Gravity Wells (Short Stories Collection)

by James Alan Gardner

  Thoughtfully, Vasudheva strokes his beard. "If these wings are accepted as Tivi's Gift, you'll leave the city?" he asks.

  "Like a dove fleeing from crows."

  He nods. "Bring the wings to my chambers at sunrise. In the tower. The warders will show you the way—I'll tell them to let you pass. The crowd will be waiting in the courtyard for my announcement. I'll proclaim your wings to be Tivi's choice and let you have your first flight from my balcony."

  She hugs the wings to her chest and smiles. It is a dangerous smile, a mad smile. "Thank you," she says. "I'll leave, I promise. Bhismu will soon forget me."

  Only years of experience let him hide his alarm at her words. She knows too much. Bhismu, innocent Bhismu, must have told her enough that she could deduce the truth. The dagger is still in his hand…but sunrise will be soon enough. If the wings work, she leaves; but the wings will not work. Vasudheva knows how little real magic there is in Tivi's blessing.

  The silversmiths will be annoyed when their Gift is not chosen; but they can be mollified. A big order of new chalices, bells, censers. Silver soup bowls for the acolytes, silver plates for the priests. He nods to himself, then sheaths the dagger and tucks it inside his robe.

  "Tivi's grace on you," Vasudheva says to Hakkoia.

  "Thank you," she says again.

  After telling the warders to escort Hakkoia to his tower before sunrise, Vasudheva stops by the chapel. All the candles have burned out; the only light is Tivi's flame, flickering in the enormous hearth at the front of the sanctuary. The rest of the room is in blackness.

  Bhismu lies before the flame, sound asleep. There's a smile on his face; no doubt he dreams of Hakkoia, but Vasudheva can forgive him for that. The more Bhismu loves her, the more her death will shake him and the more comforting he'll need.

  He looks so vulnerable.

  Without warning, a wave of passion sweeps over Vasudheva's heart, and he is bending to the ground, Bhismu will never feel it, a kiss on the cheek, the beard, one kiss stolen in the night, flesh, lips, and yes! Bhismu's curls are soft, and warmed by Tivi's own flame. The kiss is like a sacrament, holy, blessed. Another kiss, this time on the lips…but no more, no more, he'll wake up, one more, it doesn't matter, he's sleeping so soundly…

  Something rustles in the back of the chapel, and Vasudheva is immediately on his feet, peering into the shadows. Is there someone on the bench in the farthest corner? Vasudheva strides down the aisle, his entire body trembling with rage. Reluctant to wake up Bhismu, he whispers, "Who are you?" with piercing harshness.

  "Duroga, sir, Your Holiness," a voice whispers back. "Junior cook down in the…."

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Praying, Your Holiness." The whisper is full of fear.

  "In the middle of the night? More likely, you came to steal. What did you want? The sacramental silver?"

  "No, Your Holiness, no! I'm praying. For forgiveness. I burned myself on the soup cauldron and I said…I spoke profanely. The words released demons, I know they did. The riot was all my fault. And everyone acting so oddly, it's the demons making everyone…"

  Vasudheva slaps the cook's face, once, very hard. His palm stings after the blow and the stinging feels good.

  "Listen to me, junior cook," Vasudheva says. "You did not release any demons. If demons exist at all, they have more important things to do than flock about when some peasant burns his thumb. Understand?" He grabs the front of the cook's robe and shakes the man. Duroga's teeth clack together with the violence of the jostling. "You want to hear something? You want to hear?"

  Vasudheva begins to curse. Every profanity learned as a child, every foul oath overheard in the vicious quarters of Cardis, every blasphemy that sinners atoned for in the confessional, words tumbling out of the high priest's mouth with the ease of a litany, all tightly whispered into Duroga's face until the cook's cheeks are wet with spittle and his eyes weeping with fear. The words spill out, here before Tivi's own hearth, the most sacred place in the universe and so the most vulnerable…but no demons come, not one, because hell is as empty as heaven and the void hears neither curses nor prayers. Vasudheva knows; he's been the voice of the gods on earth for twenty-three years and not once has he spoken a word that didn't come from his own brain, his own guts, his own endless scheming. Wasn't there a time when he prayed some god would seize his tongue and speak through him? But the first thing ever to seize his tongue is this cursing, on and on until he can no longer draw enough breath to continue and he releases the cook, throws him onto the floor, and gasps, "Now let me hear no more talk of demons!"

