The Scholar and the Moon
The evening air smelled of incense and thick, stupefying plum wine. Masked revelers laughed and staggered through the cobbled streets of Mayajat, for the night would bring a full moon.
The moon ruled the people of the city. Each full moon brought a new temperament, so that everyone would be sly and calculating one month, and the next month wrathful and belligerent. None knew the reason why. Some said that the wombs of the mothers of Mayajat grew many babies at a time, but that before birth the strongest one absorbed the others, so that everyone in Mayajat was born a murderer. The ghosts of these dead siblings, they claimed, fought to control their slayer, and the moon gave power to one or another as she would.
This evening, as on every full moon, all Mayajenes stayed awake, eagerly awaiting the passion that would rule them for the month. All Mayajenes, that is, save one.
The scholar Conwy had always stood apart from this monthly custom. Of late he found it unbearable. He shut his window tight, in the hope that the celebration below would reach neither eye nor ear. Yet light and sound seeped through.
Conwy wondered why he was different. Perhaps, he thought, there was some truth to the rumor that he had foreign ancestry to match his foreign name. This would explain why he longed to be like the outlanders, and have a soul which was still, like a sea that knows no tides.
He believed his name meant 'Hound of the Plain'. If this was true he was ill-named. His broad nose and tightly-coiled white hair gave him the appearance of a sheep. Indeed some whispered that, like a sheep, he had been castrated.
Curled in his hammock, cloaked in blankets, he resembled a caterpillar in a cocoon. The coming hour moved the rest of the city to frenzy. Conwy felt not as if he was about to be reborn, but as if he was to be sealed alive in his tomb. Yet, as in a nightmare, he could not fight or escape. He lacked the energy to do anything but sleep.
In a fevered dream Conwy saw the streets beyond his shuttered window. The masks of the citizens of Mayajat seemed not to conceal, but to reveal their wearers' true aspect. Their wine-maddened capering seemed the sober gait of creatures alien to him.
Musicians as drunken and leering as their audience offered raucous praise to the moon. She filled the sky, swollen like over-ripe fruit. The fish that dwell amid darkness eternal in the deepest chasms, like maggots in the wounds of the earth, were no whiter than the moon. Conwy, groaning and soaked in sweat, writhed in his hammock. Demon-faced dancers filled the streets, bright as a flock of tropical birds. Cloaks and feathers and masks reshaped human forms into those of some inhuman kindred, primeval and unknown.
And then, like the breaking of a dam, it happened! In each heart the fluids that control the temperament suddenly rose or fell in unvaried obedience to their celestial mistress. In the hearts of men, the hearts of women, those of infants in their cradles, the delirious and the demented, perhaps even the rotting hearts of the dead in their graves.
In his room Conwy awoke with a shriek. Even with his window closed his voice was drowned in the cheers of the crowd.
He rushed to his desk. Frantically he flipped through one book after another. Where normally his mind wandered through books like a butterfly through a garden, he now evinced indifference to the most interesting trivia. Yet a list hidden in a drab almanac absorbed his attention for some time. He carefully copied down sketches of various architectural features common in the city. A lengthy, if not obsessive, inquiry into the properties of various ropes caused him to shout with joy.
At last Conwy had found all that he sought. He opened his window. Then he addressed to the moon a lengthy and solemn oath. All roads, so the saying goes, lead to Mayajat. This is true of the roads of the heavens as well as those of the earth. Thus Conwy had gods from a dozen worlds by whom to swear. He swore by Isis and Osiris, by the senile and malignant gods who crouch in the ruins of the Abysmal Plain, by the hyena-mouthed one who eats the fruit of the machete, human hearts. Finally he declared,
"By all these gods I swear; my vassalage to thee, O tyrant of the skies, draws close to its end!"
But it was the first hour of dawn, and the moon had already gone to sleep, and did not hear.
---
Conwy set forth that very morning. The sun, though he welcomed his return, revealed a scene best left hidden. He smelled stale wine, urine and vomit. A blanket of detritus covered all, as if some maleficent sea had flooded the streets and then departed. The combination of hangover and adjusting to a new temperament drove most to their hammocks for the morning, if not the day. The few people on the streets shuffled without speed or direction, and with queasy and bewildered expressions, their entire attention taken with avoiding broken glass and pools of liquid.
