Barsk

by Lawrence M. Schoen

  At least when Jorl talked to him, he told him stories. He liked that, the sharing of experiences. It was real. It mattered, didn’t it? Wouldn’t it be great if he grew up to be a Speaker like Jorl, to be able to summon people from before he was even born and listen to their stories. But … they probably wouldn’t want to talk to him either. He had to think that over more; it would be awful being a Speaker but not be able to Speak. Maybe he should just focus on his aleph …

  There were things to do. Pizlo didn’t know where the aleph-granting traveling counsel was, but likely not there on Keslo. He’d just have to take matters into his own hands. He’d explain it to them when they met him and they’d understand. Maybe. If they talked to him. But that wasn’t going to happen, not if like everyone else they pretended not to even see him. Maybe he should get something better than an aleph. Maybe he should just claim the right for himself because his entire life was one ginormous ongoing accomplishment that almost no one on Barsk wanted to admit. Or maybe that was the third special accomplishment that would earn him an aleph. Or maybe turning it down in favor of his own mark would be the third. The logic kind of got away from him, but somewhere along that line of thought he’d reached a decision: he didn’t need an aleph. Didn’t he already go anywhere he wanted because people wouldn’t see him? No, he needed his own mark. Something no one had ever seen before, and so they couldn’t be afraid of it, or deny it was real. Something they could talk to, even if they wouldn’t talk to him.

  Pizlo never wandered the walkways of the commercial areas of the Civilized Wood during the day when other people constantly came and went. But sometimes he went there deliberately, like when he wanted to play a game of making people dodge out of his way. He’d walk slowly from point A to point B. He’d do it with his eyes tightly closed, and trust to their need to get out of his way without acknowledging the fact by so much as a muttered complaint. Other times he went just after dawn, when the shops were closed and he could press his face against windows and gaze through the creeping diffused light at stuff that ordinary folk needed in their lives.

  Today he had come with purpose. The light filtering through the trees was at its brightest and the concentration of Fant about their business there the greatest. He’d burst in on a balcony at the far end of a cul-de-sac, emerging from the wall of sculpted foliage and dropping onto the boardway. His arrival startled several Eleph who quickly averted their gaze as he began walking toward a store. A path opened for him more surely than it would have even if he’d born with an aleph. Either behavior was burned-in at a cultural level, but this one left every Fant breathless with a shared shame. Pizlo had never understood, but was grateful for the response today. Today he needed stuff.

  Five stores did business in this cul-de-sac and Pizlo knew them all. The closest was a bookshop that he’d gone to with Jorl once to pick up some texts he’d special-ordered. Pizlo had waited outside without his teacher asking, and Jorl had surprised him with a present when he’d emerged, a pack of five bamboo inksticks. A cobbler kept a store next to the bookshop. Fant rarely wanted or needed shoes, but were hard on them when they did and the owner did a steady business weaving new shoes, repairing old ones, or carving new lasts when he was between customers. Beyond that was a physician’s office, which held no interest for Pizlo, though it had two doors, a main entrance on the cul-de-sac and a second, more discreet exit onto the main boardway. Going the other way around from the balcony was a consignment spirit shop where Fant could bring the best of their own distilling and put them up for sale, or acquire the efforts of others. Every ten days they did tastings and samplings, but otherwise there were never more than two or three Fant in the shop at any one time. The last venue sat on the other end of the cul-de-sac and wrapped around onto the side of the boardway much as the doctor’s office did. This was Suliv’s shop, part grocery, part whatever-else-you-needed. It was also Pizlo’s destination.

  The boy pushed open the door and paused on the threshold. A stiffened piece of bark above the entrance made a sharp click-clack sound, announcing his arrival and perforce the shop’s owner, two clerks, and assorted patrons glanced his way. And then, just as swiftly, acting as with one mind, they averted their gaze, resuming their earlier conversations and actions as best they could. Pizlo didn’t care. He helped himself to a wicker basket by the door and began wandering up and down the aisles, skirting past people before they could stiffen at his approach or attempt to dodge him. The thing he needed most was also the oddest item on his list, and if Suliv’s didn’t have it, Pizlo had no idea where he would get one. He could read pretty well, much better than regular children his age, or so Jorl had assured him, but he’d never seen the word emergency printed before, either by itself or alongside other words, and it took him several passes in front of the object of his desire before he recognized it as what he needed. Once he had added it to his basket, Pizlo knew the rest would be easy.

