by Sam Smith
Their frowns of concentration said that Rufena and Sririsl had gone deep into the Knowledge. Encouraged I went on,
"You are suffering the same stasis as Space. Like Space you have no worthy goal as a society. And if the society is not worthy then neither are the individuals within that society. You must no longer act as if ashamed. A people in hiding can have no self-respect."
Rufena was nodding. But it was not to what I had said: her own thoughts were being reflected back into the Knowledge.
"Yes the Knowledge is important," I said quietly. "But it is not more important than you. Like many human societies you have allowed — in the balance of society's needs and the rights of individuals — the society here to take precedence. Nation, state, creed, Knowledge; none must be allowed dominance over humanity."
I didn't want to go wandering off into historical irrelevance:
"I ask you this — is it absolutely necessary for the Knowledge to be instant? Like Space's machines the Knowledge will update when it comes within range. Space manages. And if the ellipses are not intact, if the Knowledge is not wholly contemporaneous, so what? Why should all your lives become subservient to a system of communication? Why can't you have people living in natural groupings — with their children, within reach of their children? If that's what they want. When were you last attacked by anyone?"
"Doesn't mean we shan't be again," someone fiercely objected through Sririsl.
"You'd rather your suicide rate rose while you stay in hiding? And the Knowledge getting smaller because you are fewer?"
"The trend is there," another affirmed. Sririsl was in Talker mode.
"Wouldn't your lives, each of your lives, be improved if you weren't solely the servants of the Knowledge? And I'm not saying that the Knowledge must necessarily suffer. Only that you must rid yourselves of this fear of discovery. That you must become honest again in another way."
I heard myself being negative.
"Once in the open think of the improvements you can make. Here alone Sririsl can cultivate the lake's margins, grow her contribution to the granaries in the one place. And Rufena, my poor Rufena, can make a garden. Save us having to go scratching in the dirt all over this forest. Stop hiding, and we will have a future worth working towards."
"What if the Nautili find us?"
"They will find you changed. You will find them changed. You won't know until it happens. But you can't live in fear of it. The time has come to stop hiding."
The Knowledge had much to consider. Sririsl and Rufena, both caught up in the internal debate, went quiet.
I paced the walls of the rooms.
The silence was oppressive.
I could have made notes for Leon; but I hadn't yet got the evening settled in my mind.
"I'm going for a walk," I told the two women. Both, identical gestures, lifted their chins.
Outside the galaxy's arm floated in the sky beside Arbora. Breathing deep, letting out a slow sigh, I told myself that I wanted to swim in those stars. To do something supremely out of the ordinary.
I had so much energy burning through me that I set myself to walk round the entire lake.
* * * * *
At the far end I frightened a large white bird out of the soggy margins. Wings beating it flew up the curving lake, drips from it spotting its blurred reflection.
I listened. And I listened. The bird though didn't splash down in our lake, went on to the next.
The singular beauty of that fragile image made me want to create, to pass on an idea as beautiful. I knew, though, as I wound my way through the grey forest, that my skills would not let me make such a beautiful thing as that heavy bird lifting itself out of the water and labouring towards the prickling stars.
Even had I the painterly talent the outcome, because of the subject material, would have seemed preposterously sentimental. No, if I was to hand on something of beauty, then it had to be real; and I was still convinced that I was a better poet than a painter.
The writer in me wanted, was bursting, to pass on too my understanding of what had caused the suicides. Because, despite having at last clarified the issues in my mind, I still felt frustrated. All that I had so passionately argued for that evening I knew would be taken into the Knowledge and endlessly mulled over.
And nothing would happen.
Recalling my arguments, how each new understanding had come through action, I realized that again I needed to act. This time, however, the action had to be planned.
But what to do?
When I came in sight of the large maple, the small and large conifer, I knew what that action would be.
Sririsl had gone home. Rufena was in bed, eyes heavy with sleep. Tutomei smelt of a recent feed.
"I'm going to stay up, write some poems." I kissed Rufena's brow, "Try to anyway." I smiled at her, "Don't stay awake waiting for me."
Her eyes closed in assent. I knew that she wouldn't wake now until morning when Tutomei awoke. I sneaked my two cases of paints outside.
Squinting in the starlight I sought primary colours, used big strokes. Quietly.
I made a few embellishments, but more to highlight than to adorn. I didn't want to decorate the poem out of existence.
The outside of my house finished I went to work, yet more quietly, on Sririsl's.
If my mind wasn't tired, my body was. Arms, neck, shoulders ached. The stars, I noticed, had been moved about the sky. Night would soon be over. I worked my muscles, returned to my labours. Quietly.
Again I left the work without ornamentation; and, declaring it finished, I went to await dawn at the lake's edge.
I lay back over a boulder replete with the knowledge, my own small large knowledge, that I had succeeded.
Recruited by Leon Reduct as a poet, I had initially discovered nothing as a poet. All my 'breakthroughs' — my hand, the forest colours — had come through bumbling instinct. Which, in retrospect, was probably as it should have been — any knowing contrivance would have detracted from the impact of their veracity.
