The Vistor

by Sheri S. Tepper

  Imprisonment. Captivity. Enslavement. "...let go..."

  Oh, so sad, so sad, with only this nebulous linking of words and impressions, so fragile, so frail that the moment she clutched at them they were gone. Dreams did that, when she tried to hold on to them, evaporating like mist in the wind. So, too, the ouphs were driven out into the gulf of air where they whirled, slowly at first, then more quickly, keening an immeasurable sorrow that was sucked into the vortex and away.

  The demons had neither seen nor heard. They were building a new section of the wall with various snippers and twisters, hoses, connectors and gadgets. They had buckets of half-solid stuff that they troweled between the bottles to hold them fast, and they worked with deliberate speed and no wasted motions. Soon, the job was done, the bottles were embedded and labeled, the tools and empty yokes were gathered, and the demons strode off toward the crow-wing shadow of the trees as the ouph-fog slowly faded into nothingness behind them,

  When the last of the fog went, a chill finger touched the back of Dismé's head, a wave of coldness crept down her neck onto her back, as though someone had reached beneath her clothing to stroke her with ice. She shivered and recoiled. The chill had been there for a while, but her concentration on the ouphs had kept her from attending to it. Now it was imminent and intent, watching her. She spun about, searching, seeing nothing, but knowing still that something was watching. She ducked under the cover of tilted slabs and stayed there, trembling, pressing her hands to her head where the thing was still present, as though looking from the inside out!

  In the darkness behind her eyelids a green shadow bloomed, a voice whispered. "Gone the demons and ouphs, but not gone that other thing. You must stop thinking..."

  The suggestion was familiar. She stopped thinking. The green shade expanded to contain her as she retreated to a central fastness she was seldom able to find. Bird song wove a crystal cage. The sun pulled itself another rung into the sky. When its rays struck her full upon her head, she looked up without thinking anything and saw before her a looped line of light.

  "What is that?" she asked in a whisper.

  "The Guardian's sign," the voice murmured. "Go home now."

  The darkness inside her gave way to a rush of scintillant sparks, edged light, pricking fire, sticking burs of brilliance creating an instant's perfect illumination. No voice. No demons. No ouphs. No ping, no thing, only the prickling star-burn, an itch of the intellect and the memory of a familiar but unplaceable voice.

  So many sharp-bright questions! So many mystery-marvels that cried out for explanation! Thousands of things she wanted to know, and among them all, not one, not a single one that she, who yesterday had celebrated her eighth birthday, was still naive enough to ask.

  Among the trees, the demons met others of their fellows. From the wagon, straw mats were thrown aside to disclose a pile of bodies to be unloaded and laid on the grass. Wolf, the demon in charge, went down the line, checking off each one as they came to it.

  "Malvis Jones," he read from his work sheet. "Malvis goes to Warm Point with you, Mole. Rickle Blessing? That's him, in the green overalls. He's been allocated to Benchmark along with his wife, Lula, third one down in that row."

  As he spoke, demons moved forward to load the still forms into smaller wagons hitched to pairs of horses. Beside the last body, a small one, the demons gathered, their faces twisted with anger and revulsion.

  "Another one," said Mole, leaning down to feel the faint pulse in the child's neck. "What hellhound did this to her."

  Wolf said between his teeth, "She goes south, all the way."

  "To Chasm? You mean we call for transport?"

  "You think she'd live to make it any other way? Perhaps they can salvage something..."

  Mole cried, "Does anyone know anything about this?"

  "Nothing. Except that there's more of it, all the time."

  Silently, the demons wrapped what was left of the still body and laid it on a stretcher. Four of them carried it off among the trees. As the others were about to move away, every demon froze. Sections of their horns became strangely transparent, as though little windows had opened there. After a long moment, they moved, though only tentatively.

  "Did you feel that?" demanded Wolf. "What was that?"

  "Something watching," muttered Mole. "That's all I could get." He fished a notebook from a pocket. "How many bodies were there, all together?"

  "Twenty-three. Twelve alive, eleven dead."

  "No body parts removed?"