  Without waiting for a reaction, Vasudheva staggers out to the corridor. His heart pounds and his head spins, but he feels cleansed. Duroga must meet with an accident in the near future, but it can wait, it can wait. Vasudheva has kissed Bhismu, has dealt with Hakkoia…has faced his demons.

  Climbing the tower steps, he feels his soul flies upward, dragging his feeble body behind. His soul has huge wings, and as he reels into his chambers, he has a vision of the bird kingdom parading past him, each presenting feathers for those wings: eagles, hummingbirds, crows….

  A loud knocking comes at the door. Vasudheva wakes, aching in every bone. He has spent the night on the floor; he never reached the bed. Now the room is quickening with predawn light, gray and aloof. Vasudheva shivers, though the day is already warm.

  The knocking comes again. Vasudheva pulls himself to the bed. Off with the robe he still wears, a quick rumpling of sheets, and then he calls out, "Come in."

  Bhismu enters. Vasudheva's smile of greeting for the man dies as Bishop Niravati and the cook Duroga enter too.

  "Good morning, Your Holiness," Niravati says. The bishop's voice has none of its usual tone of feigned deference. "Did you sleep well?"

  "Who is this?" Vasudheva asks, pointing at Duroga, though he remembers the cook quite clearly.

  "His name is Duroga," Niravati says. "Last night he came to me with a disturbing tale about demons. Demons that he thinks have possessed high-ranking officials of our temple."

  "He claims to be able to sniff out demons?"

  "No, Your Holiness, he's merely a witness to their deeds. He saw a great deal of their handiwork in the chapel last night." Niravati glances toward Bhismu. "A great deal."

  "I was there," Bhismu says. "I saw nothing."

  "You were asleep." Niravati smiles, a smile gloating with triumph. "You slept through quite a lot."

  "Well, if you really think there are demons loose," Vasudheva says, "call out the exorcists." He tries to sound mocking, but doesn't succeed. The trapped feeling burns in his ears again, guilt and desperation.

  "I've already called the exorcists," Niravati says. "But I thought I should come directly to you on another important matter. You asked the warders to escort that woman Hakkoia to your chambers this morning…."

  Bhismu looks startled. "You did?"

  "Her wings are Tivi's chosen Gift this year," Vasudheva replies. "No other Gift survived. I thought it would please the people to see her fly from my balcony."

  "No doubt it would be exciting," Niravati says. "But with so much concern about demons, surely it's rash to let a woman visit your room. The laity is not in a mood to accept…deviations from common practice."

  Vasudheva knows he must rebuke Niravati now, immediately. To hesitate for another second will prove he's afraid. (Does Niravati know about the kisses? He must. Bhismu lay in the light of Tivi's fire; Duroga could see everything.)

  But Vasudheva is afraid. The people are used to the clergy sporting with women—order an ale in any tavern of Cardis, and before your glass is empty, you'll hear someone in the room telling a joke about lascivious priests. Such joking is good-natured, almost fond. However, to be caught kissing a man…of course, there would be no trial, no public punishment, for a high priest could not be convicted on the word of a junior cook. But there would be insolence from the novices; too much salt in every meal; clothes that came back dirty from the temple laund
ry; conversations that went silent as the high priest entered the room.

  He couldn't stand that. He couldn't stand a world that didn't respect or fear him.

  Vasudheva sighs heavily. "You have a point, Niravati. Hakkoia will have to fly from some other height. Perhaps the bell tower of the City Council?"

  Niravati shakes his head. "The people are gathering in the courtyard below us. They expect you to announce the Gift from your balcony here. That's the tradition."

  "I could wear the wings," Bhismu says suddenly.

  "No!" Vasudheva's voice cracks.

  "But I could!" the young man insists. "I want to. For Hakkoia's sake."

  "An excellent idea," Niravati says, clapping Bhismu on the shoulder. "I should have thought of it myself."

  "She talked to me about flying," Bhismu says excitedly. "She says she has eagle blood. The way she spoke of eagles…as if she were in love with them…please, Your Holiness, let me fly in her place."

  "Yes, let him, Your Holiness," Niravati says. "It would show your…good faith."

  Vasudheva looks at Bhismu's eager face and remembers warm curls, soft lips. "All right," the high priest says. "Go get the wings."