What the Knowledge had needed had been new experiences; and I had supplied it with those. By the time Leon had recruited me there had been nothing more to be learnt through intelligent observation. The Knowledge had already had more than enough observers and their same conclusions.
Through the experience of me the Knowledge had learnt for itself a recognition of loneliness, its possible consequences and its possible antidotes. And, because of me, the Knowledge now also had experience of denial and self-deception.
Nor was I afraid that night, lying over that boulder, of sleep, of sleep's dreams. My dreams, I knew now, had been dreams of oppression. I, the poet, had been susceptible to the imagined state of others, had made — like all good poets — their experience my own. In my dreams.
I knew that I wasn't going to sleep in what was left of that night because I was simply too full of self-congratulation, too full of expectations. Begun as a poet, I told myself, I had finished as a poet. I had won.
I smiled up into the dimming night sky.
In such a mood the whole universe smiles back.
* * * * *
As soon as dawn had lost its grey speckles I crept in and gently shook Rufena awake. Holding a finger to my lips, warning her not to wake Tutomei, I gestured her to follow me.
In the living room I wrapped a blindfold around her head, picked up another.
"Come with me," I took her by the hand.
I led her along the path to Sririsl's house.
"Another painting?" Rufena chuckled. She did like surprises.
"Shhh." I left her holding on to Sririsl's bedroom wall while I woke Sririsl, similarly blindfolded her.
Holding both by the wrists I led them down towards the lake, stopped at a point where they'd be able to see both houses. Manouvering them around I lifted off their blindfolds.
I felt their shock, that physical impulse for flight. I gripped them both by the arm. They glanced worriedly to me, and back to the houses.
Both simultaneously let out their breath.
Rufena was the first to start laughing.
"Yes." Sririsl said, glanced to me, back to the house, "Yes." And we were all three laughing. Us three, there above the lake, the fulcrum of the future.
Painted on the side of mine and Rufena's house, in big red letters, highlighted with yellow and white, was my penultimate poem.
I
am
free
Painted on the side of Sririsl's house, in pale blue letters, highlighted with whites and reds, my last poem glared into the new day.
We
are
free
Afterword
In the Knowledge I am now legend. Undeservedly.
If legends are to be made then let Leon Reduct take centre stage. He it was who, after much deliberation, brought me here.
Objectively I can claim little personal credit for the present change in Hybrid behaviour. My being put here was what brought about the change. Leon Reduct's was the conscious decision to place me here, his the calculated risk.
Even so — why put me here?
Why me?
Why should I have been the one to play such a pivotal role in this movement of a whole people?
Leon Reduct saw that I, Okinwe Orbison, had no identity to speak of, other than an intolerance of falsehood. Beyond that I was a clever and conceited young poet, no more. I had no identity grounded in adult experience. All that was to come my way on Arbora, therefore, had to pass through me and change me, as I thought I was seeking to change Arbora.
When first I came to Arbora I was full only of good intentions. Admirable those good intentions may have been but, like a clumsy fool breaking the ice at a formal gathering, it was my blundering that Leon Reduct had wanted. And it was my groping after the partly understood that had at last broken the suicidal status quo.
So much for the sorry past.
The speed, the readiness, with which the idea of openness was accepted into the Knowledge, meant that the Knowledge had not only been ripe for it, but — like a relay runner — it had taken the idea and had sprinted off with it, leaving me gasping. In the Knowledge ideas spawned ideas spawned ideas. I am still only picking up snippets from that mass of ideas.
In the excitement of the first days after my poetic daubings I'd hoped that, in becoming free and open, Hybrid would again amalgamate with humankind, at least seek an active co-existence; and that, ultimately, we new Hybrids — being healthy and optimistic — would expand to fill those planets, stations, cities abandoned by Space as it, diminishing, retreated.
The Knowledge decided not.
Rather it has been agreed that we will continue as we were; but without now seeking to either hide or advertise ourselves. Which may, on the face of it, appear a compromise, one furthermore which again favours passivity.
It is not.
We do not now want to appear to be a threat to Space, nor to be made to appear to be a threat to Space. (We have been so used by human politicians before.) Nor do we want to see ourselves as taking Space's leftovers. Pride we have now.
If we expand now (and we will; except that I'll be a grandfather by then) it will be away from Space's dominions. The new, it has been decided, must seek the new.
(Although we fully intend to live openly, prudence has dictated that always must we keep a few bolt-holes like Arbora secret. Just in case...)
For the present people have already moved. Indeed there has been such a tremendous movement of bodies that it has been compared to the exodus of the Talkers. Except that this has been more of an upheaval, a complicated dance where many — on-planet and off — have ended up in new settings, new arrangements. (In most cases individuals have come in from their isolation; but there are instances where whole settlements have gone to the individual.) It is as if, overnight, the suppressed desires of generations of Hybrids have been put into practice.
Nor has it been simply the one move: there exists now a constant reassessment, re-evaluation. The aim to care for, to be cared for: the tactile community.
We four have stayed here, have become five.
