The third woman spoke—in Bear—to Bear: “Just watch her.”
And the shape-changer woman turned into a bear. A very nice-looking bear, though small, in order not to rip the clothing she had just been given. Bear felt an unseasonal urge. Bear in dress changed back, whispering, between beautiful bear teeth, “Zorry.”
The second woman, Jinian, spoke to Bear again—in Bear. “Don’t get any ideas, furry socks. She can make her claws as long as your foot.”
Xulai cried, “I thought they’d taken your talents away! I thought you couldn’t do those things anymore.”
Silkhands answered. “Fixit told you. Jinian and I have had our talents returned, just for this trip. Mavin never lost hers. She fell prey to a curse that was to last a thousand years. The way time gets twisted in wormholes, that’s how long it took us to get here. I know Fixit kept taking little side trips through loops that added fifty years there, a hundred somewhere else. Then it’d reverse it on the way back, so we wouldn’t have been gone that long. So, Mavin can change shape, and I can heal people, and Jinian can talk to any creature that will talk back and do some witchery, and together, we think maybe we can do something for . . . a boy, and a Griffin, or maybe many Griffins and maybe some other creatures . . .”
“Or maybe,” said Needly wearily, half dreaming, “all the creatures on our world.”
FIXIT OFFERED ABASIO A DRINK. “You drink happy-making, sensory-negating liquids?” the creature asked. “I have checked database that says you do, including some harmful. This one will not harm you. If you don’t like, say so, I have it mix something else.”
Abasio inclined his head in what he hoped looked like gracious acceptance. The liquid provided was extremely pleasant, smooth, flavorful, tangy. He sat in one of the several seats around the perimeter of the circular room, noting the picture stuck up above the control panel.
“Is that your child?” he asked.
“Child?”
“Your family . . . offspring. A young one of you created by you?”
“Oh, you mean Blamfos. NO no no. Not the way we do things. No. That one in the picture is twigpit. That is, special-occasion g’forz, food! No, Thanksgiving turkey? No, that is archaic. Christmas pudding? Database says even more archaic. What do you have for special-occasions food?”
“Pumpkin pastry and smashed apple drink for harvesttime. You say that’s a picture of food! It looks exactly like you. You mean you eat your own . . .”
“Oh, no, no, no. Would you appreciate explanation?”
Abasio wondered if he could get away with saying no. Decided not. “I would appreciate explanation, yes.”
“You have two type persons, right. Male female, right. Fertilizer and accepter, right?”
Abasio considered this an oversimplification, but he said, “Right.”
“Our people have five type persons: isk, tan, blag, wurf, and dibble. Are more formal terms, but that is what we usually say. Is bad courtesy, sometimes insult, to call by wrong name. I am tan, so-called First Fertilizer. On your world you are first and only fertilizer and your woman is first and only accepter. On our world Isk is first accepter.
“My world has long, long year. Oh, my, yes, so very long. Winter on my world becomes . . . eternity. It is cold. Ziprogs invade the house, build nests, carry diseases. Everyone catches diseases. Everyone going ‘phoo, phoo, phoo’ from the lung all the time. Understand?”
“It’s cold and uncomfortable, mice invade your houses, you all catch what we call colds, you sneeze on each other, and you’re just generally miserable.”
“Yes, is misery! Good substitutive word! So when world turns more toward sun, comes what you call spring, it is like heaven. ‘Heaven’ is suitable word for nicest possible imaginary place? Good. We have warm little wind. Happy little frillies on trees. All the isks and tans begin to feel . . . oh so warm and happy and . . . like exploding. You know feeling?”
Abasio flushed. What he was drinking gave him a hint. “Yes, I understand.”
Fixit put its hands to its neck, just above the multishoulders, and pointed at . . . well, Abasio might have called them eyelids, a circle of them, a dozen or more, all the way around the neck. “Here, this area called k’fum, it begins to feel very warm and it begins to swell, what is inside grows big.” It smiled. “They get VERY BIG and they protrude and on the ends they have things like . . . whiskers. Do you know whiskers?”
“Hair,” said Abasio, pointing to his own.
“No, thicker than that. But at the end lots of things like hairs . . .”
