West of January

by Dave Duncan

  “Not funny.”

  “Whoever it was,” I said, “wasn’t pretty like you. Not as lovable. Couldn’t be.”

  She frowned and spoke very quietly, in case there might be listeners beyond the wicker walls. “Must not go to wives, Golden.”

  How do women know such things? Still, Sparkle was jealous of my other duties, and I loved it. “You know I would make waves only with you if I could, love,” I assured her. “You’re always my favorite.”

  She bit her lip, so I tried to kiss it better. She wouldn’t let me.

  “Never mind worrying, my dearest Sparkle,” I said. “You concentrate on that baby of yours. She’s going to be my first, remember!”

  “He!” she insisted automatically. “And who shouting at?”

  I must have been louder than I thought. “Sand. Young weed-brain!” I had caught Sand hunting alone again. I told them and told them… Since Pebble died, though, we’d only lost one man. A shark had bitten off Clamshell’s foot and he had bled to death. Great ones could outrun sharks, but they could not apply tourniquets. We had lost one man, but many others had been just plain lucky. They promised, and they forgot again, and I screamed again…

  “And the great ones are getting worse,” I muttered, hearing the constant clicking and booming. Then the old cracked voice of Icegleam rose in triumph from some nearby bower.

  “Visitor!” he yelled with sudden comprehension. “Is what have been trying to tell us! Visitor coming!”

  Sparkle’s big eyes widened. “Visitor? What sort of visitor?”

  I could guess what sort of visitor.

  ─♦─

  His chariot was brown and streaked with salt; mainsail yellow, foresail white. It approached very slowly in the fitful wind, flanked by a leaping escort of great ones almost to the place where its wheels grounded on shingle. Momentarily it bounced and twisted in the surf, then dozens of willing hands grabbed it and rushed it up to dry land.

  The angel stood tall and lean against the sky as he furled his sails, quickly and efficiently. Then he vaulted nimbly over side of his chariot, landing with a crunch of boots on shingle.

  His hair was a chestnut plume, hanging thick behind his ears and held by a beaded headband. Sun and wind had burnt his face almost the same umber shade as his fringed buckskins, and its bony planes projected endurance and authority and wry good humor. He was as unlike Violet as anyone could be.

  We spent more time on shore now, and I made sure there was a supply of shoes there, but there were not enough for everyone. Thus the tribe had spread itself in a long line along the water’s edge to wait for the angel’s greetings. The women came first, each speaking her name and embracing him with fervor. He responded conscientiously, obviously wise to the amorous ways of seafolk and aware that any response less than ardor would be a slight.

  He was flushed and grinning as he embraced the last, who happened to be the youthfully alluring and enthusiastic Surge. She prolonged the encounter, squirming against him erotically. Sand grinned proudly nearby.

  The angel broke free from her. He rolled his eyes and took a deep breath, and the men smiled. Then each of them also offered a hug and spoke welcome. When he arrived at me, I was tempted to shake his hand and say “Knobil,” but I embraced him in seafolk fashion and gave my seaman name. Nevertheless, he held my shoulder for a moment, studying me with shrewd gray eyes.

  Finally, of course, he had to meet all the children. He knelt on the shingle to hug and kiss, as was expected. Then he rose and glanced around as if counting. His gaze lingered again on me, the fair-haired obvious misfit.

  The grove lay close to shore now, more gold than green. We no longer dared light fires, even on the floating hearths, so I had set some of the men to building a bonfire on the beach—a hellish task, with the heat of the flames adding to the sun’s crippling glare. I was worried, although no one else seemed to be.

  The creek trickled listlessly through the shingle, its flow a dismal mockery of what it once had been. Offshore the great ones lingered, spouting and watching. They could no longer leap and sport close to the grove, where the water was now almost too shallow for them to approach at all.