  "Just that little girl," said Wolf, his lips twisting in revulsion.

  "Why is it always children?"

  "It isn't always, just mostly. Speaking of children, j'you notice the girl on the wall, Mole? Little thing, out there alone? How old?"

  "Yeah, about that. I used to see her there with her mother. Lately I've seen her there by herself, but it's the first time she's caught us out in the open. Do we need to..."

  "No. Let it go. There's no threat there."

  Because of the watcher, Dismé was late leaving the wall, and she made it home just in time to avoid being caught. As it was, only Rashel observed her return past the bottle room.

  "What were you doing out there?" she demanded imperiously, nose pinched, lips pursed, a flush of indignation on her face.

  "There was a bird on the wall," said Dismé, carefully, expressionlessly. "I went to get a closer look at it."

  "Mother says you're not to go out without her say so."

  "What's this?" Father rumbled from the kitchen door. "Been bird watching again, Dis?"

  Rashel, officiously, "Mother says she shouldn't go out, ever, without asking her."

  "I scarcely think Dismé needs to ask anyone's permission to take a look at a bird, Rashel. You're living in Apocanew now, not out at the dangerous frontier."

  Rashel stared at him impudently, then flounced out.

  "Was it really a bird?" Father whispered. "Or were you up in that old tower again?"

  "I was really watching birds," Dismé replied.

  "Well, your cloak is buttoned crooked and your shoe laces are in peculiar knots, so I'd suggest getting yourself put together properly before Mother sees you."

  "She isn't..." Dismé began.

  "I know. But you're to call her Mother. You've heard Rashel call me Father."

  Oh, yes. Dismé had heard Rashel say Faahther, like a cat growling softly, playing with the word as though it were a mouse.

  Father beckoned Roger from the adjacent room. "Roger, help your sister out, or she'll be in trouble."

  Roger rolled his eyes, but he took her up to her room, where she had her own little white bed with a ruffled pink pillow. The pillow was a birthday present from Father.

  "Where's your pillow?" Roger asked, as he retied her shoes.

  Dismé whispered, "Rashel took it."

  "Rashel!" said Roger. "I can't put anything down if she's around. She's a magpie for stealing. I'll speak to Father."

  "Don't Roger. Please."

  "I will. I'll make her stop this!"

  And Roger did. And Father spoke to Rashel. And Rashel said the kind of thing she usually said.

  "I did not! I saw her throw it under her bed her own self."

  And when they went to look, there the pillow was, under the bed, dusty, with a hole torn in the ruffle, though Dismé knew she hadn't put it there.

  Father shook his head, his face full of disappointment. Call-Her-Mother's voice cooed: "Well, Dismé, if you're not going to take care of things, we'll give it to Rashel. She takes care of things."

  "Where's your shawl, Dismé?" Father asking "The one that was your mother's?"

  "I have it put away." She had seen Rashel put it in the back of her armoire, but it would not do to say so.

  "Where's your quilt that Aunty made for you, Dismé?" Aunt Gayla asking.

  "In the wash." As it well might be, though Dismé hadn't put it there.

  Rashel tried taking things from Roger, too, but though Roger was a year yo
unger than Rashel, he was bigger and stronger. One day, he slapped Rashel hard, leaving a red handprint on her face, and he told her if she ever told a lie about him or Dismé again, he'd tell the Regime! Dismé saw it all from the stair landing where a pair of heavy curtains made a perfect hideaway. From the time Rashel and Call-Her-Mother had come, Dismé had watched them, desperate to figure them out. True Mother once told her, "You must always know your enemies, Dis. The more you know, the safer you are." Maybe Rashel had believed Roger's threat, for none of Dismé's few remaining belongings disappeared or turned up broken for a while.

  When spring came, so did Rashel's birthday, and Call-Her-Mother planned a picnic at Riverpark for the whole family. Father and Call-Her-Mother carried the baskets, striding on ahead of the children to the Stone Bridge that curved over the River Tey, at this time of the year roaring with muddy run-off from the snows up Mt. P'Jardas way. Dismé went across and stopped in the shade to wait for Roger, who was explaining to Rashel why she should stop showing off, walking on the railing.

