by Greg Bear
Four tiny blue flowers, luminous and enchanting, defied the auric suffusion. He could hardly take his eyes off them. He bent down on one knee and cupped them in his hands, then leaned over to smell them. They had little scent, but their color alone was sufficient. He picked one and removed the book from his pocket. Opening at random, he pressed the blue flower between two pages, arranging its petals carefully.
With a sigh—half drowsy and half nostalgic for the colors left behind—he remounted and continued toward the pagoda near the opposite slopes.
A wider winding trail became visible between the trees. Michael guided the horse onto this path and they followed it to a clearing. In the middle of the clearing stood the building, black and shiny as obsidian, sitting on a foundation of glazed dark bricks which absorbed the gentle rolls of the clearing. Surrounding the foundation were bushes glistening with waxy yellow-green leaves and large yellow flowers. Around the bushes stretched a lawn of smooth straw-grass, somewhere in color between ripened wheat and bleached bone.
Michael lifted his eyes to the tower. The first impression of a pagoda-like structure was misleading, he saw now. The tower had seven levels and was taller than it was wide. It seemed to have been carved out of foamy black lava, with the exposed pockets in the rock serrating every edge evenly. The effect was that of lace doilies and wickedly sharp obsidian daggers.
Wisdom clearly demanded a rapid retreat. Yet the house or palace was the most striking piece of architecture Michael had seen in the Realm. He wondered whether the Sidhe had built it. They seemed so little interested in the material arts.
He dismounted and took the horse by the muzzle as he had seen Spart do, leading it toward the dark polished granite gate set in a high courtyard wall. The horse’s hooves clopped over ochre-swirled tiles of yellow stone. The top of the courtyard wall was protected by sharp upright crystals of golden quartz. Michael looked around, listening, hoping for a faint breeze to relieve the moribund silence and stillness.
The gate had no knocker, but mounted in the wall to one side was a polished wooden dowel tied to a gold chain. The chain passed through two circular eyes mounted in the stone and vanished into a hole.
The horse whickered and nudged Michael’s back. He patted its forehead. “Nervous?” he asked. Strangely, he wasn’t, and that made him wonder if the place was enchanted. “You be nervous for me,” he said. He was becoming more drowsy; the valley swam in the color of so many half-remembered dreams. Part of him felt right at home, protected by the half-light, captured in a pleasant reverie—
He gripped the dowel and gave it a firm tug. “Hello? Anybody live here?”
A mirror mounted on a wooden frame swung out from the gatepost, swayed briefly and ratcheted downward until it jerked to a stop about three feet above Michael’s head. It angled slightly toward him. He looked into it and was startled to see a tiny face peering right back. All he could clearly make out was an unruly tuft of black hair, two glistening eyes with tawny pupils and a physiognomy not precisely human, yet certainly not Sidhe.
The mirror was apparently connected with a series of other mirrors that conveyed images into the building—and vice versa. The face appeared to speak, and in a tinny distant voice said something he couldn’t make out.
“Pardon?”
“Hoy ac!” the face shouted, barely audible.
“Hoy,” Michael said. “I need a place to stay the night.” Oh, did he now? part of him asked.
“Antros?” the face asked, showing astonishment.
“Yes,” Michael said. “I’m human. May I come in?”
The gate creaked, swayed and swung wide, scraping over an accumulation of pebbles and dust in the courtyard. It apparently hadn’t been opened in years. Michael walked inside and drew the reluctant horse after him.
The courtyard was deserted. Black stone walls surrounded a well carved from onyx. A black marble crow perched on the rim, water pouring from a slit in its throat. The crow’s beak lifted to the dark swirling brown sky and its stone eye regarded Michael with calm curiosity. At the opposite end of the courtyard was another gate, already open.
A small man stood in the gate. He wore a silky golden robe, its hem pooling around his feet. Michael automatically sought the man’s aura of memory. It was unfamiliar and difficult to read, neither human nor Sidhe.
“Hello,” Michael said.
The small man nodded, A wispy black beard hung to his chest, and his features were slightly oriental. His sallow skin was glossy like fine leather. He hid his arms in the sleeves of the golden robe.
“Sorry to bother you.”
“No bother,” the man said in perfect English, and without probing Michael’s aura. “Not many visitors pass by, certainly no humans. Introduce yourself.”
