Clearer than any present voice he heard that hoarse shout ring across his lifetime, the sixty moonphases that lay between him and that staring, listening brat, between this bright day and that bright day. Where was Pekna? Lost under the rains, the snows; and the thaws of Spring had washed away the bones of the massacred, the rotted tents, the memory, the name.
There would be no massacres this time when the Gaal came south through the Range of Askatevar. He had seen to that. There was some good in outliving your time and remembering old evils. Not one clan or family of the Men of all this Range was left out in the Summerlands to be caught unawares by the Gaal or the first blizzard. They were all here. Twenty hundreds of them, with the little Fall-borns thick as leaves skipping about under your feet, and women chattering and gleaning in the fields like flocks of migratory birds, and men swarming to build up the houses and walls of the Winter City with the old stones on the old foundations, to hunt the last of the migrant beasts, to cut and store endless wood from the forests and peat from the Dry Bog, to round up and settle the hann in great byres and feed them until the wintergrass should begin to grow. All of them, in this labor that had gone on half a moonphase now, had obeyed him, and he had obeyed the old Way of Man. When the Gaal came they would shut the city gates; when the blizzards came they would shut the earth-house doors, and they would survive till Spring. They would survive.
He sat down on the ground behind his tent, lowering himself heavily, sticking out his gnarled, scarred legs into the sunlight. Small and whitish the sun looked, though the sky was flawlessly clear; it seemed half the size of the great sun of Summer, smaller even than the moon. “Sun shrunk to moon, cold comes soon. . . .” The ground was damp with the long rains that had plagued them all this moonphase, and scored here and there with the little ruts left by the migrating footroots. What was it the girl had asked him—about farborns, about the runner, that was it. The fellow had come panting in yesterday—was it yesterday?—with a tale of the Gaal attacking the Winter City of Tlokna, up north there near the Green Mountains. There was lie or panic in that tale. The Gaal never attacked stone walls. Flat-nosed barbarians, in their plumes and dirt, running southward like homeless animals at the approach of Winter—they couldn’t take a city. And anyway, Pekna was only a little hunting camp, not a walled city. The runner lied. It was all right. They would survive. Where was the fool woman with his breakfast? Here, now, it was warm, here in the sun. . . .
Wold’s eighth wife crept up with a basket of steaming bhan, saw he was asleep, sighed grumpily, and crept away again to the cooking-fire.
That afternoon when the farborn came to his tent, dour guards around him and a ragtag of leering, jeering children trailing behind, Wold remembered what the girl had said, laughing: “Your nephew, my cousin.” So he heaved himself up and stood to greet the farborn with averted face and hand held out in the greeting of equals.
As an equal the alien greeted him, unhesitating. They had always that arrogance, that air of thinking themselves as good as men, whether or not they really believed it. This fellow was tall, well-made, still young; he walked like a chief. Except for his darkness and his dark, unearthly eyes, he might have been thought to be human.
“I am Jakob Agat, Eldest.”
“Be welcome in my tent and the tents of my Kin, Alterra.”
“I hear with my heart,” the farborn said, making Wold grin a little; he had not heard anybody say that since his father’s time. It was strange how farborns always remembered old ways, digging up things buried in timepast. How could this young fellow know a phrase that only Wold and perhaps a couple of the other oldest men of Tevar remembered? It was part of the farborns’ strangeness, which was called witchery, and which made people fear the dark folk. But Wold had never feared them.
“A noblewoman of your Kin dwelt in my tents, and I walked in the streets of your city many times in Spring. I remember this. So I say that no man of Tevar will break the peace between our people while I live.”
“No man of Landin will break it while I live.”
The old chief had been moved by his little speech as he made it; there were tears in his eyes, and he sat down on his chest of painted hide clearing his throat and blinking. Agat stood erect, black-cloaked, dark eyes in a dark face. The young hunters who guarded him fidgeted, children peered whispering and shoving in the open side of the tent. With one gesture Wold blew them all away. The tentside was lowered, old Kerly lit the tentfire and scurried out again, and he was alone with the alien. “Sit down,” he said. Agat did not sit down. He said, “I listen,” and stood there. If Wold did not ask him to be seated in front of the other humans, he would not be seated when there were none to see. Wold did not think all this nor decide upon it, he merely sensed it through a skin made sensitive by a long lifetime of leading and controlling people.
