FSF, March-April 2010

by Spilogale Authors

  "Pleased to meet you,” says Pink, gagging slightly. She rubs the sleep out of her eyes. The scenery ‘round about has not changed—it is still completely incomprehensible—but the air is slightly colder than she remembers it having been, she is feeling very light, and the nosehairlike sward upon which she has slumbered has grown unpleasantly moist and springy. “Um, Tyénst'h'ko'dnesk djinsh, hwehbállu,” [Howdy, pal], she says, sounding the glottal stops carefully. She hopes she is using the right polite forms. “Can you speak Brenglish?"

  "Brenglish, yes, yes, this one has been so schooled,” roars the mountain. “Harmed art thou, Master Small Individual? Canst thou rise? Is thy tiny wise head intact? For one came upon thee of a sudden, and one's tail, alas! Came near to bifurcating thee.” And then co breaks into an elaborate lamentation of which Pink understands perhaps three memes out of twenty.

  "Ke'zhéggha'a! Ke'zhéggha'a!” cries Pink [Grieve not! Grieve not!], a trifle desperately, for the nosehairs have begun sucking at her skin like little questing siphons. “Would you mind helping me up?” The creature breaks off cos lamentations and, with the slightest of efforts, tugs at her outstretched arms, whereupon she sails through the air, halting her progress by desperately grabbing the featherlike branches of something resembling a tree fern. The Firster gives another howl of despair, certain co has killed her this time, so she is forced to yell, “Ke'zhéggha'a!” several more times until co calms down.

  She climbs down from the tree fern, which is filled with minute coral slugs that flee her with unsluglike rapidity, peeping their dismay. The sobbing mountain approaches her with great care, in the process knocking over or aside with cos tail three iridescent blobs, a beige cheesy hexagon the size of Pink's mother, and what appears to be a bright purple radio antenna, which screams slightly as it falls. “Hey, now,” says Pink, patting cos immense furry paw. “It's okay, truly. Low gravity plus big muscles plus stork equals flight, no prob."

  "One hungers,” co says.

  "That makes two of us.” She looks around. “So. Let's use equal-to-equal conversation mode, okay? Fefréllyo yoyók Pink. Fefréllthre ñeñék/donnét?” [Person-of-equal-rank, I call myself Pink. What do you call yourself?] Cos reply sounds like molasses gurgling out of a jug. Pink says, “Um, hwesh?” [Again?]

  "Fefréllyo Slídhadhrup/Jéjno'Lílyo/fü yoyók,” says the Firster. [My name, person-of-equal-rank, is Slídhadhrup, Current Era, First Cycle.] “Thou art the first Human ever I have smelt. How camest thou hither? Art thou from Óllowe/Dvyénnu [The New Place]?"

  "You mean Concord Station?"

  "Djádthre,” co says [Agreed], and taps cos elephantine right ear [the D'/fü equivalent of a nod of assent].

  "Djádthre,” replies Pink [You betcha!], doing the same. The creature's huge puppy eyes grow wider with wonder. Hastily she explains, “Vyen'jéssatye blefzhúzhü fwet'héttaha yek.” [I came here, person-of-equal-rank, to meet my worklifepartnerfriend.]

  "To Kyíghenhássdrumderr [The Tangles] thou camest this one to meet?” exclaims the Firster. Cos sick lilac-browns are beginning to be replaced by healthy flushes of rose-orange.

  "Here? Oh, no,” says Pink. “Kek! [No!] I mean, not on purpose. Coming here was sort of an accident. You know, a m'shyéghen.” [An unintended error.]

  "My teacher say, No te'm'shyéghen there be,” roars the Firster solemnly.

  "Yeah? Well, vyen'jéssatnéne Kyíghenhássdrumderr lópdhik?” [Why did you come to the Tangles, person-of-equal-rank?]

  Co launches into a long and mostly incomprehensible tale involving much chest pounding and tail thrashing, which when all is said and done appears to boil down to the fact that cos teacher told co to. “But I thought,” says Pink, “that you folks—your fü—don't go walkabout until dyéñe'te [Seconderhood]?"

  "Djádthre, djádthre, djádthre!” replies Slídhadhrup. [Absolutely! Correct! YES!] Co is squatting, now, before her, cos tail stretched out behind co, so that she actually comes up to the place where cos navel might have been had co had a navel. “Nonetheless, teacher saith, ‘Go find Úüv'élleblét/immo,’ and so Slídhadhrup goeth!"

