For the infant. Of course, for the infant. The meds feared for its health. They wanted sanitation.
And destroyed— destroyed—
He stood there a long, long time, in pain. The infant squirmed and began to cry. And he was very careful with it in his anger, as careful as he had ever been. He searched the cabinets for new cloths; found the cradle prepared—
The infant soiled itself. He knew the cry, smelled the stink, which had surrounded him, stronger than the lacquer and dry-dust smell of sand.
He laid it down on the sand; he put off his cloak and laid his weapons down on a riser near the fireplace. He listened to it scream. It had grown. The voice was louder, hoarser, the face screwed up in rage.
He took cloths and wet them and knelt and cleaned its filth in starkest patience; he heated the formula and fed it till it slept. He walked aimless in the halls afterward, smelling the stink it had left on him, and the stink of new plaster, new lacquer, new furniture.
He had run barefoot in these halls, laughed, played pranks with a dozen sibs and cousins, rolled on the floor-sand, till exasperated elders flung them out into a yard well shaded with old trees.
The trees were gone. The new wing stood where the oldest tree had been. So much for homecomings.
• • •
He made a fire. There was that one thing left untouched, the old stones of the hearth he had sat by as a child, and there were scraps of demolished outbuildings and fences, in a towering pile near the rocks. He made a fire of them, burning others’ memories of home.
He took the infant outside with him, well wrapped against the cold; he took it about the house with him, in the kitchen, at last before the fire itself; he sat on the clean deep sand before the hearthstones and held the infant in his lap.
He had grown accustomed to it. The flat, round face no longer disturbed him. The smell was his smell, compounded of its sweat and his. Demon eyes looked up at him. The face made grimaces meaningless to both of them in the wavering firelight, the leaping flames.
He took its skull between his hands, the whole and the maimed one, and he was careful as if the skull had been eggshell instead of bone. He smiled, drawing back his lips from his teeth, and gazed into eyes which perhaps saw him, perhaps not.
“Wei-na-ya,” he sang to it, “wei-na-mei,”— in a hoarse male voice unapt for lullabies; little bird, little fish— the house had heard that song before. “Hei sa si-lan-nei. . . .” Do not go. The wind is cold, the water dark, but here is warm. “Wei-na-ya, wei-na-mei.”
And “Sha-khe’a,” he sang, but softly, like the lullaby, which was a hatani song.
It was the deathsong. He sang it like the lullaby. He smiled, grinned into its face.
“Thou art Haras,” he said to the awful, demon face, to the slitted eyes with their centers like stormcloud. It was the sadoth he spoke, the language of his hill-dwelling ancestors. “Thou art Haras. Thorn is your name.”
It gazed solemnly up at him.
Unafraid.
It waved its hands. He, Duun reminded himself, He. Haras. Thorn. The wind howled about the house, skirled in the chimney and set the flames to flickering in the hearth.
He grinned and rocked the child and did a thing which would have chilled the blood of any of the countryfolk who doubtless huddled together in their dispossession; or the meds; or Ellud in his fine city apartment.
He held it as if it were a shonun child and washed its eyes with his tongue (they tasted salt and musty). There was nothing he spared himself, no last repugnance he did not overcome. Such was his patience.
II
They came from the capital. Copters landed, and meds made the long trek uphill carrying their instruments; and downhill going away. They were not pleased. Perhaps the countryfolk frightened them, gathering in their sullen watchfulness at the foot of the road, where the aircraft landed.
They came and went away again.
Duun held the infant, talked to it as he watched them go, mindless talk, as one did with children.
It. Haras. Thorn.
“Duun,” Thorn said, infant babble. “Duun, Duun, Duun.”
Thorn made busy chaos on the sand before the hearth. His cries were loud, ear-splitting; shonunin were more reserved. He still soiled himself. When this would cease Duun did not know. How to teach him otherwise he did not know. Thorn’s appetite had changed; his sleep was longer, to Duun’s relief.
“Duun, Duun, Duun,” the infant sang, on his back before the fire. And grinned and laughed when Duun poked him in the belly, squealed, when Duun used a clawtip. Laughed again. Enjoyed his belly rubbed, fat round belly which began to hollow now, the limbs to lengthen. “Duun.” Duun leaned forward, nipped at Thorn’s neck. Thorn grabbed his ears, and Duun sat back, escaping the infant grip, disheveled. He had let his crest grow; it sheeted raggedly down his back and strayed now in front of his ears.
