Worlds of Exile and Illusion: Rocannon's World, Planet of Exile, City of Illusions

by Ursula K. Le Guin

  She had not known the witchfolk bred up warriors, or prized strength and skill. Though she had heard of their wrestling, she had always vaguely imagined them as hunched black and spiderlike in a gloomy den over a potter’s wheel, making the delicate bits of pottery and clearstone that found their way into the tents of mankind. And there were stories and rumors and scraps of tales; a hunter was “lucky as a farborn”; a certain kind of earth was called witch-ore because the witchfolk prized it and would trade for it. But scraps were all she knew. Since long before her birth the Men of Askatevar had roamed in the east and north of their range. She had never come with a harvest-load to the storerooms under Tevar Hill, so she had never been on this western border at all till this moonphase, when all the Men of the Range of Askatevar came together with their flocks and families to build the Winter City over the buried granaries. She knew nothing, really, about the alien race, and when she became aware that the winning wrestler, the slender youth called Jonkendy, was staring straight into her face, she turned her head away and drew back in fear and distaste.

  He came up to her, his naked body shining black with sweat. “You come from Tevar, don’t you?” he asked, in human speech, but sounding half the words wrong. Happy with his victory, brushing sand off his lithe arms, he smiled at her.

  “Yes.”

  “What can we do for you here? Anything you want?”

  She could not look at him from so close, of course, but his tone was both friendly and mocking. It was a boyish voice; she thought he was probably younger than she. She would not be mocked. “Yes,” she said coolly. “I want to see that black rock on the sands.”

  “Go on out. The causeway’s open.”

  He seemed to be trying to peer into her lowered face. She turned further from him.

  “If anybody stops you, tell them Jonkendy Li sent you,” he said, “or should I go with you?”

  She would not even reply to this. Head high and gaze down she headed for the street that led from the square towards the causeway. None of these grinning black false-men would dare think she was afraid. . . .

  Nobody followed. Nobody seemed to notice her, passing her in the short street. She came to the great pillars of the causeway, glanced behind her, looked ahead and stopped.

  The bridge was immense, a road for giants. From up on the ridge it had looked fragile, spanning fields and dunes and sand with the light rhythm of its arches; but here she saw that it was wide enough for twenty men to walk abreast, and led straight to the looming black gates of the tower-rock. No rail divided the great walkway from the gulf of air. The idea of walking out on it was simply wrong. She could not do it; it was not a walk for human feet.

  A sidestreet led her to a western gate in the city wall. She hurried past long, empty pens and byres and slipped out the gate, intending to go on round the walls and be off home.

  But here where the cliffs ran lower, with many stairs cut in them, the fields below lay peaceful and patterned in the yellow afternoon; and just across the dunes lay the wide beach, where she might find the long green seaflowers that women of Askatevar kept in their chests and on feastdays wreathed in their hair. She smelled the queer smell of the sea. She had never walked on the sea-sands in her life. The sun was not low yet. She went down a cliff stairway and through the fields, over the dykes and dunes and ran out at last onto the flat and shining sands that went on and on out of sight to the north and west and south.

  Wind blew, faint sun shone. Very far ahead in the west she heard an unceasing sound, an immense, remote voice murmuring, lulling. Firm and level and endless, the sand lay under her feet. She ran for the joy of running, stopped and looked with a laugh of exhilaration at the causeway arches marching solemn and huge beside the tiny wavering line of her footprints, ran on again and stopped again to pick up silvery shells that lay half buried in the sand. Bright as a handful of colored pebbles the farborn town perched on the clifftop behind her. Before she was tired of salt wind and space and solitude, she was out almost as far as the tower-rock, which now loomed dense black between her and the sun.

  Cold lurked in that long shadow. She shivered and set off running again to get out of the shadow, keeping a good long ways from the black bulk of rock. She wanted to see how low the sun was getting, how far she must run to see the first waves of the sea.

