“Great Vaintè crossed the ocean to be eistaa in a distant city,” Akotolp said, humbly and proudly, deliberately speaking of things past in such a manner a listener might consider them things present as well. Vaintè appreciated the adroit assistance.
“As Vaintè has ordered—so shall it be,” the esekasak said instantly, signalled request for permission to leave, then took Esetta< away as soon as she received it. Esetta< knew better than to express the hatred and fear of the recent events that he felt, instead he looked about at the warm security of the hanalè and let his motions show pleasure-at-arrival—which was certainly true enough.
There was still a small crowd of fargi waiting outside; nothing new had caught their attention and they waited dimly at the site of their last interesting observation. The older one who had led them here stood to one side, signing respective obedience when Vaintè looked her way. Vaintè waved her over.
“Your name?”
“Melikelè. Is low one permitted to know identity of high one who is speaking?”
“This is Vaintè,” Akotolp said, making sure that all the highest marks of respect were associated with the name.
“Do you wish to follow me, Melikelè?” Vaintè asked.
“Wherever the path goes; I am your fargi.”
“To the place of eating first. Then I wish to know more of this city.”
Akotolp had seen Vaintè’s radiant leadership before, yet respected it anew. In this city on a rock in the sea, where she had never set foot before—she still commanded instant obedience. And she spoke of food, excellent idea. Akotolp snapped her jaws together loudly at the thought.
Melikelè led the way back down the hillside to the shore, and along it to an enclosure beside the beach. Since it was not the usual time for eating, the open area under the translucent cover was empty. Tanks lined the wall and the attendant fargi were pulling large fish from them, slicing them with string-knives, gutting and cleaning them and putting the resultant slabs of meat into enzyme solutions.
“A waste,” Akotolp pronounced. “For hundred-year-old nenitesk steaks this treatment might be needed—not for fish. Let me see what they have in the tanks. Small crustacea, delightful when fresh—behold!”
She seized a large one between her thumbs, snapped off its head and limbs and shelled it in one practiced movement, popped it into her mouth and chewed with pleasure. Vaintè cared little for the food she ate and took a slab of fish on a leaf instead. Melikelè did the same as soon as Vaintè had turned away.
Akotolp muttered to herself with happiness while a mound of discarded husks grew at her feet. Radiating pleasure-with-eating she took no notice of the fargi working around her, or of the Yilanè who emerged from an adjoining structure. Who looked at her, then looked again more closely, who then approached.
“Passing of time—ending of separation,” the newcomer said excitedly. “You are Akotolp, you must be Akotolp, there is but one Akotolp.”
Akotolp looked up in amazement, a fragment of white flesh caught on her mouth, the nictitating membranes of her eyes fluttering with surprise.
“A voice familiar, a face familiar—can that be you, thinner-then-ever Ukhereb?”
“Fatter-as-always, years-since-parting.”
Vaintè watched with interest as Akotolp and the newcomer laced thumbs in the affectionate embrace of efenselè, though the gesture contained a modifier that slightly altered that relationship.
“Vaintè, this is Ukhereb. Though we are not of the same efenburu we are as close as efenselè. We grew together, studied and learned with ancient Ambalasi, she who was old as the egg of time, who knew everything.”
“My greetings to you, Vaintè, and welcome to sea-girt Ikhalmenets. Friend-of-friend is doubly welcome. Now away from this public place to my private one of great comfort for pleasure-of-eating there.”
They passed through the adjoining laboratory, Akotolp making a great fuss over all of the equipment, and on to the comfortable chamber beyond. Soft places to lie or sit, decorative hangings around them to relax the eye. Vaintè did just that, leaning back and listening to the two scientists as they talked. She was patient and waited until the conversation left the area of old associates and new discoveries, until Ukhereb asked a more pointed question.
“I have heard that you were in Alpèasak, when all of Inegban* went there. I have read of some of the research carried out, the abundance of new species discovered—what a wealth of joy-in-discovery it must have been! But now you are here in Ikhalmenets. Why travel here to our islands when you had a continent of discovery at your feet?”
