Mer-Cycle

by Piers Anthony

  But she had a stiff price. “That will take months,” he exclaimed with mixed concern, intrigue, and greed. It didn’t seem feasible to commit himself to such a long period of shared labor, that would certainly be complicated by involved explanations of nuances. He didn’t know when Pacifa and the others would return to cut it short.

  On the other hand, this might be his only chance to really study the tablets. That was an opportunity it was inconceivable to squander. He did need her assistance, and it would not be exactly boring, considering her body and exposure. Too bad he couldn’t touch her.

  Touch her? What was he thinking of? What of Melanie, with whom he was developing a significant relationship. Why should he be distracted by a creature who was both out of phase and of a different, if newly-created, species? It was nonsensical.

  Yet those breasts, that hair …

  So he was a voyeur. As was any man who watched what was paraded on television or motion pictures. Just so long as he didn’t confuse the vision with the reality. Meanwhile, he had a vital job to do, that he might never be able to do at another time.

  “All right,” he said at last. “I’ve got to see those tablets. You handle the hardware; I’ll translate. Aloud.”

  She clapped her hands noiselessly and dived down the hatch with marvelous grace. Her tail now seemed to be a natural part of a lovely creature.

  Splendid had not exaggerated about the number of tablets. It took some time to bring them all up, and she was breathless and tired. She had been holding her breath while working in the hold, to avoid the oxygen-depleted water there, but that hardly added to her comfort. Don became concerned, watching her game struggle. She was doing her part, certainly.

  How fortunate that the tablets had been in the last remaining pithoi. No, not fortune, but design, for the huge jars were normally used for liquids and grains, not ceramics. Splendid must have found the tablets elsewhere in the ship, and hidden them. Why? Surely not in the hope that a phased-out American archaeologist would ride up on a bicycle.

  Now the tablets were all present, and minor reservations were forgotten in the excitement of incipient discovery. Already he could see that there were numerical designations in the corners of each tablet, probably representing dates and order. That suggested a single coherent narrative spanning the tablets as if they were pages of a book. Nothing like this had been found on Crete itself, as far as he knew.

  Splendid put her hands over the nearest, warningly.

  “Okay, okay!” Don said. “Aloud. I was just getting organized. See those symbols in the corners? The simplest ones are in the upper left, here. These are numbers. These four little lines |||| stand for the number four. The Minoans didn’t have separate signs for each, as we do, but they did use the decimal system. This has to be a serious document, and this is page four. The first thing to do is put them in order.”

  Comprehension lighted her face, and he was reassured that she really did have serious archaeological interest. She soon located the little sun-circle ° that stood for number one, then the stacked circles that were two, and the that was three. The first four pages were intact.

  Their luck could not hold forever. Tablet number 5 was missing, as was number 11, of an original total of twelve or more. Even so, Don was gratified that the all-important opening tablet was present, because he saw that it contained some truly remarkable material: lines of symbols in different scripts.

  “Another Rosetta Stone!” he exclaimed. “Column One is Linear A; Two looks like Ugaritic, and Three is Sumerian cuneiform!”

  DO YOU READ THEM ALL? Splendid inquired, amazed.

  Don laughed. “N-not really. But I have studied many ancient forms of writing in the course of my attempts to decipher Minoan, so I am familiar with a number of the common symbols. See, here’s a column of Egyptian hieroglyphs, too, but they aren’t as important as the Linear A here. See this insect-form? We can trace it right along …”

  Because the text was extensive, consistent, and straight-forward, and because he was aided immeasurably by the key-code of parallel languages, Don found the text much easier to decipher then he had feared. There were still a number of terms he didn’t recognize, as the tabulation was representative rather than comprehensive, but the context made many of them clear, and his own knowledge of Minoan culture offered hints for the remainder. This was a narrative like none other known of this culture. He could not vouch for place names, but was sure his general rendition was reasonably accurate. Splendid turned out to be far more help than hindrance, industriously running down word-repetition and offering alert conjectures for unintelligible symbols.

  They had a story—and what a story it was!

  CHAPTER 13

  MINOS

  Proxy 5–12–5–16–8: Attention.