  Faint and deep on the wind a voice rang in her ears, calling something, calling so strangely and urgently that she stopped still and looked back with a qualm of dread at the great black island rising up out of the sand. Was the witchplace calling to her?

  On the unrailed causeway, over one of the piers that stuck down into the island rock, high and distant up there, a black figure stood.

  She turned and ran, then stopped and turned back. Terror grew in her. Now she wanted to run, and did not. The terror overcame her and she could not move hand or foot but stood shaking, a roaring in her ears. The witch of the black tower was weaving his spider-spell about her. Flinging out his arms he called again the piercing urgent words she did not understand, faint on the wind as a seabird’s call, staak, staak! The roaring in her ears grew and she cowered down on the sand.

  Then all at once, clear and quiet inside her head, a voice said, “Run. Get up and run. To the island—now, quick.” And before she knew, she had got to her feet; she was running. The quiet voice spoke again to guide her. Unseeing, sobbing for breath, she reached black stairs cut in the rock and began to struggle up them. At a turning a black figure ran to meet her. She reached up her hand and was half led, half dragged, up one more staircase, then released. She fell against the wall, for her legs would not hold her. The black figure caught her, helped her stand, and spoke aloud in the voice that had spoken inside her skull: “Look,” he said, “there it comes.”

  Water crashed and boiled below them with a roar that shook the solid rock. The waters parted by the island joined white and roaring, swept on, hissed and foamed and crashed on the long slope to the dunes, stilled to a rocking of bright waves.

  Rolery stood clinging to the wall, shaking. She could not stop shaking.

  “The tide comes in here just a bit faster than a man can run,” the quiet voice behind her said. “And when it’s in, it’s about twenty feet deep here around the Stack. Come on up this way. . . . That’s why we lived out here in the old days, you see. Half of the time it’s an island. Used to lure an enemy army out onto the sands just before the tide came in, if they didn’t know much about the tides . . . Are you all right?”

  Rolery shrugged slightly. He did not seem to understand the gesture, so she said, “Yes.” She could understand his speech, but he used a good many words she had never heard, and pronounced most of the rest wrong.

  “You come from Tevar?”

  She shrugged again. She felt sick and wanted to cry, but did not. Climbing the next flight of stairs cut in the black rock, she put her hair straight, and from its shelter glanced up for a split second sideways at the farborn’s face. It was strong, rough, and dark, with grim, bright eyes, the dark eyes of the alien.

  “What were you doing on the sands? Didn’t anyone warn you about the tide?”

  “I didn’t know,” she whispered.

  “Your Elders know. Or they used to last Spring when your tribe was living along the coast here. Men have damn short memories.” What he said was harsh, but his voice was always quiet and without harshness. “This way now. Don’t worry—the whole place is empty. It’s been a long time since one of your people set foot on the Stack. . . .”

  They had entered a dark door and tunnel and come out into a room which she thought huge till they entered the next one. They passed through gates and courts open to the sky, along arched galleries that leaned far out above the sea, through rooms and vaulted halls, all silent, empty, dwelling places of the sea-wind. The sea rocked its wrinkled silver far below now. She felt light-headed, insubstantial.

  “Does nobody live here?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Not now.”

  “I
t’s your Winter City?”

  “No, we winter in the town. This was built as a fort. We had a lot of enemies in the old days. . . . Why were you on the sands?”

  “I wanted to see . . .”

  “See what?”

  “The sands. The ocean. I was in your town first, I wanted to see . . .”

  “All right! No harm in that.” He led her through a gallery so high it made her dizzy. Through the tall, pointed arches crying seabirds flew. Then passing down a last narrow corridor they came out under a gate, and crossed a clanging bridge of swordmetal onto the causeway.

  They walked between tower and town, between sky and sea, in silence, the wind pushing them always towards the right. Rolery was cold, and unnerved by the height and strangeness of the walk, by the presence of the dark false-man beside her, walking with her pace for pace.