“I’m Michael. Michael Perrin.”
“And I am Lin Piao Tai. What may I do for you?”
“Your valley…” Michael gestured beyond the gate, which swung slowly shut, groaning and vibrating He guided the horse around the fountain, closer to the man. “It’s very unusual. It seems to be in a season of its own.”
“A perpetual season,” said Lin Piao Tai. “You’re traveling, and you need a place to rest. Although I daresay you haven’t been bothered by any of the Sidhe, since for a circuit of hundreds of li they scorn these forests. All but the Arborals and Meteorals., and I daresay they haven’t shown themselves.”
“No,” Michael admitted. “I haven’t seen anybody until now.”
“Just as well. Come in. Leave the horse here. My servants will see to it.” Michael patted the horse and followed Lin Piao Tai through the second gate, into the house.
The gate swung behind Michael without any visible help. Just inside the gate, a second fountain was set into a nook. The walls of the nook and the smooth, slightly feminine cup of the fountain were made of pure jet, while the interior of the cup and the floor of the surrounding pool were formed of smooth gray porcelain. The pool itself was illuminated by pale golden candles set in glass cylinders around the rim. Goldfish gleamed in the rippling water, their scales reflecting radiantly in the walls when they swam close. Lin Piao Tai walked down a black corridor, motioning for him to follow.
“Come.”
Michael came to the end of the corridor.
“Welcome to my home, Michael—if I may call you that.”
Michael looked around the large room. The ceiling was at least twenty feet high, made of a warm yellow wood intricately carved with designs of birds and fish. The walls were covered with panels of black and rich brown framing gracefully rendered screens of mountains, forests, and flowing rivers, floor to ceiling, the panels serving as fronts of drawers, closets and recesses.
“You must be hungry.” Lin Piao Tai pulled the train of his robe aside and with a bare brown foot, drew back a straw mat from the floor, revealing a pit with several pillows spread around the outside and a low table in the center. “My servants will bring food—human food for you, I assume, though no meats—and tea. Be seated, please.” Michael descended into the pit and found welcome warmth under the table. A ceramic pot filled with coals kept the entire pit warm.
Lin Piao Tai joined him, arranging his robes to make a kind of sack in which he perched, legs crossed, like a pupa. “Have you traveled far?”
Michael saw no reason to hold anything back. “From the Blasted Plain,” he said.
“I am not familiar with… ah! Yes! I remember. Your people are kept there now. They used to wander at will, you know.”
Michael’s attention was distracted by the figures entering the room. They wore black robes and stood no more than four feet high, slender, with stylized metallic gold faces suggesting neither male nor female. Their hands were jointed and supple.
Whether they were robots or something else, Michael couldn’t decide, and he felt it would be impolite to ask, or to probe Lin Piao’s aura.
The servants brought in trays with food and pots of hot tea and set them without sound on the table, bowing and retreat
ing. Michael reached for a jellied cake and savored the rich sweetness. “Delicious,” he said. Lin Piao poured him tea. “They’ve closed the Pact Lands down, I’m afraid,” Michael said, isolated from the memory. He felt so calm—had felt very much at ease since entering the valley—and what, after all, was wrong with that? Everything was so elegant and peaceful.
“I suspected that would happen eventually. You humans—if you pardon my opinion—are rather troublesome. I’ve had many dealings with humans in the past. But, on the other hand, I’ve had dealings with the Sidhe, as well, and I must say I prefer humans.” He smiled at Michael. “You don’t seem to know what I am. You are aware I am not Sidhe… yet not human, either. My kind is most rare now, all credit to the Sidhe. Rare in my form, at least. Doubtless you’ve seen my kin on Earth. How is Earth, by the way?”
Michael tried to think of one word that summed it all up, and couldn’t, so he boiled it down to three. “Desperate. Cruel. Beautiful.”
Lin Piao beamed as if with nostalgic pleasure. “Some things never change,” he said. “I am a Spryggla. My kind is as ancient as the Sidhe or the first race of humans, but we allied with neither during the wars. You know about the wars?”
“A little,” Michael said.
“Eat hearty,” Lin Piao said, passing covered bowls to him. “How fortunate you could drop by. We have a thousand things to talk about. I just know it. A thousand things.”