Akotolp did not answer, but instead turned to Vaintè for aid. Vaintè silenced her with a gesture of understanding and desire-to-aid before Akotolp could request her assistance.
“Unspeakable things have happened, Ukhereb, and Akotolp hesitates to tell you of them. It is my desire to answer your question if it is permitted, since I was a part of everything that happened. This is what occurred.”
Vaintè spoke in the simplest manner, without elaboration or asides; told the scientist, to her growing horror, of the destruction of distant Alpèasak. When she was done Ukhereb emitted a cry of pain and briefly shielded her eyes with her forearm in the childish gesture of unwillingness-to-behold.
“I cannot bear to think of the things that you have told me—and you have lived through them with strength incredible. What is to be done, to be done?” She swayed from side to side slowly, again a juvenile gesture of being moved without thought by strong currents of water.
“Your eistaa is now being informed of events tragic-beyond-understanding. When this has been done I shall confer with her. But you, Ukhereb, you should not be disturbed by events since-finished. We will talk of other things, objects of beauty, consideration of which will ease your pain. Such as the mountain on this island, black rock pinnacled with whit snow. Most attractive. Is there always snow upon the summit?”
Ukhereb signed fear-of-novelty. “In the past it was unknown; now the snow on the mountain does not melt at all. Our winters are cold and windy, summer very short. That is why I expressed double-pain at destruction in distant Gendasi*. There was hope of our salvation there as well. Cities have died—and Ikhalmenets grows cold. Now there is fear where before there was hope.”
“Hope cannot be destroyed—and the future will be bright!” Vaintè spoke with such enthusiasm and such assurance of happiness that both Akotolp and Ukhereb were warmed by the strength of her spirit.
Of course she was happy. Vague ideas were turning into positive plans. The details would become clear soon, and then she would be certain of just what must be done.
Not so Enge. For a Daughter of Life, death seemed too close to her, too often.
They had left the uruketo at dawn, had not been seen as they climbed the fin and slipped easily into the water from the creature’s back. But the seas had been heavy, waves broke over their heads and forced them under. It had been a long and exhausting swim to shore. The uruketo had vanished behind them in the dawn mists and they had been alone. At first they called out to each other, but only at first. After that they needed all of their strength to reach the beckoning sands. Enge, fearful for her companions, had pulled herself through the breakers first, had found the strength to go back into the waves and drag out one wet form after another. Until they were stretched on the sand in the warmth of the sun.
All except one. Now Enge splashed helplessly through the surf, first in one direction then the other, but the one she sought had never come ashore. Kind Akel, strong Akel, eaten by the ocean.
Then the others pulled her back, touched her with understanding and made her rest while they looked. To no avail. The sea was empty, Akel vanished forever.
Enge finally found the strength to sit up, then to stand, to brush the sand from her skin with tired movements. Before her the water stirred and foamed; small heads of an immature efenburu looked out at her, vanished with fright when she moved. Even this delightful sight did not penetrate the
blackness of her despair. Yet it did distract her, bring her to herself, make her realize that the others depended upon her and that her duty was to the living, not the dead. She looked along the sand to the distant outline of Yebèisk at the ocean’s edge.
“You must go to the city,” she said. “You must mix with the fargi and lose yourselves among them. You must move with caution and remember always the terrible lessons that we learned in deadly Gendasi*. Many of our sisters died there, but their deaths may still have some meaning if we have learned our lessons well. Learned how Ugunenapsa saw the truth clearly, spoke it clearly, gave it to us. Some were weak and did not understand. But now we know that Ugunenapsa spoke the complete truth. We have the knowledge—but what shall we do with it?”
“Share it with others!” Efen said with joy-of-tomorrow expressed with great feeling. “That is our mission—and it will not fail.”
“We must never forget that. But I must consider carefully how to go about doing that. I will find a place to rest—and to think. I will wait there for your return.”
With silent movements of agreement and perseverance they touched thumbs lightly. Then turned and with Enge leading went toward the city.
