The Dome in the Forest

by Paul O. Williams

  Ahroe looked from one to the other, eyes filled. “No. It is not so. You are wrong, Tor.” She put her arms around Hagen, weeping.

  Vague and sleepy, the Dahmena regarded this from across the room. What was all this fuss over a man, an old man, a Shumai, scruffy and ignorant? Her daughter, wrenched with sorrow, and the child Garet. Well, the child had known the old man all his life, as an infant had traipsed the dry plains with him in search of that wretch, Stel. Where was Stel?—there, in the doorway. His jaws were tight, too. This sort of sentiment was unnatural, unbelievable. She had never felt it, never. It belonged to Aven only. She had not felt it for her own husband, dutiful though he was, and meticulously obedient. Still, she missed him. She had hated his humming in the room, and forbade him to do it. He would, however, when she wasn’t there. She would hear him as she came down the hall, but he had always stopped when she reached the room.

  How silent the room had been when he died. He had loved her. She knew it only when she had lost him. But he was a man, and without judgment. Hume. She saw him now, in her mind’s eye, sad it seemed, and attentive. A little frightened. She had sat with him while he lay ill. She had even held his hand when he had requested it. That was foolish, yet people seemed to want it. Look, Garet held the old man’s hand even now.

  Why was she so cold, so tired? Perhaps she would try to change when she recovered. She would try to reestablish a relationship with Ahroe, whose concerned glances she caught now and then.

  The day wore on, turning gray and rainy. Stel propped her up and fed her some soup, even blotting her mouth so she wouldn’t have to raise her hands. Late in the day, Hagen stirred and sat up.

  He seemed to address Tor, who had never left the room. In a low voice, he said, “The tall grass bends in the wind. The dark bull has mounted the hill. Lashing his tail, he scoops away all the stray light from the sky. He flings it back as stars. One by one they blink out, Iox and Til, Ruk, Mir, and Tosh, all gone. He is rolling, crushing the earth. Ah, Sertine, it is I, Hagen. I am here. The bull has lowered his head, his horns pointed like iron stakes. He makes no sound, rushing at me. I see his whole humped back looming over. Lift me up, Sertine, lift me over.” He sank back. Tor stood unmoving.

  “What? What is that?” said Ahroe, her hands open and fluttering toward Hagen.

  “Leave him alone now.”

  “Why? No. No. What can we do?”

  “Nothing. It is his death statement. He is willing to go now.”

  “Death?” Ahroe whispered. She turned. Hagen was looking at her.

  “Ahroe, you have been better than any daughter,” he said, his chest heaving. “Put me up by Fitzhugh.”

  “No, Hagen, no.”

  He did not reply, but closed his eyes.

  Tor took Garet from the room. It remained soundless except for the heavy breathing of the two old people. Ahroe sat with her eyes closed, praying. Then, slowly, she became aware that she heard only one breath coming heavily—her mother’s. She started up. Already Tor had her arm and took her from the room, insistent, inexorable. In the front room he gave her to Stel, then left the house.

  The Dahmena watched the three guardsmen take Hagen. He was to have a funeral, a service in Pelbarigan. It was wrong, wrong. Nothing was suitable anymore. She shut her eyes to it. Eventually, when she opened them, it was dusk, and the Haframa was looking down at her gravely. Again she shut her eyes. Soon she heard a sound and looked again. It was Garet, who took her hand.

  “You are my other grandmother. I have never talked to you,” he said.

  “No. Not really, child. I—”

  “Why is your hand so cold? Are you all right?” He set his palm on her forehead.

  It seemed to her almost fiery. Had the boy a fever? She saw alarm in his eyes, already red with his crying over the barbarian. A thought glided past her as soundlessly as an owl’s flight. No. No, that was not possible.

  Garet turned abruptly and ran out the door, calling, “Haframa, Haframa.”

  She could hear the hushed voices of the boy and the old doctor in the front room. She dozed, waking to find a lamp burning by the bed. Moder’s face was looking down at her, but then it faded away. In the dark, the boy eventually returned to her, slowly, like a lazy leaf in the wind, like a single snowflake, the first flurry of winter.