  Moving more quickly now, he pulled down an assortment of food from the shelves, some fresh and some dried. He selected three expandable mesh bags, and when he reached the limits of his basket he began filling the bags. He also chose a small bottle of dye of a deep indigo hue, staring at it for a long time, though midway through his eyes drifted closed as he listened intently to the bottle’s silent whispering.

  Pizlo plopped himself down in the aisle, opened the bottle and dipped the little finger of his left hand into the solution to the first joint. He pulled it out and inspected the vivid color that had already penetrated that bit of skin. Satisfied, he tucked his chin down and began painting a series of crude circles in a series of four rows, re-dipping his finger as necessary. First one, then three, then two more, and finally one. Three of the circles he filled in, blue from edge to center; the other four he left open. Having bathed and scrubbed just the night before in the fountain, his pale skin gleamed cleaner than it had in some time, and the contrast of dye against the white flesh drew the eye.

  He wiped his finger off on the bottom of his foot, rubbing the tip against the resulting stain again and again to confirm that it was dry. Satisfied that he wouldn’t leave a mark when he touched something or walked, he got to his feet again. Pizlo resealed the bottle, stuffed it into one of his bags, and strode deliberately to the counter at the front of the store. A Lox that looked enough like Tolta to maybe be his aunt stood at the counter, and an Eleph who seemed to know her stood behind waiting for her turn. Pizlo meant to get in line behind them, but at his approach one slipped left and the other right. They’d left their intended purchases strewn across the counter. A shocked clerk stood on the other side with literally nowhere to go. His eyes darted side to side. He lashed his trunk with agitation and fanned his ears, not daring to look at the albino boy loaded down with store goods.

  “I need all of this stuff,” said Pizlo, piling his selections on the counter which was at a height even with his trunk.

  “Yinto was here the other day,” said the clerk, seeming to speak to the possible-aunt that had a moment earlier left him there. “He said his eldest daughter, the one that moved to Kelpry, the island just past Gerd, had twins. Can you believe that? Twins!”

  “I don’t have any money. But I need it. All of it.”

  The clerk’s trunk darted spastically but otherwise he gave no acknowledgment that Pizlo stood on the other side of his counter. “Remarkable thing, twins. Yinto said that no one on Kelpry could remember the last time it happened. Got to be three generations back, at least.”

  “I’m going to pay you with a story instead. A prophecy.”

  The other shoppers had melted away, down the store’s aisles far out of sight or out the door and on down the boardway as quickly as possible, perhaps just in case Pizlo chose to exit and follow them. Trapped behind his counter, the clerk looked like he wanted to cry.

  Pizlo wanted to cry sometimes. But he didn’t now, and he couldn’t indulge the clerk’s feelings. He had to get going. He needed the things he’d gathered, and had already used some of the d
ye. He couldn’t just take everything though. “I know you’re not supposed to look at me. Or listen to anything I say. I know those are the rules. But prophecies trump rules. They have to. Rules look backward, they’re blind to the situations that might come up after someone makes them. But prophecies only look forward. So they’re more important. Okay?”

  The clerk only fanned his ears faster. He called out as if to a customer down one of the aisles. “Those are on special today. Three for the price of two. One day only!” Maybe there was even someone back there, but Pizlo didn’t turn to look. He reached up, put his hands flat on the counter, and whispered.

  “Psst, whatever else you do … don’t look at my chest!”

  Confused, the clerk did just that, and then immediately averted his gaze.

