by Larry Niven
He watched the Dinga priest speak to Pulolu, the elder Father of the Ibandi. Every ten days the priest came, his sagging belly painted with runes, and his head festooned with gaudily dyed feathers. Nagai didn’t like the man, although, or perhaps because, he always smiled, and sometimes laughed with a booming voice. The Mothers and Fathers had always told him that the Dinga were their friends, that in exchange for a little food, the Dinga protected them from enemies. That the Ibandi owed the Dinga much.
Nagai waved a fly away from his offering, watched the priest posture. Why would they need the protection of the Dinga? Was not all the Body in accord? Something about it made him feel sour in the stomach. The girl ahead of him in the line stood, bearing her armload of tubers. The Dinga priest smiled, the sharp tips of his teeth brushing fleshy lips.
Nagai stood, felt a droplet of perspiration trickle down his back, and calmed himself. He forced a neutral expression to his face and strode forward. The boy halted, bare toes gripping dirt and tiny pebbles as he extended his bowl of fruit. “A gift to our friends,” he said automatically.
The priest patted his head with a great moist hand, and Nagai chewed at his lower lip. The fat man picked up one of the yellow ovals and buried his teeth in it, his eyes widening in pleasure as the juice welled up over and dribbled down a stubbled cheek.
Another pat on the head. Nagai smelled the sourness of the other’s body. Fear. This man is afraid. But that was absurd. If they were of the Body there would be nothing…
“You Ibandi,” the fat priest said, laughing, eyes tiny and wet. “How do you call up such magic from this soil? Do the plants listen to you?”
Nagai smiled.
The priest chuckled again, and passed the basket to the Dinga warrior who stood behind him. The man stacked the basket into the cart waiting, now almost filled with the week’s offerings.
The Ibandi lad ran from the gate as soon as his burden was lifted, and made for the nearest stand of fruit trees. Reaching them, he stopped and looked back at the front gate and slow-moving line of contributors to the Dinga cart. Most were older than his sixteen years: Nagai had only been allowed to make offering for the past four months.
It was part of the process of becoming a Father, Or, for that matter, a Mother. Slowly, he was being eased out of his childhood, taking on a few more responsibilities, gradually learning what it was to be a Coordinator.
But what was he feeling from the Dinga? He didn’t understand, not at all. The cart was finally filled, and began to move out of the gate, pulled by four men. Always the same men. Always staring straight ahead, silent, unblinking.
Once, the first month of Nagai’s contributions, he had come close to one of the four men, standing in front of him and watching as a fly crawled across the doughy face, across an open eye without a blink. Ashan, his father, had taken Nagai by the hand and led him away quickly, refusing to answer questions.
Still the Coordinators, both Mothers and Fathers, refused to talk about it. “You will learn,” was the most response that ever came, before the inevitable smile and “why don’t you go play now?”
The boy watched as the gate closed behind the Dinga priest and his cart, and the Coordinators walked back into the central village with drawn, worried faces.
A child ran up to one of them, and there was an automatic warm smile and hug; the ugly moment had passed. Nagai stretched, breathing deeply to cleanse lungs and mind. Immediately he fell the gentle knowledge tickling at him like a feather, and the joy came bubbling up out of his worry like fresh cold water. “I come, sister.”
Nagai ran from the grove into the central village compound, taking a moment to spin from the path of three running children. One of them, a dark, sweet-faced child who giggled “Nagai!” turned on her heel and stopped. “You’re going to be a Father today.” She grinned challengingly.
He shook his head at her. “Everybody knows more man me.”
“That’s why you’re going to be a Father. You don’t know enough to be a kid anymore.” He swatted at her playfully and she took off, chasing after her friends, now disappearing around a hut.
He tried to find a speck of irritation to hurl after her, and came up empty. She was right. He couldn’t feel the mana as once he could. As any child in the village could. But he knew things now. He knew more of the world outside the high fence. He knew of the Dinga, and their fear. And soon, he would be a Father, a Coordinator. And he would guide the children, as he had been guided from earliest memory, coordinating their feelings into the fields and streams. Keeping the Ibandi centered in the Body. And as a part of the Body, they were fed by the forests, the streams, the fruit of the earth.