“F . . . fl . . . filmens. Filaments!” said Abasio.
“Good, yes, two kinds filaments, red ones and brown ones. And all along sides of filaments little . . . nodules, tiny, hundreds and hundreds of them. Those are being willimoxies, red ones, brown ones.”
“I shee,” Abasio murmured. He didn’t, but it might get clearer. His mug was almost empty. Balytaniwassinot refilled Abasio’s and its own.
“Meantime,” it said, “isks is having similar thing happening. K’fum might be called, in your language . . . REFERENCE needed! . . . ‘fringe.’ That is good word. All around necks of isks and tans are being fringes. Time goes warmer and warmer until one morning all isks and tans wake up feeling OH, MY! All isks and tans run out into fields, people running from everywhere, laughing, and once in fields, isks and tans, they dance. Wind comes up and they dance, they dance, the willimoxies on brown filaments, they begin to swell up, bigger and bigger, brown willimoxies get like balloon, and then they burst! Isk ones burst, tan ones burst, air is full of dusty, smoky . . .”
“Sper . . .”Abasio tried to say.
“Spores!” cried Balytaniwassinot. “Yes, that is right word. Breeze is mixing them, mixing them, meantimes, red filaments of fringe has become all sticky, red fringe is swirling, catching dusty smoky spores. Soon all tans, isks fall down, exhausted from dancing. They sleep there all day. No one bothers. Is bad to bother.
“While they sleep, fringe dries out. Later, isks wake up, tans wake up, go about business. Fringe is now drying out! Hanging around . . . neck like . . . collar. No one very sensible, you know? Silly. Like when drinking k’pir, what is in your cup. Like that. Then is coming rattle time!”
“Rattle time?”
“All along each filament of fringe all red willimoxies are becoming golms. Not quite what seed is, but something like that. Hard, with shell, and makes happy little rattle when the isks move, the tans move, happy little sound. Everyone hears the sound and laughs, even blags, wurfs, and dibbles. Days and days go by, everyone smiling. Time for fixing soil in fields. Turning over, making smooth, making soft, putting good things in soil. Everyone does that, young ones, old ones, every person helps, even pet quizzinogs out in fields digging, digging. You have quizzinogs? To catch ziprogs?”
“Cats,” murmured Abasio. No, cats didn’t dig. “Terriers dig and catch mice. Yes, many people have them.”
“Good. Is always good, finding similarities. Now comes golm-swat time. Need coolish day, must be little breeze, no big wind. Isks and tans dance in the fields, jump up and down, hit own fringe with fingers, hit other people’s fringe with fingers while singing swat song. Have special fingers for swat. Other peoples gather around edges of fields also singing. When we swat fringe, shells break and ripe golms fall to the ground. Dance must be very active to make golms fall evenly, all over ground. Golms have tiny, tiny legs. If one falls too close to other one, on ground, it will move over. When isks and tans are finished dancing, all the dried pods have fallen off, the parts have shrunken and pulled back into neck, lids shut.
“When isks and tans finish dancing, blags go dance in field. If is no breeze, may wait a while, a day or so. All along back and side arms of blags are sacs that hold what is like mist. Four arms, four sacs each arm. Top one has genetic part for isks, next one is for tans, then blags,
then wurfs. Blags dance in pairs, using front arms to press on partner’s sacs, now this one, now that one, round and round making little puffs of mist. Little breeze spreads mist. Mist is different colors, it swirls and moves. Blags wave arms, whirl around, sing, dance, wave, until growing part is spread evenly, everywhere. People watching also sing blagging song. Each separate part has its own song.
“Dancing has packed the soil down. Now is time for wurfs. Sun is going down, getting cooler. Must be just cool enough. Wurfs line up at edge of field. You understand are many fields, many places, local people use local fields, different days different places? Maybe not all on same days but when weather is right? Wurf has hands out at sides touching hand of next wurf, looking straight down field, just so far apart, very even, the wurfs march across field, singing plibble song, funny song, plibbing as they go . . .”
“Plibbing?”
