by Grass(Lit)
Father bent his thin shoulders and cocked his head, nodding, as though to ask why this minion of Sanctity should care, perhaps slightly offended.
"We are Old Catholics," Father acknowledged. "This is Father James. I am Father Sandoval."
"Look at them, Brother Lourai!" demanded Brother Mainoa. "Old Catholics. Now there are ones who chose their life. Not like us." He winked at the older priest, cocking his head to a similar angle. "Brother Lourai and I, we were given, Father. Given to celibacy. Given to silence. Given to boredom. We had nothing at all to say about it. And when we couldn't tolerate what we were given to, why, then we were sent here, for punishment."
"I had heard something of that," admitted Father Sandoval, not unsympathetically. "His Excellency the ambassador told me something of the kind."
"I ask you to keep it in mind, Father. As we progress. With your tour..." He bobbed his head, chuckled, then turned and led them away. The rain had stopped. All around them the velvet turf was jeweled with droplets. Mainoa's feet made dark tracks across the gemmed surface.
Father Sandoval looked questioningly at Marjorie. She shrugged. Who knew what the old man meant? He seemed to be amused by the idea of digging up an Arbai city as punishment, though she might have misunderstood. Only Father Sandoval had been introduced by name, but perhaps it didn't matter. Perhaps the guides already knew who she was, who Tony was. As for them, the old one was Mainoa, no doubt, and he had called the other one Brother Lourai. Enough to begin with. She gestured the priest forward and followed him, Tony trailing behind her, his head swiveling as he tried to see everything at once.
The ruin was set in an area of violet grass, like soft fur upon the soil. Dug into this were sprawling trenches reached by a flight of stairs made out of ebon stems, the stout bundles staked into position, their tops flat, their stems rubbing together beneath the weight of feet to make a sound like a reprimand.
"Take off your shoes," they seemed to say. "This is death's ground. Show respect."
It was as though the visitors heard the words. Almost, Tony knelt to take off his shoes, feeling his knees bend, coming to himself with a start, shamefaced. Father Sandoval crossed himself with an expression of alert surprise and anger. Father James reached out as though to catch himself from falling. Marjorie looked bemused, wondering. She had heard voices!
Brother Mainoa looked at them and chuckled. "You heard that? I hear it, too, and so does Brother Lourai here. Elder Brother Fuasoi doesn't hear it, or says he doesn't. You're angry, Father? Thinking somebody's playing tricks? I cut those grass bundles myself, Father Sandoval. No trickery to it. I just walked out into the prairie until I found a stand of grass thick enough, then I cut them and bundled them and put them down there with strips across the top to hold them flat. And I hear voices when people step on them, and you hear things when you step on them, but others don't. Keep that in mind, Fathers, ma'am, young sir."
The shallow flight of stairs led to a street paved in stone. Where had the builders found stone among these interminable prairies? And yet stone it was, glistening in the fall of light rain, still polished after buried centuries. The stone was interrupted at intervals by curbs and pediments surrounding open spaces in the pave.
"There were trees here." Brother Mainoa gestured upward. They looked up, feeling the shadow of moving branches, hearing the rustle of leaves. Marjorie's eyes widened. There were no trees. Only the empty plots. And yet she had seen, heard the sounds of foliage, the movement of leaves...
"What kind?" she asked. "Of trees, what kind?" The young, skinny brother answered, eagerly telling her what Mainoa had told him. "A tree found only in the swamp forest, ma'am. Some of the wood was still here when the town was uncovered. Preserved, it was. They examined the remains, and they weren't a kind of tree that grows out here. A fruit tree, they think it was."
Fronting on the narrow street were carved housefronts and wooden doors, the doors carved, so Brother Mainoa instructed them, with scenes of religious life among the Arbai.
''Religious?" Father Sandoval asked. He was too well schooled to sneer, but his doubt was manifest--Brother Mainoa shrugged. They were scenes definitely mysterious, possibly mystical. What were they doing in those carvings? How could one be sure? What meant these figures offering tiny boxes or cubes to one another, these figures in procession? What meant these kneeling creatures, seeming to watch a grass peeper with expressions of awe upon their faces? The unknown artist had carved the peeper as though it was almost spherical and bracketed it with two hounds, noses pointed upward, surrounding the design with vines and leaves as all the designs were surrounded with vines and leaves. Personally, Brother Mainoa thought the carvings were religious. He smiled at Father Sandoval, daring him to disagree.
Father Sandoval smiled in return, keeping his opinion to himself. Father James looked from face to face, fretfully.
On another door two Hippae were back to back, kicking clods of earth at one another. Or perhaps at the strange structure between them. Was it a sculpture? Or a machine? Beside them the Arbai stood, solemnly watching. What did it mean? And how could one tell what details might have been lost when the doors were broken?
For they were broken. Splintered. Fragmented and crushed inward upon their hinges. Inside the excavated rooms-simple rooms, floored in the same stone as the streets, walled with what Brother Mainoa said was polymerized earth, with wide windows which had once looked out onto the prairies-inside those rooms were bones, hides, scales, mummified forms of people who had lived here once. Arbai. Near enough human-shaped to evoke human responses when humans saw their agony.