He sighed and said, “Wife!” in his cracked bass voice. Old Kerly reappeared, staring. “Sit down,” Wold said to Agat, who sat down crosslegged by the fire. “Go away,” Wold growled to his wife, who vanished.
Silence. Elaborately and laboriously, Wold undid the fastenings of a small leather bag that hung from the waist-strap of his tunic, extracted a tiny lump of solidified gesin-oil, broke from it a still tinier scrap, replaced the lump, retied the bag, and laid the scrap on a hot coal at the edge of the fire. A little curl of bitter greenish smoke went up; Wold and the alien both inhaled deeply and closed their eyes. Wold leaned back against the big pitch-coated urine basket and said, “I listen.”
“Eldest, we have had news from the north.”
“So have we. There was a runner yesterday.” Was it yesterday?
“Did he speak of the Winter City at Tlokna?”
The old man sat looking into the fire a while, breathing deep as if to get a last whiff of the gesin, chewing the inside of his lips, his face (as he well knew) dull as a piece of wood, blank, senile.
“I’d rather not be the bearer of ill news,” the alien said in his quiet, grave voice.
“You aren’t. We’ve heard it already. It is very hard, Alterra, to know the truth in stories that come from far away, from other tribes in other ranges. It’s eight days’ journey even for a runner from Tlokna to Tevar, twice that long with tents and hann. Who knows? The gates of Tevar will be ready to shut, when the Southing comes by. And you in your city that you never leave, surely your gates need no mending?”
“Eldest, it will take very strong gates this time. Tlokna had walls, and gates, and warriors. Now it has none. This is no rumor. Men of Landin were there, ten days ago; they’ve been watching the borders for the first Gaal. But the Gaal are coming all at once—”
“Alterra, I listen. . . . Now you listen. Men sometimes get frightened and run away before the enemy ever comes. We hear this tale and that tale too. But I am old. I have seen Autumn twice, I have seen Winter come, I have seen the Gaal come south. I will tell you the truth.”
“I listen,” the alien said.
“The Gaal live in the north beyond the farthest ranges of men who speak our language. They have great grassy Summerlands there, so the story says, beneath mountains that have rivers of ice on their tops. After Mid-Autumn the cold and the beasts of the snow begin to come down into their lands from the farthest north where it is always Winter, and like our beasts the Gaal move south. They bring their tents, but build no cities and save no grain. They come through Tevar Range while the stars of the Tree are rising at sunset and before the Snowstar rises, at the turn from Fall to Winter. If they find families traveling unprotected, hunting camps, unguarded flocks or fields, they’ll kill and steal. If they see a Winter City standing built, and warriors on its walls, they go by waving their spears and yelling, and we shoot a few darts into the backsides of the last ones. . . . They go on and on, and stop only somewhere far south of here; some men say it’s warmer where they spend the Winter—who knows? But that is the Southing. I know. I’ve seen it, Alterra, and seen them return north again in the thaws when the forests are growing. They
don’t attack stone cities. They’re like water, water running and noisy, but the stone divides it and is not moved. Tevar is stone.”
The young farborn sat with bowed head, thinking, long enough that Wold could glance directly at his face for a moment.
“All you say, Eldest, is truth, entire truth, and has always been true in past Years. But this is . . . a new time. . . . I am a leader among my people, as you are of yours. I come as one chief to another, seeking help. Believe me—listen to me, our people must help each other. There is a great man among the Gaal, a leader, they call him Kubban or Kobban. He has united all their tribes and made an army of them. The Gaal aren’t stealing stray hann along their way, they’re besieging and capturing the Winter Cities in all the Ranges along the coast, killing the Spring-born men, enslaving the women, leaving Gaal warriors in each city to hold and rule it over the Winter. Come Spring, when the Gaal come north again, they’ll stay; these lands will be their lands—these forests and fields and Summerlands and cities and all their people—what’s left of them. . . .”
