Fish Tails

by Sheri S. Tepper

  She stopped, head cocked. They all heard it, far away but clearly tolling. Bong . . . Long wait. Bong . . . Long wait. Bong . . . Soft echoes bounced among the hills, ong, ong, onng, onnng.

  “I think we’ll sleep quietly the rest of the night,” said Blue. “That is, if nobody minds.”

  Nobody minded.

  IN THE FOREST SOME DISTANCE from Tuckwhip, Needly found the going slower than she had thought. There was a certain sense of urgency about her, as though some spirit were at her shoulder, tapping it, saying, “Hurry, girl. Get a move on.” Still, Grandma had always cautioned against undue haste. It killed ­people, she had said. Always look before you step, so she had looked and was still looking when she heard the whurfle away to her left in the woods.

  There was no doubt in her mind that it was a bear. After a few minutes’ careful travel, she had no doubt it had smelled her trail, footsteps, or just her aroma in the air. She was being followed. Well. She’d been told what to do. Now if she could only do it.

  She had to assume it was a grown bear, not a cub. A cub wouldn’t hurt her, but it probably wouldn’t be without a mother, and the mother would. Therefore, find a skinny tree. One with a diameter too small for a large bear to get its claws into. One standing fairly well alone. Which she did. She took a length of light line from her pack and tied one end to her pack. Another length made a loop to go around the tree. She put her knife between her teeth, remembering that the sharp edge went to the outside, fitted Grandma’s foot claws over her shoes, and started up the tree. There were enough little stubs of broken branches here and there to give her feet good purchase. Her legs were getting very tired before she came to suitable branches. Three of them, a pair at one height, one slightly below, the three together forming a basis for her pack, which had straps on either side that could be tied around the side branches. She pulled it up beside her, settled it into place, and tied it there, then sat on it, back against the trunk, more or less at her ease. As per Grandma’s instructions, soft things were all at one side of the pack, the top side.

  The bear emerged into the clearing below her, approached the tree, smelled it, backed up, and looked up at her. Needly received the very strange impression that it smiled. The bear meandered around the little clearing, sniffing, finding some red berries that seemed to be enjoyable, for it sat down among them and ate them slowly, one at a time. It had finished the berries just before the music began.

  Needly took a deep breath of disbelief. Music? She had never heard music. She’d heard Grandma speak of music, certainly, and she had heard Grandma sing, though only when they were far from Tuckwhip, where no one would hear. She had a beautiful voice, though she said that her range—­explaining this meant low to high notes—­had decreased as she had grown older. Grandma said singing, beauty, imagination, art . . . those things were threatening to ­people in Hench Valley, so she did not speak of them or do anything that might make herself seem unusual. This was the first time Needly had heard music that was obviously being made by some not-­voice thing. Oh, there was the music she had felt, that time she saw the Griffin. She wasn’t counting that. That had been . . . a kind of miracle.

  The bear rose to its feet, brushed itself off with finicky, very human motions of its front legs, and began to dance. Left arm across chest, right arm extended to the right, nose pointed left, right foot raised, tapped, tapped, right arm swung across chest as the left arm extended to the left, nose pointed right, left foot raised, tapped, tapped. Turn left, turn right, both arms up, both arms down . . . the music went on. The bear went on dancing. The music went on playing. After some little time, both stopped.

  The bear bowed in the direction from which the music had seemed to emanate. He or she then came to the foot of the tree Needly was sitting in and clumped down against the trunk. It yawned several times before putting its nose straight up and looking into her face, which was peering down.

  “Needly,” said the bear. “Are you going to sleep up there?”

  Needly thought it over, finally nodding that she was.

  “I’ll scratch the trunk to wake you early in the morning,” said the bear. “The ­people you’re supposed to meet will be only about an hour from here.” It yawned again. “By the way, you should take that knife out of your mouth. Otherwise, you might cut your own head off.”