“Excreting liquid. No, no, not waste-produce liquid! Not dirtiness, no. Fertility liquid. Not covering whole field, no, just spraying here, there, wherever. Like you would take tiny mouthful of water and sploosh it out. Human childrens play so, sometimes? Have play things to sploosh water at one another? Wurfs have gland behind knee. In the marching, wurf bends so”—Fixit did a deep knee bend—“and so, and so, and each time, little puff of liquid spurts out. Where the plibble falls on golms, those golms at once become maybe-people. As soon as golm is touched with tiny drop of plibble-mist, it buries self. Is very funny to see. Just-grown persons, you would say ‘childs,’ they take magnifying glass to edge of field, laughing at funniness of golms burying selves.”
Abasio tried to visualize this. “Why ish it funny, Fishit?”
“Just is. Tiny golm, covered all over with legs, all legs going like . . . windmill—you know windmill? Round and round? Very . . . industrious. Funny, so little, so . . . vigorous.
“Then, when the wurfs are finished, everyone goes home and the maflipluks—maflipluk is family, you see—sit at supper table in family house and pray for rain. This is done as a courtesy. We have a very reliable world spirit who always assures rain at the proper time but is courteous to say ‘please send rain’ and ‘thank you for sending rain,’ respecting world spirit.”
“You did say ‘maybe-people’?”
“Yes. Very soon all golms sprout and grow. Those not plibbed are not-people, not-people is food; those having been plibbed are maybe-people. Isk, tan, blag, and wurf have contributed to maybe-people, but they have no nerves, no brain. No feelings. No senses. No emotions. Just good vegetable/animal, very delicious, very nutritious.
”I see you are confused. I am told our planet has very strange genetic systems, but we are accustomed to it.” Fixit patted Abasio on one shoulder. “You will understand . . .
“So, time goes by, all the ones in fields, including the not-people and the maybe-people, grow up, put roots down. Machine goes through field cutting narrow paths, leaving rows of not-people and maybe-people in between to grow, to get half tall.” Balytaniwassinot stood and put two of its hands at about its midpoint. “So tall as this, half tall. Now inspectors go into fields, look at maybe-people, see how developing, decide whether developed enough to ring bells for choosing time. All of us, isks and tans and blags and wurfs, go into field—walk up and down paths, look carefully at maybe-people, see best ones we can find. Tallest ones, best-shaped, best color. Count arms and legs, feel to see if muscle growing well. Look in mouth to see chew plate forming. Look at shape of node at top to be sure is room for face and hair. Mark all good ones with color spray. Color spray says, ‘This one is maybe-person suitable for final choosing.’
“Then some time later, long enough for maybe-people to get almost full height, inspectors set choosing day. This is separate for each field. Not all fields grow alike. Isks and tans and blags and wurfs go down the rows again, and each person looks only at those approved with color spray, looks and looks, and each chooses two maybe-people that are close together, best two they can find, close together. Only best ones; out of thousands only two. Those two are now chosen ones and chosen labels are put on those chosen two. Those two are chosen to become people!”
Abasio found that getting his tongue to make words was becoming difficult. He set the liquid down and resolved not to finish what was in the glass. “You shay labels?”
“Labels are made special by selection department. Selection department knows how many people world is comfortable with. At beginning of year, part of new year celebration, each worthy person receives two labels. Unworthy persons, those who have done evil, no labels. World does not risk unworthy person raising another to be unworthy. Self, Balytaniwassinot, gets two labels with my name on, with my registered number on. Two labels only for any person: never more! When person receives labels, person puts them away safely. No replacements! No mistakes! Only last year a blag was cooked for stealing label. This is a very bad thing to do! Shameful for that blag’s maflipluk!
“When labels are all on, everyone finished, all the pairs chosen, fertility officers check off everyone against list. You understand each field has its own people? Mostly people living nearby—all are on list. If someone did not choose, if someone’s label is missing, they check! Maybe during year that one wilted or is wilting now; maybe that one is afar on duty for galactic office; maybe that one left labels with family member with certificate allowing family member to choose for the one who is far away. Fertility officers check all such things, remind people who did not show up to come to field and choose, correct records, and not until all checking is finished do they make announcement. ‘Choosing is finished.’
