties to tour it and to access any information they might find useful or fun. On board this spaceship we also have exhibits of maps of regions we have charted, treasures man-made and natural, as well as inventions mechanical and otherwise that we have contributed to Imenkapurn intellectual evolution. I have been honored with the duty of organizing into parties those who wish to visit. Are there those of you who would like to take advantage of this proffered hospitality?"
Many people showed by hands that they wished to go to the spaceship and my hand was one of them. Information was available about anything? How about a certain List; how could this little List be located and liberated? Surely this was a job for a former thief.
"Tomorrow good people, if you will assemble at the gate where you allowed me entrance to this most hospitable community, I will be able to have the Know-All transport you aboard. With that, good night, good night, dream of things sweet and true.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Words of Apparitions
The next morning a group of us assembled at the door leading to the desert. It was cool but warming rapidly. I wore my robe and under it carried my pack. Around my neck, hidden under my clothes hung the black mask I had used in my thieving days. In my pack was my landlady's portable transporter. She, my landlady, had generously suggested I take it. She did not trust the Toelakhan and thought I should have my own way back to Oasis. I was glad she had suggested it. I had woken up exhausted from dreams where I had run around looking for something and trying to get various dream acquaintances to help me find whatever it was I wanted. Exhausted from my too busy dreams, I never would have thought of the transporter.
The troubadour joined us. "Let's wait a few minutes in case any one else wants to join us," he said.
A child approached us with a flask of water: "Travelers, drink the sweet water of Oasis before you venture out to the dessert. If you drink this water, you will be sure to return to us."
We passed the flask around.
The troubadour said to me,
"I imagine you are a visitor to this community like myself. This is a charming custom they have, giving water from the Kiva to those who leave the town."
I thought to myself that I was not like him, talented as he was. Since I couldn't say anything, I bowed to the child as I took the flask.
"What are you carrying under your robe, Priestess?" the troubadour asked, sweating under the burden of his harp. I held out my pack, and opened the pack to show the transporter. I wanted to seem forthright so he wouldn't think I concealed anything.
"What are you concealing, Priestess?" he asked me.
I almost died, but I just smiled and raised my eyebrows in a questioning manner.
"You never speak."
"You are disrespectful of the Priestess. You have learned suspiciousness from the Toelakhan. Her muteness and her robe are signs of some religious duty she observes," retorted Reed, the young man who had made a gift of a basket to me.
"Young man, take care, I am a troubadour."
"Any spell you put on me, the priestess will remove."
The troubadour laughed good-naturedly at this. "The sun makes us cross; let us be on our way."
We filed out into the full blast of the dessert sun. I did think the heat strange since it had not bothered me the one other time I had risked going into the dessert. We walked only a little way before we stopped.
"We need not go far. The Know-All can transport us from here," the troubadour announced.
Zollocco: A Novel of Another Universe Page 19