Sheri Tepper - Grass

by Grass(Lit)

  "It'll be awful." she said. "Not riding, I mean. I have half a mind not to go. Why won't they-"

  "Shh," said her mother. "We promised one another we wouldn't ask. We don't know enough yet. Eat your breakfast. We want to be ready when the thing comes." The thing. The vehicle. The not-horse which they were expected to ride within. All the Grassian vehicles seemed to be mechanical devices trying to look like something else: drawing room ornaments or lawn statuary or bits of baroque sculpture. The one that had brought the horses had looked like nothing so much as an aerial version of an ancient wine amphora, complete with stylized representations of dancers around its middle. Tony had told her it had been all he could do not to laugh when he saw it; and Marjorie, who had watched its laborious descent with disbelief, had turned aside to hide her amusement. Now she said again, "Eat your breakfast," wondering if she needed to warn Stella not to laugh. If she warned Stella not to, Stella would. If she didn't, Stella might not. Sighing, Marjorie fingered the prayer book in her pocket and left it to God.

  They did eat their breakfast, all of them, ravenously, leaving very little of what had looked like a large repast for twice as many people. Marjorie ran her hand around her waistband, noting that it seemed loose. With everything she was eating she still seemed to be losing weight.

  The aircar, when it arrived, was overly ornamental but not actually funny, a luxurious flier, engineered for vertical ascent. Once inside it with Obermun bon Haunser as their guide, they lowered themselves into deeply padded seats and were given cups of the local hot drink-which was called, though it did not resemble, coffee-while the silent (and apparently non-bon) driver set off toward an unseen destination. They flew to the northeast as the Obermun pointed out notable landmarks. "Crimson Ridge," he said, indicating a long rise deeply flushed with pink. "It will be blood-red in another week or two. Off to your right are the Sable Hills. I hope you feel somewhat privileged. You are among the very few non-Grassians who have ever seen anything of our planet except for Commoner Town, around the port"

  "I wondered about Commoner Town," said Rigo. "On the maps it shows as a considerable area, some fifty miles long and two or three miles wide, completely surrounded by forest. I understand it is entirely given over to commerce or farming. When we arrived, I saw roads in and around Commoner Town, though there are none on the rest of the planet"

  "As I have previously explained to your wife, Ambassador, there is no grassland around Commoner Town. When we speak of the town, we mean the whole area, everything right down to the edge of the swamp. Here on Grass, where swamp is, trees are, as you can see if you look to your left. That is the port-forest coming up below. Quite a different surface from the rest of the planet, is it not? It doesn't matter if they have roads in Commoner Town, because there is no grass to destroy, and they cannot get out through the swamp." Obermun bon Haunser pointed down at the billowing green centered with urban clutter, his nostrils flaring only very slightly in what was unmistakably an expression of contempt. He had spoken of the roads as though they were something malevolent, something seeking subtle egress, like serpents caged against their will.

  Stella started to blurt something but held it in as she received the full force of a forbidding glare from her father.

  "You prefer they not get out?" Anthony asked, with precisely the right tone of disingenuous interest. "The roads or the commoners? Why is that?"

  The Obermun flushed. He had obviously said something spontaneous and unplanned which he now regretted. "The commoners have no wish to leave the town. I meant the roads, my boy. I cannot expect you to understand the horror we have of marring the grasses. We have no fear of harvesting them, you understand, or making use of them, but scarring them lastingly is abhorrent to us. There are no roads on Grass except for the narrow trails linking each estancia to its own village, and even these we regret."

  "All exchanges between estancias, then, are by air?"

  "All transport of persons or material, yes. The tell-me provides informational exchange. Information entered at your node at Opal Hill can be directed to specific recipients or to certain sets of recipients or used for correspondence with elsewhere. The tell-me links all the estancias and Commoner Town. All travel, however, all deliveries of imports or shipments of export material, are by air."

  "Imports and exports? Consisting of what, mostly?" This was Stella, deciding to be a good child for the moment.

  The Obermun hemmed and hawed. "Well, imports are mostly manufactured goods and some luxury products such as wines and fabrics. For the most part, exports are what you might expect: various grass products. Grass exports grain and colored fiber. I am told by the commoners who attend to such matters that the larger grasses are much in demand for the construction of furniture. The merchants liken it to Terran bamboo. There is some export of seed, both as grain and for planting elsewhere. Some of the grasses thrive on other planets, I am told. Some which thrive only here yield valuable pharmaceutical products. Some are highly ornamental, as you have no doubt observed. It's all done by license to various commoner firms. We bons haven't the time or inclination to be directly involved with the business. I don't suppose it's very lucrative, but it is sufficient to support us and the town, which is to our advantage."

  Rigo, remembering the huge warehouses and the thriving shipping he had seen at the port, suppressed any comment. "And do I understand correctly that the grasses aren't botanically related to Terran grasses? They're indigenous? Not imports?"