  WILLUM WOKE EARLIER THAN THE others and went exploring down into the woods. He returned while breakfast was still hot and helped Kim and Abasio partly fill the water barrel, just in case there would be no water until they’d moved some way down from the pass. A little wind came up the mountain toward them, bearing the clear sound of the distant bell once again, Ba-­bong . . . Ba-­bong . . . Double rings, this time. Xulai said, “That means enough men have arrived! They need no more. They have dozens of deadfalls all around the works, and they’ve been out in the night, uncovering them—­that is, they’re taking off the safety covers that prevent Saltgoshians falling in by mistake.”

  “And, I suppose,” said Abasio, “that also prevented our falling in when we were there.” He strode about, examining their surroundings and noting certain features he had not noticed the previous night: a small track led from the main road through their campground and farther down a shallow fold of mountain to the north; old wagon ruts along it indicated that one of the little villages shown on the map might lie at the end of the tracks. He didn’t want to leave their cover until the men down the hill could no longer see them, so he came from among the trees to lie behind a conveniently cleft stone and watch the road below them. After a time, the men emerged from the woods, strode or limped about, searching for tracks and evidently finding none. There was a good deal of arm waving by men who were obviously yelling at one another. Eventually they started down the road, bearing packs as men do who are unaccustomed to carrying anything. They would be very, very lame at the end of the day, walking like that.

  Very shortly the men limped around a shoulder of the mountain. They had taken no great time in searching for the horses or for their prisoner. They might have heard the bell, but they didn’t know what it meant. Or they knew but thought they were numerous enough to disregard it. Or they were idiots who had no idea what they were doing, which was what Abasio considered most likely. Sybbis had probably ruled in Catland for a number of years without learning anything much about the countryside. No one had ever spoken of her of as a curious or intelligent woman. As head of the women in Purple House, she had enjoyed food, drink, and fancy clothing. And, maybe, sex. She would know that gang leaders sent men out to find out particular things, and were not surprised if some of them didn’t make it back. Not returning was almost as frequent as getting back relatively whole. If Sybbis’s men did not come back, she was very unlikely to send anyone looking for them, though she might send others elsewhere, on the same errand of robbery and mayhem.

  Only the one short stretch of road was visible from where they were now, and the valley into which the men had moved slanted away from the peak above. Before the retreating walkers came to the next place where they could see this stretch, the wagon would be over the pass and out of their sight.

  Kim left immediately with ten horses, wanting to be enough in advance of the wagon to let the dust settle before the wagon followed. Not long after noon, they had crossed the pass and come a goodly way down the far side, where they spotted a skein of smoke rising among a clutter of great boulders. Blue whinnied, was answered. Kim had chosen the end of a short length of road that led from a north-­heading switchback, a spot that lay almost immediately east of the mountain peak behind them. He had built his fire among a grove of smallish trees, and came toward them, saying, “There’s no water or forage here, but a bit farther down it gets grassy and there’s water. The horses can have a small drink from the barrel, and we’ll get to good water by evening.”

  They gave the horses a ration of oats and water and settled to their own midday meal. Willum was here, there, and e
verywhere, looking aimless. Abasio pointed out Kim’s shelter among the stones, but Willum said he’d found a place he liked a bit along the mountainside, he’d take his blankets and sit there.

  They fed themselves, Willum taking generous helpings off into the woods, though usually he ate with them. They rested only briefly, then went on their way downward, Kim riding ahead to scout their next stopping place. Well before sundown, they found him on a wide, wooded ledge that protruded from the side of the mountain. There was grass among the trees and water trickling from the crest—­once again above them to the west. They had covered miles going north and south but had seemed to make only slight progress down the east side of the mountain.