For many hours Conwy studied various buildings, paying particular attention to their roofs. When the shopkeepers arose at last, Conwy spent the few cowrie shells he possessed on rope, a lantern, and other supplies not suited to scholars. This took most of the day. The custom of Mayajat is for buyer and seller to spend hours sipping strawberry tea and haggling. Conwy returned home near sunset. The garbage-strewn streets played host to a new revel, this time of gulls, roaches, and rats. He wished for the cleansing monsoon. Alas, that was many months away.
He slept. When he arose again the sky was dark. The moon was once more sovereign of the sky. But as she was no longer full, Conwy held no fear of her. Indeed he hoped she was watching. He went into the streets bearing a pack filled with his purchases of the day. He held a machete, and kept his lantern unlit, but no one challenged him, until he stopped in the shadows of a nondescript building. He drew from his pack a rope, which ended in a grappling hook. Once the claw of a dragon, the hook retained the fierce grip it had in life. Conwy threw it upwards and it gripped fast.
---
As the Mayajenes said (and still say), not all who are bearded are wise. Few on the ground had even heard of the Owls of Yib. Yet only the wise mediation of these sages prevents outright war between one roof-dwelling kindred and another. For the talking sparrow has little love for the swan of blood, as talking ravens are called, and the proud and violent gargoyles loathe those roof-dwelling imps who make their way into houses at night, stealing socks for unknown purposes.
Conwy, rich in books but a beggar in friendship, was probably better informed about the roofs than anyone in the city. He knew where and when the Owls of Yib would be holding court. And he knew that they were experts on the moon.
Again he threw the grappling hook upwards and into the darkness.
---
Conwy was, by now, in the temple district: the highest and oldest part of the city, rarely seen even by burglars. His vision was obscured by thick mists, the rising smoke of incense. Conwy smelled jasmine, honey, and vanilla. An acquaintance of his youth had worn a similar scent. Conwy thought for a moment of sky-coloured eyes.
Remembering his beloved was like biting into fruit which has a sweet skin, but is sour inside. There can be little hope of success in love when one spends weeks writing a poem, only to find that a new moon has come and one's beloved and rivals alike disdain reading and live only for the outdoors. Conwy felt as if courtship was a dance, the steps of which were known to all but he. His waking dream was interrupted as a new fragrance wafted by. It was burnt flesh, perhaps from a funeral, perhaps the sacrifice of an animal.
Centuries ago, the worshipers of the goddess of travelers built a huge bird-house on the roof of their temple. The house was styled to resemble the mansion of a wealthy family, shrunk to bird-size. Migratory birds, sacred to the goddess, sheltered there during the monsoon. Talking birds also visited, especially when they wished to hide among their mute fellows. And, on this particular night, the Owls of Yib would be there to hear the various factions of the roofs.
Without warning Conwy found himself face-to-face with a gargoyle. The gargoyle wore a splendid cloak of marble, decorated with stripes of rust. It bowed, and spoke.
"O dweller upon the ground, you are far from your
natural home. Do you not feel that the wingless things of earth should be bound to earth? Would this not maintain both the dignity of the air, and the safety of the ground? For all matter has a desire to be reunited with the earth, even though the reunion be fatal, and only wings"--and here the gargoyle gestured towards its own wings--"may dictate otherwise."
"O gargoyle," Conwy replied with a bow, "I do not. Caution would dictate that things should be as you suggest. Yet even the most cautious die, and are buried no shallower than the reckless. Therefore Caution, though a wise sister to be consulted, is not a queen to be obeyed. It is written that moths were created by the moon, in imitation of the butterflies created by the sun. They fly into open flames because, with their dim sight, they believe it to be the moon to whom they long to return. From this we may draw the following moral: it is not always safe or wise to seek one's natural element."
"Yet I could push you off this roof," the gargoyle snapped, "and you would fall just as quickly as one whose arguments were less elegant."
