The Awakeners: Northshore & Southshore

by Sheri S. Tepper

  Medoor Babji had that flash of elusive thought again, as though someone had just told her the answer to a long-asked question, but it was gone before she could grasp it, leaving her shaking her head in frustration.

  She walked in the groves with the children. ‘Cindianda,’ Taneff begged, ‘tell us stories of Northshore.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Tell us of the Noor. Tell us of the great Queen.’

  So, she invented, spinning incredible tales into the afternoon. Taneff was insatiable. Whenever she stopped, Taneff wanted more, more and more stories, and she began to look forward to these sessions under the trees during which she could let her imagination spin without fault. Nothing hung upon her stories but the day’s amusement, and she relished that.

  Each morning when she woke, she resolved to get the boat repaired and set out in search of Thrasne. Each evening, she resolved it anew. Still, the days went by in placid grace, full of quiet entertainment.

  One morning she rose early, conscience stricken or dream driven, determined to go to the shore and examine the Cheevle. She was amazed to find it had been almost entirely repaired. Only one of the planks remained to be replaced. Saleff had said nothing to her of repairing her boat, and she felt shamed that so much had been done without her help or thanks. She looked up to find him beside her, head cocked in that smiling position.

  ‘Soon,’ he said. ‘Some of the young people will want to go journeying soon, and they can go with you to find your friends.’

  ‘When?’ she begged, suddenly aware of how many days had passed.

  He pointed skyward. ‘After Conjunction. Not now. The tides will be treacherous for a time. When Conjunction passes, they will fall into a manageable state.’

  She examined the moons, surprised she had not noticed how near to Conjunction they were. It would be weeks before she could go. ‘I’ll never find him,’ she said hopelessly. ‘Never.’

  ‘Oh, we think you will. We’ve sent word by island messenger to all the settlements, east, west, south. The word is spreading among the island chains. Even the strangeys know we’re looking for it. The Gift of Potipur will be spotted somewhere, don’t fear.’

  She went walking with the children. Cimmy and Mintel ran off into the woods, saying they smelled fruit ripening. Taneff stayed with her, leaping into the path, then out again, whirling about, seizing her by the hand to drag her, protesting, to the top of a pile of rocks.

  ‘Ouch!’ She bit the word off. ‘Damn it, Taneff, that hurt.’ There was a long graze on her arm where it had been dragged against the black stone. ‘I’m bleeding.’

  Taneff stood, looking at her stupidly, saying nothing, shifting from foot to foot, a dark shadow moving behind the eyes, utterly unlike their usual expression. Then the eyes cleared, and Taneff smiled, a little uncertainly. ‘Sorry. I am sorry, Cindianda. I got carried away with the running and leaping, I guess. Everything in the village is so – so …’

  ‘Circumscribed,’ she offered with a wry laugh. ‘Orderly.’

  ‘Well, yes. Lately it just seems to irritate me.’ Legs stamping, wings held slightly away from the body, Taneff began to gyrate, a mockery of a dance. ‘I need to get it out of my system.’

  Medoor Babji repeated this to Saleff with a laugh. ‘I’m glad to know it isn’t only among the Noor that young people get tired of order.’

  Saleff received it in silence, with only a few murmured words of apology for Medoor Babji’s injury. ‘Yes. The young people need some excitement,’ he said at last. ‘We’ll have some dances.’

  They had one two days later, drumming and a lot of very elegant prancing on a dance floor, all the young mixed in together, leaping and jostling. Among the crowd were half a dozen who were magnificent dancers, the feathers around their eyes flushed a little with the unaccustomed noise.

  ‘Cimmy and Mintel are going to visit some kinfolk,’ old Burg announced one morning, apropos of nothing. ‘Next island over. Would you like to go along?’

  Medoor Babji allowed that she would. They left early in the morning, Sterf, Burg, Cimmy, and Mintel in a little, light boat with Medoor Babji perched in the stern like an afterthought, trailing her fingers in the water and humming to herself.

  ‘I need to see some of my colleagues over on Jake’s,’ Burg told her. ‘The Treeci are better with boats than I am, so I hitch a ride whenever anyone is going.’