  Water had accumulated in a stony declivity from which the horses could drink. They followed their usual routines, put water to boil, cut bread to toast over the fire. The babies had wakened earlier, had been fed, had played and been dandled, and were having a nap on the bed inside the wagon. Abasio went out onto the road to see the downward way for himself. This area of the mountainside was extremely steep, and the upper stretch of road had been deeply incised into it, like stairsteps, short lengths of road running back and forth, many of them with trails leading off into the forests from the switchbacks. Game trails, perhaps. Or those used by hunters from the villages he had noticed on the map. Hench Valley was somewhere to the north of them, behind the peak, but it could no doubt be found at the end of some trail or other leading around the north side of the mountain.

  Each section of road, as well as the wide ledge they were camped upon, had a vertical rock wall rising on the inside, and another such plunging down on the outside. These vertical walls were broken here and there along their length by great, faceted pylons, individual stones too huge to have been moved or broken by road builders, left standing along the roadway like sentinel guardians of some ancient, stony ­people. He lifted his eyes to the sky to see what weather portended, swallowing an oath before it left his throat.

  What portended was wings! Huge ones that were circling the peak above him! He looked toward the cover of the trees. Too late. The creature tilted on her wings, swerving to face him from high to the north, then stooped, like a monstrous hawk. Dropping, wings folded, diving, upon him . . .

  Eyes like glowing opal fires, light reflecting from a brazen beak, spread wide around a cavernous throat, huge feathered wings spreading out, out, out, covering half the sky. The flight feathers copper, gleaming as from a forge, the throat feathers bronze, darkening toward the huge brazen beak. He knew this one! From the corner of his eye, he saw Xulai fumbling frantically for a weapon and screamed at her. “NO! Xulai. NO!”

  Her mouth dropped open; her hands fell to her side. The Griffin’s wings widened, scooped air. She stood erect in flight, dropping less swiftly: curved, sword-length back talons extended downward to grip one of the great boulders of the cliff edge a few arm’s lengths away from them. The great beak turned toward Xulai, opened, spoke: “I have no immediate intention of damaging you or yours, woman. Do not make the mistake of attempting to use your weapon.”

  It returned its gaze to Abasio. “Do you remember me, man? From the battle at the Place of Power?”

  “I do,” he said, fighting to keep his voice calm and level. Despite the creature’s reasonable words, her eyes, focused upon him, blazed with anger. They burned like the coals of an unquenchable fire. He swallowed deeply. “I remember you kindly. You were of great help to us all.”

  It spoke again. “Your woman was owed a kindness. It was done for her. Not necessarily for you or anyone here. It seems our battle was all to no purpose.”

  He was honestly astonished. “Why? It achieved a good end.”

  “For you, perhaps!”

  She turned her burning gaze on Xulai, on Willum, who stood frozen at the edge of the trees. Still with that anger, that . . . hostility. Perhaps hostility toward what he was rather than who he was. Perhaps.

  The great head tilted, the eyes moved over him, totally intent. “It seems the world is to be covered in water.”

  Abasio swallowed again and nodded. “The ­people here are only now learning of it, though across the ocean to the west the Tingawans have known for some time that it would happen. They thought it would have stopped long before now. They don’t know where it’s coming from. It is continuing, but it is estimated it will take centuries to cover ­everything.”

  “We, those like me, are, in certain respects, rather like cats. We are not fond of water.” The content of the words did not convey hostility; their tone conveyed nothing else.

  “As I said, it will be several hundred years. A lifetime . . .”

  The Griffin turned her head and rattled her beak, preening and rearranging the long strands of feather, almost like hair, around her face and on the upper neck. The sound was that of a smithy, though softer, almost melodious. Music played on gongs and cymbals. The beak was serrated along the edges, like a comb, an instrument for grooming as well as tearing flesh. She finished with the edge of one wing and turned to face him, the light glinting from the edge of the beak as from a sword. He knew the effect was calculated. Willed. The beak was lethal. She wanted to be sure he knew it, sure Xulai knew it.

  She rumbled: “I am now nine hundred and some-­odd years old, man-­person. I look forward to a thousand more, at least, so a century, give or take, is hardly a lifetime. My child, whom your friend saved—­is it true your friend gave her life to save the ­people of that land?”

