The dead are not allowed to intrude upon the living, I was told, and I was glad to hear it. But from this place (not exactly a place, but that will have to do) they can respond when they are properly petitioned. As I was properly petitioned by my stubborn great-granddaughter Delina, with a little help from those who became her friends in spite of her awkwardness.
I didn’t leap at that third alternative, though in the end it was the choice I made. As I’ve already told you, I died of a broken heart.
I had spent more than a century patiently trying to help, and being thoroughly disgusted at the results. I tried so hard, I dedicated myself to the task of setting an example of what could be done, of what would work and would repay the investment of energies. I never forced people over fences; I took the fences down and said to them, “Now there is a way for you to go forward.” And I failed. Again and again and again. It was like being Chief Nanny For Life in a gigantic nursery school. It broke my heart, and I never did come to understand it; in many ways, the older I got, the more it baffled me. The way people suffered … the stupid hurtful things they did, to themselves as much as to others … it was always a mystery to me. And I really, truly, had thought that when I died—no matter which version of the “Afterlife” turned out to be accurate—I would be able to think: “Well, I’ve done all I can; now it’s up to somebody else.” Even if the somebody else turned out to be me as a cockroach, or whatever. I had never thought of it being me as me, me as Nazareth Joanna Chornyak, if you understand what I mean.
(Probably you don’t understand. There’s no reason at all why you should understand.)
Being dead does make it harder to tell this story. I can’t just send it off to a publisher or call up somebody from the newspapes and share it with them; I have to rely on those among the living who are willing to do those things for me. The mediums; the channels; all the varieties of trancers. But they are astonishingly numerous, and that’s not the real problem. I can tune in a trancer and start dictation as easily as I tuned in the channels on my comset when I was alive. The real problem is the language. Not the words I say … and that’s wrong, I don’t use “words” anymore, but it’s the only way the trancer knows to put it … the problem is the words and the body language that are generated at the other end of the language transaction. They’re almost never the right words and body language.
I spent my entire life as an interpreter and translator of languages, both the languages of Earth and those of other worlds, and the problem is one I know well. That makes it no less frustrating. When the trancer’s language has no words or bodyparl for what I want to say—to give what I want to say a surface shape, in sound or in writing—then the message gets garbled, and there’s nothing I can do about it. It happens all the time. As if it weren’t bad enough that I was a failure all my life long, now I am forced to face the fact that I continue to be a failure in death. It’s almost enough, sometimes, to make me wistful for the guillotine-of-darkness alternative. Almost, but not quite. Knowing for sure that you have all of eternity to do better in makes you more comfortable with failure.
Suppose I only want to tell you where I am and what it’s like here … suppose I just want to describe my surroundings to you. I have tried many times, with many trancers. The versions they have produced (doing their very best, I know) have been as varied and as different as all those proposed versions of the Afterlife. And none has come even remotely close to being what I perceive! That is the nature of this kind of communication. The trancer who is telling you this now will write that I am in a sort of office, high above the Earth and all her colonies and all the sister planets and galaxies, sitting at a sort of desk and looking out a sort of window through which I can … somehow … observe all the countless billions of creatures as they go about their affairs below. That’s a very silly and inaccurate metaphor indeed, but it’s the best she can do.
Translation, you know, is not a matter of substituting words in one language for words in another language. Translation is a matter of saying in one language, for a particular situation, what a native speaker of the other language would say in the same situation. The more unlikely that situation is in one of the languages, the harder it is to find a corresponding utterance in the other. And my poor trancers have almost no data in the banks of information in their brains that match what I try to give them; they have to fall back on metaphors.
As human beings always have. Unable to perceive anything remotely corresponding to the actual Holy One of the universe, they have used the metaphors of The Stern Father, The Tender Mother, The Oriental Potentate, The Conquering Warrior, The Many-Armed Dancer, The Plumed Serpent, The Whirling Lightning … it’s a long list. None of these is even approximately accurate, but all of them at least make it possible to talk about what is and isn’t holy. And that’s a start. In the same way, this trancer’s metaphor of the Heavenly Office Overlooking All the Worlds will serve us well enough for the moment.
But I know that this story is going to be disorganized. That it will come to you through many different voices all trying to give utterance to the single instrument that is my “voice,” speaking in their own various native tongues and with their own varying degrees of skill. I know there’s no way I can make the story come to you in tidy chronological order, as do the books of the ancient novelists; it will have to come in chunks and pieces tumbling out of time, beyond the reach of my planning or my control. I know from experience that pieces will leak through which seem to be unrelated to the tale I’m telling; I know that pieces I intended to give you will get lost and then turn up, mystifying those who hear or read them, in the unrelated tellings of others. All of this is to be expected, and it can’t be helped. I hope you will be patient with me, and that you will make allowances for the difficulties I face in this curious situation. I hope you will be patient with the trancers as well; they do their best, and they are not trained linguists. (Not that it would necessarily improve matters if they were. A linguist trancer would probably make even worse messes, imposing an order that I never intended, cut brutally to fit the current theories about reality and—heaven help us all—the latest and most fashionable theoretical models in linguistics.)