  ‘There are a lot of boats going,’ she answered him, pointing them out, counting them off. Six boats from Isle Point, all setting out in various directions, all with young ones aboard.

  ‘Bringing home the brides,’ said Cimmy in a depressed little voice, at which Sterf said something sharp in admonition. Medoor Babji started to ask, but Burg shook his head at her. A taboo subject. Very well, she would not ask.

  On Jake’s she went with Burg to meet the humans on the island, spent the day, the night, and a greater part of the next day doing so. They were many, garrulous, and eager for new faces and new information. Every word Medoor Babji uttered about Northshore was soaked up by an eager audience, and by afternoon her voice had given out.

  Burg gave her puncon brandy and let her sit in a corner of the laboratory while he talked shop with his kinfolk. She dozed, warmly content after a night with almost no sleep.

  ‘Arbsen was here last week,’ someone was saying to Burg.

  ‘Arbsen? She hardly ever leaves her room, except to walk with Taneff in the woods.’

  ‘She was here, Burg. She wanted the blocker hormone.’

  ‘That’s illegal. Unethical, too.’

  ‘It’s only illegal for Treeci to use it, not for us to give it.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. We live with the Treeci; of course we obey the spirit of their laws. Have you told Saleff? Have you told any of the Talkers?’

  ‘Not yet. I was waiting for you to come over. You know the family.’

  ‘I’ll talk to him. What did you tell Arbsen?’

  ‘Just what you said. It’s illegal.’

  In her corner, Medoor Babji stirred uneasily. This was evocative of something she had heard before, something Pamra Don had said. Something.

  Burg roused her sometime later, and they walked together to the shore. There was a strange youngster waiting with Sterf, wide-eyed and frightened looking.

  ‘Treemi,’ Sterf introduced her. ‘Coming back with us to Isle Point.’

  ‘Will Cimmy and Mintel be staying here long?’ Medoor Babji asked. ‘Will I have a chance to see them before I leave?’

  The question somehow went unanswered in their bustle to load the boat. She did not ask it again. Taneff met them back at Isle Point. Taneff was carrying flowers for the visitor and was unwontedly silent. He did not even answer Medoor Babji’s greeting.

  There were other visitors. All the youngsters seemed to be paired off, one local and one visitor, the locals wandering around a good part of the time with the visitors in attendance. Taneff, who had not let Medoor Babji alone in his demand for stories, now seemed almost to avoid her.

  ‘All right, Burg,’ she asked, seeking him out and peering around to be sure they were alone, human to human. ‘What’s going on?’

  He shook his head at her, making a taciturn, pinch-lipped face.

  ‘No, don’t give me that. I know it’s a taboo subject, but you’ve got to tell me what’s going on or I may transgress. I don’t want to do that.’

  He sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right, Medoor Babji. It’s Conjunction, that’s all. Conjunction in a year in which some children in the community reach mating age.’

  ‘Breeding age?’ she asked, suddenly remembering something Pamra Don had said. ‘Couldn’t they put it off a few years? Gods, they’re only children.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, actually, they’re at exactly the right age. Biologically speaking, that is. Or so my friends over at the lab on Jake’s tell me.’

  ‘So the visitors are what? What was it Cimmy said, “brides”?’

  ‘Yes. Cross-island ma
ting, to prevent inbreeding. Do you know anything about that, Medoor Babji?’

  ‘I know you breed champion seeker bird to champion seeker bird if you want the traits passed on. I know if you breed too close for too long, though, sometimes the chicks don’t live.’

  He nodded. ‘It’s the same for all creatures. Inbreeding intensifies characteristics, both desired and undesired. With seeker birds, you can destroy the faulty ones. The Treeci wouldn’t approve of that, so, Cimmy and Mintel went over to Jake’s Island to meet a couple of the young roosters over there, and little Treemi came back here to meet Taneff. That’s really all there is to it.’

  It was not all there was to it. There was a great deal more to it than that, but someone came to the door of Burg’s house, and the conversation ended.

  As she was walking back to Saleff’s house, she met Taneff on the path.

  ‘Hear you’ve got a new friend,’ she called, teasing him a little.

  He looked at her, head down, wings slightly cocked. ‘Friend,’ he said. His eyes were glazed, dull as though a film lay over them. The visitor, Treemi, came out of the woods and took him by the wing, her fingers caressing him as she cast a quick, warning look at Medoor Babji.

