To the west, plunging away into a distance haze to form the other side of this vast forsaken corridor, were the force-walls of an enclave of a very different kind, roiling and full of violence, rearing up into the purple-bronze sky like sheets of amber and pearl: the ley walls of Rollinsgame, a demon-ley, if intel showed it fairly. There the walls were honey-milk clear at first glance, though with sudden snatches of darkness beyond, darkness streaked with reds and quick stabs of scarlet.
But the thing, the chance, the wonder of it was - look ahead, look between those narrowing, converging walls with the Sequester to the right and the opalescent eye-trickery of Rollinsgame to the left and you had it. By quirk of physics, optics, photonics, purest luck, the turned grasses seemed green enough, the sky an ersatz blue enough, for it to give Humans a tricked-up glimpse of something they knew to yearn for: green lands, blue skies and, by the most precious serendipity of the lot, the sense of golden light. Golden. Taken together, it was the biotype’s optimum: the Pre-Wormwood norm. How could they not come here?
So obvious, too, why the single window opened onto such a view, the only thing needed. Such was the power of his localization, Raine understood.
Who knew what sims and scapes, what museum photographs, salvaged celluloids and old-style digitals, what ancient hobbyist watercolours and children’s drawings gave that reality, but here it was, and Humans found in this and a scattering of other such precious places enough of the dream.
By the Lady!
As they said. As they always said now. By the Lady!
But Raine knew more of the Lady than they did, grasped the terrible irony of how error and misunderstanding working with chance had made it possible. Such a joke.
A Human moved forward from the shadows, a slender older woman with her long grey hair tied back. She wore a plain white robe, unadorned but for a simple line-work square inside a circle at the right shoulder. Window on the world, it said. In the world. The old biome.
“Welcome, Great Lord. I am Josephine Cantal, custodian here.”
Raine inclined his head slightly. “You are the priest, the priestess - what is the word? - the sacerdote?”
“Just custodian, Lord. I care for this Window.”
“But priest. Is this the word?”
“For some, Lord. But the Lady is not a goddess.”
“Not?”
“There is no divinity.”
“Ah.” As with so much else, the translation was instantly there. “Then what?”
“Just a way of remembering how it was before the Cohabitation. ‘Mondegreen’ is an old coining. It means ‘green world’ in a blending of two old languages.”
Raine, fiercely localized, knew otherwise, and knew enough of the broken histories to have countless templates for convenient deities masking social unrest: Roman Judaea and the Jesuits - were those the right names? - many templates for errors as origins: the story of Romulus and Remus being raised by a wolf when in fact it came from the Etruscan word for Rome, Rumlua, or Hong Kong being named, quite wrongly, after the giant primate deity that once occupied its central tower. Such were the free radicals of circumstance.
He knew to proceed slowly. “No statues, no depictions. Just that insignia you wear. The square inside the circle. Not that heraldic animal many Humans choose. Explain that.”
“The butterfly is a transformation animal, Lord. A rebirth animal. The Aviators at Wenna wear it because they pilot their kites above the city. It is a good sign for them. A good Old Earth animal.”
“Once there was a fish. That was special too. And a raven. Many phoenix animals.”
“I’ve been told so, Lord. This is just the Window.”
“This window?”
“Yes, Lord. Others like it. What’s called a Truth Window.”
“So I have learned. I’m told this is the main one.”
“Some say that. I cannot know. It is hard to travel.”
“Too dangerous?”
Josephine Cantal knew better than to mention the culls, samplings and secondments, the impresses and imposts that kept the Human population small and docile. “There is this to do.”
“Guarding a window?”
“Explaining it to interested parties like yourself.”
Raine’s localization allowed him subtleties and ironies, let him tease and provoke. “But you see me as an enemy, surely.”
“No, Great Lord.” She gestured back to the view of golden light on waving, green enough prairie. “The only true enemy is forgetting.”
“I sincerely understand. I am not your enemy. Not today.”
“No, Great Lord. Today you came here.”
“Possibly for reasons other than you think. This is not - favour.” More terms came at once. “Not endorsement or sanction. Do not presume.”
Josephine Cantal bent her head. “Forgive me, sire. Your localization is beyond compare. It is easy to forget.”
“Continue then.”
“Just as you have modelled this outcome for whatever purpose, Lord, we have modelled a day such as this. A member of the Great Races coming.”
“Others will be here soon.”
“Darzie?”
Raine turned back towards the open doorway, crest spines ablating as the rudiments of a distant hunt-cycle were diverted. “Perhaps. Perhaps something neither of us has ever modelled. Let us go and see.”
~ * ~
Fourteen minutes later, the Matt house-lord arrived in an ornate, fieldwork charabanc, a hovering egg-shaped ground-effect vehicle whose curving outer hull deliberately resembled an ancient Pre-Wormwood circuit mat, but one stitched all over with goldwire extruded from its own body. No military accompaniment for Holding-in-Quiet, since there was always the sense, more than with any other Race in the Patchwork, that the Vanished Ones, the Nobodoi masters who had picked these reclusive archaeologist scholars of Matteras to be one of the three Bridge Races, could very well protect them in some special way. Fear as much as proven service and privilege held this great alliance in place.
