by Gene Wolfe
The inhuma came, a bent and haggard figure that was not a woman, in a gown contrived of yellowing rags. She recalled Jahlee. Had Jahlee come to Blue for the human blood she needed and returned to Green, then come to Blue again? How long had she starved under the stone in Gaon?
The inhuma bent to drink, and he turned his head away and found himself crouching on the sand beside an earlier Horn who was seated on a blanket beside Nettle. Her right hand was in his; with her left, she pointed to a fish jumping far away, invisible against the setting sun but leaving silver circles on the calm swell of the sea. The fear of another pregnancy hung over them both, invisible as the fish but more real.
Nettle said, "Did you ever see anything so beautiful?"
He whispered in Horn's ear. You.
"When we were on the airship… Do you remember? I went up there alone. Up on the roof of the gondola. I never told you."
"I would have come with you."
"I know. But you were still asleep, and anyway I wanted to do it by myself, just once. It was the day before we got back to Viron, I'm pretty sure."
"It must have been cold," the Horn beside her said.
And he, the walker beside the sea, knew that Horn was thinking of the winter not long past that would soon come again, and the donkey frozen in the little hut he had built for it, and himself standing over it with his knife thinking that there had been some mistake that it could not be real, the donkey had been so young, not yet a year old, and it could not be happening; but back in the log house on the beach Jahlee had drunk her fill. Her fangs had vanished. She had licked the child's face and neck, and had wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, a ragged, painfully thin figure with famished eyes who melted through the doorway and was gone.
"It was, but not as cold as it was in Viron down on the ground once we got there. You couldn't see much sun, because the airship was sailing down the sun."
"I remember," the Horn beside her said.
"Just the same, I knew when the shade started to go up. I could see it in my mind, and the first light came down like gold dust."
The Horn beside her may have spoken then. Or not. If he did, the walker beside the sea crouching next to him did not hear him. In a moment the sun will be down. The stars will come out, and the wind grow cold. You will go inside and find Sinew, and it will never be the same again. Clasp her to you now. Tell her you love her now, before it is too late.
It was desperately urgent that he speak-desperately urgent that he be heard and understood. He rolled his head from side to side on the soft, crushed stems of the wheat, conscious that no sound issued from his lips.
His eyes opened. He sat up. It had been so real, all of it; but a dream, only a dream, and it was black night still.
He should lie down again, sleep again; in the morning, the men would expect him to lead them against his son's village.
We have been riding downhill all day. Winter is milder here, although it is still wretchedly cold. All of us would like very much to get inside, even the horses and Jahlee's mule-to escape the cold and the wind, if only for an hour.
We met other travelers today, four merchants with their servants and pack animals. We were glad to see them; but they, I believe, were even more glad to see us, because they had quarreled and were eager to air their grievances. I listened as long as I cold bear it and longer, reminding myself of all the foolish quarrels in which I myself have been involved, often as the instigator. It is educational as well as humiliating, to listen to others voicing complaints like our own. They were all thoroughly bad people of the type to which I myself belong-that is to say, bad people who are pleased to think themselves good.
At last Jahlee threw back her hood, leveled a trembling finger at the one who had been speaking and demanded to know what they wanted us to do.
"To judge between us," said one man, who had spoken less than the others. I believe his name is Ziek.
I explained that it would be quite useless for me to judge unless they would obey me as a judge, and one by one they pledged themselves to do so. Scylla is their principal goddess, I found, just as she was ours in Viron. That being the case I made them swear by Scylla, and by the Outsider, and by whatever gods might still linger here on Blue, and because I saw that had impressed them, by the Vanished People themselves.
When they had done so, I said, "Hear my judgment. You have so embittered yourselves, and forsworn yourselves, and tangled yourselves among competing claims and allegations that no peace is possible among you. There is no need, however, for you to torment yourselves as you have been doing. Am I to assume that you are all going to the same place?"
They were, to a town on the coast called Dorp.
"Then my judgment is that you must go there separately. You," I pointed to the largest of them, a man called Nat who seemed to be the richest too, "are to leave at once. How many of these horses and mules are yours?"
He had sixteen.
"Take them and go. Travel as fast as you can. We will rest here for a time before we follow you. When we ride again, it will be with the blond man in front, the one with the red cap between my son and me, and this one [by which I meant Ziek] behind my daughter. In an hour or so, I will send him ahead just as I'm sending you. In another hour another, and so on."
Nat protested. "What if I'm robbed? One man alone can't resist."
"Of course he can. He may be killed, but that is the risk he runs when he quarrels with his friends. Have your drivers collect your animals and go."
"Man go," Oreb seconded me.
He looked at me for a few seconds that seemed much longer, his eyes blazing with hatred. "I won't!"
"Then arrest him," I told the other three. "You've sworn to do as I tell you. Drag him off his horse and throw him down."
He drew a needler, but I struck his wrist with my staff. We have him still, I regret to say, with a valet, two drivers, eight horses, and ten mules. I had intended to have Hide untie him and remove his gag tonight so that he could eat, but I was tired and Hide was busy unloading and unsaddling our own horses, and hobbling them, and I forgot. From his size and the redness of his face, a missed meal is more apt to help then harm him, I believe. It will be enough to feed him in the morning before we let him go.