These were the earliest truths he could remember. Life is your birthright. As an organ of the Body, you need fear nothing but fear itself. Fear was corruption and death. Fear was cramping muscles and a clouded mind. Fear was anger, and hatred, and all things evil.
And the Dinga priest had smelled of it.
The old woman at the front flap of the birthing hut nodded toothlessly as she stepped aside, “It is time.”
Daytime vanished as the flap swung down. Within, the only light was the glow of a tiny brazier.
The birthing hut was large enough for twenty at a time, and it was filled. Except for Nagai, no male Ibandi older than five years was in the room. Seven children sat in a ring surrounded by twelve ancient Ibandi women who sat, legs folded and eyes closed, humming softly. The children giggled as if they were being tickled, the liquid sounds of their pleasure weaving into a melody that complemented the humming of the older women.
In the center of the circle of moaning women was Nagai’s mother, Wamala. Her legs were crossed, her hands rested easily on her knees. Her moist plump face was peaceful. The dim light in her womb grew brighter.
She chanted softly:
“Ibandi, lord of the Ibandi, bring forth thy new daughter bloodlessly, in peace and purity. Ibandi, lord of the Ibandi, grant her thy strength. Ibandi, lord of the Ibandi—”
The women in the hut chanted and sang, perspiration running in their age-furrowed faces. Musk-sweet incense hazed the air blue.
Wamala’s body shuddered, each tremor rippling outward from the glow beneath her navel. Her eyes focused on her son, and her chin bobbed in acknowledgement. The light in her belly grew brighter still, and extended past her skin to shimmer in her lap. The chanting of the elders grew more intense, and the light began to congeal.
At first, just the suggestion of an infant’s form shifted within the light, then huge dark eyes formed, pinpoints of sparkle within the greater glow. Gradually shadow filled in detail, and arms, legs and trunk emerged. The haze faded and the infant, air still shimmering about it, blinked slowly with translucent lids.
Mylé, the senior midwife of the Ibandi, stood heavily. Twisted with years, she moved as if her joints were filled with sand. “Ibandi be praised, a girl child.” She stalked across the hut like a black crab, only her face animated. “Come,” she took Nagai’s hand in a brittle grip. “You’re a man now, boy.”
Silent, he let her lead him to the center of the circle. Nagai dropped to one knee before his mother.
“Nagai.”
He touched her outstretched hand to his cheek. “Mother.” The tiny glowing thing in her lap gurgled. Its aura expanded until it filled the hut, washing a jeweled spectrum over the skins and woven mats that covered the walls.
Nagai drooped his shoulders, and searched within himself for the fluttering tingle that would focus his sister’s mana.
From a loose cloud, the cascade of light condensed into tendrils, snaking and darting in the air all about her. She bubbled with delight.
“She is pure magic,” he murmured,
“As are all children,” Wamala said. “As were you, once.” She was tired, and the strain of the ritual rasped in her voice. But her eyes were alive as they scanned the taut planes and gentle contours of his body. “You have seen the bloodless birth now. You have not been allowed to witness it
in eleven years.”
His sister tried to wrap him in her light, but it fuzzed to mist under her control. “I had almost forgotten. Almost.”
“Now is your time for learning,” Wamala breathed, her eyes fighting to close. “You are ready for Fatherhood now. Go—your sister will comfort me. Go. There is much to be learned and done.”
He touched his lips to her forehead, and then even more gently to the head of his sister. “When she is named, I would like to be present.”
“Perhaps. We will see what the Mothers say. Go now. Go to the Fathers.” Her voice weakened, and he knew that it was time for him to leave. One of the midwives lifted Wamala slightly, sliding a layer of moisture-absorbent matting beneath her.
“Leave now,” Mylé whispered. “She must release the birth water, and it is not for you to see.”