Fond Louie must have been watching, waiting for the Matt’s arrival, for suddenly he was there as well, rushing through the grass, massive legs pounding as he ran as a full choi fighting-star, trunks embedded in the spinal sockets of four armed and armoured Humans dressed in the glossy black beetlepoint of Nefarious Waylayers.
To watch them run, shouting and yipping, waving their hooks and long-bladed jerrykins, was a splendid, unnerving sight, a beautifully synchronized star-wheel with the elephantine host drawing on the disparate emotions of his companions. Only when the huge creature and his troupe had lumbered to a halt did the trunks release and coil back against the body in the no-threat mode.
Bringing them to Crisis Point One.
Raine had six Elsewheres, warriors whose minds were only provisionally here, their core selves forever focused on a homeworld they would never see again. The choi immediately deployed, fell back and took positions behind whatever rises and grassy knolls they could find.
For a moment there was silence, the sense of it at least with the wind stirring the grass, the distant roar of the force walls and the poisonous sizzle of hot-glass on the air. With it, vividly for Raine with his biasing, was the sense of the world working, reality being made.
Fond Louie waited in the road. Raine and Josephine Cantal were by the door to the church. The line of Elsewheres stood to their right, held precariously to this task, heads averted, gazing beyond this place, but ready, ready.
It might have been all of ten seconds. Then the door of the charabanc lifted away, and Holding-in-Quiet emerged, seated cross-legged on its havel, moving forward as measured and stately as the Matt always were careful to be in public. No walking, no stepping out - only the file sims showed the Matta walking, running, striking - but composed upright. It had passed through a doorway just now, the most profound act in a Matta’s life; this blighted, wondrous place was now briefly an extension of its house, however that could be construed.
Raine watch
ed the creature approach. Like any fully quickened representative of the Encosium-on-Earth, he had studied the Matta, had had sufficient dealings with them, faux and actual. Fond Louie had. But Josephine Cantal had never seen one in the flesh, possibly in any form of accurate depiction; knew them only as fellow demons with the Darzie and the Hoproi in cook-fire and cradle stories. Raine saw her chin lift and her eyes widen just enough at her first glimpse of the long horse-skull visage, the articulated neck rising from the red robe draped about the shoulders, the chest like a clustering of tightly sheaved sticks, glittering with points and curls of goldwire that would later be used to make an identity artefact of this special day.
Raine turned to his Elsewheres, subvocalized a quick command. The warriors phased out, three back to Nobion high above, three into quarterhold stasis.
“Good move!” Fond Louie boomed, and began lumbering towards the building at last. “Parley party begins now. Come to church, pray-mates!”
~ * ~
The Matt scholar’s havel fitted through the doorway easily enough, but Fond Louie didn’t even try. He waited till the others had entered then simply blocked the entrance, pressing against the arch so that a trunk and a single eye faced into the dim interior.
Raine prepared to make the appropriate introductions, but even as Holding-in-Quiet lowered its havel by the eastern wall, Josephine Cantal moved as close as she dared and bowed to the creature.
“Lord, you have blessed this house. You have honoured this doorway by making it yours.”
The horse-insect head canted up and out. “Honour to your household, gracious.”
Then, before Raine could continue, this bold Human female took her host’s right.
“Great Lords, may I ask why each of you came here today?”
“Can you guess?” Raine asked. He managed to excuse her manner, allowed that this would simply be a tailored version of her usual custodian question.
“It can’t just be curiosity, Lord,” the old Human female said. “Despite your fine localization. It might be maintaining constants. Population control. A contingency visit, I suspect.”
Raine nodded in the Human way. “A bookkeeper’s attention to detail and order, I believe some Humans say of us.”
“I do not know that second word, sire.”
“Me say it,” Fond Louie boomed behind them. “Me go rote. Speech prepared for show and tell.” And just like that the crazy patois mish-mash fell away, was replaced by the clearspeak recital of something carefully planned and considered, vetted by the protocol comps and choi impresses. As always, the modal shift was chilling to hear.
“You built this structure here by my Sequester. This ley corridor runs all the way through Otis Reach to Sallingen, then branches off down mighty leys to Focalstone and Blown Jetty. Blown Jetty, you hear me? Once it was just solitaries who came here, wanderers, nomads, Humans fleeing impresses or selling on their genetics to the scattered communities. Then it was the siswitch troupes stopping between performance destinations, lingering to cherish the light. The light grade here is sachel, Albatel 4, well quantified. I ask myself, my chapter, do we want this proximity, this corridor being this order of pass-through. What if it upsets a balance, tolerances in the Patchwork, draws reprisal: madonnas out of Calledal or Fonsy Halt, seeker spikes from Rollinsgame itself, right at our door? Demon ley or sentinel ley, it’s a shifting one that, always changing. Should we worry? So we consider it together - you will smile at the prospect - and I consider it alone. Great Lord, me. My Sequester.”