"There speaks Power," Conwy said, outwardly calm, "who knows the language of reason, but whose mother-tongue is force. I say to you that this fog around us is neither a wall nor a window. These things, if they conceal, will always conceal, and if they reveal will always reveal. The haze around us, by contrast, is like the clothing of a courtesan: it may reveal when we have no expectation of such, yet conceal at the moment of our greatest desire for revelation. Therefore, if you have seen me, can you be sure that no one else has seen me, and that no one sees us now? I deduce from your finery that you are on your way to see the Owls of Yib. You, no doubt, have concluded that I take the same journey. Therefore we are bound not to offer violence to one another, lest we be exiled from this realm forever; a realm which, as you have pointed out, is your natural home and not mine." The gargoyle gave a wordless cry of disgust, as of one who has spit some foulness from their mouth, but still has the taste thereof. It opened its wings, and flew into the mist.
---
Religious toleration was the law of Mayajat. Two temples might each profess that the other was full of ignorance and wickedness, and their so-called god a demon. Behind temple walls the priests could preach as they liked. Yet harsh punishment would fall on any worshiper who offered so much as an insulting remark in the open street.
Above the streets and the laws, even the laws of nature, the gods were free to do as they would. Two temples might be a few feet away on the ground, yet the temple roofs might be miles apart, or in different regions of the universe altogether, one entirely unreachable from the other. Such twisting of space is not good for mortals to look upon. Conwy cursed the haze for obscuring his vision, but this may have been a mercy.
Conwy stopped. For here, his books told him, was a place of great danger: the roof of a temple whose worshipers had sealed themselves within and took poison. The roof was the home of The Ziggurat of Tongues. This huge object, or creature, was pyramidal in shape. Its hide was the deep green of jade, and covered in glistening slime like a foul thing new-born. The Ziggurat had innumerable writhing tongues, each as strong as a wrestler and as lithe as a concubine. Some esoteric texts claimed that the temple had been burned to the ground. The roof, they claimed, maintained existence within the fog purely by the Ziggurat's will, or by the will of whoever or whatever the Ziggurat served.
Conwy peered through the thick smoke. Dimly he saw the abomination. Dozens of tongues waved lazily in the air, as the tentacles of an octopus wave in the water. He drew his machete. The tongues were said to be made of normal matter, and thus vulnerable to a blade. Yet he knew that, if he used his weapon, it would most likely be to end his own life, saving himself from the unspeakable fate of those taken into one of the thing's many mouths. Conwy lay down flat. The roof was slick with the discharge from the Ziggurat. Conwy crawled, like a pilgrim in a place so holy that he feels unworthy of walking. The tongues, he had read, could snatch a bird out of the sky. Yet they were much less supple when forced to bend downwards, so that victory over the monster could be achieved by crawling through its slime.
A horrible thought suddenly struck him. He had assumed that the books he had read were speaking literally. But what if he had taken an allegory on humility for practical advice? All at once he was certain that this was the case. Such a mistake seemed itself an allegory, for his own life. Yet, as if his limbs were controlled by another, he continued to crawl.
The tongues wriggled as Conwy passed underneath them. They strained downwards, seeking to wrap around him. Conwy felt them licking the back of his neck and brushing his earlobe. He shrank from their caresses like one touched by a corpse, pressing himself into the shallow lake of excretion as eagerly as if he lowered himself into a hot bath augmented by soothing oil, and not into bitter, stinking, bile.
The Ziggurat gave forth an outraged shriek, as the straining tongues failed to embrace the scholar. Conwy heard a droning like a cloud of wasps, and felt sharp pains in his head, as if crows pecked at his mind. He yearned to rise and run from the hideous ululation. Yet he stayed steadfast, worming his way along the roof until he was beyond the tongues' reach. Only then did he stand. He stepped from one roof to another. At last he found himself before the Owls of Yib.
