A Succession of Bad Days

by Graydon Saunders

  Lots of motivation, too, which is likely why thousand-punch-drill and shape-shifting start the same day. One of the reasons why, anyway. We’ve all got this consistent ache to motivate us.

  “Stuck means, no one can help, stuck?” I try not to sound too worried about that.

  Grue nods, smiling away. “Commonweal law forbids turning other citizens into anything. There are a few, tightly supervised, participatory medical exceptions, but those, aside from taking a committee and a year or two to set up, wouldn’t help, because shape-shifting, like life generally and the Power specifically, isn’t reversible. If you’re a swan, you’re really a swan, it’s not like changing your hat. You don’t have a default state, you’re an ongoing process. Being alive means your metabolism tries to stick to a fairly narrow range of states, but there’s still no default Edgar-thing to turn you back into.”

  Grue stands up straighter and looks completely serious. “Shape-shifting is optional. You’re going to make irreversible changes in yourself, and while just not dying does that, shape-shifting does it very much faster. It’s an important skill, it makes parts of becoming an Independent, transitioning to a metabolism based on the Power, much easier, but this really is an optional class.”

  Dove? Figure it’s worth it? We’ve figured out how not to be overheard, at least not by fellow students. They can both tell we’re talking if they pay attention, but it’s a bit less annoying for Zora.

  There’s an actual pause, not rhetorical, really thinking. Got a pretty good notion of who I am, comes back. I’d say you’re taking the larger risk.

  Well, if I wasn’t risking both of us, but Dove’s extremely polite about not pointing that out.

  Being a big spider’d limit my social opportunities. Kinda want a recovery option.

  I can feel Dove’s smile right through Chloris. Good point.

  Zora sighs, directs a very-best level of martyred look at Grue. “No slumping, they’re in. I’m in.”

  Not completely less annoying.

  “Dove?” Grue says.

  “We’re in.” Dove smiles, one of the rare just-happy smiles. “Could stand to shed some years, the way Block’s notion of training’s going.”

  Grue nods, smile a little wider. “Block’s consistent.”

  “Could I turn myself into someone with no talent?” Chloris says, looking straight ahead.

  “Not anymore,” Grue says. “It’s possible, there are well-attested incidents, but it’s extremely rare and you’ve got too much metaphysical self for that to work. There are some Bad Old Days things that removed talent by alteration of shape, instead of name, but those didn’t work reliably, and you can’t do them to yourself. It would take someone really strong, too, you need a great deal more Power than the person you’re doing it to.”

  Chloris, it isn’t sighing, it’s a long exhale, Chloris goes foggy for a few seconds. “I’m in.”

  There’s a little bit of a pause from Grue, looking at us. “Good.”

  “Two rules, you have to think about them. You’re going forward. You don’t think about how.”

  No how, well, I don’t know how I do anything with the Power, not really. I know how I think about it. Having to think about all of how my insides work at one time, even if I knew, if anyone knows or could know, not going to do that. Not with a thousand years to build a mystical brain for the specific purpose.

  Forward, forward has to be — “We’re talking about forward, as in keep the metabolism going forward?”

  Grue shimmers through a male, rather more muscular, version, an apparently normal self except with a tide of glowing hair to the floor, something bipedal and mostly green, normal self again with black hair that fades, in about twenty seconds, to its usual old-gold colour.

  “Am I the same?”

  “More different than just living through that span of time?” Dove says, slow and perplexed.

  Grue may do half a head-tip, there isn’t a lot of movement, I think it’s the angle of the light, you can feel the question even if Grue doesn’t move much.

  Dove having realizations makes me blink, there’s the impression of a bright light. “Discontinuous, it has to be more different, you didn’t stay human, whatever that green thing was, there has to be a discontinuity of metabolism.”

  Grue nods, pleased.

  “No discontinuity?” Chloris. “While we’re practising?”

  “Muscles that don’t hurt?” Zora sounds doubtful. “Quickly? Pack the next three days into five seconds, muscle-tissue wise? There’d be a fire. Something jumps.”

  Grue nods. “Something jumps.”

  “Forward’s a direction.” I get a ‘go on’ motion from Grue.