  There was an awkward pause, as the seafolk shuffled feet and exchanged bashful glances, uncertain who should speak or say what. I hung back, amused. As I would have guessed, it was Sparkle who took charge. She handed Merry to me, having enough trouble balancing without any additional burden. He wrapped his arms around my neck and squealed “Golden!” in my ear. Being Pebble’s son, he did not call me Daddy, and that was one faint rankle that I could never quite suppress.

  “Shall all be honored if will feast with us, Angel,” Sparkle said.

  He nodded graciously. “Your hospitality will be welcome, lady. But if the feast may be delayed briefly, I would first speak with your elders. My stay with you must be short. My mission is urgent.”

  Sparkle called over the senior members of the tribe—Behold and Icegleam and Tusk, the surviving members of the original settlers, and introduced them again. I was surprised to learn that Tusk was Beholds brother. These three were certainly the elders in the literal sense of the word, but they held no special authority in the tribe. No one did, unless it was perhaps Sparkle herself, for she had a natural grace and a most uncommon common sense…and me, of course, but I was more of a younger than an elder.

  The elders settled in the ripples and Sparkle sat behind them. I crouched at her side to hear what the angel had to say. I have always had more than my share of stupidity, but I was not stupid enough to be unconcerned. I knew already that the sea-tree copse was ailing and the sea itself retreating. White sand had become shingle, the creek had dwindled, my ancient, half-forgotten driftwood collection now lay far inland, out of sight across the plain. I had seen angels come to warn herdfolk, and I could guess that this new one brought no good tidings.

  Some of the other adults clustered around also, but most went off to play languid games with their children, for it was a rarity to have everyone gathered onshore at the same time. The angel remained standing, tucking thumbs in his belt and looking us over for a moment before starting to speak.

  “Your home is dying,” he began. “You must know that it will soon be out of the water altogether?”

  “Time yet,” Behold said complacently.

  “Soon it will lie in the surf zone and be ripped to pieces. You do not have long—it will happen before that babe you carry learns to crawl, lady.” He meant Sparkle.

  “Great ones will find us another.”

  He shook his head. “It is not the shallow water that is killing the sea trees. There are other groves. I have passed many, and they are all dying.”

  No one else spoke, so I said, “Why?”

  “Salt. The ocean is shrinking—evaporating—and the water is becoming too salty.”

  “The watervines!” I said. “They all—”

  The angel flashed me an odd glance and I stopped, puzzled.

  Old Tusk cackled. “Was born on land, in much colder place than this. Will show them how to make tents. Is always changing, the sea. Are able to change also.”

  There was a mutter of agreement, and some of the audience wandered away. The angel’s eyes scanned the rest of us carefully and fixed themselves on Sparkle. “And what will you drink?”

  “He is right,” I told the silence. “The stream is much smaller than—”

  Again the angel caught my eye, and this time he plainly shook his head. He wanted me to stay out.

  “Rain,” Tusk said, less confidently.

  “When did you last see rain?”

  He got no answer. I looked at Sparkle, who was frowning. There had been no rain since I had come to the grove.

  “Will find another stream. Great ones will know.”

  The angel shook his head sadly. “Even if you do find one, it will dry up soon. The sun is coming… Do you know that the sun moves?”

  I did, of course, and I had seen the grasslands die, but my seafolk ho
sts had never cared much for that morbid tale. Now the angel began to tell a terrifyingly similar story. The springs would dry up, the ocean would dry up, the fish would die. When High Summer arrived, the sea itself might boil. The prospect horrified me, but I was even more horrified when I looked around my companions and saw no alarm on their faces. The seafolk were going to be as disbelieving as the herdfolk.

  “What must do?” Sparkle asked. More of the other listeners were scrambling up and going off to join in the play.

  “You must leave! Load your boats, mount your great ones, and travel the Great River, back to the South Ocean.”

  The three elders scowled and muttered, “Cold!”

  “You must go soon!” the angel said. “The Great River is flowing very swiftly. Soon it will be too fast for even the great ones, and they will be trapped here. They cannot leave on foot, as people can.”