He went for the throat again on hands and knees and Thorn squealed and kicked. Clawed with small fat hands, with nails which were all the defense he had.
Duun laughed aloud, well-pleased.
• • •
Thorn ran, ran, ran on tottering legs, out of doors, on the dusty earth where outbuildings had been; naked in the warmth of spring.
Duun knelt. No one nowadays saw Duun’s body, the lightning-blasted scars of his right arm, the scars that skeined across his side and leg. But here he wore no more than the small-kilt, in the warmth, with the hiyi flowering by the back door and drifting blossoms down pink as Thorn’s smooth skin. Infant hair had gone, come in gold, darkened again in winter metamorphosis. Perhaps it was seasonal; perhaps a phase of Thorn’s life. Duun held out his arms to Thorn and Thorn laughed as he plunged into Duun’s arms, all dusty-smelling.
“Again,” Duun said, and set him upright, crouching again a little distance off to make Thorn run. Infant legs tried and failed, exhausted. Duun caught him, hugged him, licked his mouth and eyes, which Thorn did to him when Thorn had stopped laughing and gasping, clenching small five-fingered fists into Duun’s trailing crest and the shorter hair of his forelock, and digging his face for a sly nip into the hollow of Duun’s neck when he got the chance, but Duun ducked his head aside and got in a nip first. Small unclawed feet drove at his lap, the small body strained and Thorn ducked down to bite him ungently in the chest.
“Ah!” Duun cried, seizing him in both hands, kneeling, lifting him kicking and squealing aloft at arm’s length. “Ah! Devious!”
He hugged him again and Thorn bit again. He had gained teeth, and strength, but they were not teeth like Duun’s. Duun bit at fingers and Thorn caught Duun’s mouth and pushed back his lip to try his fingers on Duun’s larger, sharper teeth. Duun nipped and Thorn rescued his hand and squealed.
• • •
There were more visits. “Bye, bye, bye,” Thorn bade the meds sullenly from the porch. He squatted down naked as he was and grimaced then. He had bit the chief med, and the med had come within a little of flicking an impudent youngster hard on the nose.
But the med had stopped himself. Duun was standing there, hatani-cloaked in gray, arms folded.
The meds went away. Thorn made a rude sound and urinated on the step.
Duun went and snapped him soundly on the ear with thumb and forefinger. Thorn wailed.
“Bad,” said Duun. The wail went on. Duun went into the house, into the kitchen and got his hand wet in the sink. Thorn followed, naked, holding hands out, wailing all the way and dancing in his distress.
“Shut up,” Duun said. And flicked cold water in Thorn’s face. Thorn blinked and howled and clawed frantically at Duun’s legs, not in rage. Pick me up, that meant.
Duun picked him up, armful that he had become, rocked him with a swinging of his body in that way he had learned the infant liked. A small face nuzzled its way to his neck; this did not always mean biting. This time it did not. Thorn clung to him and
snuffled, soiling his cloak with running eyes and nose.
“You were bad,” Duun said. To such simplicities the philosophy of hatani bent nowadays. He swung from side to side and the sobs stopped. The thumb went in Thorn’s mouth, irrepressible, though Thorn ate meat now, which Duun chewed for him and spat into his mouth. (“Not advisable,” the meds said, obsessed with disease. But he did it, which was an old way, a hill way, and easier than urging a spoon past Thorn’s dodging mouth, or cleaning up when Thorn fed himself and smeared it everywhere. Duun’s mother and father had done this for him. He took perverse pleasure in performing this dutiful service. It shocked the meds. That gave him perverse pleasure too. He smiled at the meds. It was strange. They had become familiar with him. They looked him in the eyes, at least more than once in the visit. “Ellud-mingi sends regards,” they said. “I sent mine,” he said in return. And perversely added: “So does my son.” That sent them on their way in haste. Doubtless to take notes.)