  “Changing shape’s free, the Power does it, if you ask right, we’re not supposed to think about that part. I mean, I think Zora’s right about the catching fire, we’re doing something discontinuous, but thinking about gaps isn’t going to work, everything we’ve done has been either results or intent, some kind of pressure.”

  “So I figure it has to be right now, I don’t want, me, the awareness I have of myself, I don’t want that to blink in and out, that’d be bad. So right now has to go forward, but right now is a point, there’s this theoretical single momentary point in time. Only now it needs to be an ellipse, stretched, something. Leaning out more into the not-past.”

  Grue nods. “Chloris, Zora, that work for you?” It might not work for Dove, precisely, but Grue can be certain Dove knows what I meant.

  “Maybe.” Zora’s voice has room for a lot of maybe.

  Chloris’ head shakes. “If I’m thinking of passing breath to the future, the me-exhaling isn’t the me-inhaling, is that the right kind of thing?”

  Grue nods again. “That should work.”

  “One last thing,” Grue says. “Self-image runs behind. You can’t shape-shift yourself out of your talent, but shifting out of the last three months of exercise is just as easy as shifting out of the muscle-ache.”

  Grue produces an impression of vast glee. “Or the hangover, shifting does have compensations.”

  Serious again, like a lid came down. “Spread out from each other a bit, you don’t want to hear each other breathing, and try.”

  Breathing with intent is automatic by now, it takes concentration to notice that’s what I’m doing. Power, there’s easily more than I want to apply to my own flesh. Don’t want to think of anything as slices or stirring, either, this is me, not some rocks. Best thing I can think of to try is still the elliptical now, make now lean into the future where I don’t hurt and am as fit as the muscles healing would have left me.

  I don’t get anywhere. There’s a lot of Power swirling around, I’ve got the concentration to do something, if I could get a grip on what.

  What eludes me. I’ve had time to stiffen, it’s been at least a couple hours or it’s much cloudier, no, a couple hours, turning around to look out on these window sills keeps feeling like looking through the wall, and this time it serves strong notice that I’m stiff.

  Grue’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by something swirling, lots of narrow lines in different colours. Grue’s eyes open as I step down, close again as I point at the door to the main-floor privy-room.

  The others are still off somewhere. Zora goes sparkly, there’s no other word for it. I put a big pot of wood lettuce tea to steeping, and make a small pot — in the Creeks, a small teapot holds a bit more than a litre — of something that won’t poison me. It smells like hay, dry, but it’s quite nice steeped. Grue sort of flows upright and collects a cup, which leaves us both standing by the counter, well aside from the big teapot with the wood-lettuce.

  “Blossom would be easier to talk into a hypocaust if she ever felt cold,” Grue says, not really to me or the teacup.

  Chloris emerges next, walks, it looks like floats, but I don’t think it really is, over in a cloud of silver-green lamentation, fair and terrible.

  Self-image lags behind, drifts into my head from Gru
e, wrapped in the secrecy of a smile, watching Chloris’ green mug poured full and salted, spoon ringing faintly. For just long enough for Chloris to lift the mug, take a sip, and set it down, Chloris’ face stays the perfect still countenance of the death of all that lives.

  “Nothing,” Chloris.

  “It takes practice,” Grue says, smile behind the teacup.

  Zora scowls the sparkles back into nothing or Zora, I can’t tell, walking over, it’s not illusion, I don’t know what it is, it’s still mostly purple, a lot of shades of purple. Zora’s mug’s half vinegar, and gets heated all back to the tea heat. Creeks are weird about food.

  Dove comes over last, a waft of hot metal and fleeing enemies. I don’t know how I know, no one’s ever so much as hastened out of my way, but it’s fleeing enemies.

  Grue sets the cup down as Dove lifts the gold mug. “You’re going to practise shape-shifting in the afternoons until you can. It’s going to take awhile.”

  “Awhile?” Zora, apprehensive.

  “As long as it takes.” Grue is completely serious, raises a hand. “This isn’t like going for an Independent, there aren’t inevitable horrible consequences to stopping.”

  Grue waits, to be sure we’ve all understood that.