  Already people were leaving on foot—leaving the meeting. Only Sparkle and the three elders remained, in sullen silence. And me. Sparkle blushed and said, “Have many women with child…”

  The angel’s bright eyes flickered toward me and then away again. “You must not delay, even for that. Pregnant women can travel in boats.”

  The listeners glanced at one another. “Are grateful, sir,” Sparkle said. “Will talk it over soon. Now have feast, and singing?”

  The angel smiled. “I shall enjoy that. First I must attend to a few things…in my chariot, then I shall join your feast.”

  With sighs of relief, the gathering dispersed. The angel caught my eye again and jerked his head. I handed Merry back to Sparkle and strode off alongside him.

  He was a handbreadth taller than me, that lanky angel, and he looked down at me with needle-sharp gray eyes as we paced along the strand toward his chariot.

  “Your name was not always Golden.”

  “It was Knobil, sir…once.”

  “Wetlander?”

  “Herdman.”

  That surprised him. We reached our destination, but obviously his only purpose had been to take me aside for a private chat. He leaned back against one of the big wheels, folded his arms, and studied the scene on the beach for a few moments.

  “What do you think of seafolk?” he asked quietly.

  “They are very kind. Very happy people. Very hospitable.”

  He nodded, and a small grin crinkled the sun-browned skin around his eyes. “They have obviously been hospitable to you, Knobil—or should I call you Herdmaster?”

  I felt my face grow hot. “What can you mean, sir?”

  “Very few toddlers, but a great many babies? Many women pregnant? I see a lot of youngsters with straight hair.”

  I shrugged. Fortunately there had been no scandalously blond or blue-eyed babies.

  “How many are yours?”

  “None—according to the tribe.”

  “How many according to you?”

  I contrived what I hoped was an innocent boyish grin. “Nineteen, sir.”

  He shook his head in what might have been admiration. “You have cause to be proud of your manhood.”

  I shrugged modestly. “Any herdman can outbreed a seaman.”

  “It isn’t only that.” He hesitated and then said, “I don’t question your prowess—you’re obviously a fabulous stud, and they’re very fortunate to have you available—but their trouble is mostly inbreeding.”

  “It is?” I was taken aback. The incest taboo?

  “How many founders?”

  “Sir?”

  “How many came from the South Ocean?”

  “Six…four women, two men.”

  The angel nodded sadly. “And they were probably highly inbred to start with. You can tell just by looking at them, Knobil, right? They all look as alike as a clutch of eggs. When relationships get that close, fertility drops. The women don’t conceive, and when they do, they usually abort. They won’t lose yours, of course. How do they dispose of the freaks?”

  Freaks? “I… I don’t know, sir.” I had not even known about miscarriages. No one ever mentioned such things. Freaks? I shuddered.

  “And the intelligence goes down,” Brown added. “They’re like kids, aren’t they?” He eyed me thoughtfully.

  “I try to be patient with them.”

  He nodded. “This is the fourth group I’ve talked with, and they’re all the same. It’s very serious! There isn’t much time.”

  I had little understanding of time, but I nodded profoundly.

  “The woman—your wife?—said they would talk it over. Will they?”

  “Probably not. They prefer to ignore unpleasant things, sir.” They would forget the angel’s bad news as soon as possible.

  “But I think you can help me… Herdmaster.”

  “I’m a seaman now, sir.”

  “But you deserve the title. Very few men of your age have sired so many—and such fine strong babies! I’m really impressed. You won’t mind if I call you Herdmaster while we’re alone?”

  “Of course not.”

  “And you may be able to save your family and friends, perhaps even many other tribes also. Now, tell me your story.”

  “Once I was a pilgrim.” I fumbled at my neck for a leather amulet that Sparkle had made for me long ago, and which I had dug out now in the angel’s honor. It closed very tightly around a small packet, well waterproofed with grease. I opened this and showed my two tokens.

  “Two!” The angel whistled. “I’ve never heard of anyone collecting two! And if you will help me, of course I shall give you one of mine. You’ll have three then, Herdmaster! That’s never been done before, I’m sure.”

