Homesmind

by Pamela Sargent

  He shook his head. "I'm too tired to talk." He curled up on the ground, his back to her.

  She had slept uneasily, alert to the slightest movement, her head next to his on the pack, her body at right angles to his. In the morning light he looked a little healthier; his sunburned face was peeling, but his lips were starting to heal.

  He opened his eyes and sat up. "I'm hungry."

  "Good." She pulled out some dried fruit for him this time. He finished the water in the nearly empty skin while she sipped from another.

  He still seemed reluctant to talk; again, his wall was up. "Where did you come from?" she asked as they ate.

  "There." He pointed east.

  "From the other side of the desert?" She could not hide her surprise. "But why?"

  He looked away.

  "What's your name?"

  "Rulek." He paused, clearly about to say more. "Only Rulek. I'll no longer call myself by the rest."

  "My name is Anra. I have no other name. My parents left me in my village and went elsewhere—I never knew them, so I don't use their names."

  "We have a bond, then," the boy said coldly. "Our parents have both given us up."

  She was curious again. Why would his parents have given him up? He had his mindpowers without needing the crutch of an implant. Had he been a temperamental, disobedient child, his impulses would have been tempered by now; disciplining a child was not difficult when a parent's trained mind could read an intention before the child acted.

  "Yes, my parents gave me up," she said at last. "But part of my family still lives with me. I grew up with my aunt, and her sister spends time in our village. My great-grandfather also lived there until his death." She paused for a moment. "I also have a great-grandmother—her name is Leito. Her son Vasen is the father of a man named Kal, and Kal is the father of my cousin and closest friend, Fiella. She was born a solitary, like me, but her parents remained to raise her." She spoke rapidly, hoping that if Rulek learned about her, he might reveal something about himself.

  She waited, but the boy remained silent. "I've never seen my parents," she went on. "They've never called out to me."

  "You came here alone," he said.

  She nodded.

  "To pass through your ordeal?"

  "No. We no longer practice that custom."

  Rulek lowered his eyes. "I went through my ordeal some time ago," he said in a soft voice. "Wyke, the girl I had chosen as my partner, did not live through it." He covered his face with one hand for a moment. "I thought my soul would leave me then."

  "I'm sorry. It's hard to lose one you love." She longed to distract him from his pain; his mind, behind his wall, was throbbing. "My great-grandfather left this life only a few days ago. It was hard for me to see him die, but he had lived a long life and his death came peacefully. Losing someone as young as the girl you knew must be much worse."

  She sensed a small ripple of sympathy; Rulek had opened his mind a little. The small gesture moved her; in spite of his own loss, he was trying to comfort her. She touched his mind gently as he withdrew behind his wall. "Why did you come here?" he asked.

  "I needed time to think, to accept my loss. I couldn't in the village, where everything reminded me of my great-grandfather. I needed to be alone."

  Rulek frowned. "Solitude shouldn't be sought."

  "I didn't seek it at first. My aunt suggested that I come here, as she used to. I've never really been alone before." Her mouth twisted into a small smile. "It's good that I came, though, and found you." She blushed; she had spoken the words a bit too warmly. "The aunt who raised me," she continued, "is named Daiya. Thirty cycles ago, when she was about my age, she met a skydweller, the first to come here in thousands of cycles. His name is Reiho. It was through Daiya and Reiho that our village first came to know of the comet world above."

  "The skydwellers should never have come here," he said forcefully.

  "You mustn't say that. They've tried to help us. Without Reiho's help, Daiya might never have learned the truth about the Minds, and we would never have known that it was ancient Earthfolk who created Them and made our powers possible."

  "My people say that God must have worked through us to create the Minds. They also say that communing with heavendwellers will only lead us astray, that even knowing of such creatures causes young ones to question everything. They say that we lived peacefully for many cycles without questions, learning how to draw closer to others, but that the heavendwellers will tempt us into overreaching ourselves and will bring about the conflicts that once nearly destroyed this world. Some even say that the heavendwellers will steal the Minds or infect Them with evil thoughts."