He stood and bowed. “Mother,” he said, treasuring the word, knowing that it would never again have the same meaning between them. “Good-bye.” Her eyes closed, glazing, and he backed out of the hut and left.
Some of the children waited outside the birthing hut. Many were nude, small black bodies glistening with the afternoon heat. Others wore clothing as their bodies began to ripen with age: those with younger brothers and sisters would soon be eligible as Coordinators. Those without…he saw among them the familiar face of Bolu, his hair woven like a child’s, incongruous above the corded body. But everyone of the tribe knew that Bolu’s mother would never have another child. Bolu would remain hers, caring for her until the day she died. Only then would he ever be permitted beyond the Gate. Only then might he seek Fatherhood.
Nagai sang to them wordlessly, touching their hands as he walked back to the front gate. He touched their minds and felt them laugh, feeding him mana. It seemed as if each of them were giving him a single thread, a single silver strand that he wove into a cocoon about himself. And there, in his womb of energy, he could feel things he had forgotten, and truly knew himself as part of the Body. But now he just played with it joyfully, knowing that today was the true beginning of his life.
At the front gate he didn’t have to explain or ask, it was opened for him, that he might go and find his father, Ashan. He was not turned away at the Gate, or told to find a Father to guide and protect him. He was of age, and now had a sister. He might well be a Coordinator, a Father, by the end of the day.
He ran past the outer fields where grains and tubers were coaxed from the earth, hopping over irrigation ditches and seedlings as he sped. What would it be like? The world of the Coordinator’s mind. The Mothers used the children for bloodless birth, for healing, for growing food. The Fathers used them for hunting, fishing and luring.
He heard the rush of the stream, and knew that Ashan would be somewhere near. Nagai brushed the reeds aside and started to yell.
Something fierce and wet clinched his ankle. Nagai hopped back, shaking his foot violently, stifling a yelp of surprise. He kicked free and scrambled back three paces before stopping to see what it was.
The arm had thick, grayish skin, its elbow clumsily articulated. Higher up towards the shoulders it was spotted with tufts of hair that ran up into the scalp, where they joined a ragged shock of dark brown mane.
Its eyes flared greenly up at the boy, and short sharp teeth clacked feebly together.
Even as Nagai watched, the fire died, and the thing’s body relaxed with finality. Nagai jumped as a broad hand clapped on his shoulder.
“You did not feel me, and you did not feel the Ghoul. You are indeed a Man now.”
Nagai’s eyes darted from the alien corpse to his father. Ashan’s face was unlined, except for three rows of parallel scars that ran vertically on each cheek. His hair was dusted with gray, but the extreme erectness of his carriage made Time an abstraction.
“A Ghoul?” The puzzlement in his voice was genuine.
“It should never have come so near to the village.” His father’s expression was difficult to read, something stirring behind the placid brown mask that confused Nagai terribly. “It is an enemy of our—friends—the Dinga.”
“But father…” Nagai found his attention returning time and again to the body of the Ghoul. Its muscles were growing flaccid. “Why didn’t the Dinga keep it away? Why have I never seen one before?” The Ghoul was half-covered in water. Already, scavengers were investigating the possibilities.
“The Ghouls are a were-people, and came to our land in search of—sustenance.”
“Why didn’t our friends keep it away if it is dangerous?”
“The Ghouls are powerful.”
“More powerful than our friends?”
His father seemed to wince at the word. “Very nearly. The Dinga won the war, but it has drained them. They have used much mana.” Ashan nudged the sodden Ghoul with the tip of his sandal. The corpse twitched, then was still.
“Why did they come here?”
“Mana,” Ashan said.
“But…why here? Mana is everywhere.”
His father sighed, and sat the boy down on the grass. “There are many things that you do not yet understand. One is that not all people use the life-force as we do. Some use it to move objects, or change metals, or create life. This takes great concentrations of mana, nowadays only to be found in rare areas, like ours. We, the Ibandi, use it only to harmonize ourselves with Nature, to teach us of the Body. Only in the bloodless birth do we violate natural order, that we might bring our children into the world knowing nothing of pain or fear. There is mana in children, great power, but they begin to lose it as they learn fear. They are cut off from the flow of Nature.”