  As they entered the town he said abruptly, “I won’t mindspeak you again. I had to then.”

  “When you said to run—” she began, then hesitated, not sure what he was talking about, or what had happened out on the sands.

  “I thought you were one of us,” he said as if angry, and then controlled himself. “I couldn’t stand and watch you drown. Even if you deserved to. But don’t worry. I won’t do it again, and it didn’t give me any power over you. No matter what your Elders may tell you. So go on, you’re free as air and ignorant as ever.”

  His harshness was real, and it frightened Rolery. Impatient with her fear she inquired, shakily but with impudence, “Am I also free to come back?”

  At that the farborn looked at her. She was aware, though she could not look up at his face, that his expression had changed. “Yes. You are. May I know your name, daughter of Askatevar?”

  “Rolery of Wold’s Kin.”

  “Wold’s your grandfather?—your father? He’s still alive?”

  “Wold closes the circle in the Stone-Pounding,” she said loftily, trying to assert herself against his air of absolute authority. How could a farborn, a false-man, kinless and beneath law, be so grim and lordly?

  “Give him greeting from Jakob Agat Alterra. Tell him that I’ll come to Tevar tomorrow to speak to him. Farewell, Rolery.” And he put out his hand in the salute of equals so that without thinking she did the same, laying her open palm against his.

  Then she turned and hurried up the steep streets and steps, drawing her fur hood up over her head, turning from the few farborns she passed. Why did they stare in one’s face so, like corpses or fish? Warm-blooded animals and human beings did not go staring in one another’s eyes that way. She came out of the landward gate with a great sense of relief, and made her quick way up the ridge in the last reddish sunlight, down through the dying woods, and along the path leading to Tevar. As twilight verged into darkness, she saw across the stubble fields little stars of firelight from the tents encircling the unfinished Winter City on the hill. She hurried on towards warmth and dinner and humankind. But even in the big sister-tent of her Kin, kneeling by the fire and stuffing herself with stew among the womenfolk and children, still she felt a strangeness lingering in her mind. Closing her right hand, she seemed to hold against her palm a handful of darkness, where his touch had been.

  2

  In the Red Tent

  “THIS SLOP’S COLD,” he growled, pushing it away. Then seeing old Kerly’s patient look as she took the bowl to reheat it, he called himself a cross old fool. But none of his wives—he had only one left—none of his daughters, none of the women could cook up a bowl of bhan-meal the way Shakatany had done. What a cook she had been, and young . . . his last young wife. And she had died, out there in the eastern range, died young while he went on living and living, waiting for the bitter Winter to come.

  A girl came by in a leather tunic stamped with the trifoliate mark of his Kin, a granddaughter probably. She looked a little like Shakatany. He spoke to her, though he did not remember her name. “Was it you that came in late last night, kinswoman?”

  He recognized the turn of her head and smile. She was the one he teased, the one that was indolent, impudent, sweet-natured, solitary; the child born out of season. What the devil was her name?

  “I bring you a message, Eldest.”

  “Whose message?”

  “He called himself by a big name—Jakat-abat-bolterra? I can’t remember it all.”

  “Alterra? That’s what the farborns call their chiefs. Where did you see this man?”

  “It wasn’t a man, Eldest, it was a farborn. He sent greetings, and a message that he’ll come today to Tevar to speak to the Eldest.”

  “Did he, now?” said Wold, nodding a little, admiring her effrontery. “And you’re his message-bearer?”

  “He chanced to speak to me. . . .”

  “Yes, yes. Did you know, kinswoman, that among the Men of Pernmek Range an unwed woman who speaks to a farborn is . . . punished?”

  “Punished how?”

  “Never mind.”

  “The Pernmek men are a lot of kloob-eaters, and they shave their heads. What do they know about farborns, anyway? They never come to the coast. . . . I heard once in some tent that the Eldest of my Kin had a farborn wife. In other days.”