  It wasn’t winter. Why was she so cold? Lacking an overcoat, she seemed to feel herself hugging her winter tunic over her. Standing on the tower at Pelbarigan, she watched the snow out over the river, coming from the west, drifting in large flakes, graying and obscuring the dark trees. Her young husband, Hume, tiny and clustered with the others down on the river, cut ice. She could see, far below, the vague figures moving against the white. Again the snow increased, and she strained her eyes after him, Hume, down on the river, small and dark, entirely blotted out now by the cold and snow, falling, falling around her, mounding on the walls of the tower, heaping over all. What was it she was looking at? She forgot. Snow fell. The whole world was snow and cold, vanishing and vanishing.

  IX

  THE Protector, who had postponed the council because of the Dahmena’s illness, postponed it again after her death and Hagen’s. Then, she issued another controversial order. She commanded that the two funerals be held together in the chapel of Pelbarigan. The north quadrant, which normally would have bridled and protested, acquiesced in their shame, and as the service developed, in the tall, dim stone room, it seemed to acquire a strange logic.

  The two coffins lay side by side on trestles, one the neat, plain boards of a Shumai hunter, the other the curved and polished, cloth-draped casket of the most adamant of Pelbar traditionalists. Here they came together in their passing. Hagen had become a local folk hero, through his western adventure with Ahroe, and was beloved by a large portion of the old city, especially by the men and boys. In their deaths, another striking story had been added to the city’s aura, a contemporary legend commensurate with the flight of the two lovers, Ornay and Lynd, or of the courage of the guardsman Murdon, some eighty years earlier, when the Sentani had come upon the wood gatherers unexpectedly in winter.

  The Protector chose not to speak, but to let the whole meaning of the event sink in through the singing of the Pelbar choir, fully massed, occupying the fore end of the chapel on raised steps.

  Tor and Celeste stood on the side balcony, and as the songs rose, the sounds melding into one another, forming a swelling blend of sadness and exaltation, the girl took the axeman’s hand, tears flowing freely down her face for the first time she could remember. She cried partly for Hagen, whom she had come to know, partly for the rich sadness of human drama joining this unlikely pair. An old order had struggled to maintain itself, then faded out into the new. How strange it all was, this depth of feeling, this web of relationships forming a large society, always altering and shifting—as if the commands she so familiarly keyed into the electronic networks of the dome would produce different results at different times, not the steady and reliable calculations she was used to. For the first time she caught a glimpse of the kaleidoscopic nature of humanity, its patterns changing, re-forming continually. It seemed frightening and unreliable.

  In dying, Hagen had asked to be buried near his old Ozar companion, Fitzhugh. As they followed his coffin up the bluffs to Fitzhugh’s high, south overlook, Celeste pondered this, still holding Tor’s hand. The day was warm, and her hand sweat, but she clung to his, as Tor glanced occasionally down at her to see what was troubling her.

  As Hagen was lowered into the neatly squared hole, and Ahroe sprinkled the symbolic grass on the coffin, and the shovel-loads of earth began to thud and thunder down on him, Celeste had another odd sensation. Was he gone? Would he always be here? She felt a vague unease. Recycling was neater, easier. What would they prove by this? What would Ahroe think every time her eye turned to that familiar bluff? As the grave was filled, and the earth tamped and mounded, Celeste raised her eyes and suddenly became aware of the flood of sunset light lying on the wild
flatland across the river, filling the slight late-spring haze with a tinge of red. As she looked around, she saw it bathed all the serious faces in ruddy light.

  Here was the eastern edge of Hagen’s plains, stretching tirelessly westward. The sunset was receding across them, the light fading like his way of life, the free running of the hunter, just as the Dahmena’s rigidities seemed softened by the glow of light on the stone walls of Pelbarigan.

  She turned to Tor, who clasped his hands behind him, standing back. What was he thinking? He too was a runner, a hunter. She could not see him toiling in the city, digging in a field. Nor could he. She read that on his face. He caught her eye a moment, and they exchanged a full understanding. Then he winked and smiled slyly, and the moment passed.