  "That isn't so," Anra said. "Skydwellers mean no harm."

  "I was telling you what my people think," he said. "My own thoughts have become more troubled. But there is one thing my village believes that must be so—that the heavendwellers are too separate, too different from us to grow closer. Even their world has divided. There are two comets where only one shone before."

  "They've made a new world, that's all."

  "Once, when I was a child, a heavendweller's vessel came to our village. A silver being stepped from it and told us it had been born on Earth, but we saw only a machine at first, a creature of wires and metal, yet alive."

  "Lydee," Anra said softly.

  "We hid behind our mental shields and then saw her as a woman, but many believed that the woman's image was an illusion."

  "Skydwellers have our form," she said, "but they strengthen their bodies as they grow—they add implants and valves and other devices—so sometimes they can seem alien. When you come to know them, and touch their humanity, you see that they look like us. Your eyes told you the truth—it was your minds, sensing strangeness, that deceived you."

  'There were also three Earthfolk with the woman, and they tried to tell us that she was indeed of Earth but had dwelled in the heavens. Our Merging Selves finally gathered their strength to crush them, but the four fled in their vessel. I'd forgotten those four strangers. Now I wonder if they somehow planted a doubt inside me."

  "The woman you saw was Lydee," Anra said. "She's my other aunt. She did grow up with the skydwellers, but she lives with us now. It isn't true that skydwellers can't draw close to us. Lydee's companions are Earthfolk, as you saw. And I grew up with the skydweller Reiho, who lives with my aunt Daiya as a partner would. There are others who visit, and who have become our friends. Their ancestors came from Earth, too—we're not so different."

  Rulek said, "You say one thing and think another." She felt a mental tendril; he was touching her surface thoughts. "I see that few of them visit you and that other heavendwellers avoid Earth."

  She put up her wall. "I don't probe your thoughts, Rulek. You shouldn't probe mine."

  "I suppose that must be your custom, hiding your thoughts. You're truly a separate self."

  "You've been hiding yours since we met."

  Rulek shook his head. "I'm growing more separate. I'm not used to hiding part of myself. First I disobeyed, and now I hide my thoughts. Part of my soul has left me, and I can't tell whether I'm seeing truth or am only falling farther from it." His hazel eyes searched her face. "Separateness must be an evil, mustn't it? It divides us from one another, doesn't it?"

  She could sense his struggle without touching his mind. She was afraid to speak, worried that she might say the wrong thing. The boy had somehow acted against his deeply ingrained beliefs, yet still clung to them, having nothing with which to replace them.

  The belief that separateness was evil was at the heart of Earth's old customs. A mind growing apart from others would not easily accept others' thoughts, and might bring about divisiveness; one too separate would never become a Merging Self and would not be reunited in death with the Merged One. The birth of a solitary, a child whose thoughts could not be touched, was a reminder of how easily separateness could come into the world, and was a test as well. Such children had to die, according to old ways, f
or they had no souls and might bring evil ways to a village. They would have become objects to torment, weaker creatures without the mindpowers to protect themselves against their tormenters. The presence of one solitary might corrupt a whole village, and lead to a desire to impose one's will on all of those who were weaker. Anra's village, where solitaries lived and Earth's old customs were questioned, was another temptation.

  "I was born solitary," she said at last, "and yet, with the skydwellers' implant, I can touch your thoughts. Would it have been better if I had died?"

  Rulek seemed startled. "No," he murmured. "I wouldn't wish death for you. I wouldn't wish it for anyone." He was silent for a moment. "If a solitary can be given the power to share thoughts, then to kill one must be wrong, because it takes away the chance for the separate self to seek unity. That's what I've come to see, but now—I don't know. Your village has only grown apart from Earth, hasn't it?"