  “Of course I shall help, sir. Not for a token—I am a pilgrim no longer. But in a sense I feel that the tribe—I feel they are all my children.”

  “Of course you do,” he said. “But three angel tokens! I’m sure Heaven has never heard of such a feat. Let’s get up in the chariot where we won’t be disturbed. I want to hear this!”

  So we clambered up and sat down opposite each other on the two chests near the rear. This chariot was a great deal tidier and smarter-seeming than Violet’s had been.

  I told him my history, and all about my escape from the grasslands, and of my former ambition to become an angel. I confessed that I now just wished to remain with my family, and he assured me that he understood. Once or twice some of the seafolk sauntered over. The angel ignored them, and they wandered away again without speaking. He listened carefully, nodding, solemnly attentive.

  When I had done, he sighed. “I knew Violet. He taught me how to drive a chariot. A plump stocky man?”

  “Knew? He didn’t arrive?”

  Sadly the angel shook his head. Of course, Violet was an ancient memory to me now, but I had not forgotten that I owed him my life and that in his way he had cared for me. I had promised to meet him in Heaven. I had often wondered if he even remembered the gawky blond herdbrat, but I had always assumed that he had driven safely home. And yet I had spared no thought for Violet in a long time.

  After a moment’s silence. Brown said, “We… I mean Heaven—we lost many, many angels in the grasslands tragedy, Herdmaster. They are being replaced, but it takes so long… We are late in getting the message to the March Ocean—here, to the seafolk. Now, I’ll try to explain properly. Did Violet show you any maps?”

  I shook my head blankly.

  He shrugged and settled back, although I had thought he was going to open the chest he was sitting on.

  “Well, I’ll show you later. The March Ocean was born before you and I were, back when the sun melted the ice—you know, of course, that the Dawn area is all covered with ice? The water is salt, because there is salt left behind when it dries out…”

  I had no notion what “ice” was, but I nodded solemnly and did not interrupt as he continued speaking in a very man-to-man sort of way. I paid much more heed to the way he was addressing me than to what he actually said.

  Later, when I reached Heaven, I was given the explanation aga
in, and I listened better then. Every cycle is the same. Meltwater fills the basin, eventually overflowing to create the Great River. All the folk of Vernier must travel westward during their lives, but seafolk try also to find northerly bays or small seas, for those are warmer than the main ocean. Behold and her family—and many other families—had fought their way up the salty torrent of the Great River. They had found a paradise of calm, warm water.

  Eventually drainage is diverted and the influx from the wetlands ends. As the water level falls, the Great River stops running. The approaching sun begins to evaporate the March Ocean. Partly because of the increased rainfall that this produces elsewhere, partly by accident of geography, the next portion of the cycle is marked by a rise in the South Ocean, which finally floods along the Great River in the opposite direction. So the door was now open again. The seafolk could escape from the trap.

  But only if they went soon. The flow was increasing as the relative level of the two oceans changed. Rapids and waterfalls would multiply until even the great ones would not be able to swim against the current. People could still leave overland—if they wanted to and were shown the road—but the great ones would certainly be trapped. Like a true seaman, I was almost more horrified by the danger to them than by the risk for humans. Ultimately input from the Great River would be unable to keep pace with evaporation. The March Ocean would become a desolate salt flat.

  The angel stopped talking then and stared along at the seafolk, who were beginning to gather near the bonfire. The feast was almost ready. “They are indeed your children, Knobil. Your tribe. Your herd. They do not know that, but you do. It is your duty to save them.”

  “What must—what can I do?”

  His steel-bright eyes came back to mine. The bony planes of his face shone with sweat, like mirrors. I sensed again that strange intensity.

  “This happens every cycle. Usually there is a disaster. When there is not, it is because the great ones have been told. The records say that the great ones can speak to each other across the whole width of the ocean. You must warn them, and they will round up the seafolk.”