  "Bien," says Pink, and then falls silent, for she can think of nothing else to say. She is lost in an incomprehensible wilderness with the centaur equivalent of a bright ten-year-old, and she hasn't the slightest idea what to do next. Then she turns and looks at the creature again. “Wait a sec. Zhádnónnet-nónnet?” [What did you just say?] “Tümüta'ñék dámmas-dámmas blíspfü górmn'shde?” [Whom did your teacher tell you to find, person-of-equal-rank?]

  "Úüv'élleblét/immo,” says the Firster.

  "You mean the Bird? The Vigilant Bird?"

  "I know not these words."

  "Sorry. Sorry.” Úüv'élleblét/immo, she thinks desperately, trying to recall what she has learned in Ethnology. “Got it!” she exclaims. “Hwehbállu [buddy], can you take us to Úüv'élleblét/immo? Do you know the way?"

  "Teacher saith, the Way is within us,” intones the Firster. “And all places are this place.” Then the lilac-brown leaks back into cos fur, and co buries cos huge face in cos huge paws and weeps. It is such a Human way of weeping, so deeply recognizable, that before Pink knows what she is doing she has climbed into the mountain's huge lap and is putting both her slim (yet well-muscled) arms around co. And they sit this way, the Human child holding the alien one, for ten thousand years or so.

  * * * *

  8. Second Interlude: Long after the End of the Story.

  "This sure feels familiar,” says thirty-nine-year-old skipship navigator Juliana “Pink” Sévigny, wading hipdeep through the field of singing flowers.

  * * * *

  9. Near the Beginning of the Story Again, but after the Bassoons Discussion.

  "Ah don't get this wet-head ceremony,” says Bad Boy Mitch. All twenty-four members of the Orientation Class are sitting around the holotable in the big briefing room on Ring Five, waiting for their facilitators to show up, and Mitch, as usual, is pretending to be stupid just because he comes from Texas. “What happens? Me and my workpartner, do we get it on, or what?” To the embarrassed silence that follows his question he replies, “Come on, you people. You cain't tell me ah'm the only one heyah who's been wonderin’ that."

  "The word is fwét'het, not ‘wethead',” says a cool, cultured female voice. “And if by ‘get it on’ you mean ‘engage in genital congress,’ then I fear you face disappointment.” Professor Elena Magdalena Velasquez-Villareal, Chief of Xenoethnology for Concord Station, has walked into the chamber, followed by her partner, Vállanévra/Háttra'Unésta/fü. She is a dark-skinned, dark-haired Brazilian of astonishing beauty, attired in an impeccably tailored business suit. Her partner, who towers over her, is a pale-eyed Fourther with a disc-plaited, spinelength mane. “What precisely is your speciality, Mister Henderson?” the profesor says, fixing Mitch with her cool, cool gaze. “Plate tectonics? Olfact adhesion? Underwater basket weaving? Destroying ecosystems?"

  "Ah happen to be a famous writah,” says Mitch with dignity.

  "Romance holos,” pipes up Pink. “I looked it up.” Mitch gives her a glare and the rest of the class tries not to laugh, with varying degrees of success.

  "I only ask,” says Velasquez-Villareal, “because if you are—with the rest of this class—to represent the Human race to the Damánakíppith/fü of Shiphome, it is important that you get some basic terms correct."

  In cos three baritone voices, Vállanévra says, “As perhaps, my small friends, you have already been informed, the fwét'het is what in Brenglish may be termed the workpartner bonding ceremony. Fwet'héttaha is the term in Mánafu/túrrü for the workpartner with whom one bonds. The terms denote togetherness, opening to inclusion.” Co circles the room with the distinctive D'/fü hop-stride that Pink at first found funny but now scarcely notices, while from the alien arises a pungent, sweet scent not unlike that of lavender. “Kindly do not confuse the fwét'het with the tek bond. On Ámash/Bórmwu, the fwét'het ceremony is employed when individuals f
rom one tek must join in intensive but temporary partnership with individuals from another tek removed in distance from the home crêche."

  From her place near the door, Velasquez-Villareal says, “The ceremony involves six stages. The first stage is the gwann, the search or hunt for the suitable workpartner. When you arrive at Shiphome, most of you will be taken on a tour of those portions of Shiphome that are equivalent to your current Station departments. There you will seek out compatible potential workpartners, so it would be well to have prepared beforehand a mental list of qualities you feel would be suitable in a fwet'héttaha.

  "Once you find a suitable candidate, the second stage of the ceremony begins, the tyúnsten or greeting, which traditionally consists of the ritual expression, ‘Mággizhen tívvi üwéwn,’ that is to say, ‘Health, joy, and honor!’ Thereafter follows stage three, the bórmgwann, or invitation to fwét'het."