I want to answer a number of important questions for you. I want to explain to you why the Aliens abandoned humankind, and what that meant for us, and how it turned out in the end. I want to tell you how the worlds—that had been almost Edens for a while—far too quickly returned to the crime and misery that had always been humankind’s lot. I want to tell you about the coming of the Icehouse Effect, which put a cruel end to the lives of so many millions before it was over. You may not particularly want to know what happened to Láadan, the language constructed by the women of the Lines to express the perceptions of women, but the story is also important. You may not be curious about these things—but unless you know about them, you are blind and deaf and numb in the world.
And then there is the story of the founding of the Church of Our Lady of the StarTangle, and the flying chapels it sent out into the far reaches of space, and the story of the Music Grammar Teachers. I want to tell you about all of that. I want to tell you about PICOTA, the Pan-Indian Council of the Americas, and how they helped the rest of us in a time when help was desperately needed, without worrying about whether help was deserved. So many stories; so much information!
I promise you; I give you my word. If you will give me your perceptions for a while, for so long as it takes you to read this book … if you will bear with me as I try to speak to you from beyond space and beyond time … if you will use your magnificent human brain to fill in the empty spaces left by this method of taletelling that is the only one available to me now … it will be worth it.
I promise you; you will not be sorry.
I promise you; it will help.
PART ONE
WHAT THE FIRST TRANCER SAID
Delina had been prepared for resistance; it was no surprise to her. She knew very well that if she hadn’t been
from Chornyak Household the sorters at the door would never have let her pass. They would have listened silently while she told them what she wanted, and then she would have been handed over to the patient crew that was trained to soothe Anglos and send them mildly bewildered and placid on their way. But she was a Chornyak, and for centuries Chornyak Household had been more powerful than the governments of many an entire world; that had gotten her past the first hurdle and braced for the next. And she was prepared to return resistance for resistance. She had the fearsome stubbornness that went with being a linguist, and with being a woman of the Lines, and with being someone who had always been, and was always going to be, unpopular. Delina lived in resistance as fish live in water. She would have been at a loss without resistance to brace herself against.
She had already faced and overcome obstacles as complex as anything she was likely to face here at the PICOTA domes. First she had needed the backing of the other Chornyak women, and that had been terribly hard to get. They had scoffed and mocked and teased and threatened and reasoned, and tried every sort of persuasion available to them, before they gave in. Delina didn’t blame them for that. In their place she would have done the same.
Then she had lost precious time convincing the Chornyak men who were legally responsible for her behavior that the surest way to punish her was to sit back and let her suffer the humiliation of her inevitable failure. That had worked—but only, she knew, because of the turmoil the worlds were in, with all but the most basic commerce and science thrown into chaos by the abrupt departure of the Alien partners. Without that enormous distraction she could never have persuaded the men to let her do this; they would undoubtedly have had her sedated and confined to Chornyak Barren House until she gave in and gave up. She had succeeded because the men were frantic. In the context of their vast despair, her fool’s errand had been on the scale of a fly buzzing around a window, not worth the time and energy it would have taken to stop her. A fly that couldn’t just be swatted absentmindedly into oblivion, because she was a family fly.
And finally there had been the matter of getting past her own terror of being perceived as foolish, made stronger because she was weak from grieving for Nazareth. That had perhaps been worst of all, with the tapes playing over and over in her head. Fretting and prophesying at her. They’ll think you’re ridiculous. They’ll laugh at you to your face and make jokes about you behind your back. You look stupid, and you’re going to look stupider before it’s over. What if you fail? What if you have taken up a fool’s quest? For the rest of your life, they’ll remind you of it! And you’ll deserve their ridicule …
It was hard to ignore all that; it was hard to be militantly confident, with all that going on. Resisting your self is being trapped in a feedback loop that is at once somewhere and nowhere … like shoving honey. It had been almost too much for her, stubbornly struggling against her own stubbornness.
She stood quietly before the old man the sorters took her to, therefore, pleased to have come so far so quickly. Pleased to be already standing in this room that was filled with the soft light from the rainy day outside, streaming in through the skylights in the dome’s ceiling. The walls were the color of sunbaked earth; the rug under her feet was the color of sand, patterned in turquoise and dark brown and a deep rich red, woven on the PICOTA looms in ancient patterns that she found pleasing. She had seen the room before on the comset, many times; she had never before been inside it. When the children in her Homeroom had come here on the traditional field trip, Delina hadn’t been allowed to join them. She had been needed for a contract negotiation over a dull grayish rock that the Aliens (for some reason she no longer remembered) had wanted to buy in large quantities.