A large round man came to us at the lake, added a makeshift room to Sririsl's house. (With so much movement and new houses being required, demand has far exceeded supply.) I returned North with him to dismantle parts of his old house. (It was in a pine forest, correspondingly coloured. Land of bears, he called it.) Together we ferried what pieces we could. The discoloured annex to Sririsl's house will be sufficient for what's left of this summer; but it will need to be made secure for the winter.
He has come to help Sririsl make her paddies. Sririsl wasn't surprised that he came. His bulk, however, she hadn't anticipated. (Rufena's father had been a slight man.)
Rufena and I have dug the beginnings of our garden further around the lake by a small stream.
We have decided that here, later in a new house by the garden, is to be our home. This is to be where Tutomei and our other children will be raised.
In the meantime, in this summer, we five are, that most transient of all things human and hybrid, happy.
For the future I have written to both my mother and to my father, have told them that I will be staying here and that if they wish to visit me — and meet their first granddaughter — to contact Leon Reduct.
As for the past in the future — if vindication of my diagnosis were needed, the conception rate has risen.
As for the suicides — that too we can count a success. Not that there is never likely not to be another hybrid suicide; but already the suicide rate has dramatically fallen. If for no other reason than the new is just too interesting for even incipient suicides not to want to see it.
All is part and parcel of the change. In so many small ways we are all, hybrid and human, having to overcome the great respect we had for the integrity of one another and, as soon now as a darkness appears, the sufferer is watched over, is stayed with, is physically prevented from killing themself.
We are winning.
For the moment.
Because this isn't the end. I don't know how these events of the last year will always be viewed; for the moment, however, they are fixed here; and this place, this story has entered your mind. The experience of your reading this, like my dreams, has entered your consciousness, has contributed to your small knowledge, will enter your dreams. (I have now talked extensively to hybrids. There were categorically no dreams like mine in the Knowledge. My dreams belonged, therefore, wholly to my own codography.)
With the wisdom of achievement I am not unhappy that mine will not be the last word. I know now that, at whatever age we die, all that we will ever have reached is an imperfect understanding of our having been here.
For now... I am a writer. Can't help myself — I have to write, have to explain myself.
So, when Leon Reduct asked each of us 'research assistants' to make a record of our experiences, I chose to make my record a written one. (I have seen a few of the other offerings — especially by the visual artists — clouds, cloud shapes; and I swear you've never seen clouds so sad.)
As to my own writing... I very quickly found poetry to be unequal to the task. Poetry exists at the peak of vast mountains of assumptions, of shared knowledge. I could make no assumption of whoever was to read this tale. Prose has to spell it out.
Please accept this novel by way of the report of Okinwe Orbison.
Towards the unMaking of Heaven... Series Synopsis
The whole series of 5 takes place within an intergalactic civilisation known variously as the Supreme Civilisation, or, more often, simply as Space.
The first novel, Balant, has Dag Olvess, Malamud Bey and Pi Pandy marooned on the very edge of the known universe. Narrator is the priggish Pi Pandy. En route from his mother's substation to university in another galaxy, the ship he is travelling upon encounters a storm of cosmic proportions. The ship about to implode, he escapes in the ship's shuttle with two other young men, Malamud Bey
and Dag Olvess. They end up on the planet, Balant, where they adapt to cave life. Finding an abandoned robot they repair the shuttle, investigate the planet, discover that they share it with some primitive savages and a marine intelligence, called Nautili, who are also capable of intergalactic travel…. Nautili, savages, musicians, slave traders, kidnap, rescue….. generally it's an updated Boys' Own adventure.
Balant may be purchases from here:
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The second novel is called Happiness, which is the name of a planet, whose moon one day disappears.
This story is told in the third person from the viewpoint of its many different characters - a young girl called Belid Keal, a bureaucratic Head of Department called Munred Danporr, the young policeman Drin Ligure, Petre Fanne an over-the-hill gymnast, Anton Singh a mysterious businessman, 'Dr' Tevor Cade, several Senators, the maverick bureaucrat Jorge Arbatov; and, among others, the two principal characters - Awen Mendawer, a photographer, and the heroinne, the astrophysicist Tulla Yorke.
At the same time that the moon disappears all radio (speed of light) communication to and from that planet is blocked. Within Space only farmers and cranks live on planets. An unseen force destroys any craft that tries to leave the planet…. During the investigation into the missing moon, there are 2 love affairs and many considerations upon the nature of intelligence, government and society.
Happiness may be purchases from here:
store.theebooksale.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&products_id=460
The third novel, You Human, is in 3 parts, Prologue, Leander Chronicle, and Epilogue. Prologue and Epilogue are told by the randy poet Farley Judd. He is also a Director of Communication. Free of any sexual hypocrisies himself, he tells of other station inhabitants’ sexual obsessions with his Talker. Talkers are telepaths in instant communication with all throughout Space. Talkers male and female have long sinuous bodies and very short legs. Misused and abused, the Talkers start to disappear, leading to disruption throughout Space. Farley Judd goes in search of them…. Leading eventually to the Leander Chronicle. The whole - Prologue, Chronicle and Epilogue - being an SF consideration of love, sex and hatred.