  He turns away quickly. Another second, and Bhismu's grateful expression will wring tears from the high priest's eyes.

  "People of Cardis!"

  The rim of the sun is emerging over the rooftops. Only those in the tower can see it; five stories lower, the city is still in shadow. But men and women crowd the courtyard, their heads craned up to watch the high priest's balcony. Every onlooker wears some small finery—a new ribbon in the hair, a patch of bright cloth sewn on the shirt directly over the heart.

  Hakkoia must be in the crowd somewhere, but Vasudheva doesn't see her. His eyes water; he can't focus on any of the faces below.

  "People of Cardis!" he repeats. "As you may have heard, many of the intended Gifts were destroyed last night in a terrible commotion. A commotion we believe was caused by demons."

  At Vasudheva's back, Niravati murmurs, "That's right."

  "But through Tivi's heavenly grace," Vasudheva continues, "one Gift was spared. That Gift is the one the gods have chosen to accept this year. A Gift that is nothing less than the gift of flight!"

  Bhismu steps onto the balcony, arms high and outspread to show the wings he wears. The crowd stirs with wonder as the feathers catch the dawning sunlight, catch the soft breeze blowing down from the hills. Bhismu glistens like dew, so pure, so clean.

  Vasudheva can see Bhismu's arms tremble as they try to support the weight of the wings. The wings are far too heavy; they'll never fly.

  Bhismu grins, eager to leap out over the crowd. He waggles a wing to someone; it must be Hakkoia, though Vasudheva still can't pick her out. Bhismu no doubt intends to fly a few circles around the tower, then land at the woman's feet.

  He's so beautiful.

  Vasudheva lifts his hand to touch the young man's hair. As simple as that, a totally natural gesture. Bhismu turns and smiles; he must think it's a sign of encouragement.

  Niravati clears his throat disapprovingly. "Your Holiness…" he murmurs.

  And suddenly Vasudheva is angry, righteously angry, at Niravati, at himself, at all those who try to lever people away from love. All the scheming conniving bishops, and others like Bhismu's father who trample over affection on their way to meaningless goals. Love demands enough sacrifices in itself; no one should impose additional burdens. One should pay the price of love and no more.

  And no less.

  Vasudheva touches Bhismu's arm. "Take the wings off," he says. "Give them to me."

  A stricken look of betrayal crosses Bhismu's face. "No!"

  "You can have the second flight. Warders!"

  They grab him before he can jump. One warder looks at Niravati for confirmation of Vasudheva's command; already the bishop has followers. Let him. Let him have the whole damned temple. "Give me the wings!" Vasudheva roars.

  They slide onto his arms like musty-smelling vestments, each as heavy as a rug. Vasudheva can barely lift his arms. A warder helps him up to the balcony's parapet.

  Vasudheva would like to turn back, just for a moment, and say something to Bhismu, something wise and loving and honest. But that would only burden his beloved with confusion and guilt. Best to leave it all unsaid.

  "With wings like these," the high priest calls out to the crowd, "a man could fly to heaven."

  He laughs. He's still laughing as he leaps toward the rising sun.

  The Young Person's Guide to the Organism (Variations and Fugue on a Classical Theme)

  THEME: ORGANISM

  (ALLEGRO MAESTOSO E LARGAMENTE)

  (WITH GOOD SPEED, MAJESTIC AND SWEEPING)

  A treat. Come to the window. An Organism is passing the Outpost.

  There, where my claw points. It is very faint. It is nearly invisible because its skin absorbs almost all the electromagnetic radiation it receives. Do you know what I mean by electromagnetic radiation? And what else besides light? And what else? And what else? Gamma rays, child. Gamma rays.

  When you sleep tonight, I will see that you dream of physics.

  You cannot tell from this view, but the Organism is very large. Twelve kilometers long, ten kilometers in diameter at its midsection. That is comparable to the Outpost itself. It is larger than any ship or orbital yet constructed by your race.

  If you look closely, you will see that from time to time its skin glistens slightly with thin ghosts of color. It is beautiful, is it not? A thing of splendor, though it is nearly invisible. It is black, but comely.

  Can you identify my allusion? The Song of Solomon. From a human celebration text. I have made a study of such texts, child; they hearten me. Whenever I despair that your race is entirely consumed by pettiness, the celebration texts remind me that humans also recognize greatness.