“What will you do, Fond Louie?” Josephine knew enough of the Hoproi to use both names, no honorific.
“Tricky business.” He was falling back into his usual patter. “We like having Humans handy, going to church, building strained grass windows, being canon fodder! God’s rockets, yes! Our fodder whose hart is in heaven! Love it! We get to mix the business. Careful is a pain. A point of intrigue, you betcha! A wait-see. A must-see wait-see.”
Josephine Cantal had her back to the Window now, facing the great shape pressed into the doorway. “There is no formal movement here, Fond Louie. I swear it. No attempt at - destabilization, resurgence. It’s just what it appears to be, a way of remembering.”
“You say, Josephine Cantal, church-mouse, house-mouse. Home a hole in a bucket. This bucket. That bucket. Deer fodder in heaven. Where the hart is. Long as it has a handle, we don’t care. We needing the handle.”
“There are so few of us now, Fond Louie.”
“Bad window just the same. Naughty window, this viewpoint. Bring this to my Sequester. No easy antlers now.”
To those who did not know Hoproi, it sounded like anger, by the pitch, the rush, the volume and tone. But Raine knew it was excitement, even mirth. Fond Louie was delighted to have something, anything, to elevate into a threat, an issue, the prospect of a war-game.
“We have this to do,” Raine said, then turned to Holding-in-Quiet. “What have you learned, edenye?”
The Matta leant forward, its head did, swinging out on that oddly jointed neck. Beneath the robe, its chest gleamed with goldpoint.
“The naming here: Truth Window. Fond Louie prepared clearspeak for this time. Such honour. I had this done for common ease. The name is from hay-bale residences on Pre-Wormwood Earth. A dwelling built from hay bales would be finished - sealed - with a coating. Whitewashed stucco. Smooth like this temple. But always a part was left to show what was within, a view into the substance of the house. This was called a Truth Window.”
Raine was fascinated, delighted. “Coincidence, you think, edenye?”
“I do, aradenye. Not even metaphor. No equivalent to look into. For remembering.”
“Josephine?” Raine asked. It sounded beautifully Human the way he said it, so natural and intimate.
“As this lord says. Just a window. A reminder for us. No agendas, Lord. Just for remembering.”
Raine studied the woman with something like compassion. This exchange had to be so disconcerting for her. Here he stood in the ‘striking erect’, the Darzie hunt stance, arms curved in, crest spines fully distended, maximum intimidation to so many Races. To the side was Holding-in-Quiet, imperturbable, so overtly calm but for a single gesture just now, a dramatic, downward sweep of the arm as it brushed the curls of goldwire from its chest so the tailings fell behind the containment rim of its havel. Behind them, the mass, the trunks, the single glaring eye of Fond Louie filled the doorway. So much that had to be confronting for the member of a Race used to suffering at our hands.
It was time for the rest of it.
“Then now I ask the question which brought us here today. Who is the Lady we hear about? I know more of her origins than you do, Josephine. A Pre-Wormwood writer, Sylvia Wright, coined the term long ago, published it in 85 PW, 1954 BCE. She had misheard the lyrics of an old song.
Ye Highlands and Ye Lowlands
Oh where hae you been?
They hae slay the Earl of Moray,
And laid him on the green.
This Human heard that final line as the name of his consort, so it became They hae slay the Earl of Moray, And Lady Mondegreen. Years later, when she finally learned the truth, she collected other examples: Gladly the Cross-Eyed Bear, Sinon the Dotted Lion, Round John Virgin. All based on mishearings. She called them mondegreens. There is no other history for your Lady.”
Josephine Cantal actually smiled. “But of course there is, sire. You have given useful facts, details, and we welcome them. But the Lady pre-dates this misheard song. Lord Raine, you’ve read the broken histories. She is Mother Earth, the Earth Mother, nothing more, nothing less. The world personified, as a yearning, a recognition, an acknowledgment. There is no intention, no infrastructure, no need to make her anything more.”
“But there is more to it, yes?” Destabilisation, Raine didn’t have to say. A shift in the status-quo. “Make a case for continuance.”
Continuance. Josephine Cantal understood the moment exactly.
“This th
en. A question which must cross all your minds. Lords, what if the Nobodoi approve of this? We’re told they left the world this way deliberately, conquered, re-made and withdrew, and now watch to see what happens. Not called away. Not simply moving on, but watching. Their were-suits wander the world; all that is left of them. I haven’t travelled far, but I have seen the soul-stones littering the fields and roadways outside Kefa and Tresimont, sitting in the dust, those balls of chalk. You, Great Lords, know so much more but say Recalled Ones, as if they have truly gone. It is good to have a sense of irony. But their were-suits still come and go as they please. I’ve seen a few near here. Full triunes all of them, the way they’re meant to be: suit, Companion, Snake, all three parts vigorous and strong with ghostworks sparking around them. These may not just be automated watch systems left to ramble about, not just sentinel engines with soul-stone mummies inside.”
The Year's Best Australian SF & Fantasy - vol 05 Page 11