  "No. They are not even similar on the genetic level. Almost all the varieties were here when we arrived. The Green Brothers have hybridized a few to get certain colors or effects. You will have heard of the Green Brothers?" It was not really a question, for the man stared out the window of the flier, the line of his jaw and mouth expressing discomfort. Whatever they had been talking about was something that upset him. "They were sent here long ago to dig up the ruins of the Arbai city, and they took up gardening as a sort of hobby."

  Marjorie welcomed the change of subject. "I didn't know there was an Arbai ruin on Grass."

  "Oh, yes. In the north. The Brothers have been digging away at it for a very long time. I am told it is like most such cities, flat and widespread, which makes it a long task to uncover. I have not seen it myself." He was manifestly uninterested.

  Marjorie changed the subject again. "Will we have the opportunity to meet any members of your family today, Obermun?"

  "Mine?" he started, surprised. "No, no. The Hunt is still at the bon Damfels'. It will be at the bon Damfels' all this period, before moving on to the bon Maukerdens'."

  "Oh," Marjorie said, surprised into speaking without thought. "I thought you said the bon Damfels were in mourning."

  "Of course," he said impatiently. "But that would not interrupt the Hunt."

  Rigo threw her an admonitory glance which she pretended not to see, persisting sweetly. "Will others be riding with the bon Damfels?"

  "Two or three houses usually hunt together. Today the bon Damfels will be hunting with the bon Laupmons and the bon Haunsers."

  "But not your family."

  "Not my wife and children, no. The women and younger children usually ride only with the home Hunt." He set his jaw. She had happened upon a sensitive subject once more.

  Marjorie sighed to herself. What subjects were not sensitive on this place?

  "We will be landing just ahead!" the Obermun cried. "Have we arrived at Klive so soon?"

  "Oh, you could not come to Klive in this flier, Lady Marjorie. It is too noisy. It would upset the hounds. No, we will go from this point by balloon-car. Balloon-cars are virtually silent. And comparatively slow, so you will be able to see what is going on."

  And in the luxurious cabin of a propeller-driven balloon-car, a car with windows at the sides and below and so overly garnished as to appear unintended for its function, they went forward to land silently upon a side lawn of Klive. They were greeted by Stavenger. the Obermun bon Damfels, and by Rowena, the Obermum bon Damfels.
both dressed in black with small purple capes and veils. Mourning garb, obviously.

  The visitors were offered wine. Rowena sipped. Stavenger took none. The Yrariers commented upon the fine weather. Marjorie murmured a few words of sympathy for their loss. Stavenger seemed not to hear what she said. Rowena, eyes deep-sunk in shadowed circles, seemed to be elsewhere, lost in some private grief too deep and remote to let her communicate with the outside world. Or perhaps verbal expressions of grief were not customary. Seeing the behavior of others around them, Marjorie gradually came to the conclusion that this interpretation was correct. Though the bon Damfels wore mourning, no one took any notice of it.

  The Yrariers were introduced to other family members-two daughters, two sons, the names merely mumbled so that Marjorie was unsure of them. One of the sons gave her a long look, as though measuring her for a suit of clothing-or a shroud, Marjorie thought with a shiver. He was very pale and intense in his dark clothing, though no less handsome for that. It was a handsome family. The other bon Damfels children seemed remote and distracted, responding only to direct questions, and not always then.

  Stella frankly flirted, in a gay, self-deprecating way She had always found it useful in making friends, and it had never failed her until now. Only the one bon Damfels son returned her gambits with a few words and a half smile. All the others seemed frozen. Gradually the girl fell silent, confused, slightly angry.

  A bell rang. All the bon Damfels but Rowena excused themselves and departed suddenly. One moment they were there, the next they were gone.

  "They have gone to dress for the Hunt. If you will come with me," she invited in a near whisper, "we will watch from the balconies until the Hunt departs."

  Tony and Marjorie went with her, casting one another questioning looks. Nothing here was predictable or familiar. No word, no attitude conveyed any emotion with which they could empathize. Rigo and Stella stalked along behind them, their dark, intense eyes eating up the landscape and spitting it out. There and there. So much for your gardens. So much for your hospitality. So much for your grief and your hunt which you will not share with us. Marjorie felt them simmering behind her, and her skin quivered. This was not diplomatic. This hostility was not the way things should go.

  Still, they went on simmering as they were ensconced upon the balcony and provided with food and drink. Nothing was familiar, nothing resembled any such gathering at home. They looked down at the empty first surface for a time in silence, sipping, nibbling, trying not to seem ravenous, which they were, casting sidelong looks at Rowena's distracted face.

  After a time, servant women in long white skirts came out onto the first surface, bearing trays of tiny, steaming glasses. The hunters began to trickle in. At first glance the hunters seemed to be dressed in familiar fashion, then one noticed the vast and padded trousers, like inflated jodhpurs, creating bowlegged, steatopygous curves, at first laughable, and then, when one saw the hunters' faces, not amusing at all. Each hunter took a pale, steaming glass and drank, one glass only, a swallow or two, no more. Few of them spoke and those few were among the younger ones. When the horn sounded, though it sounded softly, Marjorie almost leapt from her chair. The hunters turned toward the eastern gate, which opened slowly. The hounds entered and Marjorie could not keep from gasping. She turned toward Rowena and was surprised to see a look of hatred there, a look of baffled rage. Quickly. Marjorie looked away. It had not been an expression their hostess had meant anyone to see.