  Recognize the greatness of this Organism, child. It is magnificent: huge, ancient, serene. When such an Organism passes by, ephemeral species like yours will dream dreams and see visions. Its presence stirs a resonance within you; some races claim these creatures are the shadows of gods, slowly gliding through our universe.

  We do not know where this Organism comes from. It has been in deep space for centuries. If it does not choose to settle down in Sol's system, it will travel many more centuries before it reaches another star. It has been alone a long time.

  No…why should we stop it? We have no right to interfere. Once it is past the Outpost, it is within human jurisdiction.

  I don't understand your question. Why should it matter whether the humans can "handle" the Organism? This is their system—they are its children and its masters. We will not tamper with human affairs, not even "for their own good." We have neither the right nor the wisdom to meddle. You know that.

  Yes, you are human yourself, child, but only in the coils of your DNA. In your brain and heart and soul, you are the chosen envoy of the League of Peoples. By the time humans step beyond the edge of their system, you will be ready to serve as intermediary between our two races. But before you can act, you must learn; and in order to learn, you must observe.

  Observe the Organism as it passes, child. We do not know where it came from, nor can we predict where it goes. We cannot tell how much it is moved by instinct, how much by intellect…yet I say unto you, Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed as one of these. Yes, another allusion. And unfair to Solomon. I expect he was a marvel himself.

  VARIATION A: LEVIATHAN

  (PRESTO)

  (VERY QUICKLY)

  CONTACT: MAY 2038

  Not so long ago, my darling girl, every freighter flying the Red Run had one cargo pod doing duty as an Environment. You wouldn't know what that was, would you? (Whoops, Granddah spilled a bit on your bib, didn't he? Let me wipe it off. Ahh, get your fingers out of it. It's the tiniest fingers in the world you have, yes, Colleen, yes, you do.)

  An Environment was a piece of Earth, that's what it was. A sim-u-la-tion. Which is a bi
g word even for those of us who've mastered words like Mama and Dada and Granddah. (Granddah. Grannnn-daaahhh. No? Oh, well.)

  We sometimes had trouble with Mudside investors who thought the Environment was a waste of our freight space, but those damned moneylenders had their thumbs up their…they were notoriously shortsighted, that's what they were. You put yourself in the place of those miners on Mars. Which would you rather have? Another few tons of bouillon and toothpaste? Or a walk through a rose garden smelling of perfume and peat moss, maybe a night forest rustling with rabbits and squirrels, or a marsh with red-winged blackbirds fluting away Cheeee-ri-ohhhhh! (Oh, you like that? Cheeee-ri-ohhhh! Cheeee-ri-oh-oo-oh!)

  Anyway, how it was, your ship was its Environment. (Take a big mouthful, that's my girl.) The Environment was your ship's trademark and you lived up to it. I remember a Japanese ship called the Edo Maru—had a pretty little Shinto shrine, copy of a famous one on Mt. Fuji, I forget the temple's name. But very pleasant and tranquil. Trouble was, the captain was this Swede, nice fellow really, but hearty, you know, with the loudest voice God ever foisted on someone who didn't sing opera. Sort of gave the ship a split personality. No one could take it serious.

  Don't know what happened to the Edo. Got old, got sold, I guess. Not many alternatives to that story, are there?

  Our ship was called the Peregrine, and our Environment was the deck of a China clipper. A bit different from the back-to-nature Environments, but very popular. We had sun, waves, gulls, fresh-picked oolong in the hold. The kids could climb up into the rigging. Adults too, for that matter—miners would get one whiff of the breeze carrying the salt smell of the Pacific and they'd be clambering up the mast, forgetting the mines and the cold red desert, stretching those muscles that only get stretched when body and soul reach up together.

  Once every docking, we'd run a storm—never broadcast when it would be, just let the sky start to turn gray…and the excitement! The looks on the faces of the visitors when the clouds began to cover the sun and folks knew they'd hit the right time! Then a lightning flash in the distance, a count of five, the rumble of thunder…waves heaping up and capping over, the wind rising to squall, the deck rocking, our crew lashing everyone to the railings as rollers came crashing over the bough…well, we were a legend. Peregrine wasn't a clunk of a freighter looking like a sow dangling twenty full teats, but an honest-to-God clipper ship.