  Stepping back and striking what he hoped was a dramatic pose, Pizlo dropped his voice as low as he could. “I am the bearer of the mark of the seven moons. Three I have seen. By the time I have looked on all seven, I will see you repaid. This is the … the prophecy of the shop. Remember it, even though you are not allowed to remember me.” He scooped up all his purchases, transferring a few from the basket into the remaining empty mesh bag, tossed all three across his shoulder, and left the store.

  He’d been right. He didn’t need an aleph. He had moons.

  FOURTEEN

  IMPROPER IMPLICATIONS

  IT was one thing for a widow living alone to invite a man who was an old family friend into her home for dinner. Fant males were notorious for poor nutrition, resulting as much from a disinclination to learn basic culinary skills as a seemingly innate ability to burn water. But let that young widow visit that same male friend at his own apartment and entire leagues of gossips would chatter for days at the implications of impropriety.

  Not that anything would ever happen with Jorl, Tolta was sure of that. She’d given up caring what other people thought about her when Pizlo had been born, the unexpected child she’d refused to deny. She’d entered into local lore, and had no doubt that more than one grandmother in Keslo told frightening bedtime stories of the Abomination’s mother living among them. People whispered about her anytime she passed by, it was no more preposterous to have them whispering about alleged affairs with Jorl ben Tral. As if that was the only reason she might have to seek him out.

  In point of fact, she’d gone to his home in response to the note she’d found on her door. He’d often left similar missives in the past when going off with Arlo on the sort of foolhardy errand or misguided adventure that the two men should have worked out of their systems back in their teens. Hard won experience had taught her to ignore the innocence in his message and pursue whatever he wasn’t bothering to tell her. She intended to confront him face to face before he went off and did something beyond stupid again, like joining the Patrol.

  But she’d arrived too late and all her carefully rehearsed patient-but-firm phrases went unspoken. Bother.

  She wandered down the boardway from Jorl’s front door, passing such shops as catered to bachelors: an all-night health club, a soup and salad bar, a spirits shop, and more. She paused in front of a bookshop that she knew Jorl frequented, and on a whim entered. It was a charming little store, full of paper clutter and endless bookshelves that all seemed to have been made by different hands. A tiny bell above the door announced her arrival and an unseen woman called out, “I’ll be right with you” from down some aisle or other.

  Tolta browsed, absently wondering what she might pick up to tempt Pizlo to linger one night. He had mentioned borrowing books from Jorl, but perhaps he’d like to have one or more all his own.

  “Don’t rush on my account. I’m just looking.”

  A Lox younger than herself came around a corner supporting a massive tome with both hands and trunk. She heaved it up onto a counter with an audible grunt, blushed, wiped her brow and smiled as she gave Tolta her full attention.

  “Turning people who are ‘just looking’ into paying customers is one of the challenges of the job. Are you ‘just looking’ for anything in particular?”

  “In terms of purpose, yes. But as to content, no, not really. I’m looking for something my son might like. He’s somewhat precocious and rabidly curious.”

  The clerk paused and Tolta chided herself. It was possible that a younger woman might not recognize her at a glance, but mentioning Pizlo—even if not by name—would be all the trigger anyone on Keslo would need to bring her story to mind. It was just one more thing she didn’t want to deal with this day. She turned to go.

  “I think I’ve seen him.”

  Tolta paused in midstep. Seen him? No one saw Pizlo, or if they did, couldn’t admit to it. Since Arlo’s death, only two people in the world willingly saw her son. She turned back.

  “Excuse me?”

  “He … didn’t come into the shop. I only noticed him because of the man who did come in. They’d arrived together but your son waited outside for him. He’d been in earlier to order some specialty items and dropped by to inquire if they’d arrived yet. The man, I mean, not your son.”

  Tolta smiled. “That would be Jorl ben Tral.”

  “Oh! You know him? Wait, of course you do, or you wouldn’t trust your son in his care. Sorry, I … I just get a bit flustered.” The clerk’s cheeks reddened and she turned half away, busying herself with rearranging some books on a handy shelf.

  “Flustered? Because of Jorl? Whatever for?”

  She stilled her hands on the shelf and turned back to Tolta with a gleam in her eye and a giddy shyness that the older woman hadn’t seen since slumber parties back when she lived in the vast house with her mother and aunts and cousins.

