“I would watch this fire,” Agat said, asking Umaksuman’s permission. The Tevaran hesitated, but an older man beside him said firmly, “Wold’s daughter is this one’s wife: he has clan right.”
So they let him come, with Rolery and all that were left of her people, to a high terrace outside a gallery on the seaward side of the Stack. There on a pyre of broken wood the body of the old man lay, age-deformed and powerful, wrapped in a red cloth, death’s color. A young child set the torch and the fire burnt red and yellow, shaking the air, paled by the cold early light of the sun. The tide was drawing out, grinding and thundering at the rocks below the sheer black walls. East over the hills of Askatevar Range and west over the sea the sky was clear, but northward a bluish dusk brooded: Winter.
Five thousand nights of Winter, five thousand days of it: the rest of their youth and maybe the rest of their lives.
Against that distant, bluish darkness in the north, no triumph showed up at all. The Gaal seemed a little scurry of vermin, gone already, fleeing before the true enemy, the true lord, the white lord of the Storms. Agat stood by Rolery in front of the sinking death-fire, in the high sea-beleaguered fort, and it seemed to him then that the old man’s death and the young man’s victory were the same thing. Neither grief nor pride had so much truth in them as did joy, the joy that trembled in the cold wind between sky and sea, bright and brief as fire. This was his fort, his city, his world; these were his people. He was no exile here.
“Come,” he said to Rolery as the fire sank down to ashes, “come, let’s go home.”
City of Illusions
1
IMAGINE DARKNESS.
In the darkness that faces outward from the sun a mute spirit woke. Wholly involved in chaos, he knew no pattern. He had no language, and did not know the darkness to be night.
As unremembered light brightened about him he moved, crawling, running sometimes on all fours, sometimes pulling himself erect, but not going anywhere. He had no way through the world in which he was, for a way implies a beginning and an end. All things about him were tangled, all things resisted him. The confusion of his being was impelled to movement by forces for which he knew no name: terror, hunger, thirst, pain. Through the dark forest of things he blundered in silence till the night stopped him, a greater force. But when the light began again he groped on. When he broke out into the sudden broad sunlight of the Clearing he rose upright and stood a moment. Then he put his hands over his eyes and cried out aloud.
Weaving at her loom in the sunlit garden, Parth saw him at the forest’s edge. She called to the others with a quick beat of her mind. But she feared nothing, and by the time the others came out of the house she had gone across the Clearing to the uncouth figure that crouched among the high, ripe grasses. As they approached they saw her put her hand on his shoulder and bend down to him, speaking softly.
She turned to them with a wondering look, saying, “Do you see his eyes . . . ?”
They were strange eyes, surely. The pupil was large; the iris, of a grayed amber color, was oval lengthwise so that the white of the eye did not show at all. “Like a cat,” said Garra. “Like an egg all yolk,” said Kai, voicing the slight distaste of uneasiness roused by that small, essential difference. Otherwise the stranger seemed only a man, under the mud and scratches and filth he had got over his face and naked body in his aimless struggle through the forest; at most he was a little paler-skinned than the brown people who now surrounded him, discussing him quietly as he crouched in the sunlight, cowering and shaking with exhaustion and fear.
Though Parth looked straight into his strange eyes no spark of human recognition met her there. He was deaf to their speech, and did not understand their gestures.
“Mindless or out of his mind,” said Zove. “But also starving; we can remedy that.” At this Kai and young Thurro half-led half-dragged the shambling fellow into the house. There they and Parth and Buckeye managed to feed and clean him, and got him onto a pallet, with a shot of sleep-dope in his veins to keep him there.
“Is he a Shing?” Parth asked her father.
“Are you? Am I? Don’t be naive, my dear,” Zove answered. “If I could answer that question I could set Earth free. However, I hope to find out if he’s mad or sane or imbecile, and where he came from, and how he came by those yellow eyes. Have men taken to breeding with cats and falcons in humanity’s degenerate old age? Ask Kretyan to come up to the sleeping-porches, daughter.”