  Acknowledging.

  Status?

  Remains difficult. Two members of the group have developed a suspicion, and are trying to verify it. One is holding me captive, and I am unable to tell of the mission for fear it will only be misunderstood. I must wait for the assembly of the remainder of the group, and hope I can then persuade it. The final two challenges have become passe.

  Then it will be better to abort the mission. We can recover you—

  No! There remains some hope. I will remain with it. I am convinced this method can be effective. I must see it through.

  Your insistence may cost you your life.

  And it may salvage this world!

  It remains your prerogative. Signal us at need.

  You who peruse this printed clay, I charge you by the name of the Great Earth Mother, and by the Sacred Leaf of the Tree of Life, and most particularly by our common bond of scholarship: honor the foible of a kindred spirit. Grant to me the favor I ask herein, or relegate this manuscript unread to that place from which you recovered it, that one after you may honor it instead.

  Don exchanged glances with Splendid as they shared this opening injunction. “Can we be bound by that?”

  She thought for a moment, then wrote: BY EARTH MOTHER, NO. BY TREE OF LIFE, NO.

  “But by ‘our common bond of scholarship’? He really covers everything!”

  WHAT IS HIS SPECIFIC REQUEST?

  Don glanced ahead at the partly blocked out text. “He doesn’t seem to say, here. Maybe he’s saving it for the end.” He moved toward the final tablet, but Splendid swam to block him. Their bodies passed through each other with a complete meshing of skeletons: hip against hip, rib against rib, skull against skull. His open eyes stared through the fog of her brain. It was as close as he would ever be to a woman, but he did not find the experience exhilarating.

  Splendid emerged from his back with a startled expression, but quickly recovered and flashed around him to the tablets. She covered the last with her tail, so that he could not see the script.

  “But you asked—” Don said, still assimilating impressions from their momentary merger. Had he actually felt her living heart beating?

  She shook her head, recovering her slate, and explained: HE WANTS US TO DECIDE FIRST.

  “Yes, certainly. But we can’t commit ourselves blindly, whatever his conventions may have been. Maybe he wants us to commit ritual suicide so we can’t pass on the secret. Considering how long he’s been dead himself—”

  NO. HE WANTS IT KNOWN. ONLY A SCHOLAR COULD READ EVEN ENOUGH TO RETURN THE TABLETS TO THE SEA.

  “That’s the point! An illiterate is not bound. He can do anything he wants with the manuscript, but he’ll never know what it says. A scholar must either return it unread, or bind himself to an unspecified commitment. Which may be to forget that he ever read it.”

  AN UNSCRUPULOUS SCHOLAR WOULD IGNORE THE STIPULATION. HE IS ADDRESSING THE PERSON OF INTEGRITY. WHY SHOULD HE COMMIT ONLY THAT ONE TO SILENCE OR DEATH?

  Don began to see it. “Only a really honest man would—” He paused as she wrote emphatically on the slate.

  PERSON.

  Oh. She objected to usage which seemed to exclude her. Melanie
would have approved that sentiment! “Only a really honest person would comprehend certain niceties. Would understand the necessity of doing—whatever is requested. And he’d have to read the full manuscript first, to get the background. But maybe the thing is difficult, so he has to be committed first, and not depend on his own first reactions.”

  Splendid nodded agreement.

  “I really don’t care what the price is,” Don said. “I must find out what this manuscript says. Now more than ever.”

  I AGREE IF YOU DO.

  Don sighed. “I agree to our Minoan’s terms. I hope I don’t regret it.”

  I am Pi-ja-se-me, appraiser for Minos by vocation, antiquarian by avocation. To me it has fallen to record the termination of civilization.

  Surely no parchment can survive the eons until mankind recovers the cultural level of the Thalassocracy, even were that document not to reside beneath the restless turbulence of this phenomenal and distant ocean. Therefore I have fashioned this stylus and this tablet of clay, and I shall fire it well in the hearth of the ship’s galley until it has the permanence of fine pottery. A tedious task, but I have nothing if not time, until the wine runs out.

