Annah and the Children of Evohe

by Clay Gilbert

  “I—-I see,” Annah said. She was stung by the words, but not surprised. Everyone, in that time,

  felt the same way about me. Jonan had begun to be distant from her in those years, too; the closeness of their bloomhood friendship icing over into silence, as if Jonan could not allow himself to feel warmly toward one whose own Grove disdained and even feared her. No wonder his brother and sister came to feel the same way about me. But-

  “You heard what he tried to do to me,” Annah said. “You know.” “Yes,” Chelries said, tenderness in her eyes. “My parents think I am too young to understand. But I am not.” Annah sighed. “How could someone who wanted perfection so much want someone like me?” she asked, questioning herself as much as Chelries. It was a thought that had troubled her for a long time. “How could he hate me so much, and want me, too?”

  “That was a part of his brokenness,” Chelries said. “I would not understand it, if he had not been my brother. My parents say-and I believe-that there is a special kind of understanding that comes from being family. Even so, I hate what he did. You have something that my brother never had.”

  Annah’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “No matter what others think or say of you, no matter what they do to you, or try to do-you go on.”

  “What other choice is there?” Annah asked.

  “There are others,” Chelries said, sounding far older than fourteen cycles. “Jonan was-too aware of them.” Annah thought of hearing Jonan sing, when they both had been small; thought of hearing him tell her of his Visions, whose strength had amazed her before her own skills had grown. “He had many qualities he should have been proud of. And I wish he could have seen that I am far from perfect.” Annah got up from her beddings-she had not even bothered to move while Chelries was talking-stretched, smoothed her sleep-tousled hair, and then looked at the other seed-maiden.

  “Do not let my brother trouble your rest, Annah,” Chelries said. There are many things he could not see, although his Talent was the same as mine. You are different, but you are not the only one. Those of us Serra has gathered for this new Shaper-circle-we are all different.” She grinned. “They will be waiting for us! We should go.”

  “Yes,”Annah agreed. “We should.” Evohe, thought Kale Goodman, seemed a completely different place with Holder gone. He sat on the ship’s distended landing ramp, listening to the sounds of early morning on this world that was still strange to him.

  Far off in the trees, he heard the songs and cries of creatures that, on Earth, might have been birds, but here were only the reflections of birds, mixed with other shapes stranger, and just as beautiful, whose strangeness did not diminish their beauty, but only magnified it.

  I took things like this for granted for so long , Goodman thought. He knew that all life was the same, no matter its form. It was an idea he’d long held in his mind, which had only taken root in his heart in the face of its negation. No. It began before that. Knowing Annah and Holder had already taught me that before this war ever came.

  He realized that he hadn’t seen Annah all morning. She’d had that meeting to go to, he remembered. Just as well, he thought. He knew she needed something to get her mind off Holder. But so do I. I don’t know how I thought I could just come here like some kind of messenger and just leave when I’d given her the news. It didn’t work that way, he knew. I miss him, too. And I wonder now if I have anything to belong to besides the cold and the black. Holder was my family. Could there be more for me, too? He thought for a moment, finding himself filled both with loss and hope. * * * *

  Annah and Chelries found Serra and the others waiting in the grove when they arrived. All of the others, that is, except for one. There should have been nine of them in all, but there were only eight.

  “I am pleased you have come, Chelries,” Serra said. “But where is your brother?”

  “Charan claimed he did not feel well,” Chelries said, “but I think there is more. I do not think he will be returning.” “It is because of me,” Annah said. “He does not like me, because of my strangeness.” A distant look came into her eyes. “And, perhaps, for other reasons.”

  “Do not worry, Annah,” Chelries said. “Charan fears the strangeness within himself.” The younger seed-maiden’s face grew very serious, and her golden eyes shone. “The pictures he makes with his Talent shame him, because they show him too much of himself. He is not like our brother.”

  Annah wondered what Chelries meant by that, but the thought barely had time to form before Serra spoke, addressing all of them at once, and drawing each of them in with her piercing gaze.