  “We’re teaching you backwards, by the traditional standards. Simple things that use lots of the Power first, then less simple things that use substantial Power, and finishing off with complex stuff, which is generally required to use small amounts of the Power so as to be possible.”

  We all sort of nod.

  “Shape-shifting — ” Grue briefly has golden skin and light brown hair — “isn’t the easiest, but is probably the safest, and certainly the most generally useful, of the less simple things.”

  “Keep at it 'till we’ve got it?” Dove doesn’t believe that’s a question.

  “If you keep at it, you’ll get it.” Grue’s head shakes, in some kind of solemn good humour. Two of them makes Dove blush, I’ve never seen Dove blush before. Which is good cover for how confused it makes me, Grue means, I think Grue means, Blossom is the other one.

  “If we get it, can we change ourselves on purpose?” Zora doesn’t normally sound tentative.

  “Can, but not necessarily should.” Grue’s gone considering. “What do you want to change?”

  “I’m over on the reliable side of things.” Zora’s trying to say this as though it isn’t important. “Not much in the way of prospects.”

  Grue looks sympathetic. We might all, legally, be the same social age, we might all, legally, be adults. If Zora likes reliable, tavern visits aren’t much of a solution, and none of us could get into a tavern anyway. None of us should consider trying.

  Anybody Zora’s actual age and brave and interested, after the water tank and the wings and the eight thousand tonnes of marble, well. Either uncles or aunts would sit them down for a long talk, as many as it took.

  “You’re actively using the Power,” Grue says, wry and friendly and implacable all together. “You’re developing control, you haven’t actually got control yet, not surprised or distracted or orgasming. Anyone you have sex with right now dies, possibly of joy.” Grue makes a face and half a hand motion and what might have been an illusion doesn’t happen. “Even if they were as talented as you are, and the Power balanced.”

  “A larger mess,” Dove says, not precisely amused.

  Zora and Chloris certainly aren’t amused. I’m trying to tell distressed from morose when Grue straightens up, goes formally teacher somehow.

  “Shape-shifting out of urges is one of the two big reasons Independents don’t fall in the average range of sexual appetites.” Grue’s being carefully neutral. “I wouldn’t make that choice quite yet.”

  “What’s the other reason?” Chloris, well, call it nervous.

  “Not including an interest in sex in their metaphysical self.” Grue has a moment of looking as though contemplating seducing laid bricks. “It’s surprising what people forget.”

  My eyes are some of the wide ones.

  “Sex is necessary to life.” Halt’s unmistakable voice. Halt, unmistakably, sitting at the kitchen table, knitting away. “Sorcerers reproduce ever so much more reliably through teaching.”

  “Here in case Ed pupated?” Dove was surprised, my surprise and Dove’s surprise sorta splashed through each other, but Dove doesn’t sound it.

  Halt smiles. “More concerned for hatching, Dove dear.” Soundless knitting needles really don’t explain how we could possibly not have noticed the door opening. That door clanks.

  Chloris looks away from Halt, at Grue, takes such command over voice and features that the aura of lamentation extends past the kitchen table. It eddies around Halt, a metre or more away. “I have no right to ask this, it’s not any of my business at all, but it makes a huge difference to how I understand your advice. Are you and Blossom lovers?”

  Grue nods, gently. “Yes. Though that is much like the principal flavour of my talent in terms of how it is discussed.” Infrequently, among Independents, and not at all otherwise.

  Chloris says “Thank you,” and looks even more confused.

  Grue, quietly male, says, even more gently, “Blossom has no sexual interest in women, but it works out.” This particular smile, well, Grue, just being male is no reason one can’t seduce laid bricks. Probably the second course of bricks, hidden in the wall. “Twice a season wouldn’t work out, except the rule is no other women when I’m male, and anything I like otherwise.”

  Dove takes my hand. I’m not actually appalled, but it takes thinking. Of course a shape-shifter has more social options. Dove knew, this isn’t new in Dove’s knowledge. Zora’s visibly thinking very fast, and I think Chloris has just stored it all, not thinking so it’s possible to get to the rest of the question.