  "It's fun," said Rashel, loftily, arms extended for balance. "You're just afraid to try it."

  "I have tried it, stupid. Just not this time of year, when the river's full like this! It's dangerous!"

  "That's what makes it fun. Otherwise, it's just like walking along the railroad track. You slip off, it doesn't matter. I said you were afraid of the danger, and you've just admitted it."

  "I am not afraid," he said, very red in the face, as he started to climb up next to Rashel.

  Dismé screamed at him. "Roger. Don't get up there!" Then, when he paid no attention, she ran as fast as she could after Father, to get him to make Roger and Rashel stop.

  "They're what?" cried Father, heading back down the path. "I thought Roger had better sense than that."

  Call-Her-Mother sat down on a stump and shook her head in exasperation.

  Dismé halted, biting her lip, not knowing which way to go. She was still vacillating when Father's great shout came echoing up the hillside, sending her scrambling down the hill, suddenly frantic. There was Rashel, leaning over the rail, father half over the rail at her side, reaching out. There was Call-Her-Mother, suddenly white in the face, looking at Rashel with pure panic, and Roger nowhere to be seen.

  "He fell," Rashel cried. "He just suddenly fell!" She wept into the hem of her skirt, wailing as though in an outburst of grief. Dismé couldn't make a sound. Her eyes were dry and hot with horror and disbelief, and she could not take them from the foam-slathered darkness of the torrent.

  People searched. Men from the Department of Death Prevention went up and down the banks on both sides, during the flood and afterward. No one was allowed to die all at once in the Regime. Father searched, silently, sorrow strangled, but Roger was never found. Dismé had bad dreams about dying all at once, but Father held her and told her Roger had gone to some other place where things were lovely for him.

  "Shall we go see him in the bottle wall, Father?"

  "No, Dismé. Roger has escaped the bottle wall. Thank God."

  "Didn't you want him in the bottle wall, Father?"

  "No, love. No one I love should ever be in a bottle wall. But that must be a secret, just between us. Like our other special secret, you remember?"

  "About the Latimer book the ping asked me about."

  He paled and grew tense. "A ping? When? Where?"

  "One morning when I was out watching birds, I forget exactly when. It was a long time ago. I saw the ping first, then demons, then ouphs, then something awful watched me, and there was a voice and a sign..."

  "Dismé, slowly. You saw what?"

  "Demons, coming through the city wall. And ouphs."

  "What are ouphs?"

  She remembered, just in time, that ouphs were secret. "Just a pretend, Father. Mother and I had a pretend. And the something awful was only a feeling. But the voice and the sign were real."

  "What voice? What sign?"

  "A voice that told me to be still..."

  Her father smiled, "As many people have."

  "And a sign, like an eight lying on its side. Glowing, sort of." She gestured, making the curve loop, out and back, crossing in the middle.

  "The Guardians' sign," he said, smiling. "Tamlar's and Elnith's."

  "Who are they, Father?"

  "You're remembering a story your mother used to tell you when you were tiny. Tamlar was the Guardian of the fires of life who will call the other Guardians back into life, to help us, and they will all wear that sign. Your mother named you after one of the Guardians."

  "What was she guardian of, Father?"

  "I don't remember what she was guardian of. Maybe she was Dismé of the dust bins." He laughed. "What did you tell the ping?"

  She shrugged. "I couldn't tell it much."

  "You do remember where the book is? And you remember, if anything happens to me, you must hide it?"

  "Nothing's going to happen to you, Father."

  "I hope not, Dismé. Still, one has to think of all possibilities. Like Bahibra going away." And he shook his head slowly, tears in his eyes. Dismé knew he was wondering why mother didn't tell him she was going but did tell Dismé. Dismé couldn't explain it because it was one of the many things she didn't know.

  Once Roger had gone, there was no one to threaten Rashel into being nice. One time Father caught Dismé crying and he demanded to know why. Dismé, caught off guard, said she was lonely, and she missed having her shawl, because it was the only thing left that had belonged to Mother. Father, sounding angry, which he hardly ever did, ordered Rashel to give Dismé's shawl back to her.