  I append here a glossary of signs, that my manuscript may be intelligible for the eye of whatever national who at length recovers it. I regret I can do no more, but I am not expert in all the myriad written variants of the world, even had I the space to render them here. Perhaps even this token is wasted, for who but the gods can say what shall arise from the depths of the unknowable future. Yet must I essay it.

  Our merchant fleet of five fine ships was bearing south after engaging in profitable trading with the Megalithic cities of the far west as we knew it. We exchanged pithoi of fine Cretan olive oil for equal measure of their special stone pigments. Our sophisticated gold ornaments for their rare ores. The Megalithics seem less cultured than we, but this is deceptive; their knowledge is confined largely to their priesthood, and they are unexcelled builders and astronomers. In fact, I suspect their culture goes back farther than ours, for some of their most impressive monuments are ancient by our standards, and we still could learn from them were their priestly hierarchy less canny about the disposition of their arts. But I diverge; it is the wine. Yet must I imbibe what offers, or thirst interminably. This salty sea …

  It was at [indecipherable place name—north coast of Iberia?] that Admiral Su-ri-mo and I first had word. We had been at sea five months, and I was eager to return to villa and concubine. My villa: none quite like it on all [Thera], though never was I a wealthy man. Situated high on the side of the holy mountain, provided with fiercely hot water by duct from the sacred spring: few in all our empire possess rights to such overflow, but I, as royal antiquarian/appraiser was favored by the priesthood. I do not mean to exalt my own importance, which is not great; I seek only to explain in part the kindly favoritism extended to me by a monarch who values cultural studies. All about my residence perched the artifacts of my life’s collection: ancient identification seals of baked clay from [Anatolia—Turkey]; faience from the orient, distinct from ours; a fine flint dagger from a burial mound in [Arabia]; and of course many varieties of decorative pottery, each representative of a vanished culture. For years my concubine, otherwise a very fine woman if a trifle tight about the waist-ring, was jealous of the attentions I paid these objects, not understanding how a man could see as much value in a discolored sherd as in a living woman. In truth, I was at times grateful for that jealousy, for it prompted her to ever-greater imagination in her calling.

  Don could not restrain a smile at this point. Splendid, after due consideration, decided to smile too. How little some things changed!

  This amount of translation had taken two days. But it was time well spent, and the remainder promised to move more rapidly as the last difficult symbols yielded their meanings.

  It seems I cannot hew precisely to my theme; my mind insists upon revisiting those things that were dear to me. Must I then ramble, however pointlessly, and hope to cover the essence in whatever fashion I can manage.

  The omens were ill. The sky turned drab, and the sunset was like a stifled inferno. A hideous odor suffused the air. Yet there was no storm. We put into a local port and made inquiries, and received a story brought by runners, of a disaster unlike any known.

  Neither Admiral Su-ri-mo nor I believed it at first. We supposed Greek enemies had spread the foul story in an effort to dismay us and force us to divulge our technical secrets. But within a few days one of our own ships hailed us and confirmed the disaster in all its awfulness.

  Terrible fire and storm had ravaged all Crete. Our cities had been destroyed by waves taller than the mast of this ship, our crops buried under a thick mass of choking hot dust. Of our mighty fleet, the finest ever to rule the [Mediterranean] sea, only that fraction at sea and far from home escaped. The land itself, buried in noxious mud, was unlivable.

  Now those far-flung ships were summoned home. Our people needed them for migration to unspoiled lands, lest our power be dissipated entirely. Vain hope! The strength of our civilization lies not in our ships, but in the extreme fertility of our land, the density of our great timber forests, and the unexcelled craftsmanship of our artisans. We must rebuild our palaces, as we have in the past, if we are to maintain any portion of our national well-being.

  “But what of our own fair city?” I cried. “Our isle is not Crete, our homeland is not Knossos. Surely we, at least escaped the holocaust?”

  “Your city is no more,” our informant said. “We sailed by it, checking all our cities. The fire consumed [Thera] utterly. Not even the island remains, merely a burnt shell.”