  “You all know that this is not a learning-circle like the ones you have attended before,” Serra said. “You have all seen things in Vision that have stirred you-some troubling, some comforting, and some that may even have shown you the path upon which the First Ones meant you to walk in life.” Serra paused, taking in the faces of the young ones in the circle as though she might never see them again. “For a hundred cycles, this has been my vision-this Circle, and the nine of you—-yes, even the one who is not here tonight. I have little of a Shaper’s skill left; the Breaking saw to that, and time has done its part as well, but enough remains for me to know that in our lost art lies the secret to restoring Balance to this world-and, perhaps, to worlds beyond it; worlds which we have for so long now refused even to acknowledge.”

  “Yes, Annah,” Serra said, looking into the seed-maiden’s blue eyes, “our people did once look to the stars, even if we seldom traveled there, or wanted to. And we once did sing in more than short and scattered tones, and-”she looked to Liara-”we once did write, and dance”-she looked to Chelries now, and Annah realized she had not even known the other girl’s Talent-”and craft images”-Charan’s angry, confused face, so much like his brother Jonan’s, appeared in Annah’s mind-”and even build things.”

  Serra paused for a moment; drew a long, shuddering sigh. “Over time, these ways—our ways—have been forgotten, and even those few of us remaining did nothing to remind others. One stone seems of little consequence, by itself, and a steep hill or a mountain seems only an impediment to progress. But together, a stone and a mountain slope can be the seeds of an avalanche. We will be the mountain, and the stones atop it.And in time, we will be the avalanche.”

  Annah saw the faces of the other young ones light up at Serra’s words, and she wanted to share their enthusiasm, but something in what the elder Shaper had said chilled as much as excited her. Wait and see, she told herself. She has been a good teacher—she still is. Not all the forces of Balance are gentle ones. Wait and see what comes of this. “What are we to do, Serra?” Annah asked, looking into her teacher’s eyes and remembering not the fervor of the words the Elder Shaper had just spoken, but the kindness with which she had always seemed to treat the living creatures of the world, whether large or small.

  “We will share the Art of Shaping together, and the Path of Memory. Go home, each of you, and think of a Memory that moves you. Use your particular Talent to bring it forth as best you can, and bring it to the Circle with you. We will share-and teach-our Talents together. It is the first step back onto the path our world has forgotten.”

  * * * Goodman had been surprised at how easily he found his way back to Irie’s homeground. He could still remember taking her home the morning after Annah and Holder’s Promising. She’d been both frightened and amazed at even the short flight from the Promising Grounds, and he’d been delighted with the welcome he’d received from Irie’s family-her parents, whose names, he’d been told, were Eram and Meira, and Irie’s younger sister, Calla. He had rather expected a different reception, or at least, some manner of reprimand for having taken Irie off without a word—but neither had happened. Maybe that was because they were just glad to have her back in one piece after what humans did to this world, and what they were still doing to scores of others. And maybe, he thought, as the homeground came into view, they never expected to see me again.

&nbs
p; “Goodman?” He was startled by the sound of Irie’s voice as she came down the path from the homeground to meet him, both because he had been adrift in his own imaginings, and because her voice sounded so different. She no longer stumbled over the syllables of his name, and the sound of her voice was clear and confident, not shy and halting as it had been. Her hair was longer now, and her body even more curved and full than it had been. But he was relieved to see the shining violet eyes he remembered so well had stayed the same. “Hello, Irie,” he said.

  She put her arms around him, looking up into his eyes as if to find every trace left upon him by the months he’d been away. “Greetings, Goodman. It is-surprising-that you have come. I never thought you would return. Many things have happened-”

  Goodman’s eyes left her face for a moment, and for the first time, caught sight of the swell of her belly. “I see.” “I am sorry,” Irie said. “There was a Fair Day a month or so after you left. Many from other Groves, from the flatlands and from the High Country, came here. His name-his name was Garlen.” She smiled, eyes misted with memory. “He was slightly older than me, and he was a”-she looked for the right word in Goodman’s language-”sculptor. He brought many things he had made with him to the Fair. But he was the most beautiful of all, to me.”