The old man stared aside a while and then said very heavily, in anger, “You talk, I don’t listen. You say my people will be beaten, killed, enslaved. My people are men and you’re a farborn. Keep your black talk for your own black fate!”
“If men are in danger, we’re in worse danger. Do you know how many of us there are in Landin now, Eldest? Less than two thousand.”
“So few? What of the other towns? Your people lived on the coast to the north, when I was young.”
“Gone. The survivors came to us.”
“War? Sickness? You have no sickness, you farborns.”
“It’s hard to survive on a world you weren’t made for,” Agat said with grim brevity. “At any rate we’re few, we’re weak in numbers: we ask to be the allies of Tevar when the Gaal come. And they’ll come within thirty days.”
“Sooner than that, if there are Gaal at Tlokna now. They’re late already, the snow will fall any day. They’ll be hurrying.”
“They’re not hurrying, Eldest. They’re coming slowly because they’re coming all together—fifty, sixty, seventy thousand of them!”
Suddenly and most horribly, Wold saw what he said: saw the endless horde filing rank behind rank through the mountain passes, led by a tall slab-faced chief, saw the men of Tlokna—or was it of Tevar?—lying slaughtered under the broken walls of their city, ice forming in splinters over puddled blood. . . . He shook his head to clear out these visions. What had come over him? He sat silent a while chewing the inside of his lips.
“Well, I have heard you, Alterra.”
“Not entirely, Eldest.” This was barbarian rudeness, but the fellow was an alien, and after all a chief of his own kind. Wold let him go ahead. “We have time to prepare. If the men of Askatevar and the men of Allakskat and of Pernmek will make alliance, and accept our help, we can make an army of our own. If we wait in force, ready for the Gaal, on the north border of your three Ranges, then the whole Southing rather than face that much strength might turn aside and go down the mountain trails to the east. Twice in earlier Years our records say they took that eastern way. Since it’s late and getting colder, and there’s not much game left, the Gaal may turn aside and hurry on if they meet men ready to fight. My guess is that Kubban has no real tactic other than surprise and multitude. We can turn him.”
“The men of Pernmek and Allakskat are in their Winter Cities now, like us. Don’t you know the Way of Men yet? There are no battles fought in Winter!”
“Tell that law to the Gaal, Eldest! Take your own counsel, but believe my words!” The farborn rose, impelled to his feet by the intensity of his pleading and warning. Wold felt sorry for him, as he often did for young men, who have not seen how passion and plan over and over are wasted, how their lives and acts are wasted between desire and fear.
“I have heard you,” he said with stolid kindliness. “The Elders of my people will hear what you’ve said.”
“Then may I come tomorrow to hear—”
“Tomorrow, next day . . .”
“Thirty days, Eldest! Thirty days at most!”
“Alterra, the Gaal will come, and will go. The Winter will come and will not go. What good for a victorious warrior to return to an unfinished house, when the earth turns to ice? When we’re ready for Winter we’ll worry about the Gaal. . . . Now sit down again.”
He dug into his pouch again for a second bit of gesin for their closing whiff. “Was your father Agat also? I knew him when he was young. And one of my worthless daughters told me that she met you while she was walking on the sands.”
The farborn looked up rather quickly, and then said, “Yes, so we met. On the sands between tides.”
3
The True Name of the Sun
WHAT CAUSED the tides along this coast, the great diurnal swinging in and swinging out of fifteen to fifty feet of water? Not one of the Elders of the City of Tevar could answer that question. Any child in Landin could: the moon caused the tides, the pull of the moon. . . .
And moon and earth circled each other, a stately circle taking four hundred days to complete, a moonphase. And together the double planet circled the sun, a great and solemnly whirling dance in the midst of nothingness. Sixty moonphases that dance lasted, twenty-four thousand days, a lifetime, a Year. And the name of the center and sun—the name of the sun was Eltanin: Gamma Draconis.
Before he entered under the gray branches of the forest, Jakob Agat looked up at the sun sinking into a haze above the western ridge and in his mind called it by its true name, the meaning of which was that it was not simply the Sun, but a sun: a star among the stars.