There were mouths open as though screaming. Empty eye sockets gazing upon horror. Here an arm and there the body, the remaining three-fingered, double-thumbed hand reaching toward the detached limb as though to reclaim it, possess it, at least to die whole-a denial of whatever horrible thing was happening.
Young ones, or at least small ones, torn in half, with adults clutching what remained to their breasts. Elsewhere, time had disintegrated the bodies and there were only piles of bones and piles of the glossy scales which had covered their hides. Everywhere the same, down every street, in every house.
Marjorie shut her eyes, hearing voices the next street over. A slippery language, full of sibilants, but punctuated with very human-sounding laughter.
"Are there other friars here?" she asked. "Digging? Working?"
"None today." Brother Mainoa smiled, regarding her curiously. "What you hear is what you hear? The sounds of this city, perhaps? Or is it only the wind? How many times I have asked myself that question. 'Mainoa,' I say. 'Is it only the wind?' Or is it the sound of these people, Lady Westriding?" So he had already known her name.
Tony said, "I get the feeling that this place is... well, intentionally strange. For this world, I mean."
Brother Mainoa gave him an approving look. "So I have felt, young sir. Intentionally made, by these poor creatures, a little like their own home place, perhaps?"
"There are many strange things about Grass," Marjorie agreed, looking away from a screaming face. "Dr. Bergrem, in the town, has written about some things that make the planet unique. There is something our cells use, some long name I forget, which exists in a unique form here on Grass. She's been studying it."
"On any other world, the doctor would be renowned," Brother Mainoa said. "Her reputation is greater than the people here know."
"She could probably explain these sounds," Marjorie remarked, fighting down an overwhelming terror and despair, trying to convince herself she did not hear murmured conversation in wholly unhuman voices, musical voices with a burbling, liquid sound. "Have you asked her?"
"I have reported the effects," Brother Mainoa said. "I think the authorities believe I imagine them. So far no one has come to see whether I imagine them or not."
Father Sandoval, seeing Marjorie's distress, decided to warn her off. "Such places as this occasion superstitious awe in the unwary. We must be alert to protect ourselves from
such, Marjorie. These were merely creatures, now extinct. There must have been some central business or supply area. These houses seem almost rural. They lack an urban feeling."
"So it is with all Arbai cities or towns," said Brother Mainoa. "Though we diggers know they traveled through space-perhaps in ships as we do, though we have found none, or by some other means-we know also they chose not to live in great aggregations as we humans often do. We have found no town capable of holding more than a few thousand or so of them. On most worlds there are several towns of that size, but never many."
"And here?" Marjorie asked.
"This is the only one we have found on Grass."
Father Sandoval frowned. "It is not a subject I know much about. Is it known where their home world was?"
Brother Mainoa shook his head. "Some think Repentance because there are several such cities on Repentance. I have not heard that anyone knows for sure."
"Somewhere there could be Arbai still living, then?" Father James mused, kicking at a bit of protruding stone.
The Brother shrugged. "Some believe these dead towns were only outposts, that their cities will yet be found elsewhere. I don't know. You asked about a business or market section in this town. What we assume is the market section is down this street to the left. At least, the structures there do not seem to be dwellings."
"Shops?" Father Sandoval asked. "Storerooms?"
Mainoa shrugged. "There is an open space, a plaza. With three-sided structures that could have been booths for a market. There is a building full of jars of many sizes and shapes. A building full of baskets. A central dais in the plaza, surmounted with something that could be a machine, a sculpture, a place for posting notices. Perhaps it was an altar, or a place for a herald to stand, or a place to sit while watching the stars. Or even a stage for acrobatic display. Who knows? Who can say? One building is full of their books, books which look very much as our own did, a century or so ago, before we had scanners and decks and screens."
"Bound volumes?" Marjorie asked.
"Yes. I have a team of penitents taking images of each page. I should say I have them intermittently. When there is nothing better for them to do. Though I am here much of the time, I have a crew at work only now and again. Copying the books is dull work, and lonely, but necessary. Eventually, a full set of copies will be available at Sanctity and at some major schools, like the University at Semling Prime."
"But no translation." Marjorie stared through an open door at the carnage within, willing it to be otherwise.
"None. Line after line, page after page, signs made of curving lines, intertwined. If there were something we could call a church, we could look for a repeated sequence and hope it meant 'God.' If there were a throne, we could look for the word 'King.' If there were words on the door carvings, we could feed the context into our computers, which might make sense of them. If there were even pictures in the books... I will show you some of the books before you leave."
"Artifacts?" asked Father James.