  Goodman smiled, not wanting her to see the sting her words carried, and surprised, himself, at their impact. What is she to me, anyway? We hardly know each other. “That’s great, Irie. And a baby—-a bloomling on the way. That’s wonderful.”

  “I am sorry, Goodman,” Irie said again. “Where—where is the rest of your family?” Goodman asked. They had been standing at the homeground’s threshold for nearly half an hour, and there had been no sign of anyone. “Where is-where is-he?”

  “My parents have gone to their rest in the Elder Grove,” Irie said. “No, no,” she said, putting her finger to Goodman’s lips as he started to speak. “Do not be sorry. You know that it is not the end. But it is hard. They have always been here. It is even harder for Calla, who understands little of such things, yet.”

  “Where is Calla?”

  “At her learning-circle. It is best for her that the patterns of her life remain unchanged.As much as they can.”

  Goodman nodded. “That’s always best. When it can happen. And where’s Garlen?” “He went back to the High Country, with others of his Grove. He told me that he would make a place for me-for us-and then return to bring us home. But he has not come back.”

  “I’m sorry, Irie.” Things really are the same everywhere, Goodman thought. “How long has it been?”

  “Three of what you call ‘months’,” Irie said. “If he does not return in seven more, our bloomling will come into the world without him.” “Ten months, huh? Only nine for my kind, and I’ve always thought that must feel like forever.”

  “It is yet another month longer, still, before the bloomling may see the light of day,” Irie said. “Even once he or she is outside a mother’s body, the new bloomling must still spend another measure from moon-full to moon-dark inside its change-sac.” She smiled. “As for how it feels, I cannot speak for others, but I do not mind. I only wish Garlen were still here.”

  “I know it must be hard.” Goodman said, after several moments’ awkward silence.

  “It is not terrible,” Irie said. “Some of the other females help me with Calla. She is well-liked in the Grove.”

  Goodman smiled. “I’m sure she is. She’s a sweet kid. But what about you? Are you all right?” “I am, mostly. There are a few of the others who treat me badly because Garlen and I were neither Promised nor Chosen.”

  “Assholes.” Irie smiled. “There are those who cling to the old ways when it suits them, and forget them entirely when it does not.”

  Their conversation was cut short by the sound of footfalls coming up the path to the homeground. Five-cycle-old Calla, her emerald eyes shining with excitement, broke through the green into the clearing at a run. Her eyes went wide, and her smile wider, as she glimpsed Goodman and Irie standing there talking.

  “Sister! Sister! Goodman!” she exclaimed, running to throw her small arms around his knees, and pressing her face against them. “I am glad you are here,” Calla said, looking up. She spoke in an unhalting way that told Goodman Irie had been teaching her for some time. “Irie has been very lonely.”

  “Still your tongue, little one,” Irie said with a smile. “It is time for Evenmeal.”

  * * * Annah sat before the fire at the camp, as she had been doing ever since she returned from the circle. She tried to do as Serra had asked them all to do as they left the circle; tried to look into her Memory, struggled to lift one out of the many, like a stone from a stream, and polish it with song. Her head was full of storms, winds and sparks of thought, like the white-fire in the great grey sky before the rains fell. Annah had wanted Chelries to come back with her, but she had said that her parents would be worried. “They still would not understand-about you,” Chelries had said. “But give them time. I will help them understand.”

  “It is all right,” Annah had said. She had hoped, then, that Goodman would be at the camp, perhaps already sitting by the fire, when she got there. But he had not been. Goodman would have understood how she was feeling, Annah thought. He would have listened. She needed someone to listen, now. Singing her thoughts to light-shadows from a campfire’s blaze was not enough. The melody was all wrong, somehow. Holder, I need you here. It is you I miss, and no one can take your place. Where have you gone?