  Eolyn commanded entrance to Dexter’s room. He lay idling on his couch, and looked up silently, giving her no welcome. She sighed and sat on the edge of his worktable. He still said nothing.

  “Dexter,” she began. “Please don’t interrupt me until I am through.”

  “That sounds ominous. I have warned you not to interfere with me.”

  “It is not ominous. I am not threatening you. This is important to me. Now, will you listen?”

  “Why should I?”

  “For my sake? You may profit from it. I mean you no harm.”

  Dexter sighed, gave her a quizzical look, and sat up. “Go ahead.”

  “All right. Now I know, and you know I know, that you and Ruthan are—don’t now. I am merely sketching in informational background—that you and Ruthan are seeing one another. I have told no one and will tell no one unless the dome and levels are threatened in some way by this. At present I perceive no threat. You are both careful and balanced people. My concern is only self-interest at this point.”

  “Self-interest?”

  “Clearly you must see that you are the only male here of any possible interest to a woman. Butto is so unreliable and illogical that—”

  “Are you—what are you saying? I can’t believe this.”

  “Why not? Why should you not take an interest in me? We need not become emotionally involved. Life is unrewarding, isn’t it? I have to have some reason for spending my time on routines, on the development of new systems, on trying to solve the problem of probing the dome floor electronically, don’t I? Think of it as maintenance. I have come to the conclusion that I need maintaining.”

  “Good God. There are always suppressants, Eo.”

  “At last. At least you will discuss it. Take a logical view. Don’t you maintain the rodentry? Don’t we check the systems? I don’t want suppressants. What happened to Butto has me worried. I want to minimize my drug use. Besides, from a purely scientific point of view, I would like to discover several things: one, if it is really possible to remain detached; two, if there is a vague chance it is possible for me to bear children to replenish our population; three, if it will affect my outlook; and four, if it is genuinely amusing. It is so long since I have been genuinely amused.”

  Dexter stood suddenly, and paced the small chamber, then stopped. “One,” he said, “it is possible to remain detached, but that is not the point. The point is to become involved. Two, you can test whether or not it is possible for you to bear by more scientific means; three, it will indeed affect your outlook, but we need you the way you are—clear and logical; four . . . I forget what four was. Eolyn, you have taken the wrong approach to the whole thing. You have to give yourself emotionally.”

  “I have watched your behavior in meetings. You have not given yourself. Ruthan has, but you have not.”

  Dexter sat down. “No, I haven’t. I have discovered that I don’t know how. But she has, and that has saved the whole thing. You would hate it. It would be nothing but emptiness.”

  “You are really an archaic moralist, just giving me excuses. Are we not friends? Are we not obligated to help our friends? I find I am in need of help. I am a calculator in need of adjustment. My circuits are eroding. Can’t you treat me as just a piece of equipment?” Her face twisted in an anguish of confessed loneliness. Then she covered it with her hands and shook with dry sobbing.

  Dexter stood up, nonplussed. He opened his mouth, then shut it. Then he reached out and drew her down on the sleep pad beside him. He saw her shapely ear, the wisps of hair around it. No—it was too grotesque. He would have to find a way to suppress her. Still, that would be dangerous. He dared not make an enemy of her. This was a confined world. The dome and levels needed her, especially now that Zeller was dead. Dexter felt no moral compunctions, except for what he understood as the aura of Ruthan’s feelings.

  “You will not tell Ruthan?” Eolyn shook her head, still buried in her hands. The array of lights on Dexter’s rodentry monitor shifted and marched, flicking dimly as a new feeding period took place. After a time, a flashing dot on the second level indicated a new birth, then another, a third, a fourth. One by one, three of them blinked out. Dexter wasn’t looking. Nor did he command Ariadne to clap. Eventually Eolyn rose to leave, then stopped.

  “Are you readjusted?”

  “No. No. It amounts to nothing after all. I am sorry. I forced you into it. It was a mistake. I don’t understand. The pictures.”

  “The pictures? What? You may change your mind. I hope for your sake you do.”

  “And for yours?”

  “My God, Eolyn. What was your point one? Detachment? You and I are the most detached creatures in this whole meager and miserable bunch, but I cannot remain that detached.”