---
Conwy stood among a menagerie (if such a word may be used for a meeting of free creatures) of all the inhabitants of the roofs. Through the curling smoke he saw imps and gargoyles pointedly ignoring each other. A white baboon watched him with pink, unblinking eyes. Ravens and sparrows proved their intelligence with animated speech in the tones of men and women. Creatures who had no human name, since they had never been seen by humans, nor ever seen one, stared at Conwy as he at them. Talking magpies, notorious holders of grudges, thieves of any shining thing, and quick to believe that any passer-by seeks to steal their stolen hoard, muttered indignantly to themselves. The escaped familiars of a dozen warlocks, a bogeyman, and a school of air-sharks, all congregated in peace, if not in friendship, bound by the custom that there could be no violence, and that all would be heard. Finally Conwy saw the Owls of Yib themselves. There were three of them, sitting on a carpet that had been laid outside the miniature mansion.
"You may approach," an owl said, adjusting its spectacles. Conwy did so, and bowed.
"Feathered ones," he said, "I have from birth been the plaything of the moon. Yet my responses to her promptings have ever been incomplete and done with an ill will. I am like a lone and outlying planet, too distant to feel the warmth of the sun, too close to escape. I am like a dog which will not allow itself to be petted, but which cannot break its leash. Therefore I beseech thee, work your arts upon me, so that I heed not the moon."
The owls sat for a time in meditation. Then one opened its beak to answer. But before the owl could speak a gargoyle stepped forward, pushing Conwy to one side. It was the very same gargoyle that had spoken to him previously. The gargoyle bowed, so low that its horns scraped two lines into the stone before its hooves.
"O wise ones, is it fit," the gargoyle asked the owls, "that we, who meet amidst fragrant clouds of jasmine and honeysuckle, should receive one who stinks of unearthly slime, as if he had burst from the womb of yon monstrosity, the Ziggurat of Tongues?"
"All shall be received," the owl replied evenly.
The gargoyle's face twisted with anger. Since it was normally twisted in the exact opposite way, for a moment the gargoyle looked beautiful and serene.
"Sages unparalleled!" the gargoyle cried in a shocked tone, "he has crawled before the unclean thing, on his belly as the serpents which slither! Shall he stand among clouds offered to the gods, and shall the highest wisdom be poured on him?"
"All shall be received," said a second owl, as tranquil as the first.
"Mere repetition of a generally sound principle is no substitute for careful consideration of the circumstances of a particular case!" the gargoyle cried angrily.
The third owl opened its beak.
"All shall be received," was i
ts only response.
"O gargoyle," asked an imp, "do you suspect this stranger of being a creation of the Ziggurat? Can you not detect the scent of true animals under that of star-stuff?" The gargoyle, who like all his kind could smell the difference between one stone and another, but had almost no sense for the odors of flesh, glared and said nothing.
"Or mayhap you feel that the wingless things of earth should be bound to earth?" drawled another imp. Fearing to insult the various unwinged creatures present, the gargoyle ground his teeth together in silence.
"No doubt," a third imp yawned, "he simply feels, as he says, that the stench of the man desecrates this solemn meeting. Theological issues aside, we must have a care for the delicacy of his sensitive nostrils."
This insult to his ability to bear hardship, combined with a second reference to the dullness of his senses, stung the gargoyle almost beyond bearing. But he dug his claws into his hands, and counted slowly to three, higher mathematics being unknown among his kind.
"O gargoyle," Conwy said, "Before your might I am as a lowly dog..." He realised that the gargoyle would be unlikely to know what a dog was. "That is, as a lowly pigeon..."
But Conwy never finished his speech. This reference to pigeons, who are hated by gargoyles for reasons too vulgar to elucidate, was enough to drive out the creature's reason. The gargoyle sprang for Conwy's throat, claws outstretched to rend flesh. Conwy slashed with his machete. The blade struck home, but steel was no use against stone. Quick as a cat the gargoyle drew a red wound in Conwy's neck.
Conwy fell to his knees. For a moment there was silence.
"Now I am exiled!" the gargoyle cried. He opened his wings. While his body was cracked, covered in moss and worn by weather, his wings were as delicate as a fine lady's fan. The gargoyle jumped into the air, and was lost in the smoke. Whether he ever repented of its murderous act, or regretted only the punishment, no one knows, for he was never seen again.
The New Death and others Page 4