He rocked Thorn and sang to him, absently: “Wei-na-mei, wei-na-mei.” And Thorn grew quiet in his arms. “You’re getting too big to hold,” Duun said. “Too big to make puddles on the step.”
That night, when they sat before the fire (the spring nights were cold) Thorn crawled into his lap and sat there a while; and got up on his feet in the triangle between Duun’s crossed legs and touched Duun’s face, the scarred side. Duun caught the hand with his maimed one. And let it go.
“It’s a scar,” Duun said.
He did not prevent the exploration. He made himself patient. He shut his eyes and let Thorn do what he liked, until Thorn pulled savagely on both his ears, which was challenge. Duun’s eyes flashed open.
“Ah!” Duun cried, drawing back his lips in a grimace. Thorn recoiled and stumbled on Duun’s legs; Duun caught him in mid-fall and rolled with him, rolled holding him in his arms, never coming on him with his weight. Thorn screamed, and gasped, and when Duun bit, bit back, and screamed and squealed till Duun clamped a hand over his mouth and held it there.
Thorn grew still. The eyes stayed wide with shock. So. So. Fright, not fight.
Duun gathered him to his breast and licked his eyes till Thorn had begun to pant, recovering his lost breath. For a moment Duun was worried. Small hands clutched at him.
He gripped Thorn by both arms and held him up. Grinned. Thorn refused to be appeased.
That night Thorn waked howling at Duun’s side, short sharp yelps, gasps for breath. “Thorn!” Duun cried, and turned on lights and snatched him up, thinking he had rolled on the infant and hurt him in some way; but it was nightmare.
Thorn held to him. It was Duun Thorn feared. That was the nightmare.
“Ah,” Duun cried, falling back, dragging Thorn atop him. “Ah! you hurt me! You hurt me—” To give him the upper hand. He had no pride in this.
“Duun,” Thorn cried and snuggled close.
Sometimes genes were truer than teaching. Alien. Thorn clung to what had frightened him.
“Duun, Duun, Duun—”
Duun held him. It was all Thorn understood.
• • •
There was a day, in the morning bath, that Thorn noticed his own naked skin. Thorn scrubbed at Duun’s belly and at his own with a rough-textured sponge. Dropped the sponge and put both hands on his own belly, rubbed it thoughtfully. When he looked up thoughts passed in his milk-and-storm eyes, with a little knitting of his brow. “Slick,” he said of himself. His speech did not go as fast as a shonun child. But there was a difference of mouths and tongues. “Slick.”
Perhaps Thorn wanted to ask, if his young mind had thought of it, when his own pelt would begin to grow. The hair on his head was abundant, tousled curls, which had finally settled on a faded, earthy brown. The eyes had never changed. It was a dangerous time.
Duun took Thorn from the bath and held him in his left arm, hugged him close in front of the mirror. Thorn had seen mirrors. He had one for a toy. He had seen this one many times.
Today there was distress in young Thorn’s eyes, and thoughts were going on. Thorn had never seen a shonun child. He had never seen other shonunin, except the meds. Perhaps some terrible thing was dawning on his mind, put together of little wordless pieces, images in mirrors, smooth bellies, a facility for making water in a long, long arc, which was for a time his nuisancefully chiefest talent. He spread his five-fingered hand at Thorn-in-the-mirror, in a way that should bring claws and did not; he grimaced at this Thorn as if to frighten him to flight. (Go away, ugly Thorn.) He flexed the fingers yet again. Made faces.
Duun turned them both away. Bounced him to distract him.
After that Thorn did not mention the difference of their skins. Only from time to time there were small moments which Duun caught: a moment of rest when Thorn, lying beside Duun, reached and stroked his arm, turning the fur this way and that. Another when Thorn, finding Duun’s hand conveniently palm up, dragged it closer to him across Duun’s lap and played with it, fingering the dissimilar geometries of the palm, working doggedly at the fingers to make the claws come out. Duun cooperated. It was his right hand. It was not the deformity Thorn explored, but an ability which surely Thorn envied; and Duun was suddenly aware of a silence within the child, a secrecy which had grown all unawares, that small walled-off place which was an independent mind. Thorn had arrived at selfhood, a self which came out to explore the world and retreated with scraps of things which had to be examined with care, compared (sign of a complex mind) against other truths: Thorn had arrived at self-defense, disappointed in his body, it seemed. Aware of his own deformity. And not, truly, aware of Duun’s. Duun was Duun. Duun had always had scars; they were part of Duun as the sun was part of the world. There was no past. Thorn had not been in it: therefore Thorn could not imagine it.