  Call-Her-Mother said, "The child leaves her belongings all over the house. Why don't we return everything!"

  The shawl had been washed in hot water. It was shrunken to nothing, a stiff, felt-like thing the size of a kerchief. Her hat had been sat upon; her book had paint spilled over all the pretty pictures; everything was spoiled.

  "There," Call-Her-Mother said. "Such a fuss over a lot of trash. I hope you're satisfied."

  Father was staring at the shawl, his face very cold and still. Dismé's mother had worn it when they met. It was woven of very fine wool, printed in a design of roses, and it had been very soft, very old and an armspan each way. True Mother had given it to Dismé, particularly. Father touched it with a forefinger, his face flushing as he looked up at Cora, angry, really angry.

  "Who did this?"

  "Why, Val, I'm sure the child did it hers..."

  "The child did nothing of the kind. She treasured it far too much. Who did it?"

  "It probably got mixed in with the wash, accidentally."

  "Accidentally. Like the hat. Like the book. Like the little pillow I gave her. There are too many accidents, Cora. Far too many Turnaway accidents."

  Dismé had no word for the expression on his face. Anger was only part of it. Maybe disappointment? Whatever it was, it made Call-Her-Mother turn very red, then very pale, and that was enough to make Dismé lie awake at night, worrying about Father. Call-Her Mother and Rashel were both Turnaways. It wasn't smart to fool with Turnaways. Should she stop showing she loved Father? Everything she loved disappeared, or was broken, or died...

  Father changed after that. He became less dreamy, more solid, which puzzled Call-Her-Mother. One day he asked Dismé to help him clean the back areaway, beside the toolshed. When they were almost finished, he said softly, "Go get me the Latimer book, Dis. Hide it under your shirt. I've made a place in the shed where we can keep it safe."

  Dismé went into the little room her father used as an office and listened, being sure that Call-Her-Mother and Rashel were upstairs. The Latimer book was a black book with a name in gold: Nell Latimer, Father's great great so many times great grandmother. It was on the bottom shelf, behind some other books, Dismé removed the books, first carefully, then with panic, for the space behind them was completely empty.

  "It's gone," she whispered to Father, when she returned to him.

  He bit his l
ip. "Gone?"

  "Gone, Father. Really. I took every book out of the shelf and I looked at each one."

  "Rashel," he said, like a curse.

  "Or her mother," whispered Dismé. "They both take things."

  He didn't contradict her. He hadn't doubted her since he had seen her mother's shawl. Instead, he said bitterly, "It'll be somewhere in the house. Look for it, Dismé. Whenever you have the chance. Damn it, it's a Comador book, not a Turnaway thing. Not Cora's nor Rashel's, but ours."

  "What's in it, Papa?"

  "I'm ashamed to say I don't know. I started to read it once, but a lot of it was very personal and embarrassing to read. I felt as though ... I were intruding, so I never really.... Well. It was written by our ancestress, a sorceress, a star-reader."

  "You said there was something about purple prayer, rising from the world like smoke, and something about the monster that came in the dark to strike the world a mortal blow, and something about the part that broke away..."

  "A voice from the sky that smelled of sandalwood and roses."

  "It told her to bring her children, quickly. But she couldn't, because the Happening came right then "

  "When we lost The Art," he agreed. "Try to find the book."

  Which she did, often, but with no success.

  2

  nell latimer's book

  A strange thing happened today, one I think may warrant taking some notes.

  I could claim to have met Selma Ornowsky because I was so conscientious and dutiful that I stayed at the observatory after closing to finish up paperwork, but it wouldn't be true. I was still there because it's getting harder every day to go home. The Jerry I'm married to is no longer the Jerry I married. He's become a stranger, a person I don't want to spend the rest of my life with. There are two children, however, who love him dearly, so wanting takes second place to being Mom. So long as I'm busy and not within the sound of his new holier-than-thou voice, I can pretend things are the way they used to be, and that's really why I was still working at 6:30 P.M. when I heard the bell that told me someone was trying to get in a side door.