The Ring of Ritornel
Page 23
O Amatar, farewell!”
It was over in seconds; but no sound had passed Andrek’s lips.
“Thank you, Omere,” thought James Andrek.
“Do not fear for her,” said Omere. “Kedrys can cope with the Deep. Truly, I think he planned it this way.” There was a pause, then the strange introspection continued. “What now?”
Idly, Andrek bent over and picked up the golden die. “We have one more throw, don’t we? And suppose it comes out ‘one,’ to complete the whole Ring of Ritornel? What would it all mean? That all this has happened before, and that (behold!) there is no new thing under the sun? Should we find out?” He looked through the doorway at Lieutenant Clevin and the Priestess Phaera.
The lieutenant’s mouth was open wide, and his face glistened with sweat. His world had collapsed in front of his eyes, and he was numb with awe and fright. Phaera, perhaps better protected by the fatalism and foreknowledge of her faith, looked broodingly through the doorway into the blue-radiant eyes of Andrek. To herself she murmured: “Who shall foresee the will of Ritornel? And if Ritornel chooses to complete the Ring by uniting saint and chimera, who shall say that he is not altogether wise and just?”
“A girl! A female woman!” breathed Omere-James.
“Not for you, my lusty friend,” reproved James-Omere. “Remember, we’re antimatter. And have you forgotten Amatar so soon?”
“No, Jim-boy. Not so soon. And not ever.” Andrek’s mind began to sing again. It started in a low key, and gathered volume and cadence. “The great mythbook, whence cometh all things … whence pegasus, and whence kentaur, and all the fabled wonders. Yes, Amatar, we remember! Can Adan beguile thee from the thunder of the racing hoof, or from the beating of great wings, and visions beyond our farthest seeing? O motherless children, and all that follow thee, enter now into enchantment!”
He paused. “No, we’ll never forget. But life goes on. And after being cooped up in that hell-box for eighteen years, I can at least think.”
And now the singing began again in Andrek’s head. Poets … proctors … singers … shysters … ladies … loves. It’s a big universe, little brother. Somewhere, there’s an antimatter galaxy, and antimatter girls awaiting. Maybe it has all happened before. But it hasn’t happened to us.
He tossed the die carelessly over his shoulder and burst into song.
“A barrister-bard from Goris-Kard
Set forth in search of a dame.
He liked them wild, he liked them tame.
Both liked—”
Lieutenant Clevin and Phaera listened in vain for the end.
The music room was empty.
X. IS THE LAST CAST THE FIRST?
No man is so fleet that he can outstrip his fate, nor strong enough to seize another’s.
—A Rede of Ritornel.
No destiny is certain; that which is given, is taken away. That which was to be, will not be.
—An Axiom of Alea.
Phaera rushed into the room and scooped up the die.
The lieutenant cried out in alarm.
She called back. “It’s safe, Clevin. Come on in.” She looked at the die, and then she smiled.
“Was it a ‘one’?” demanded the lieutenant. “Is the Ring complete?”
Phaera covered the die with her hand, and looked up serenely. “In our ancient racial consciousness, going all the way back (some say) to our Terran ancestors, there is a myth of creation, where Ritornel took the first man from the Deep, and then created woman from his body, even as Amatar drew life from the rib of Oberon. So if I say to you, it was a ‘one,’ you will say that it was inevitable, because the great Ring must be repeated, as is foreordained.”
The lieutenant had by now recovered much of his reason, and some of his courage. “Since Amatar came from the body of Oberon, the cycle is now repeated, as it was in the beginning,” he said. “For it is not events that determine Ritornel, but Ritornel that determines events. To complete the ring, it had to be a ‘one.’ Therefore it was a ‘one.’ There was no other possibility.”
Phaera laughed at him wickedly, “There was a second possibility.”
The lieutenant’s eyebrows arched. “What do you mean? I see only Oberon and Amatar. What is the other alternative?”
“Kedrys and Amatar.”
The lieutenant’s face showed his shock. “But that’s insane. It’s even … bestial!”
A sensual smile played around the mouth of the priestess. She appeared to consider the problem. “All men are bestial. But Kedrys is not a man. Yet, in a sense, you’re right. Admittedly, even now, she is not nearly his equal, either mentally or physically. But when Kedrys reaches full maturity, and faces the fact that Amatar is the only female on the planet Terra, he may be inclined to overlook her deficiencies.”
For a long, silent moment the lieutenant did not seem to understand. Then he came to life abruptly. “The die!” he cried. “It will tell! If the Ring is complete, and Oberon and Amatar are the next ancestral couple, the die will show a ‘one.’ But if it’s to be Kedrys and Amatar, then the Ring is broken, and it would be some other number. What was the number?”
Phaera laughed in great glee and tossed the golden jewel to him. “Number? There are twelve. Take your choice.” She sauntered past him toward the corridor. “I only wish I could be there to see the children!”
The End
THE RING OF RITORNEL
* * *
The appearance of THE RING OF RITORNEL is something of a publishing event. It is a brand new science fiction novel by the American author Charles L. Harness, an almost legendary figure in SF circles. After a brilliant writing career in the late 1940’s and early 1950’s, he turned to the law, specializing in patent work in his home state of Maryland.
His first novel was The Paradox Men. His second, published in 1953 in the magazine Authentic SF, was The Rose, considered by Arthur C. Clarke and others to be one of the finest science fiction novels ever written.
THE RING OF RITORNEL creates a future world of terror and beauty, peopled with remarkable characters such as Omere, poet laureate of the home planet, Goris-Kard, and his brother Jamie, who is trapped between the opposing forces of Ritornel and Alea, a reluctant pawn in the future of his universe.
It is a science fiction novel of the most imaginative, poetic and stimulating kind, and is at the same time an exciting allegory of birth and rebirth, life and death, creation and re-creation.
* * *
“It is an unfortunate rule … that the bad writers write too much, the good too little. Charles L. Harness has always written too little.”
—Brian W. Aldiss
Scanned by Aristotle