Parth followed her blind cousin Kretyan up the stairs to the shady, breezy balcony where the stranger slept. Zove and his sister Karell, called Buckeye, were waiting there. Both sat cross-legged and straight-backed, Buckeye playing with her patterning frame, Zove doing nothing at all: a brother and sister getting on in years, their broad, brown faces alert and very tranquil. The girls sat down near them without breaking the easy silence. Parth was a reddish-brown color with a flood of long, bright, black hair. She wore nothing but a pair of loose silvery breeches. Kretyan, a little older, was dark and frail; a red band covered her empty eyes and held her thick hair back. Like her mother she wore a tunic of delicately woven figured cloth. It was hot. Midsummer afternoon burned on the gardens below the balcony and out on the rolling fields of the Clearing. On every side, so close to this wing of the house as to shadow it with branches full of leaves and wings, so far in other directions as to be blued and hazed by distance, the forest surrounded them.
The four people sat still for quite a while, together and separate, unspeaking but linked. “The amber bead keeps slithering off into the Vastness pattern,” Buckeye said with a smile, setting down her frame with its jewel-strung, crossing wires.
“All your beads end up in Vastness,” her brother said. “An effect of your suppressed mysticism. You’ll end up like our mother, see if you don’t, able to see the patterns on an empty frame.”
“Suppressed fiddlediddle,” Buckeye remarked. “I never suppressed anything in my life.”
“Kretyan,” said Zove, “the man’s eyelids move. He may be in a dreaming cycle.”
The blind girl moved closer to the pallet. She reached out her hand, and Zove guided it gently to the stranger’s forehead. They were all silent again. All listened. But only Kretyan could hear.
She lifted her bowed, blind head at last.
“Nothing,” she said, her voice a little strained.
“Nothing?”
“A jumble—a void. He has no mind.”
“Kretyan, let me tell you how he looks. His feet have walked, his hands have worked. Sleep and the drug relax his face, but only a thinking mind could use and wear a face into these lines.”
“How did he look when he was awake?”
“Afraid,” said Parth. “Afraid, bewildered.”
“He may be an alien,” Zove said, “not a Terran man, though how that could be— But he may think differently than we. Try once more, while he still dreams.”
“I’ll try, uncle. But I have no sense of any mind, of any true emotion or direction. A baby’s mind is frightening but this . . . is worse—darkness and a kind of empty jumble—”
“Well, then keep out,” Zove said easily. “No-mind is an evil place for mind to stay.”
“His darkness is worse than mine,” said the girl. “This is a ring, on his hand.. . .” She had laid her hand a moment on the man’s, in pity or as if asking his unconscious pardon for her eavesdropping on his dreams.
“Yes, a gold ring without marking or design. It was all he wore on his body. And his mind stripped naked as his flesh. So the poor brute comes to us out of the forest—sent by whom?”
All the family of Zove’s House except the little children gathered that night in the great hall downstairs, where high windows stood open to the moist night air. Starlight and the presence of trees and the sound of the brook all entered into the dimly lit room, so that between each person and the next, and between the words they said, there was a certain space for shadows, night-wind, and silence.
“Trut
h, as ever, avoids the stranger,” the Master of the House said to them in his deep voice. “This stranger brings us a choice of several unlikelihoods. He may be an idiot born, who blundered here by chance; but then, who lost him? He may be a man whose brain has been damaged by accident, or tampered with by intent. Or he may be a Shing masking his mind behind a seeming amentia. Or he may be neither man nor Shing; but then, what is he? There’s no proof or disproof for any of these notions. What shall we do with him?”
“See if he can be taught,” said Zove’s wife Rossa.
The Master’s eldest son Metock spoke: “If he can be taught, then he is to be distrusted. He may have been sent here to be taught, to learn our ways, insights, secrets. The cat brought up by the kindly mice.”
“I am not a kindly mouse, my son,” the Master said. “Then you think him a Shing?”
“Or their tool.”
“We’re all tools of the Shing. What would you do with him?”
“Kill him before he wakes.”
The wind blew faintly, a whippoorwill called out in the humid, starlit Clearing.