"Baskets. Plates. Bowls. We do not think they wore fabric, but there are belts, or more properly, sashes. Woven strips of grass fiber about six inches wide and a couple of yards long. Nicely colored, beautifully patterned. The result is much like linen, the experts tell me. The Arbai have few artifacts. It is as though they chose very carefully each thing they used. Chose each one for line or color, what we would call beauty, though many of them-the pots, particularly-do not seem beautiful to us. Perhaps I should say, 'to me.' You may find them lovely. Each thing is handmade, but without inscriptions, nothing we might translate as 'Made by John Brown.' We will see the artifacts later, Lady Westriding. We have found nothing made by machines and nothing we are sure is a machine. There are the things called the crematoria and the thing in the center of the town. Perhaps they are machines. Perhaps not. And yet, the Arbai traveled. They must have had machines. They must have had ships, and yet we have never found any."
"Are the towns everywhere like this?" Tony ran his hands along the carving, cupping the time-worn line of an alien face.
"Where there is earth, they built of earth, polymerizing the walls, making vaults or thatching the roofs. Where there are forests, they built of wood. Where there is sufficient stone, they built of stone. Here on Grass the stone comes from a quarry not far distant. The grasses have covered it, but the signs of Arbai work are there, nonetheless. Each city is different, depending upon the materials. On one planet they built high among the trees."
"Where is that?"
He looked at her as though he had forgotten who she was, trying to remember something, his face intent upon some interior search. "I... I can't remember. But I know they did...."
"How many of their cities have you seen?" Marjorie asked.
Brother Mainoa chuckled, himself once more. "This one, lady. Only this one. But I have seen pictures of them all. Copies of reports are shared among those of us sentenced to this duty. In case something found in one place casts light on something found elsewhere. Vain hope. And yet we go on hoping."
"All like this. And all the inhabitants died," Tony said.
"Perhaps. Or went elsewhere."
They walked through what might have been a marketplace, or a meeting ground, or even a playground. At the center was the dais Brother Mainoa had described. Upon it an enigmatic strip of material curled and returned upon itself, making a twisted loop through which a tall man might walk. Tony struck it with a knuckle, hearing it ring in response. Metal. And yet it didn't look like metal. Along the edges were scalloped and indented designs, as though the molten stuff had been imprinted by mysterious fingers. The same designs decorated the edges of the dais. In the open space small flags marked the places bodies had been found, slaughtered in the open, bodies now moved under cover for later study. One flag lay within the looped structure, several others lay beside the dais, as though a gathering had been interrupted there.
"What killed these people?" Tony asked.
"Foxen, some say. I think not."
"Why do you think not?" Father James was curious, brought out of his usual reticence by the strangeness of this place.
Brother Mainoa looked around him, ignoring the presence of Brother Lourai, but looking for anyone else who might be within earshot. There were no diggers on duty today, but Brothers did drop in from time to time on one errand or another, to make a delivery of foodstuff, to pick up the most recent copies of Arbai books. Some of them were undoubtedly spies for Doctrine.
When he had satisfied himself that no one was listening, Mainoa said, "We Green Brothers have been here for many years, young sir. Many years. Many Grass years. Wintered here, packed up in winter quarters like so many pickles in a jar. We've spent every spring and summer and fall among the grasses. In all that time, not one of us has ever been attacked by the foxen." His tone carried more than conviction. It carried certainty.
"Ah," said Marjorie. "So."
The Brother nodded, looking long into her eyes. "Yes, Lady West-riding. So."
"You mean the Hippae?" Tony asked, appalled. "Surely not!"
"Tony!" Marjorie said emphatically. "Let him say."
"I have nothing to say." Brother Mainoa shook his head. "Nothing at all. I would not offend unwilling ears, young sir."
"Offend my willing ones," cried Marjorie.
He gave Tony a look which said volumes before turning to Marjorie. The boy flushed.
"To you, madam, then I say this. Look at these poor creatures dead all these centuries. Observe their wounds. Then look among the aristocrats at those who no longer hunt. Look at their artificial hands and arms and legs. And tell me, then, whether that which did the one thing has not also done the other."
"But the Hippae are herbivores," Tony protested still, thinking of his father. "Behemoths. Why would they-"
"Who knows what the Hippae do, or are?" offered Brother Mainoa. "They stay far from us, except to watch us. And when they watch us-"
"We see contempt," breathed Marjorie so quiet
ly that Tony was not sure he had heard her correctly. "We see malice."
"Malice," agreed Brother Mainoa. "Oh, at the very least, malice."
"Oh, come, come," said Father Sandoval doubtfully, almost angrily. "Malice, Marjorie?"
"I have seen it," she said, putting her arm around Tony's slender shoulders "I have seen it, Father. There was no mistake." She confronted his scolding look with a fierce one of her own. Father Sandoval had always maintained the spiritual supremacy of man. He did not like discussion of other intelligence.
"Malice? In an animal?" asked Father James.
"Why do you say 'animal'?" asked Brother Mainoa. "Why do you say that, Father?"
"Why... why, because that is what they are."
"How do you know?"
Father James did not reply. Instead he reached out to help Father Sandoval, who was angrily wiping his brow and looking around him for a place to sit down.
"Over here, Fathers." Brother Lourai beckoned. "We have made our home in this house of the Arbai. I have something here for us to drink."