“And the Ghouls? The Dinga?”
Ashan shook his head proudly. “No. This is our secret. They work their crude magics, draining power from the earth, or—” he looked sharply at his son who sat, fascinated, “—from the bodies of men. And their eyes are blind to the gentle mana that flows to us from stars and sun and moon. Too subtle for such as the Dinga to understand or use. A pattern connecting all living things into the Body.”
He stretched out his hand and pointed to the lush greens and browns of the plain they lived on, to the mountains far to the north. “Once, a piece of star struck this plain, and spread its power throughout. It is for this that the Ghouls fought the Dinga,”
Nagai couldn’t take his eyes from the Ghoul. Dead, without a mark on its body. Already it was losing color. Starved for mana?
Ashan sounded thoughtful. “Perhaps I should wait for the Fathers to tell you these things, but you need to understand as much as you can, if you are to…”
Nagai had heard that silence before. It was an impassable void that told him that his father had already said too much.
Ashan stood, pulling his son to his feet. They walked to a spot near the nets, where another Father Coordinated four small, laughing children. The air about them shimmered as with heat.
The feel of their mana was in the air. He knew that he could guide them, Coordinate them. He felt the hunger growing, the empty feeling in his stomach. He wanted to reach out, to join with them and call fish to the nets, to repel insects and diseases from the crops…
“Soon, you will be a man. Already, I know you feel the waning of the strength you knew as a child.” Ashan’s eyes were sharp and alive as he drew near. “You will continue to lose mana and gain knowledge—if you become a Father this day.”
“I am ready.”
“Are you?” His father extended his hand. “Flow with me.”
Father and son extended palms until they were within a hair of contact. Fingers upright, the hands danced together, only the barest layer of air separating them. Ashan fluttered his fingers, and Nagai responded fluidly, again, the fractional distance maintained. Small, then larger circles and patterns. Never separating more than a hair’s breadth, never touching. Finally, the lean, corded arm of the older man dropped to his side. Ashan nodded approval. “You have learned.”
“I am ready.”
“The first challenge is ready for
you—has been ready for days.” He clasped his son’s shoulder. “Once, centuries ago—” His face grew strained, and again Nagai felt the oddness. “Before the Dinga came, my father’s father many times removed was the king of our people.”
“But we have no kings…” Nagai sputtered, remembering the dream. “We need no kings. Our friends…”
“Yes,” Ashan said bitterly. “Our friends, the Dinga.” He leaned close, until Nagai could scent the sharpness of his breath. “But perhaps one day we will need kings again. And perhaps we will not need friends. You must be prepared.”
Although unanswered questions swam in his head like nervous fish, Nagai nodded his confidence. “I am ready.”
“Then go. The first test awaits.”
* * * *
The sick feeling returned to the pit of Nagai’s stomach. If there had been food there, he would have found a waste ditch to empty it into. But his stomach had been empty for two days, since Wamala had first entered her birthing cycle.
He squatted, clearing his mind, minding his breathing, feeling his weight sink into the ground. The more he relaxed the more it tingled. Not the same as he had as a child, though; then, it had seemed that the world was a crisscrossing spiderweb of energy that flowed from all directions, gossamer threads that could be woven by the skill of a Coordinator.
Once, his father had shown him a piece of rock, glassy gray and pitted deeply on the surface. There was so much mana in it that it burned him to be near it. He had vomited immediately, while Ashan beamed with pride.
But now, consciousness of the strands was a dim, elusive thing, found only in the deepest states of relaxed wakefulness. He yearned to be a Coordinator.
Olo grinned at him from the other side of the Amphitheater. There was a diagonal chunk of tooth missing low on the left side and Nagai laughed back at him. He remembered the game of tag that had ended with his own arm skinned from wrist to elbow, and Olo’s mouth bloodied against a rock. Olo had won.