Hoatil ham tina grunnan, sassi peria malom skermom mallivo.
MARBAK ORIGINAL
Anyone can bear misery, few are the better for good times.
CHAPTER SEVEN
There was much to be done in the city of Deifoben. To Kerrick seemingly far more than there ever needed to be done when the city was called Alpèasak and Vaintè was eistaa. Kerrick remembered those lazy, heat-filled days with regret that he had not observed more, learned more how the immense city was governed. Although he now sat in the eistaa’s place, against the wall of the ambesed where the sun first struck in the morning, he could never rule from here as she had done. Where she had had assistants, aides, scientists, fargi beyond counting—he had a few willing but inept Sasku. If a task was simple, and could be repeated, they could be taught and it would be done. But none of them ever understood the skein of intermeshed life that made the city a single complex unit. He knew little enough about it himself, but at least he knew it was there. Each part dependent upon the others in ways unknown. And now the city was wounded. It was self-healing for the most part—but not always. A great stretch of growth along the shore, untouched by the fire, had simply turned brown and died. Trees, vines, undergrowth, walls and windows, warehouses and living quarters. Dead. And there was absolutely nothing that Kerrick could do about it.
What could be done was to care for the animals, or a good number of them at least. The giant nenitesk and onetsensast in the outer fields needed no attention since they could forage in what was still natural swamp and jungle. The deer and greatdeer grazed easily enough, as did some of the murgu meat animals. But others had to be fed with fruit, and this was easy enough to arrange. Still others were simply beyond his understanding. And died. Some were not missed. The riding tarakast were vicious and could not be approached. Yilanè had ridden them, could control them, but he could not. They did not graze, so might be carnivores. Yet when they were given meat they screamed and stamped it into the dirt. And died. As did the surviving uruktop in a swampy outlying field. These eight-legged creatures had been bred to carry fargi, seemed suitable for nothing else. They looked at him with glazed eyes when he approached, did not run or attack. They refused all food, even water, and in their dumb, helpless way fell down and perished one by one.
In the end Kerrick decided that this was a Tanu city and no longer a Yilanè one. They would keep what suited them and not be too troubled about the rest. This decision made the work a little easier, but it was still dawn to dusk every day, with conferences many times late into the night.
Therefore he had good reason to forget the season in the frozen north, to lose track of the passing days in this hot and almost changeless climate. Winter ended without his being aware, and late spring had come before he gave serious thought to the sammads. And Armun. It was the arrival of the first Sasku women that gave him pause to remember, to feel a certain guilt about his forgetfulness. It was easy to forget the seasons in this hot climate. Kerrick knew that the manduktos understood many things and he sought out Sanone for help.
“The leaves here never fall,” Kerrick said, “and the fruit ripens year round. It is difficult to keep track of the time of year.”
Sanone was sitting cross-legged in the sun, soaking in the warmth. “That is true,” he said. “But there are other ways of marking the seasons of the year. This is done by watching the moon as it waxes and wanes and keeping track of when this happens. You have heard of this?”
“The alladjex talks of it, that is all I know.”
Sanone sniffed his disapproval of primitive shamanism and smoothed out the sand before him. He was versed in all the secrets of the earth and sky. With his index finger he carefully scratched a moon-calendar into the sand.
“Here and here are the two moons of change. Death of Summer, Death of Winter. Here the days get longer, here the nights begin to grow blacker. I looked at the moon when it rose last night and it was new—which means we are here in its travels.” He pushed the twig into the ground and sat back on his heels, well satisfied with the diagram. Kerrick voiced his ignorance.
“To you, mandukto of the Sasku, this means many things. Unhappily, wise Sanone, I see only sand and a twig. Read it for me, I implore you. Tell me if now, far to the north, has the ice broken and have the flowers opened?”
“They did that here,” Sanone said, moving the twig back in the circle. “Since then the moon has been full and full again.”