  ‘I’ve got fan fruit for you, Taneff,’ she said. ‘Fan fruit.’

  ‘Fan fruit,’ he said, turning toward her, feet dancing, wings lifting.

  ‘Fan fruit,’ she sang, leading him away, half dancing. Arbsen came out of the wood and followed them, at some distance, her eyes wild and haggard.

  Medoor Babji stood looking after them, more troubled than she could explain. Of the three children, Taneff had been her favorite. Taneff, as he was, not this strange, withdrawn creature who talked in monosyllables. She shook her head, annoyed at herself.

  That night she was wakened by voices. She rolled from her mat on the floor and went to the window to close it, only to stop as she recognized the voices coming from the room below her.

  ‘I want you to give it to Taneff.’ Arbsen’s voice, husky with pain, anguish. ‘Saleff, you’ve got to.’

  ‘Arbsen, you’ve been eating Glizzee, haven’t you.’

  ‘What difference if I have? Glizzee is the only thing keeping me sane. That has nothing to do with what I asked you. I asked you to give the hormone to me. For Taneff. He’s my child, Saleff. I can’t let him die.’

  ‘Arbsen. You, of all people, should know the folly of that. Remember Kora? Kora and her son, Vorn. Remember them?’

  ‘Taneff isn’t in the least like Vorn. I think Taneff’s a Talker. Vorn wasn’t.’

  ‘No, Vorn wasn’t. And Taneff isn’t a Talker, either, Arbsen. I’ve been testing him myself, the last time just yesterday. Do you think I wouldn’t do that, carefully, with a member of our own family?’

  ‘You made a mistake,’ she wept. ‘I know you did. He’s a Talker. I just know it.’

  ‘If he were, my dear, I would know it. Can’t you resign yourself, Arbsen? Go to Sterf. She’ll help you.’

  ‘How could she help me! She never had this happen to her. She had a damn Talker. She had you!’ The sound of wild weeping erupted into the quiet glade. In the houses, lights went on. Silence fell below.

  Medoor Babji shut the window, hideously uncomfortable. There were things she felt she should remember, things she wanted to ask Burg on the morning.

  And on the morning, she could not. Burg had gone to Jake’s for a time, she was told, taking his family with him. He would be back for her after Conjunction. There were only two human families left in Isle Point, neither of them with young people. Despite her affection for Saleff’s family, Medoor Babji felt abandoned.

  The whole settlement seemed to be under emotional strain. There was a sense of communal anguish which kept her from asking Saleff any questions. Several times over the succeeding days, she met Taneff and Treemi in the woods or on the beach paths. Taneff scarcely seemed to know her. His voice was only a croak, though the rest of him was becoming glorious, frilled with feathers, flushed with rose. Always, Arbsen followed them at a distance. She had grown gaunt, almost skeletal. Almost every night there were dances somewhere nearby. Medoor Babji was not invited to attend, but no one could hide the sound of the drums.

  And Arbsen was suddenly much in evidence, a hectic flush around her beak, very talkative. Both Saleff and Sterf watched her with a worried grimace, and Medoor Babji wondered if she should not absent herself from the Treeci house.

  Which point was decisively answered by Sterf herself. ‘Mating time is difficult for us,’ she said. ‘Emotionally, you understand. Some of our loved children are far away, and we worry whether they are treated well. You are self-effacing and sensitive, Medoor Babji, but being so tactful is hard on you and us. Burg’s house is empty. Would you mind using it for the next few days?’

  To which Medoor Babji bowed and made appropriate expressions of sympathy and concern, all the while afire with curiosity.

  There were drums that night, a fever in the blood. There were drums the night following. And on the third night, Conjunction came. Mindful of the laws of hospitality, Medoor Babji kept herself strictly within the Burg house, whiling the long, sleepless hours away by reading books. Burg had more of them than Queen Fibji had, and Queen Fibji had a good many. The drums went on most of the night, trailing away into a sad emptiness a few hours before dawn.