  “It is guilt, then. What an archaic value.”

  “Perhaps. If all values are archaic, then where . . .” Dexter looked up at his lightboard. “Oh, no! Cassiopeia has just killed her new litter. I’ve got to get down there.” He rushed by Eolyn and down to the rodentry.

  Eolyn stood in the hall. She pointed her toe and traced an arc on the floor wondering if something subtle had been omitted from her makeup, wondering if that too was planned, if she was the ultimate man of the geneticists, designed to resist the boredom of the levels by failure to feel. Consciously she began to force the issue behind her. She would persist with what she was. Slowly she began to hate Dexter, even though she recognized that this emotion was irrational. If Ruthan had supplied what he lacked, then he should have supplied what she lacked. It was his duty as a friend. He had not done it. Well, that was foolish. And yet it was there.

  On the morning following the funeral at Pelbarigan, the full council finally gathered again. Still looking drained, Ahroe was present as a witness, should she be needed.

  The Protector commanded silence, then, after the prayer, made a formal opening statement. “Counselors, much has happened since we last gathered here. However, the original question has not been settled. It has simply exploded in our faces like an unwatched pot. We have two courses this morning. The first would be to resume discussion, not of Celeste, because I have given her the Protector’s safety, but of the question of the dome itself. The second option, as I see it, would be for me to decide the matter myself, subject to your veto. I would prefer that second option, and in fact am willing to weigh my continuance in office on it. If anyone is unwilling to accede to that, please speak now.”

  The council had surmised that this would be the Protector’s course, and, because they had prepared themselves, no one was shocked or spoke against it. The north quadrant saw this as perhaps their only possible way of regaining any influence—that is, if the Protector’s choice went wrong. It was a perilous choice. But they felt helpless.

  “I thank you for your confidence. Now, weighing the evidence, here is what I propose: that a small expedition be sent to build a causeway across the empty place to the dome. Stel shall be in charge of it. Dailith, from the Protector’s guard, will accompany him. A mason or guardsman from each quadrant may go if the quadrant wishes it. This will not be a major expedition or effort. Ahroe will remain here. If this expedition meets with disaster, we will not mount a large effort to save it, unless the whole council a
grees to without debate. Is this agreeable?”

  The room remained silent. Ahroe’s face fell. Was she, then, to be separated from Stel? Perhaps for the summer? Putting him in danger? And yet she saw the Protector’s reasoning, and let the anxiety show on her face, sure that some in the north quadrant would bask in her confusion. The Protector had managed to give something to each faction after all. But why had she so often to bear such difficulties?

  With the matter decided so quickly, the council was restless, but the Protector insisted on a short silence, of two sunwidths, before she dismissed them. She sat, as the sun clock moved, in perfect repose, her old body sagging but still erect, eyes closed, face strangely rapt. Then she raised her hand, and the guardsmen tapped for adjournment.

  Later, Druk led Ahroe to the Jestana’s quarters. The Protector faced away from the door, looking out a balcony window, hands behind her.

  “Protector?” said Ahroe. “I am here.”

  “Yes, Ahroe. Thank you. Only a word at this troublesome time for you. I am sorry for what I had to do. I know you will understand. Be sure to tell Stel to be careful, to do nothing rash. If anything goes wrong, you may of course go. I am sure you appreciate the need for your presence here.”

  “Yes, Protector. It is hard for me, but I understand.”

  The Protector still had not turned, even as she continued to speak: “Ahroe, I have had this office longer than I would have liked to. It is not an easy one. My old bones wish to retire. If anything goes wrong, even slightly, I will retire. It is my feeling that the next Protector will not have a very easy time of it. I can see, with the removal of the outside threat, that our old system of government needs modification. My decree this morning had the old ring to it—the authority of the Protector. Eventually that authority will be eroded. New systems will come in to replace it. Its virtue is neatness, quickness. Its great flaw is that the Protector might make a great mistake. I may have just made one. I am, like everyone, a person of limited insight. I have had to rely on ethics, on the values of Aven, and stick close to them. They have never failed me, but sometimes the going has been hard.”