  "My God," breathed Rigo in awe, all his animosity set aside in that moment of shock.

  The hounds were the size of Terran horses, muscled like lions, with broad, triangular heads and lips curled back to display jagged ridges of bone or tooth. Herbivores, Rigo thought at first. And yet there were fangs at the front of those jaws. Omnivores? They had reticulated hides, a network of lighter color surrounding shapeless patches of darker skin. Either they had no hair or very short hair. They were silent. Their tongues dripped onto the path as they paced in pairs, split to go around the waiting riders, joined again in pairs, and proceeded toward another gate at the western side of the courtyard.

  "Come," said Rowena in her expressionless voice. "We must go down the hall to see the Hunt depart."

  They followed her wordlessly down a long corridor and onto another balcony which looked out over the garden beyond the wall- where jaw-dropping shock waited, and a blaze of fear which was like sudden fire. They stood swaying, clutching the railing before them, not believing what they saw. "Hippae." Marjorie identified them to herself, shuddering. Why had she supposed they would look like horses? How naive she had been! How stupid Sanctity had been. Hadn't anyone at Sanctity made any effort to-No. Of course they hadn't. Even if they had tried, there hadn't been time. Her thoughts trailed away into shivering depths of barely controlled terror.

  "Hippae," thought Rigo, sweating, taking refuge in anger. Mark another one down against Sender O'Neil. That damned fool. And the Hierarch. Poor uncle. Poor dying old man, he simply hadn't known. Rigo held onto the railing with both hands, pulling himself together with all his force. Beside him he was conscious of Stella leaning forward, breathing heavily, quivering. From the corner of his eye he saw Marjorie put her hand over Tony's and squeeze it.

  Below them the monsters pranced silently, twice the size of the hounds, their long necks arching in an almost horselike curve, those necks spined with arm-long scimitars of pointed, knife-edged bone, longest on the head and midway down the neck, shorter at the lower neck and shoulders. The eyes of the mounts were burning orbs of red. Their backs were armored with great calluses of hard and glistening hide.

  Stavenger bon Damfels was preparing to mount, and Marjorie bit back an exclamation. The mount half crouched as it extended its left foreleg. Stavenger stepped up on the leg with his left foot, raising his left arm at the same time to throw a ring up and over the lowest of the jutting spines. With his left hand on the ring, close to the spine, he pulled and leapt simultaneously, right leg high to slide over the huge back. He settled just behind the monstrous shoulders, his hands parting widely to reveal thin straps which pulled the ring tight around the blade of bone. Stavenger turned his hands, wrapping the straps around his fingers, gripping them. "Reins," Marjorie thought fleetingly; then, "No, not reins," for the straps were obviously only something to hold on to, only a place to put one's hands. There was no way they could be used to direct the enormous mount or even to signal it. One could not take hold of the razorlike barb itself without cutting off ones fingers. One could not lean forward without skewering oneself. One had to brace oneself back, leaning back in an endless, spine-straining posture which must be agonizing to hold even for a few moments. Otherwise... otherwise one would be spitted upon those spines.

  Along the animal's mighty ribs were a series of deep pockmarks, into which Stavenger thrust the long pointed toes of his boots, bracing himself away from the danger before him. His belly was only inches from the razor edges. On his back, slung across his shoulder, he wore a case like a narrow, elongated quiver. As the mount turned, rearing, Stavenger's eyes slid across Marjorie's gaze with the slickness of ice. His face was not merely empty but stripped bare. There was nothing there. He made no effort to speak to the mount or guide it in any way. It went where it decided to go, taking him with it. Another of the Hippae approached a rider and was mounted in its turn.

  Marjorie still held Tony's hand, turned him to face her, looked at him deeply, warningly. He was as pale as milk. Stella was sweating with a feverish excitement in her eyes. Marjorie was cold all over, and she shook herself, forcing herself to speak. She would not be silenced by these... by these whatever they were.

  "Excuse me," Marjorie said, loudly enough to break through their silence, through Rowena's abstracted fascination, "but do your.. your mounts have hooves? I cannot see from here."

  "Three," murmured Rowena, so softly they could scarcely hear her. Then louder. "Yes. Three. Three sharp hooves on each foot. Or I should say, three toes, each with
a triangular hoof. And two rudimentary thumbs, higher on the leg"

  "And the hounds?"

  "They, too. Except that their hooves are softer. More like pads. It makes them very sure-footed."

  Almost all of the hunters were mounted.

  "Come," Rowena said again in the same emotionless voice she had said everything else. "The transport will be waiting for you." She glided before them as if on wheels, her wide skirts floating above the polished floors like an inconsolable balloon, swollen and ready to burst with grief. She did not look at them, did not say their names. It was as if she had not really seen them, did not see them now. Her eyes were fixed upon some interior vision of intimate horror so vividly imagined that Marjorie could almost see it in her eyes. When they approached the car, Rowena turned away and floated back the way they had come.