  She woke late in the morning. The village was still silent, empty as a sucked puncon peel. Away in the woods somewhere, smoke rose, a vast, purposeful burning. The reek of it made the hairs on Medoor Babji’s neck stand up – smoke, but more than smoke. Incense, too. And something else which the incense did not quite cover. There was a feeling of sadness, a smell of bittersweet horror. She sat on the porch with her book, drinking endless cups of tea, waiting for something to happen, half-afraid that something would.

  What did happen was that Burg returned, with his family, grim-faced and white. Medoor walked down to meet him at the shore. ‘Have you seen anyone today, Medoor Babji?’

  ‘Not a soul, Burg. Forgive my trespassing on your home, but Sterf asked me to …’

  He shook his head. ‘Of no matter. I told her to send you over if things got tense. Which they have. Worse than I thought.’

  He turned away to supervise the family – son, son’s wife, daughter, grandchild, baby – as the boat was unloaded.

  ‘Turn it over, wash it out, and leave it here,’ he told his son. ‘Sterf will want to be taking Treemi home tonight or first thing in the morning. ‘I’ll go with her.’ He said this as though he did not believe it, like a courtesy phrase, said out of habit, not out of conviction.

  He trudged up to his house, pausing on the porch to feel the pot Medoor Babji had left there, pouring himself a cup when he found it still warm. She held her tongue, not wanting to distress him more than he obviously already was.

  ‘Arbsen stole the stuff,’ he said at last, looking over her shoulder into woods. ‘The stuff we give young Talkers to get them through mating season without dying.’

  ‘I – I don’t understand.’ And yet, she did. She remembered things Pamra had said. About Neff. Holy Neff. Her vision, the one that spoke to her all the time. Burg went on, confirming her recollection.

  ‘Male Treeci – male Thraish, the whole species – they die after they mate. The breeding cycle triggers a kind of death hormone. Among the Thraish, the Talkers have learned to make an antidote from their own blood. They locate young Talkers before the breeding season, sequester them, give them the antidote, and it inhibits the breeding cycle.’ He rubbed his forehead, rubbed tears from the corners of his eyes.

  ‘When we first came here the technique had been lost or something. When young Talkers were born, they just died, along with all the rest of the males. A rare tragedy. Only about one in a thousand males is a Talker. Still, it was always a pity. Talkers don’t lose their intelligence, you know, not like the others. The ordinary males – they go into it in a kind of anesthetized ecstasy. Not Talkers. Whatever it is that makes the
m different also makes them victims. So, we created an antidote in the labs, to save the Talkers. Ones like Saleff. It doesn’t inhibit the breeding cycle as the Thraish medication did. It just inhibits the death hormone.’

  ‘Then they can all live?’ Medoor Babji said. ‘Taneff can live! That’s what Arbsen wanted from Saleff.’

  ‘No. No, they can’t. We tried that, out of compassion, a long time ago. It was a horrible mistake. But Arbsen was so crazy with grief, she stole the stuff. Now I have to find out what she did with it …’

  ‘Why, she gave it to Taneff,’ said Medoor Babji. ‘What else would she do?’

  ‘Oh, sweet girl, I pray you’re wrong,’ he said, the tears now running down his face in a steady stream. ‘I know you’re right, but I pray you’re wrong.’

  At the fall of evening, Treeci began to trickle back into the village, silent as shadows. Somewhere far away a bell began to ring, measured stroke after measured stroke. No one needed to say it was a mourning bell. The sound alone did that.

  Saleff came to the house. ‘Return to us, Medoor Babji. We need the distraction of your presence.’ He was carefully not looking at Burg.

  Burg would not allow the evasion. ‘Arbsen stole the hormone, Saleff. Took it from the lab when she was over there a few weeks ago.’ Burg was blunt, demanding a response.

  Saleff didn’t reply.

  ‘Is Treemi all right?’

  ‘We haven’t found her,’ the other said in a bleak, shattered voice. ‘Tomorrow we will begin to look.’

  ‘Is Arbsen around?’

  ‘Not Arbsen, no. Nor Taneff.’

  ‘Why wait until morning, Saleff? He has had them a full day. They could still be alive. If we look tonight, we may save Treemi’s life. Otherwise you’ll have blood guilt to pay her family, which will mean another life. You want to risk Cimmy, too? Or Mintel?’