  "'Most’ of us, you say, Professor?” puts in Ndidi Nwosu, a brawny basso composer from Nairobi. “Who will not be included in the department tour?"

  "That'd be I,” says Pink faintly.

  "Djádthre,” says Vállanévra, hop-striding over to where Pink is sitting. Cos pale eyes are shining, and the discs on cos mane are chiming faintly. Co puts cos hands on her thin shoulders, and the scent of lavender grows stronger. “Citizen Sévigny is our very very special nem, are you not, Citizen? Great things of her we expect, I think. She will be taken on a special tour all her very own.” Pink thinks this has a slightly ominous ring to it, but nobody else seems to notice; they are all looking at her a trifle enviously, except for Mitch, who whispers loudly to the classmate seated next to him, “Special? That skinny little thing? Why, ah'v got hemorrhoids older than her."

  The beauteous Velasquez-Villareal gives Mitch a cold stare, then looks at her partner. “We were speaking of the bórmgwann, I believe?” she says.

  "Djádthre, djádthre,” agrees Vállanévra merrily, skip-hopping ‘round to take up a position behind Mitch's seat, which causes the Texan to crane his head up and around to catch a glimpse of the big creature's face. “Now among my fü,” proceeds the Fourther, smiling down at Mitch with cos huge moist loving eyes, “the bórmgwann or invitation to fwét'het is normally communicated via a specific cascade of te'rúllmann or sematophore expressions. Since your admirable species does not possess sematophores capable of directed emission—at least, not unless you have been consuming dried legumes—” [polite laughter here] “—each of you will be given, prior to your departure for Ámash/Bórmwu, six small vials or bulbils containing a chemical amalgam similar to the scents my fü emit for the bórmgwann.

  "When you encounter an individual whom you wish to invite to come to Concord Station as your fwet'héttaha, you simply remove the bulbil from its pouch, hold the bulbil in your cupped palm for no more than three seconds to allow the warmth and scent from your hand to penetrate its membrane, then release the bulbil before your chosen candidate."

  Annikki Mäkelä, a tall Finnish hydraulic engineer, raises her calloused hand. “Will we be the only ones doing the approaching, or will our hosts also be initiating the bórmgwann?” she asks.

  "For this first visit,” replies Velasquez-Villareal, “Shiphome is permitting this class to take the initiative. If all goes well, subsequent visits may be coordinated differently."

  "Why six bulbils?” asks Deng Bochao, a handsome young Chinese studying nanosuturing at the Station teaching hospital.

  "Because as you know, we D'/fü do everything in sixes,” replies Vállanévra/Háttra'Unésta/fü. “And because six bulbils give one the opportunity to approach more than one potential fwet'héttaha. For the bormkwúnaha, the one approached, may reject or accept the bórmgwann as co wills."

  Velasquez-Villareal says crisply, “The response to invitation constitutes the fourth stage of the ceremony, the zhóllaven or assessment of suitability, in which both the bormkwúnu, the approacher, and bormkwúnaha, the approachee, must spend a certain amount of time together, weighing carefully their mutual suitability. The time spent varies, but usually is taken up by conversation and mutual grooming, the object being to achieve rüzhruven and fwónnuven: intellectual and emotional intimacy. Thereafter comes stage five, the háhlhlappen or choice aye or nay; and the final stage, the fwét'het proper."

  "Is that when we get it on?” quips Bad Boy Mitch.

  "Now, now, honored wee one,” says Vállanévra, slapping the Texan's cheeks fondly. “You would not have us disclose all our mysteries, would you?” With long silver nailless fingers co tweaks Mitch's nose, then hops on. “The proceedings of the fwét'het vary from partnership to partnership, but one factor common to all such is paired dreaming, what my fü call hwérrik/vurráhn. I trust you have all completed your preparatory dream-practice? Yes? Ah, very good. Then you should have a very easy time of it indeed. Following the hwérrik/vurráhn, you will experience flénnen, a scent-marking by your fwet'héttaha, and with this the fwét'het ceremony will conclude."

  Derek Wright, a goateed New Zealand astronomer of compact build sitting on Pink's other side, leans close to her and whispers, “What sort of dreams do you think our Texan has?” which because of his accent comes out like, “What sort of drames d'ye think our Tixan hez?"