  "The rest of Earth has grown apart from us. We didn't want that to happen." She leaned forward. "I don't think solitude and separateness have to be evil. If I hide my thoughts for a while, and then join them to another's, couldn't I then show that other something he might not have seen before, something that neither of us would have seen without that period of separateness? The sky-dwellers lived apart from Earth for countless cycles. Now they've returned, and can tell us what they know, things they wouldn't have learned if they hadn't been separate from us. Maybe there's a time for solitude and separateness."

  "I want to believe you, but your words disturb me."

  She touched his sleeve gingerly. He seemed about to shy away, but did not. She felt drawn to him, and wondered if it was only compassion that she felt, or something more. "You must understand," she said. "Except for the babies sent to us, you're the first person from another part of Earth I've ever seen. It's hard to know what to say to you, and I don't know how much of the truth you can accept. You've suffered, and I want to help you, but I don't know how. Why did you come into the desert?"

  He took a deep breath. "We'll have to share our thoughts for you to understand. Are you willing to enter my mind?"

  She nodded, trying to compose herself. His hazel eyes narrowed. "Open your mind, then. You'll have to view my memories."

  Rulek reached out, drawing her into his thoughts. The desert below vanished. She was in a dark, foreboding place, looking through his eyes at a village of cabins with sloping roofs; unlike her people, who used mud bricks and thatching, his village built its homes of logs.

  She was in a pine forest bordering the village. Danger lurked there, hidden; if one wandered too far from familiar trails, and lost contact with the thoughts of the village, one could be trapped in the shadows, unable to find the way home. Rulek's people had adapted to a forest life; they had even come to love the woods around them, but they also knew of the terror the forest could bring. They had undergone their ordeals among those trees. They had all experienced the terror of being enclosed, of not knowing what might lie ahead of them or behind them, the fear of sensing danger too late. When the panic seized someone, he would think only of fleeing; real dangers and imaginary ones would combine until one could no longer distinguish between them. One might become only another part of the forest, a wild creature, and in the midst of the terror feel a mad joy. That was the greatest danger of all, for it robbed one of his reason. Yet Rulek's people continued to love their forest, for it gave them an intensity and knowledge of their emotions that they would not otherwise have had.

  Parts of Rulek's mind were as dark as the forest. To him, the world was a place of dark, winding trails. If he wandered from the known, he would be lost, yet part of him sought to embrace the darkness. His thoughts were unlike any she had ever touched; pity and a feeling she could not name stirred within her. She wanted to light the shadows, dispel the darkness.

  The village sat on a rise overlooking a lake. Vegetable gardens were next to each cabin, but she saw no fields, and understood that Rulek's people were hunters and fisherfolk. Several wooden boats had been pulled up onto the shore.

  Rulek was walking toward one cabin, his home. Above him, the tall pines whistled. She watched through his eyes, but also seemed to be seeing him from a distance as he entered the cabin.

  A woman lay on a mat. She was covered with a furry blanket, and her light-brown hair was plastered against her wet, pale face. A blond man knelt next to her, holding a small bundle. A girl stood behind the man; she had Rulek's blond curls, but her eyes were blue.

  —I hurried as fast as I could— Rulek said. —As soon as I felt your call, I hurried back— He dropped the two rabbits he had caught in the forest. —I wanted to be here to help you—

  The woman opened her eyes. —It's all right. My mind was strong enough to dampen the pain, and your father and sister helped me to overcome it—

  Rulek looked down, thinking of Wyke and the children they might have had. He was in the woods again, calling out to the body of the girl he was carrying home, refusing to believe that she was dead. The inside of the cabin reappeared as he repressed the unhappy memory.

  —You have another sister now— The woman looked up at the man; her smile faded as she touched his thoughts.

  —It is a solitary— the man said.

  Rulek tensed. The blond girl began to cry. The woman forced herself up, leaning on her elbows. —No— she said.

  —I've touched its mind— Rulek's father answered. —It cannot sense me—

  Rulek hurried to his side. —What are you going to do?— he cried out, reading the man's intentions.