I am sleepy enough for two, but before I sleep I ought to say here that here we have four horses, not counting Jahlee's mule. That makes twenty-three animals, not counting Oreb, who seems to have gone exploring: Nat's mount, his valet's and his pack animals, my own mount and Hide's, the white mule, and two pack horses we took from the bandits, loaded with our scant baggage and some loot.
2. GREAT PAS'S GODLING
Her husband held the lamp while the woman poured warm water on his wounds. "What happened to you?"
He shook his head, and her husband snorted.
She said, "He doesn't know. Can't you see his face?" Then to him: "You can put that one down now. Hold out the other one. Over the bucket."
He obeyed as meekly as a child.
"Your cousin Firefly-"
"Firebrat," her husband said.
"He didn't know his name after he fell that time."
"You fall?" the husband asked. "Hit your head?"
"What's your name?"
He hesitated. "Horn."
"Don't want us to know," the husband remarked.
"They're clean now," the woman said. "Lots of people say wash them in wine, but water that's boiled is about as good, and wine costs."
He nodded gratefully.
She picked up the bucket, which was of wood bound with iron, carried it to the sink, and poured out pink water. "Where you from?"
"Lizard." (It had slipped out.)
"Lizard sent you? Who is he?"
"Are we in the Whorl?"
Her husband said, "Still here. They're tryin' to run us out, but we'll run them out 'fore we're through."
The woman sniffed. "Big talk."
"Then I'm from Viron. I was born there, and I grew up there." He felt a twin
ge of fear. "You're not at war with Viron here?"
The husband said, "They don't care about us out here."
"Where are we?" He looked around the kitchen as if the hulking black stove or the strings of onions suspended from the ceiling might provide a clue.
"Endroad." The wife tore a clean rag with a sound that made him think of blood and smoke and the rattle of buzz guns.
The husband nodded confirmation. "Endroad. 'Bout as far from Viron as you can get, without you go into the wild."
"We're not really there," the woman said briskly. "Hold out your arm. That one's starting to bleed again." She wound clean, worn cloth about it. "Take you about an hour to get to Endroad when the sun comes back."
"Nearest place, though," her husband explained.
"Only place," she corrected him.
"I don't want to become a burden to you."
Neither answered.
"I suppose I am already, but when you've finished bandaging those, I'll go."
"Knife cuts?" The husband sounded a trifle more friendly.
"I don't-" He recalled the knife on the floor. How threatening it had looked! "Yes," he said. "I believe so."
"Ah! Tried to fight him off." Slyly, "Was it a godlin'?"
That was a new word to him.
The woman said, "A godling would've killed him."
"Big one would've," her husband agreed.
He wanted to ask her what godlings were, but sensed that he should not. "I saw your light." That seemed safe. "I had gone to sleep in a field. In one of your fields, I suppose. When I woke, it was the only light that I could see anywhere, and so I walked toward it. I-I hope-"
"If you drink you get into these fights," the woman told him severely. "Leave that to the young ones."
"Only house hereabouts," her husband said, "'cept manse."
Surprised, he looked up. "Is there an augur here?"
"Not no more."
The woman tied the last knot and straightened up. "There used to be. Still belongs to the Chapter, they say." She eyed him narrowly. "Some woman's there now. Came out from the city, I guess. You know her?"
"I don't know." He stood. "What's her name?"
"Don't talk much," the woman said.
Her husband lowered the lamp and set it on the battered table. "She went over there to be friends, but she just shut the door on her. Said she was sick."
"She looked sick, too." The woman hesitated. "Want something to eat? I guess we could spare something."
He shook his head. "I don't wish to impose on you any more. I'll leave now." He glanced at the open window, wincing inwardly at the utter darkness beyond it. "Have you any idea how long it will be until shadeup?"
"Shadeup?" The husband spat through the window.
The woman said, "Forgotten, haven't you."
"Forgotten what?" There was a stick in the corner, a rough stick far from straight that he decided must be his.
"Darkday. Sun goes out. Gone out now."
Vaguely he recalled an incident on Sun Street, the altar in the middle of the street, with the sacred window in which Echidna had appeared, the heat that had followed the darkness, and the blazing fig tree. "I know," he said.
"You'll get hurt." The woman spoke as if the words had been forced from her. "You'll get hurt again. You stay here until the sun comes back."
He looked from one to the other. "Don't you know…?"
"No tellin'." There was anger as well as resignation in the husband's voice. "Gods been blowin' it out to make us go."
The woman sighed. "Something's wrong in your head, or you'd know."
"I'm going to tell you the truth. I mean all the truth. Everything, as I should have from the beginning."
There was a silence. At last the woman said, "Go on."
"I haven't lied to you. I was born and brought up in Viron, exactly as I said. But I've spent over twenty years on Blue."
The lack of any expression on their plain, work-worn faces seemed to show they had not understood. He said, "Blue is what we call one of the whorls outside the Whorl."
Neither spoke.