The voice of a child at play rang out behind him on the slopes of Tevar Hill, recalling to him the jeering, sidelong-looking faces, the mocking whispers that hid fear, the yells behind his back —“There’s a farborn here! Come and look at him!” Agat, alone under the trees, walked faster, trying to outwalk humiliation. He had been humiliated among the tents of Tevar and had suffered also from the sense of isolation. Having lived all his life in a little community of his own kind, knowing every name and face and heart, it was hard for him to face strangers. Especially hostile strangers of a different species, in crowds, on their own ground. The fear and humiliation now caught up with him so that he stopped walking altogether for a moment. I’ll be damned if I’ll go back there! he thought. Let the old fool have his way, and sit smoke-drying himself in his stinking tent till the Gaal come. Ignorant, bigoted, quarrelsome, mealy-faced, yellow-eyed barbarians, wood-headed hilfs, let ’em all burn!
“Alterra?”
The girl had come after him. She stood a few yards behind him on the path, her hand on the striated white trunk of a basuk tree. Yellow eyes blazed with excitement and mockery in the even white of her face. Agat stood motionless.
“Alterra?” she said again in her light, sweet voice, looking aside.
“What do you want?”
She drew back a bit. “I’m Rolery,” she said. “On the sands—”
“I know who you are. Do you know who I am? I’m a false-man, a farborn. If your tribesmen see you with me they’ll either castrate me or ceremonially rape you—I don’t know which rules you follow. Now go home!”
“My people don’t do that. And there is kinship between you and me,” she said, her tone stubborn but uncertain.
He turned to go.
“Your mother’s sister died in our tents—”
“To our shame,” he said, and went on. She did not follow.
He stopped and looked back when he took the left fork up the ridge. Nothing stirred in all the dying forest, except one belated footroot down among the dead leaves, creeping with its excruciating vegetable obstinacy southward, leaving a thin track scored behind it.
Racial pride forbade him to feel any shame for his treatment of the girl, and in fact he felt relief and a return of confidence. He would have to get used to the hilfs’ insults and ignore their bigotry. They couldn’t help it
; it was their own kind of obstinacy, it was their nature. The old chief had shown, by his own lights, real courtesy and patience. He, Jakob Agat, must be equally patient, and equally obstinate. For the fate of his people, the life of mankind on this world, depended on what these hilf tribes did and did not do in the next thirty days. Before the crescent moon rose, the history of a race for six hundred moonphases, ten Years, twenty generations, the long struggle, the long pull might end. Unless he had luck, unless he had patience.
Dry, leafless, with rotten branches, huge trees stood crowded and aisled for miles along these hills, their roots withered in the earth. They were ready to fall under the push of the north wind, to lie under frost and snow for thousands of days and nights, to rot in the long, long thaws of Spring, to enrich with their vast death the earth where, very deep, very deeply sleeping, their seeds lay buried now. Patience, patience . . .
In the wind he came down the bright stone streets of Landin to the Square, and passing the school-children at their exercises in the arena, entered the arcaded, towered building that was called by an old name: the Hall of the League.
Like the other buildings around the Square, it had been built five Years ago when Landin was the capital of a strong and flourishing little nation, the time of strength. The whole first floor was a spacious meeting-hall. All around its gray walls were broad, delicate designs picked out in gold. On the east wall a stylized sun surrounded by nine planets faced the west wall’s pattern of seven planets in very long ellipses round their sun. The third planet of each system was double, and set with crystal. Above the doors and at the far end, round dial-faces with fragile and ornate hands told that this present day was the 391st day of the 45th moonphase of the Tenth Local Year of the Colony on Gamma Draconis III. They also told that it was the two hundred and second day of Year 1405 of the League of All Worlds; and that it was the twelfth of August at home.
Most people doubted that there was still a League of All Worlds, and a few paradoxicalists liked to question whether there ever had in fact been a home. But the clocks, here in the Great Assembly and down in the Records Room underground, which had been kept running for six hundred League Years, seemed to indicate by their origin and their steadfastness that there had been a League and that there still was a home, a birthplace of the race of man. Patiently they kept the hours of a planet lost in the abyss of darkness and years. Patience, patience . . .
Worlds of Exile and Illusion: Rocannon's World, Planet of Exile, City of Illusions Page 15