“Only then, finally, come the dibbles. Some dibbles are already standing in field next to pair chosen by friend or member of maflipluk. Others go into field and pick pair without knowing who chose. However chosen, each dibble picks one pair. When pair is located, dibble will very carefully dibble both of them: one of pair for chooser, other one of pair for dibble’s self. Dibble also has two labels, different colors; and has flag with name and number. Dibble puts one color label on one dibbled for self, puts other color label for person who chose that pair, puts flag in ground to show this pair now chosen, and dibbled, and labeled! Person calls out to fertility officer to check, fertility officer calls out name on pair, names are written down, and flag is recorded. If are not enough dibbles to come out even, fertility officer asks dibblers who have already dibbled one pair to dibble one of a chosen pair for someone else—only one, since there is no dibble for that pair. When all is finished, every already-person has one dibbled one, also called chosen one, or becoming-person. All these names mean the same thing, all are used with dignity. Only after being dibbled do the chosen ones acquire nerves and brain and consciousness of self.”
“They’re the ones who are becoming . . . whats?”
“Camrath-selipedes-nosti-famikines. Which I am. Which my people are. Once the maybe-person has been dibbled, it is a becoming-person. It grows brain, nerves, face, develops gender. This is when we learn what gender chosen one is. Until then, no one knows or cares. We have saying, ‘Food has no gender. Families welcome all.’ This is happy season, fields full of green, here and there maflipluks of already-people—that is, ‘grown-up family’ spending time with their becoming-people who are still growing, talking to them about becoming wurf or tan or whatever it is. If one’s chosen is a wurf, and one’s maflipluk—family—has no wurf, one may be inviting friend who is wurf to come talk to one’s chosen. This is time for teaching what is breeding role, how to behave, vocabulary. Sometimes songs. Some even teach reading, though Self thinks it better to wait until one’s chosen is ready to go home. In field, sometimes, when learning words, there is a certain regrettable . . . naughtiness. Using impolite words. Self always says: ‘They had to learn it from an already-person, and that already-person ought to be ashamed!’ ”
Abasio was amazed to realize he was visualizing this whole thing. Seeing it. “When are they ready to . . . go home?”
“When big growth roots on bottom of feet dry up. You understand our year is very long; more than fifteen of your years. All this growing has taken a long, long time, and in time you would call autumn, when one’s chosen is fully grown and ripe, growth roots have become dry. When almost completely dry, maflipluk comes to help new person get loose from roots. That is when whole maflipluk comes together to name the new person. Maflipluk has decided on name together. Maflipluk helps new person walk first steps on way home. Many new-persons’ legs being tangled as it learns to walk, much laughing, much singing, much introducing of new ones and old ones.”
Abasio took a deep breath, wishing he had taken notes. “If you need a dibble for every one of them, then there are more dibbles than there are any of the other genders.” Abasio wasn’t sure of this, but it had seemed so, going by . . .
“Oh! Forgot important thing. You are right, must be more of them, but they have already been something else by then. All dibbles begin as something else, then when it is getting older, parts used in reproduction become . . . inactive, other parts ripen. Then person becomes dibble. All of us become dibbles in time. Dibbling is final, very serious step of being-person. Dibble can even reject a chosen one, force a person to choose again. We have no such things as inexperienced, novice people being dibbles! No!”
“And the picture up there is not a picture of one of your . . . ones you’ve . . . chosen?”
“No. That is only maybe-person, or as we say after choosing, ‘a wasn’t-person.’ ”
Abasio struggled with it. “You mean, once all the dibbling is done, then the ones not dibbled are not maybe-people anymore. Because all the chances to be people are gone? So now they’re just wasn’t . . . weren’t-persons?”
“True That is picture of maybe-person that was never dibbled. Instead was potted and put in special greenhouse at our home to become twigpit, food for special occasion. Is being fed special goodness at its roots. Homecoming feast requires twigpit. Summer festival requires twigpit. Welcoming new family member requires twigpit. That is the twigpit picked out for homecoming dinner when Self returns. Roasted and stuffed and served with k’pir sauce, like the stuff you are drinking. K’pir is fermented g’forz.”
Fish Tails Page 72