  “But with who?” Chloris says. “Tavern visits, even if I look just like this, feel just like this, when I’m a hundred? I mean, it might be, be decent if they’re feeling celebratory and hopeful and everybody thinks it’ll be fun, but that wouldn’t be enough now, it’ll be a lot less then.”

  Halt’s voice, quiet over the clicking of needles. “You can change your mind later, dear.”

  Grue nods. “Lots of Independents go along for awhile and then just turn the whole subject off in their heads. Some wind up with Independent lovers. You can get just about any sensation from an illusion. I’ve got something of a kelpie habit.”

  Chloris’ face goes slack.

  “Dangerous-critter kelpie?” Zora says, appalled.

  Grue’s head shakes. “They’re people. Socially limited people, created for a nasty purpose with an even nastier biology, but they’re people, howsoever trapped outside the Peace. They can’t abide each other but they’ve got excellent conversation, someone went to a lot of trouble to make sure they’d be good seducers. If they’re sure of the outcome they’ll spend hours and hours seducing you, it gets them warm, they’ve got immense stamina, and they live a long time. I don’t have to worry about the compulsive anthropophagy or the parasitic reproduction. The ones who will learn decent manners are a lot of fun, it’s not like they’re fixated on the event of reproduction, just the precursor. Great way to spend Déci. Great way to spend three or four days if you’ve got them, kelpies tend to wear out after the fourth day.”

  “Decent manners,” Zora says, and stops. For a couple of instants, Zora’s just not there, metaphysically.

  “Grue exerts selection pressure on the kelpie population,” Halt says in a firm voice. “All to the good.”

  “That sounds like a really nice arrangement.” Chloris’ voice comes out so you can tell all the wail has been strangled out of it. Chloris isn’t being sarcastic, it’s finding that’s the real truth, Chloris’ honest opinion, that’s making Chloris want to wail.

  Grue nods. “The rate you’re learning, five years from now I could make some introductions.” Grue shifts back to female while taking two steps, pats Chloris’ shoulder. “Nobody thinks g
etting through those five years is easy.”

  We need to be talking about this? Dove says.

  Not from my end. Which feels odd, but it’s true. Won’t have the interest until after I’ve hatched, I don’t think. Whatever hatching means, that wasn’t a joke, Halt meant that. That work for you?

  After you’ve hatched seems like a good time, Dove says.

  There’s this tiny curve of smile from Halt. I’m supposed to catch it.

  Chloris has reassembled a social presence, Zora’s mind has restarted, which involves muttering something about turning into a tree.

  Grue’s looking entirely kind, there really isn’t another word for it.

  “Can I ask some more questions?” Zora, not Chloris. Chloris is looking skittish.

  Grue nods, motions ‘go ahead’.

  “Is it safe? I mean — ” Zora is talking quietly and very quickly — “are we going to interact badly with a regular partner, is sex with other students going to light us on fire because we lack control, how can we tell?”

  “A regular love, it’s not inherently safe, but you can build caution into your metaphysical self. Other sorcerers, no, not safe, you have to think about it ahead of time.” Grue, it’s not a wistful smile, it’s what wistful would be if you were looking forward to it. “Blossom gets excited and forgets the fleshy envelope.”

  “Doesn’t that hurt?” If I’d thought at all, I wouldn’t have said that. Maybe Grue is the ward, rather than the ward being on Grue, but Blossom really is that coil of white fire.

  “Gloriously.” The tone of voice, the, I don’t know the word, Grue’s smile, that’s not any kind of joke.

  Zora’s blinked out again. Chloris’ cloud of lamentation’s coiling in, shrinking, and there’s a halo of silver-green sparkle showing. “It’s a day for appalling questions. Grue, what do you think of yourself as? Does shapeshifting…” and here Chloris runs out of the ability to form words.

  “Alter the imagination of the self?” Grue says, quietly, to Chloris, as though it’s just to Chloris.

  Chloris nods.

  “Like any sorcery, it depends what you do with it. Get rid of a hangover, no, not much; spend ten years as a tree, you’ll come back different.” Grue’s smile goes wider, bright. “If you ever wonder why Mulch is like that, there’s a good place to start.”