  “That was true. In other days.” The girl waited, and Wold looked back, far back into another time: timepast, the Spring. Colors, fragrances long faded, flowers that had not bloomed for forty moonphases, the almost forgotten sound of a voice . . . “She was young. She died young. Before Summer ever came.” After a while he added, “Besides, that’s not the same as an unwed girl speaking to a farborn. There’s a difference, kinswoman.”

  “Why so?”

  Though impertinent, she deserved an answer. “There are several reasons, and some are better than others. This mainly: a farborn takes only one wife, so a true-woman marrying him would bear no sons.”

  “Why would she not, Eldest?”

  “Don’t women talk in the sister-tent any more? Are you all so ignorant? Because human and farborn can’t conceive together! Did you never hear of that? Either a sterile mating or else miscarriages, misformed monsters that don’t come to term. My wife, Arilia, who was farborn, died in miscarrying a child. Her people have no rule; their women are like men, they marry whom they like. But among Mankind there is a law: women lie with human men, marry human men, bear human children!”

  She looked a little sick and sorry. Presently, looking off at the scurry and bustle on the walls of the Winter City, she said, “A fine law for women who have men to lie with . . .”

  She looked to be about twenty moonphases old, which meant she was the one born out of season, right in the middle of the Summer Fallow when children were not born. The sons of Spring would by now be twice or three times her age, married, remarried, prolific; the Fall-born were all children yet. But some Spring-born fellow would take her for third or fourth wife; there was no need for her to complain. Perhaps he could arrange a marriage for her, though that depended on her affiliations. “Who is your mother, kinswoman?”

  She looked straight at his belt-clasp and said, “Shakatany was my mother. Have you forgotten her?”

  “No, Rolery,” he replied after a little while. “I haven’t. Listen now, daughter, where did you speak to this Alterra? Was his name Agat?”

  “That was part of his name.”

  “So I knew his father and his father’s father. He is of the kin of the woman . . . the farborn we spoke of. He would be perhaps her sister’s son or brother’s son.”

  “Your nephew then. My cousin,” said the girl, and gave a sudden laugh. Wold also grinned at the grotesque logic of this affiliation.

  “I met him when I went to look at the ocean,” she explained, “there on the sands. Before, I saw a runner coming from the north. None of the women know. Was there news? Is the Southing going to begin?”

  “Maybe, maybe,” said Wold. He had forgotten her name again. “Run along, child, help your sisters in the fields there,” he said, and forgetting her, and the bowl of bhan he had been waiting for
, he got up heavily and went round his great red-painted tent to gaze at the swarming workers on the earth-houses and the walls of the Winter City, and beyond them to the north. The northern sky this morning was very blue, clear, cold, over bare hills.

  Vividly he remembered the life in those peak-roofed warrens dug into the earth: the huddled bodies of a hundred sleepers, the old women waking and lighting the fires that sent heat and smoke into all his pores, the smell of boiling wintergrass, the noise, the stink, the close warmth of winter in those burrows under the frozen ground. And the cold cleanly stillness of the world above, wind-scoured or snow-covered, when he and the other young hunters ranged far from Tevar hunting the snowbirds and korio and the fat wespries that followed the frozen rivers down from the remotest north. And over there, right across the valley, from a patch of snowcrop there had risen up the lolling white head of a snowghoul. . . . And before then, before the snow and ice and white beasts of Winter, there had once before been bright weather like this: a bright day of golden wind and blue sky, cold above the hills. And he, no man, only a brat among the brats and women, looking up at flat white faces, red plumes, capes of queer, feathery grayish fur; voices had barked like beasts in words he did not understand, while the men of his Kin and the Elders of Askatevar had answered in stern voices, bidding the flat-faces go on. And before that there had been a man who came running from the north with the side of his face burnt and bloody, crying, “The Gaal, the Gaal! They came through our camp at Pekna! . . .”