  “He just … wasn’t what I expected.”

  “You were expecting something?”

  “Yes. I mean, no, not really. I … I haven’t been in Keslo long. But when I arrived and took this job I learned that the newest Bearer lived nearby. Someone like that, someone who’s done things, enough to earn an aleph! I thought maybe I might see him once or twice, but he comes into the shop all the time.”

  “He is fond of his books.” Tolta smiled and found herself warming to the girl. “Mind you, he’s written more than a few himself.”

  “Oh, I know. I stock them all. I have a section devoted to him, two whole shelves. Have you read his work? I have. I’ve read all of them. I never thought anyone could make history so interesting.”

  “You sound like you have quite the crush on him.”

  “No … not really. I mean, nothing could ever come of it. He’s too important a person. He’d never even notice me.”

  Having known Jorl most of her life, Tolta had never thought of him as important. He’d just always been there, carousing around with Arlo, standing Second at their wedding and again at her husband’s funeral, helping fill the void in Pizlo’s life. When he’d left on his scatter-brained adventure with the Patrol he had left a hole in their lives. When he’d returned, she’d wept when she’d realized how much she welcomed his unasked-for support. How had she not noticed that she was the only one on Barsk who didn’t see him any differently than before he’d gone? A celebrity? Of a sort. But important? Whatever Jorl’s other faults, ego was not among them. If he hadn’t noticed the obvious interest of a pretty and bookish woman it had more to do with his own distraction than anything resembling importance. She smiled as she recalled all the stupid things he and Arlo—and sometimes all three of them—had done.

  “My name’s Tolta, by the way.”

  “Dabni.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Dabni.” And it was. The young woman hadn’t actually interacted with her son, that was probably beyond the pale, but she could admit having seen him. Wonder of wonders. “You know, my mother and his mother grew up together and are still the best of friends. He and I have been around each other our whole lives and he even introduced me to my late husband. I’m sure there are all kinds of stories I could tell of him from long before he was marked.”

  “Oh! I’d lik
e that very much.”

  “Well, we should make a date of it then. Perhaps over tea sometime.”

  “I have tea,” said Dabni. “In the back. I mean, I could make us tea. And I have some cookies a customer dropped off that I don’t mind sharing. If you’re interested, I mean.”

  Tolta bit her lip at the girl’s obvious infatuation. Did other people see Jorl this way? Perhaps there was more to the gossip she’d set in motion than she realized.

  “That sounds wonderful. Thank you.”

  Dabni scrambled to clear a spot on a table and drag over two weathered but sturdy chairs. “Make yourself at home. I’ll just be a minute with the tea.” She vanished back around the corner of a tall bookshelf, her voice carrying back. “And while you’re telling me about Jorl, I can see about finding you a book for your son.”

  Tolta settled back and smiled. Better and better.

  FIFTEEN

  MEETING SILENCE

  BARSK’S first generation of Fant had bargained with the Alliance in the creation of their Compact, and each believed they’d gotten the better deal. The other planets enjoyed Barsk’s pharmacopeia, and the Fant received isolation, a guarantee that their cultural beliefs would be respected by the Alliance, and a promise that only Eleph and Lox would ever set foot upon their planet.

  The Alliance had been willing to let them have Barsk eight hundred years earlier due to the soaking weather. Except for the Lox and Eleph, all of the other races had fur. While a few enjoyed the water, none appreciated an endless forecast of rain. There was also the matter of land, or rather, the lack of it.

  The northern hemisphere didn’t contain a speck of earth above sea level. The pole contained enough solid ice to constitute a continent, but it couldn’t support life. Just south of the equator, two chains of islands provided the planet’s only habitable land, the western and eastern archipelagos. Barsk’s only true continent lay at its southern pole; several type of flightless birds dwelled along its edges, feeding on the fish that spawned in shallow waters along its shoreline. To the rest of the Alliance, trying to live on the tiny polar continent made an existence on the rainy islands seem luxurious. And none of them had wanted the islands in the first place.