“I wonder,” said the Oldest Woman, “if he might be a victim, not a tool. Perhaps the Shing destroyed his mind as punishment for something he did or thought. Should we then finish their punishment?”
“It would be truer mercy,” Metock said.
“Death is a false mercy,” the Oldest Woman said bitterly.
So they discussed the matter back and forth for some while, equably but with a gravity that included both moral concern and a heavier, more anxious care, never stated but only hinted at whenever one of them spoke the word Shing. Parth took no part in the discussion, being only fifteen, but she listened intently. She was bound by sympathy to the stranger and wanted him to live.
Ranya and Kretyan joined the group; Ranya had been running what physiological tests she could on the stranger, with Kretyan standing by to catch any mental response. They had little to report as yet, other than that the stranger’s nervous system and the sense areas and basic motor capacity of his brain seemed normal, though his physical responses and motor skill compared with those of a year-old child, perhaps, and no stimulus of localities in the speech area had got any response at all. “A man’s strength, a baby’s coordination, an empty mind,” Ranya said.
“If we don’t kill him like a wild beast,” said Buckeye, “then we shall have to tame him like a wild beast.. . .”
Kretyan’s brother Kai spoke up. “It seems worth trying. Let some of us younger ones have charge of him; we’ll see what we can do. We don’t have to teach him the Inner Canons right away, after all. At least teaching him not to wet the bed comes first.. . . I want to know if he’s human. Do you think he is, Master?”
Zove spread out his big hands. “Who knows? Ranya’s blood-tests may tell us. I never heard that any Shing had yellow eyes, or any visible differences from Terran men. But if he is neither Shing nor human, what is he? No being from the Other Worlds that once were known has walked on Earth for twelve hundred years. Like you, Kai, I think I would risk his presence here among us out of pure curiosity.. . .”
So they let their guest live.
At first he was little trouble to the young people who looked after him. He regained strength slowly, sleeping much, sitting or lying quietly most of the time he was awake. Parth named him Falk, which in the dialect of the Eastern Forest meant “yellow,” for his sallow skin and opal eyes.
One morning several days after his arrival, coming to an unpatterned stretch in the cloth she was weaving, she left her sunpowered loom to purr away by itself down in the garden and climbed up to the screened balcony where “Falk” was kept. He did not see her enter. He was sitting on his pallet gazing intently up at the haze-dimmed summer sky. The glare made his eyes water and he rubbed them vigorously with his hand, then seeing his hand stared at it, the back and the palm. He clenched and extended the fingers, frowning. Then he raised his face again to the white glare of the sun and slowly, tentative, reached his open hand up towards it.
“That’s the sun, Falk,” Parth said. “Sun.. . .”
“Sun,” he repeated, gazing at it, centered on it, the void and vacancy of his being filled with the light of the sun and the sound of its name.
So his education began.
Parth came up from the cellars and passing through the Old Kitchen saw Falk hunched up in one of the window-bays, alone, watching the snow fall outside the grimy glass. It was a tennight now since he had struck Rossa and they had to lock him up till he calmed down. Ever since then he had been dour and would not speak. It was strange to see his man’s face dulled and blunted by a child’s sulky obstinate suffering. “Come on in by the fire, Falk,” Parth said, but did not stop to wait for him. In the great hall by the fire she did wait a little, then gave him up and looked for something to raise her own low spirits. There was nothing to do; the snow fell, all the faces were too familiar, all the books told of things long ago and far away that were no longer true. All around the silent house and its fields lay the silent forest, endless, monotonous, indifferent; winter after winter, and she would never leave this house, for where was there to go, what was there to do . . . ?
On one of the empty tables Ranya had left her tëanb, a flat, keyed instrument, said to be of Hainish origin. Parth picked out a tune in the melancholic Stepped Mode of the Eastern Forest, then retuned the instrument to its native scale and began anew. She had no skill with the tëanb and found the notes slowly, singing the words, spinning them out to keep the melody going as she sought the next note.
Beyond the sound of wind in trees
beyond the storm-enshadowed seas,
on stairs of sunlit stone the fair
daughter of Airek stands . . .