But Thorn’s hands were not like Duun’s. His skin was not. And Thorn had begun to take alarm, suspecting imbalance in the world.
Duun gathered him close, as he had done when Thorn was smaller, rolled him into his lap and poked him in the belly, which Thorn resisted for a moment, and writhed, and finally gave way to, in squeals and laughter and abortive attempts to retaliate in kind. Duun let him have that victory, sprawled backward on the sand before the fire, belly heaving under Thorn’s slight weight, in laughter which was not reflexive, like Thorn’s. To be touched on throat or belly went against instinct. There was a sense of peril in that abandonment.
But a child had to win. Sometimes. And lose sometimes. There was strength in both.
• • •
“Follow, follow,” he urged the child, looking downhill. The rocky incline was a great trial for small legs, and Duun’s stride was long. Thorn stood with legs apart, arms hanging, and staggered a few more knock-kneed steps. “Keep climbing,” Duun said. “You can.”
A few more steps. Thorn fell and cried, a weak, breathless sobbing. “I can’t.”
“You have breath left to cry, you have breath to get up. Come on. Up! Shall I be ashamed?”
“I hurt my knee!” Thorn sat up, clutching it and rocking.
“I hurt my hand once. Get up and come on. Someone is chasing us.”
Thorn caught his breath and looked downtrail, still hiccupping.
“Perhaps it will eat us,” Duun said. “Get up. Come on.”
Thorn let go his reddened knee. Limbs struggled. Thorn got to his feet, wobbled, and came on desperately.
“I lied,” said Duun. “But so did you. You could get up. Come on.”
Sobs and snuffles. Wails of rage. Thorn kept walking. Duun walked with shorter strides, as if the way had gotten steeper for him as well.
• • •
“Again.” Duun gave Thorn another small stone. Thorn threw. It hit a rock not so high up the cliffs as before. “Not so good. Again.”
“You do it.”
Duun threw. It sailed up and up and struck near the top of the sheer face. The c
hild’s mouth stayed open in dismay.
“That is what I can do,” Duun said. “Match that.”
“I can’t.”
“My ears are bad. Something said can’t.”
Thorn took the rock. Tears welled up in his eyes. He threw. The stone fell ignominiously awry and lost itself among the rocks at the bottom of the cliff.
“Ah. I have frightened you. Thorn is scared. I hear can’t again.”
“I hate you!”
“Throw at me, then. I’m closer. Perhaps you can hit me.” Duun gave Thorn another stone.
Thorn’s face was red. His eyes watered and his lips trembled. He whirled and threw it at the cliff instead.
So.
“That was your highest yet,” Duun said.
III
The meds came back. Ellud was with them. “Ellud.” Duun said.
“You look well,” Ellud said, with one long searching look. With a furtive sliding of the eyes toward Thorn, who stood his ground in the main hall of the house, where the hated meds prepared their discomforts. Thorn scowled. The sun had turned his naked skin a golden brown. His hair, which Duun cut to a length that did not catch twigs or blind him when he worked, was a clean and shining earth color. His eyes were as much white as blue. His nose had gotten more prominent, his teeth were strong, if blunt. He stood still. His poor ears could not move. Only the regular flaring of his nostrils betrayed his dislike.
“Thorn,” Duun said. “Come here. This is Ellud. Be polite, Thorn.”
“Is he a med?” Thorn asked suspiciously.
Ellud’s ears sank. A rock might have spoken to him in plain accents and shocked him no less. He looked at Duun. Said nothing.
“No,” said Duun. “A friend. Many years ago.”
Thorn looked up and blinked. A med came and got him and prepared to take his pulse.
“Come back to town,” Ellud said. “Duun, come back.”
“Is that a request or an order?”
“Duun—”
“I’d remind you that you promised me anything. Not yet, Ellud.”
The Deep Beyond: Cuckoo's Egg / Serpent's Reach Page 2