Kerrick’s remorse grew at this revelation. But when he thought about it some more he realized that summer had just begun, there would still be time. And there were so many things here that had to be done first. Then one night he dreamt of Armun and touched her split lip with his tongue and awoke shaking and determined to start at once to reach her, bring her here. The baby too, of course.
Good as his intentions were the tasks that had to be finished to make Deifoben inhabitable never seemed to end. One day ran into another, stretched on through the long days of summer, until, suddenly, it was autumn again. Kerrick was torn two ways then. Angry at himself for not making the time to leave and go north for Armun. Yet feeling a relief that it would be impossible to go now since he would never get there and back before the winter snows. He would plan better now, finish his work by early spring, have Sanone remind him of the passing days. Then go north and bring her here. At least she was safe, she and the baby; that gave him a feeling of security whenever he missed her the most.
* * *
Kalaleq was not frightened by the sudden appearance of the Tanu. He had met them before—and was also well aware that he was now in their hunting grounds. But he could see that the woman was afraid of him.
“Be without fear, snow-hair,” he called out, then laughed aloud to show how friendly he was. This had little good affect for the woman stepped back, still fearful, and raised her spear. As did the child with her. The baby on the travois began to cry lustily. Kalaleq lowered his eyes, unhappy that he had caused distress, then saw his hands and knife dripping with blood from the slaughter of the fur-creature that lay before him. He quickly dropped the knife and put his hands beind his back, smiling what he hoped was a friendly smile.
“What did you say?” Angajorqaq called out, pushing aside the skins that hung in the open doorway as she emerged from the hut—stopping rigid when she saw the newcomers there.
“Look how their hair shines! Their skins, so white. Are they Tanu?” she asked.
“They are.”
“Where are the hunters?”
“I have no knowledge—I see but these.”
“A woman, a child, a baby. Their hunter must be dead if they are alone and they will grieve. Speak to them, make them at ease.”
Kalaleq sighed heavily. “I have no skill in their tongue. I can say only meat and water and goodbye.”
<
br /> “Do not say goodbye yet. Offer water, that is always nice.”
Armun’s first fear was eased when the furry-faced one dropped his knife and stepped back. He was a Paramutan, if he were here on the shore, one of the hunters who lived always in the north by the sea. She had heard of them but had never seen one before. Slowly she lowered the point of her spear, yet still gripped it tightly when another one of them emerged from the hut. But it was a woman, not another hunter, and she was greatly relieved. The two of them talked in incomprehensible, high-pitched voices. Then the hunter smiled broadly and spoke a single word.
“Waw-terr.” The smile faded when she did not respond and he repeated it. “Waw-terr, waw-terr!”
“Is he saying water?” Harl asked.
“Perhaps he is. Water, yes—water.” She nodded and smiled as well and the dark woman slipped back into the tent. When she emerged again she was carrying a black leather cup; she held it out. Harl stepped forward and took it, looked inside—then drank.
“Water,” he said. “Tastes terrible.”
His words disarmed Armun. Her fear was gone but was replaced by a great tiredness, so much so that she swayed and had to jam the butt of the spear into the ground and lean on it for support. The sight of the friendly, fur-covered faces, the knowledge that she was no longer alone let in the fatigue she had so long kept at bay. The other woman saw this and waddled quickly over to her, took the spear from her loose grasp and eased her down to the ground. Armun submitted without thinking, there seemed no danger here—and if there were it was too late to turn back. The baby was crying so lustily now that she had to stand and take him up, balance him on one hip while she found a piece of smoked meat for him to suck upon. The Paramutan woman made appreciative clucking noises as she reached down and touched Arnwheet’s pale hair.
Armun was not even startled when there was a call from the distance, a highpitched shout. A small boy, his face-fur a lighter brown than the adults’, trotted along the shore holding a rabbit high by the snare that had caught it. He stopped and gaped when he saw the newcomers. Harl, with the curiosity of all boys, went over to look at the rabbit. The Paramutan boy appeared to be older than Harl, though he was half a head shorter. They accepted each other’s presence easily. Through her great fatigue Armun felt a sudden welling of hope. They might still be alive in the spring!
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