  Professor Velasquez-Villareal clears her lovely throat. “One more important matter remains to be discussed,” she says, “and that is the matter of your safety whilst you are in Shiphome. The class will be accompanied to Shiphome by your chaperones, Chief Linguists Nandi Ziomek and Bormwéthu/Havévno'Unésta/fü, and by a Security team made up of Officers Alexella Sanhueza and Chiriósso/Vevbróta'Dyéñe/fü. But as there are twenty-four of you and only four chaperones, their presence will not be sufficient to ensure your safety unless you keep the following points firmly in mind.” She stares at Mitch as she says this.

  "Firstly,” she goes on, “do not wander off by yourself. Stay with the group until it is time for your Shiphome guide to lead you to meet your D'/fü work-peers. Thereafter, stay with your guide, who will accompany you as you navigate the pre-fwét'het procedures. When you settle upon a fwet'héttaha who accepts your bórmgwann, stay with co through fwét'het until flénnen, when co marks you with cos scent; then let your new partner lead you back to the disembarkation bay. The reason for these precautions is that like all lifeforms, Shiphome possesses internal defense mechanisms that guard against infection and predation by foreign organisms. Until your fwet'héttaha marks you with cos scent, you run the risk of being mistaken for an invader by Shiphome's immune system. And I assure you that cos immune system is extremely efficient in disposing of invaders.

  "Remember, class: whatever you do, whatever befalls you on Shiphome, do not wander off."

  * * * *

  10. Back in the Tangles.

  They wander and wander and wander and wander and wander and wander and wander, Slídhadhrup taking very small steps so that Pink can keep up with co, until Pink can walk no more. Then Slídhadhrup picks her up and puts her upon cos wide hairy silver maneless back, and trots and trots and trots and trots and trots and trots and trots. Occasionally weird things divebomb them from the trees? giant pseudocorals? techno-organic art installation projects? towering overhead, forcing Slídhadhrup to stop, put Pink down, and fend the weird things off. It gets so cold they can see their breath in the air; then it grows so warm Pink nearly faints with the heat, though the lílyo appears unaffected. Gravity fluctuates, too, making footing and pacing dangerous. “Are you sure we're going in the right direction?” yells Pink to Slídhadhrup. (A nearby bush is screeching like a Mumbai cobra-rock band, making it difficult for her to hear herself speak.) “Saklósso brísh-brish,” is the Firster's roared reply ("The road is the road"). In other words, thinks Pink, who the hell knows?

  Along the way Slídhadhrup unhappily sniffs and samples all manner of potential edibles (bdéd'zhuzhahá'te): leaves (or what look like leaves), bark (or what looks like bark), blossoms (or what look like blossoms), insectoids. Pink, figuring she might as wel
l die full as die hungry, samples them, too, and though none of them kill her and a few taste vaguely pleasant they all go right through her and she ends up with hours of smelly diarrhea which leaves her weak and severely dehydrated. Slídhadhrup roars so many apologies over this that she ends up yelling back, “Samálla! [STOP!] Samálla, for Buddha's sake!” with such rudeness that the Firster flushes greenish-lilac with shame and sulks for what Pink's watch calls several hours. [The correct polite form ought to have been Yemállfye, “May we both stop, person-of-equal-rank."]

  Sulking, Slídhadhrup leaves her under an apparently innocuous, purplish-blue, magenta-tasseled bushlike object and goes off to find them both some water. Pink falls asleep under the bush-analogue and dreams she is back on Concord Station, describing to her Orientation Class her experiences in the Tangles. She is just coming to the part where she encounters the Vigilant Bird when a U.F.O. descends into the middle of the room and a queer six-headed creature sticks its head(s) out and says, in perfect French, “Non, non, mademoiselle, au jaune! au jaune!” [No, no, Miss; to the yellow! To the yellow!]; whereupon she wakes up to find the ceiling or sky or firmament far, far above lit up green in one direction and gold in another, and the “bush” licking her legs in a leisurely manner with its “tassels."

  Weeping with fear and self-disgust (she smells like a sewer), she struggles away from the pseudobush's mild attentions and trips over Slídhadhrup's tail. “Thou wakest, honorable wee insulter!” roars the Firster, not apparently unhappy to see her. “Vrórrimwa!” (Drink!) Co hands her a shining transparent globule textured like plastic, flanged by vestigial winglike bits, and possessing a sphincterlike pucker at one end. It is a smaller twin to the huge one in the Firster's other hand. “Suck at the anus, ah! Thou seest?” co instructs, demonstrating, and Pink is so thirsty she does so. Liquid trickles into her mouth, skin-temperature and very slightly salty. At first she gags, thinking of urine and menses and snot and seminal fluid and other examples of mammaliana. Then she remembers she is the daughter of an exozoologist, and sucks away womanfully. It starts to taste wonderful, and she has to force herself to drink it slowly.