She lost the tune, then found it again:
. . . stands,
silent, with empty hands.
A legend, who knew how old, from a world incredibly remote, its words and tune had been part of man’s heritage for centuries. Parth sang on very softly, alone in the great firelit room, snow and twilight darkening the windows.
There was a sound behind her and she turned to see Falk standing there. There were tears in his strange eyes. He said, “Parth—stop—”
“Falk, what’s wrong?”
“It hurts me,” he said, turning away his face that so clearly revealed the incoherent and defenseless mind.
“What a compliment to my singing,” she teased him, but she was moved, and sang no more. Later that night she saw Falk stand by the table on which the tëanb lay. He raised his hand to it but dared not touch it, as if fearing to release the sweet relentless demon within it that had cried out under Parth’s hands and changed her voice to music.
“My child learns faster than yours,” Parth said to her cousin Garra, “but yours grows faster. Fortunately.”
“Yours is quite big enough,” Garra agreed, looking down across the kitchen-garden to the brookside where Falk stood with Garra’s year-old baby on his shoulder. The early summer afternoon sang with the shrilling of crickets and gnats. Parth’s hair clung in black locks to her cheeks as she tripped and reset and tripped the catches of her loom. Above her patterning shuttle rose the heads and necks of a row of dancing herons, silver thread on gray. At seventeen she was the best weaver among the women. In winter her hands were always stained with the chemicals of which her threads and yarns were made and the dyes that colored them, and all summer she wove at her sunpowered loom the delicate and various stuff of her imagination.
“Little spider,” said her mother nearby, “a joke is a joke. But a man is a man.”
“And you want me to go along with Metock to Kathol’s house and trade my heron-tapestry for a husband. I know,” said Parth.
“I never said it—did I?” inquired her mother, and went weeding on away between the lettuce-rows.
Falk came up the path, the baby on his shoulder squinting in the glare and smiling benignly. He put her down on the grass and said, as if to a grown pers
on, “It’s hotter up here, isn’t it?” Then turning to Parth with the grave candor that was characteristic of him he asked, “Is there an end to the forest, Parth?”
“So they say. The maps are all different. But that way lies the sea at last—and that way the prairie.”
“Prairie?”
“Open lands, grasslands. Like the Clearing but going on for a thousand miles to the mountains.”
“The mountains?” he asked, innocently relentless as any child.
“High hills, with snow on their tops all year. Like this.” Pausing to reset her shuttle, Parth put her long, round, brown fingers together in the shape of a peak.
Falk’s yellow eyes lit up suddenly, and his face became intense. “Below the white is blue, and below that the—the lines—the hills far away—”
Parth looked at him, saying nothing. A great part of all he knew had come straight from her, for she had always been the one who could teach him. The remaking of his life had been an effect and a part of the growth of her own. Their minds were very closely interwoven.
“I see it—have seen it. I remember it,” the man stammered.
“A projection, Falk?”
“No. Not from a book. In my mind. I do remember it. Sometimes going to sleep I see it. I don’t know its name: the Mountain.”
“Can you draw it?”
Kneeling beside her he sketched quickly in the dust the outline of an irregular cone, and beneath it two lines of foothills. Garra craned to see the sketch, asking, “And it’s white with snow?”
“Yes. It’s as if I see it through something—a big window, big and high up.. . . Is it from your mind, Parth?” he asked a little anxiously.
“No,” the girl said. “None of us in the house have ever seen high mountains. I think there are none this side of the Inland River. It must be far from here, very far.” She spoke like one on whom a chill had fallen.
Through the edge of dreams a sawtooth sound cut, a faint jagged droning, eerie. Falk roused and sat up beside Parth; both gazed with strained, sleepy eyes northward where the remote sound throbbed and faded and first light paled the sky above the darkness of the trees. “An aircar,” Parth whispered. “I heard one once before, long ago. . . .” She shivered. Falk put his arm around her shoulders, gripped by the same unease, the sense of a remote, uncomprehended, evil presence passing off there in the north through the edge of daylight.
Worlds of Exile and Illusion: Rocannon's World, Planet of Exile, City of Illusions Page 25