"Because it looks blue, you see, when you're high above it in a lander. Blue with streaks of white cloud, really, but you have to be close to see them. From Green it's just a blue dot, when the sky is clear enough for you to see it. I lived on Blue for years, as I said. After that I was on Green for a long time. Or at least, it seemed like a long time to me. I suppose it was actually only half a year or so; but I've been away from this whorl a long time. That's all I'm trying to say."
The woman muttered, "You been where they keep trying to get us to go."
"The gods? Yes. Yes, I have."
The husband asked, "Why'd you come back?"
"To find Silk. Do either of you know Patera Silk? Calde Silk of Viron?"
Neither spoke. They edged closer together, regarding him through slitted eyes.
The rest seemed remote and unimportant, but he included it anyway. "Also to bring back new strains of corn and seeds of other kinds, and to study certain manufacturing processes. But mostly to bring Silk to New Viron, on Blue."
"Seed corn? Can't give you much, need it for us."
He nodded humbly. "A few would be enough. Six, perhaps."
The husband shook his head like a mule that does not want to take the bit. "Can't spare six ears."
"Six seeds, I meant. Six grains of corn."
"That'd be enough?"
"Yes, I'd be very grateful."
The woman asked, "How'd you get back?"
"I don't know." He found that he was staring at the wide, warped boards of the floor, his head between his hands; he forced himself to straighten up and look at her. "The Neighbors did it. The Neighbors are the Vanished People, the people who used to live on Blue a thousand years ago. They brought me here in some fashion, but I don't know how."
"When did you get here?"
"Yesterday. At least, I've slept once since I got here." He strove to remember. "There was sunlight when I arrived. I'm quite certain of that."
The husband nodded. "Days don't matter much. It's sun, or no sun. If you find Silk, how're you going to take him back?"
"In a lander, I suppose. You said the gods were trying to make you go."
Both nodded, their faces grim.
"So there must be landers left, perhaps landers that have come back for more people. The gods wouldn't try to force you out if there were no way for you to leave."
The husband spat out the window again. "They don't work. That's what I hear."
"I've had some experience of that on Green." He crossed the kitchen, finding his legs stronger than he had anticipated, and picked up his stick.
The woman said, "I'm going to fry some bacon. Haven't done it much on account of the heat. But I'm going to fry some soon as I get the stove going."
"That's very kind of you." As he spoke, he realized that he was more sincere than he had imagined. "I'm grateful-really I am. But I don't need food, and certainly don't need luxuries."
She had pushed back a curtain that had once been a sheet to search nearly empty shelves, and seemed not to have heard him. "I'll make coffee, too. Coffee's dear, but there's enough left for another pot."
He recalled the beverage of his childhood. "Mate, please. I'd like some. I haven't drunk mate in a long while."
Her husband said, "You want that seed corn? We got to fetch it out of the barn." He held a stick of his own, a thick staff more like a club than a cane.
"Yes, I do. Very much."
"All right." The husband leaned his staff against a chair, and rummaged under the table.
The woman asked him to pump, and he did so, heaving the big iron handle up and down until the rusty water was past and she had enough clean water to fill her coffeepot.
The husband pulled out a clumsy tin lantern and lit it from the lamp. "We'll go now. That'll take her a bit." An inclination of his head indicated the stove.
The woman murmured, "Coffee, bacon, and brea
d." She turned to face them. "That be enough?"
"More than enough. And I'd prefer mate, I really would."
The husband opened the door (letting in the ink-black dark), retrieved his staff, and raised his lantern. "Come on," he said, and they went out together.
"Is it dangerous out here? When the sun has gone out, I mean." He was thinking of the husband's staff.
"Sometimes. Horn, that's your name?"
"Yes," he said. "I'm afraid I didn't catch yours."
"Didn't throw it." The husband paused, chuckling at his joke. "You want that seed?"
"Very much." Something or someone was watching them, he felt-some cool intelligence greater than his own who could see in darkness as in daylight. He pushed the thought aside, and followed the husband, walking rapidly across dry, uneven soil as hard as iron.
"Know how to grow corn?"
"No." He hesitated, fearful that the admission would cost him the seed. "I tried once, and learned that I didn't-I had thought I did. But the seeds you give me will be planted by men who know a great deal. My task is to bring it to them."
"Won't grow in the dark."
He recalled speculating that those denied the Aureate Path might grow crops, and smiled. "Nothing does, I suppose."
"Oh, there's things. But not corn." The husband opened a wide wooden door, evoking scandalized protests from chickens. "Sun don't come back, that's the end for us. You comin'?"
He was staring upward into the pitch-black sky. "There's a point of light up there. One very small point of red light. Is it in the skylands? You have skylands here."
"That's right."
"On Blue the night sky is full of stars, thousands upon thousands of them. I'm surprised to see even one here."
"That's a city burnin'."
He looked down, horrified.
"Some city burns up there just about every time they blow the sun out. You want that corn? You come along."
He hurried into the barn.
"I grow my own seed. Two kinds. You can't let 'em cross. Or cross with any other kind, either. You know about that?"
He nodded humbly. "I think so."
"Cross 'em, and you'll get good seed. Plant it to grind and feed the stock. Don't plant the next, though. You got to go back to these old kinds and cross again. Six, you said."