She had expected to have to fight her way past half a dozen seasoned gatekeeps before she was granted an audience with the chief of the PICOTA. The Pan-Indian Council of Tribes of the Americas was not a sewing circle; she hadn’t thought it would be easy to get through to the man who ran it. But here she was, and she had let enough politeness time go by; it was time she spoke up and explained herself.
“You can tell me to go, Mr. Bluecrane,” she said, standing at a cautious distance from the round table where he sat, knowing he would have been told of her errand—and her determination—before they brought her to him. She spoke courteously and carefully, a small and stocky and not particularly pretty woman surrounded by much larger males, her chin up, her eyes level but not seeking Will Bluecrane’s eyes. Only the trembling of her hands betrayed her fear. She said, “You can tell me to go; but I won’t leave. You can have me taken away; but I will come back. I want to be sure you understand that.”
“Delina Chornyak,” said Bluecrane, trying to sound less cross than he felt—because she looked so small and so worn out, and because he understood what the departure of the Aliens had meant for the linguists—“this is a waste of your time. And mine.”
Delina sighed, and looked down at her hands. Traitor hands! Shaking; making her look weak; letting her down. She clasped them behind her back, where they would do her less harm. “Even so,” she answered him, steadily. “Even so. I will stay, whatever happens.”
“I don’t believe you.”
The words fell one by one, cutting the air, each one a separate sharp knife of sound. Will Bluecrane was a master of resistance himself, and he had several decades of experience that Delina lacked.
When she made no response except to raise her eyes again and look calmly straight ahead, Bluecrane began rubbing his hands together. Slowly; rhythmically; hand by hand; it was the sound of someone walking through tall grass. Delina knew what that meant. He was following the rules, but he wasn’t comfortable about it, and he was thinking hard. It was better than she’d hoped … perhaps he was as soft of heart as her sources had told her he was. Please, she thought. Let it happen that way; let it be like that.
“Explain it to me, Delina Chornyak,” he said to her, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair. “I’d like to hear it from you directly … in case you have been misunderstood.”
She told him what she had told the sorters, straight through without hesitation; she’d rehearsed the lines so long, waiting for this moment, that she knew them as she knew her name. And he said nothing at all, even when she got to the end of her speech.
He gestured with his chin then to the younger men waiting nearby, and they stepped up, one to each side of Delina, ready to escort her back down the central hallway to the exit corridor and straight out into the dreary day outside. She stood taller, holding her lower lip tight in her teeth, and Bluecrane made an exasperated noise, and glared at her.
“I wouldn’t advise you to come back again,” he said sternly. “I would advise you to go home and take up some project that has a better chance of succeeding than this foolishness. Here you are, part of a family whose entire existence was to deal with the languages of Aliens—and now the Aliens are gone, and for all we know they will never be back. Here you are, part of a solar system that for all we know is going to be blasted into dust by those same Aliens this afternoon, or tomorrow morning. And you’re here, pestering me? There’s more than enough trouble on this world at this moment, Delina Chornyak, without you adding to it! Go home!” He sighed, and he leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. “Go home, and stop piling trouble on top of trouble.”
“I am here because of all that trouble,” she said, struggling with the words because they sounded so arrogant, saying them all the same because being perceived as arrogant was part of what she had to do and couldn’t be avoided. “I’m here to get help. Please—let me try.”
There was another tiny movement of the old man’s chin, and the sorter on Delina’s left touched her shoulder softly with his fingertips. She raised her eyes and looked directly at Bluecrane then, holding the gaze long enough to make her point but not so long that it was insolent, saying, “You’re wrong, Chief Bluecrane; you are making a mistake.” And then she turned quickly so that the sorters
wouldn’t be obliged to touch her more, and she followed them out of the room.
When they came back and told him what had happened—that the moment Delina reached the edge of their land she had taken a quilt from the pack strapped to her shoulders, wrapped herself in it, and sat down on the ground in the pouring rain, a careful few inches past the PICOTA property line—Bluecrane laughed and told them not to concern themselves about it.
“She’ll get very wet,” they said.
“A woman of the Lines? Nonsense.”
“There’s nothing between her and the rain but a quilt.”
“You watch,” said Bluecrane. He chuckled, much amused at the ignorance of these two entrusted with the guarding of his personal time and space. And as he had predicted, although the rain went on all that day and all through the night, when the sun came up again the quilt was still dry. And Delina was still there.
“What is she doing?” the old man asked every now and then as the day went by. The answer was always the same.
“Nothing. She’s doing nothing at all.”
“Is she eating?”
“No … but she’s taking water.”
“Is she all right?”
The sorter shrugged, and made a noise deep in his throat.
“Well?”
“There’s something wrong with her back; you noticed that. Her spine is twisted.”
“So?”
“So it’s possible that it hurts her. Sitting there like that, hour after hour.”
Earthsong Page 2