  Still we could not believe. But if we went home to verify this horror directly, and it were true, we would become subject to this makeshift government and have to give over our fine ships to the transport of women and cattle, and our treasures to usurping tyrants. No way to salvage our culture, this! Yet if we did not go back, and this report were false, what then of our loyalty?

  The Admiral and I discussed the matter at length, the crushing hand of calamity gripping us both. We professed not to believe, we reassured each other repeatedly, but at the root we withered. At length we decided to detach two ships, who would return to ascertain the truth, while the remainder stayed clear. One ship at least would come back to us to make report. This was a cumbersome procedure, but it seemed the best strategy, given our divided belief.

  I remained aboard one of the three. I would have gone home, but Su-ri-mo chose to keep me with the bulk of the merchandise, for only I knew its precise value and the details of its inventory.

  For a time we continued to travel the coast of the [Atlantic] ocean as if seeking more trade, though we had little remaining for barter. At night we found safe anchorage and sent the men ashore to gather driftwood and make a fire to cook the main meal. The crewmen would grind grain and bake the morrow’s bread over the embers, and the wine would circulate. They slept on the sand, the smoke from banked fires driving off the nocturnal pests. The Admiral and I had to remain aboard our respective ships, guarding the cargo, for not all the impressed hands were trustworthy. I made do with the ship’s galley, learning by scorching my fingers on the inadequate hearth. How I envied the landed crew, and how I cursed my isolation here! Yet it would seem that the Great Earth Mother destined this, for now I have need of this hearth.

  Time hung heavy as we awaited confirmation of the fate of our land. The men shaved each other with the few precious iron blades available, with much cursing and scraping of skin. Perhaps not all of the cuts were accidental. They wagered interminably. I completed the inventory of cargo of all three ships, and started it over, for want of other diversion.

  Winter came, harsh in these hinterlands, and it was impossible to continue at sea in the treacherous weather and waters. We docked at [another Megalithic city?], paying an exorbitant harbor tax. Now at last I could depart ship, for our wares were secure. But it was scant improvement. This was no
Knossos.

  Knossos! I had visited there often, in my official capacities, and though I would not have cared to reside in that crush, it was a splendor. Four and five stories high, with the magnificent reception hall on the second girt by the massive, artful pillars—would you believe it, I have seen pillars elsewhere that actually contract toward the apex, making the entire structure appear inverted. Any refined eye must readily perceive that a decorative column must expand toward the apex—which shows little aesthetic hope, for example, for the [Mycenaeans—Greeks].

  But this Megalithic port: the houses were all separate, none possessing even a second story, and all without proper sanitary facilities. These people hardly believed in bathing, and the odor inside became appalling. Their men were thick-bodied, wearing waist-clasps only to support their rude garments. They even had the effrontery to remark on our own style, calling our narrow waists unnatural. Unnatural! How could I ever forget my pride when I donned the metal belt of adulthood at the age of ten, wearing it to preserve that aesthetic slenderness of torso that so befits the physically fit. I wear it to this day, and no man of this expedition can lay claim to a smaller or more manlier waist than I, despite the fact that my gaming days are long past. To watch Island-born Cretans laying aside their clasps of honor and allowing their bodies to grow gross with dissipation—that is unnatural!

  Yet I must admit they had some cause. The semi-savage women of this town were alluring in their very primitiveness. If a man must put aside his belt in order to enjoy the favors of such—well, I would not do it myself, but I can not entirely blame the younger males who never had relations with a competent concubine. It was a long, bitter winter, and the women were warm-bodied.

  I did find some solace. Not far distant was one of their great monuments, not of stone, unfortunately, but still impressive in wood. Impressive architecturally, that is to say; to my way of thinking, the man is far more important than any monument, and needs no wood or stone to bolster his glory. He is the ideal. Hence we have few actual monuments in [Keftiu] or any of the islands. For foreigners seldom comprehend. There, again, is the distinction between the civilized and the pseudo-civilized. Consider, if you will, the extremes of the [Egyptians]. Yet, in fairness, I must say that the Megalithics do put their edifices to marvelous uses, and I understand their astronomical data are the most precise in the world. It is always a folly to take too narrow a view. Even clumsy cultures have their points.