  Look into Vision, Annah heard Serra’s voice-or was it Lilliane’s?-telling her. And suddenly, effortlessly, she did. Nothing but darkness. Darkness everywhere. A momentary fear flooded through her, colder than the bitterest stream. And still she could see nothing. Her disoriented mind dimly recalled the pit she had fallen into on that long-ago Mistfall night—but even that darkness had been nothing compared to this. I cannot feel my body-and yet I still have my mind. I must think. What is this Vision? What is this place?

  What is this place? The blinded man thought, not for the first time, nor perhaps even for the hundredth. So dark. The darkness was a sea in which he had sometimes struggled, sometimes floated, and once or twice nearly drowned, for longer than he could reckon. But something, at least, was different now. There had been a voice-a voice he knew, although whose voice it was, he still could not say. A young woman’s voice. I should know her. I do know her. But I can’t remember her name. Inside his mind, he laughed. A cold laugh, but the first one in a long time. Makes sense that I can’t remember. I can’t remember my own name, either.

  * * * Annah felt the touch of a familiar mind in the darkness that had, until now, frightened her. Holder, she thought. It is you. And it is not a dream. Where once she might have doubted the certainty of her own insights, her training, both with Serra and alone, had given her a greater confidence in her abilities with Vision. This time, she knew she was right. He was alive. But where was he?

  And what could she do to help him? “So, have you come up with some new kind of spaceflight? Looks like it might put the Portals out of business, if you can do it without moving.”

  Annah shook off the Shaper’s trance, looking up at Goodman, making his way from the entrance of the camp. “You are so strange,” she told him, smiling. “I was-working on something. Something Serra wants us-my circle-to do. I will tell you about it.” When I decide how much of it I believe enough to tell you, she thought. “You have been gone a long time. Has your day been a good one?”

  “It has. I went to see Irie and her sister.” “Oh, I am sure they were very glad. Irie seems to care for you very much.” It was true as far as Annah could tell, although she rarely saw Irie since Annah had become so busy with her Shaper-studies.

  “I thought she did, too. Well, I guess she does. She just-she is going to have a child, Annah.And no, it’s not mine.” Annah frowned. “I know that. She was not-” Annah sang a chord of sweet, happy tones-”when you and Holder left this world.” She s
aw the sadness in Goodman’s eyes. “I am sorry, Goodman. You must know, though, there are reasons things happen. If she was lonely; if she never expected you to return, and sought pleasure and comfort from anotherwould that be unforgivable?”

  Goodman thought for a moment,and the only answer he could think of was another question. “Would you do that, Annah? Holder’s been gone a while, and-no matter how you feel-chances are, he’s gone for good. Would you ‘seek comfort from another’?”

  “No,” Annah said, shoving the thought away and, for a moment, thinking of the moon-plugs females who were past the Change wore inside their bodies once a mooncycle, and cast into deep stream-waters to be cleansed. “No, I would not. But I can understand it.”

  “And if Holder did it?” The echo of the moon-stream coursed through Annah’s mind; dark blood and bright water, both meant to cleanse. Which part of life’s song should we deny? “He would not do such a thing. But, if he were here now, I do not think it would matter to me what he had done.”

  * * * The blinded man heard voices. Not the woman’s voice-the one he should know, but didn’t-nor the voice that might be his, if he could only remember, but a trio of new, strange voices. They were calling to him.

  “Wake up,” one of them, a man whose tone said this might not have been his first time doing this sort of thing, was saying.

  The blinded man opened his eyes but, as before, it made no difference. Eyes open or shut, there was nothing to see. Shadow-room, he thought. It was the first clear thought he’d had in recent memory, and he didn’t know where it had come from. Somehow he knew, although he’d never consciously heard the word before, that Homesec used these to interrogate offworld spies. It was generally agreed that shadowrooms were more effective even than waterboarding—-and a slight bit less barbaric.

  “Why am I here?” the blinded man asked the darkness. “Surely I’m not a traitor. I don’t even remember being Offworld,” he said, before he’d realized he was speaking the words instead of merely thinking them.