  Abasio nodded, summoning courage. “All lives, including yours.”

  “She was heroic, that one. My child was newly hatched, tiny, naked, helpless, when the child who became your woman found my hatchling at the foot of the cliff, put my child in her hat.” There was a rumbling sound that Abasio interpreted, after a moment, as a chuckle. “ . . . A hat-­chling she was! She carried my child back to my nest. Almost I attacked her. Luckily, I did not.” The voice hardened, all humor gone. “Now my child is feathered and furred, she is some years older, but she will live perhaps two thousand or so. As will I. Given opportunity.”

  Abasio struggled. “We didn’t cause the inundation. We can’t stop the inundation. It’s beyond any powers we might ever have had . . .”

  “Oh, we are not fools, Abasio the Dyer. Abasio the Traveler. We are not fools! I have seen Tingawa! I made it a point to fly there, a long journey. I have perched on towers in the darkness and listened to talk of how ­people such as mine were made. I have learned how your sea-­children were made! I have crouched beside your wagon when you were not watching for me. Even very large creatures may fly silently and low, in the tops of the trees. I have watched your children at play.”

  Something changed in the Griffin’s face. That huge, metallic beak could not change, no, but the soft tissues at its sides were capable of expression, and he saw a moment’s humor there as she said again, “At play.”

  “You are amused, great one?” he asked, unable to keep his voice steady. She was not threatening him, but there was a terrible implacability in her voice.

  “It would take a great tragedy indeed for man to give up his shape, Abasio. Humans have always been very proud of their shape. I was told they are so proud they believe their God is shaped as they are! So proud that they think all other shapes—­shapes, colors, languages, all—­inferior to their own! Even in creatures that are superior to them. Vastly . . . superior. So I see you change your shape and I am surprised. We live long and it takes a great deal to surprise one of us. I am surprised at your changed children. Children who will live in the waters. You have done this for your ­people. I have consulted with others. We have somewhat of a claim upon you. All we ask—­no! All we demand is that you do the same for ours.”

  “Lady, mother animal?” said a small voice.

  Abasio and Xulai spun around. Willum was coming toward them from among the trees; he was holding the hand of a little girl, perhaps a bit older tha
n himself but small, small, pale as a ghost, hair white as frost braided into a complex helmet. She was approaching the Griffin, carrying something . . .

  “Lady Animal, mother animal, is your baby here? I think your baby lost this.” And she held out a feather.

  The huge beak gaped in actual astonishment, then cried, a sweet sound that had scarcely died before another Griffin dropped before them . . . a tiny one! Well, not tiny, no. Half the size of Blue. It would make more than one Abasio. It rubbed its head against its mother’s beak and spoke sounds, not words they knew.

  Abasio was looking at the big one. He saw the tears gather. Like diamonds. He heard the whisper. “Once before a Griffin child, a hat-­hatchling! Once before a human child, Traveler. Girl children, both. The human child found my little one and brought it home. My ­people are few. You created us, you men. You gave us brains to think with, feel with. Even language, though we have since adapted it as our own.” Her voice hardened, like iron. “We are not mere beasts. We have only a few hatchlings during our lives. They are very precious to us.”

  “The other girl was Olly,” he said in a half-­strangled voice. “It was she who went with the ship, it was she who made sure death would not rain down from the moon, who made sure that the ship would never return.”

  “Oh, sir,” cried the white-­haired child. “Oh, sir, is it true that the baby will drown? No, no, you must save her, sir. And her mama and her mama’s ­people. She is too young to be without a mama, without ­people! Even older children . . . like me, we . . . we need our ­people.”

  The young Griffin pranced toward the child, head cocked. It chirped, “Is that my feather?”

  “I think so,” said the child. “Grandma found it and gave it to me. Along with some other things. And then she died because Pa threw a stone at her. And he was going to sell me to Old Man Digger, who kills all his women because . . . because . . . I don’t really understand why because.” Tears dripped from her own eyes.