  —You know what must happen to separate selves. The child has to die—

  —You mustn't kill her— Rulek objected. Part of his mind had withdrawn and was watching from a distance, appalled that he was thinking such thoughts. —There's another way. Send her to the village of separate selves. There, she can live. Call out to the voices that call Themselves the Minds and let Them send one for her, or we can travel there ourselves and leave her with those people—

  —You're mad— The man stood up, still clutching the child. —She cannot go to that accursed place. They may give her the illusion of mindpowers, but they can't give her a soul—

  —She can live. Isn't that better than death?—

  The man took a step toward the boy. —You've been hiding evil thoughts—

  Rulek shook his head.

  —Your mind is wounded by the loss of Wyke, son— the man said more gently. —I've seen your dreams of escape since you lost her. You want to run from us and deny what has happened. Our way isn't easy, but it's better to die and have your soul accepted by the Merged One than to live in separateness. And this child is a solitary. She has no soul to save—

  —Let God decide her fate— Rulek argued. —Send her away—

  —How I wish we could— his mother said sadly.

  Rulek's sister had stopped crying; she was now glaring at him. —And what would happen to us?—she said. —Do you think we'd be able to stay here if we did that? The Merging Selves would say that we put a soulless child above the welfare of the village, that we have strayed. They would never let us return—

  —Then we could remain with the child— Rulek said, —or go to another village—

  —You're a fool— the girl responded. —No village would have us, knowing of this—

  —It isn't true. Some don't hold so strictly to old ways—

  The girl clenched her fists. —They all avoid the village of separate selves. I'll soon make a pledge to a partner. I won't give up my life here. I refuse to be tainted by your evil—

  —You may give birth to a solitary someday— Rulek thought recklessly. —You'll carry it inside you, and hold it in your arms, and then we'll see how willing you are to condemn it—

  A wave of anger flowed from the girl, knocking Rulek to the wood floor. "Stop it," his father cried aloud. "This child is already dividing us." He struggled to bind his children with mental cords. "She cannot live."

  Rulek lashed out
before he could stop himself. A whip of light formed and snapped; his father staggered back, nearly dropping the baby, who began to wail. The boy pulled the bundle from the man's arms.

  Anra's fingers dug into her thighs as she watched, powerless to alter the scene. Rulek was trying to hold back his emotions so as not to overwhelm her, but too many of his thoughts had already seeped into her. She strengthened herself, afraid that the boy might withdraw and show her no more.

  Rulek was holding the baby, shielding her with his mind. His thoughts were confused; the shadowy form of a dark-haired girl was lingering near him. He was remembering Wyke, whom he had not been able to save, and Anra understood why he was clinging to the small separate self. Wyke's death during their ordeal had made him doubt the purpose of old ways, but he also wanted to wound the parents who had tried to train him not to doubt. If he had questioned their teaching sooner, he might have fled with Wyke from their ordeal and saved the girl he had loved.

  His mother lifted her arms as she sat up. —I gave birth to her— she said. —Can't you feel my pain? But we must do what is right. Give me the child. You've already struck out at your father. Give me that child before you're completely lost to us—

  —You can't have her— Rulek answered. —If you try to crush her mind, you'll have to crush mine, too. I'll take her to that village alone if I must—

  —Then I curse you— his father said. —I won't take your life, but I send you from this house. You're no longer my son. I close my mind to you— He reached for his partner's hand. —Take the soulless one and be damned—

  The woman wailed, but her mind was already shielded. The blond girl turned away. A dark spot was welling up inside Rulek, threatening to encompass all of his thoughts. Somehow, he had not believed it would come to this.

  The hut flickered and vanished. Rulek was running from cabin to cabin, calling out for help. A young woman nursing her own baby turned him away when he begged her to feed the infant. Two boys warded him off, threatening him with spears; children pelted him with pebbles.