Michael ate from bowls of steaming noodles in savory broth, and spiced vegetables in eggshell-thin porcelain cups. As he ate he told Lin Piao what had happened to him in the Realm, and whenever he excised something from the narrative, he found himself slipping it back in a few minutes later. He was wary enough, however, not to mention the book, which was still in his pocket.
“Fascinating,” the Spryggla said, shaking his head after Michael had finished. “Now I assume you wish to know more about me.”
“Certainly,” Michael said. That seemed polite, and he was curious.
Lin Piao’s voice changed timbre, increasing in pitch and becoming more sing-song in delivery. The overall effect was entrancing.
“Of the thirty races,” he began, “the Spryggla were those naturally suited to mold the dirt, grind the stones, make the bricks and plaster and erect the buildings. We loved places in which to live, and we loved them at a time when Sidhe and humans were content to wander under the broad and roofless sky. We built the first walls, and made the lands within them our own. We erected the first houses and the first granaries, and then the first fortresses. At first, we were not appreciated. The others thought we were possessive and greedy, but that wasn’t so. We were just preparing ourselves for the finest of our accomplishments, the cities.
“Soon others saw our worth, and the worth of our cities, and accepted both. They lived under our roofs and within our walls. The rain became a controlled blessing. It was our choice whether to go out in it, or not. The wind became less vexing. There were no animals on Earth at that time; they were created much later, some by the humans, who were excellent in the vital arts, others by the Urges… but I stray.
“We built magnificent cities, all dust now I’m afraid, buried beneath the oceans or crushed in the mouths of the hungry Earth. We were essential. Ah, those times were para daizo—paradise, that is, within walls… but troubled. Soon each kind of glowing light, each intelligence, grew intolerant of its fellows. Tempers became short, and in those times tempers could be formidable, because our powers were formidable. Factions developed in each race, fomenting dissent and urging separation. There was excitement and intrigue, and no one really suspected where it would all lead. We were powerful but innocent. Knowledgeable but naïve.”
Michael had eaten his fill and sat back against a cushion to listen. He felt a thrill of expectation. Here at last was the story, simply told, and who cared if it was biased or not, true or distorted?
“Gradually, individuals gathered others around them and became leaders. They called themselves mages. There were four principal mages, called Tonn, Daedal, Manus and Aum, and their power grew at the expense of all the others. They were too strong to really desire war with each other but the lesser mages brought on the conflict through their own ambitions. The war lasted for ages.
“It was not entirely a bad thing, that war. Nobody died… not forever. We were like young gods then and injuries of combat, while distressing, were remediable. But gradually we learned the desperate arts of tact, and lying, and deceit, of gamesmanship and honour. Then we learned distrust and our magic grew stronger. The war became earnest. Enemies found it necessary to either be polite or to attempt to destroy each other. There was no middle ground. All the perverse pleasures of combat became engrained—the pleasures of triumph over another, of defeat at the hands of a stronger, of tragedy and loss, contest and victory. These are strong discoveries, and run deep in our blood even now.”
Michael nodded, his eyes half-closed. He was awake, but he didn’t need to see Lin Piao to appreciate his story. “The other races—what did Tonn turn them into?”
“I am coming to that. Finally, it was discovered how to kill. To kill so that the dead would never return to the Earth. All had immortal souls then, but we were bound to the Earth with such desires that death was abhorrent. War became serious indeed. Hate was a thing to be breathed, lived, wallowed in.
“There were winners and there were losers. The losers were treated badly. When the humans under the mage Manus vanquished the Sidhe, they imposed the worst punishment yet—they stripped the Sidhe of their souls. And when the Sidhe regained the upper hand, strengthened by the desperation of complete extinction, the mage Tonn put an end to the war. The Sidhe did not have the means to steal our immortality, but they could put us in more humble packages. The Spryggla, followers of Daedal, had always been proud of the work they could do with their hands, so Tonn took their hands away from them and put them in a place where there was no need to build—the sea. They became whales and dolphins. Humans were turned into tiny shrews, to exhibit their true character. Others were turned into other beasts. Some had their souls divided among millions, even billions of smaller forms, like the Urges, who were all transformed into one of their own creations, the cockroach. Aum’s people, the Cledar, were music-makers, and their art was stolen by the Sidhe, who called it their own. Then Aum and all his kind were turned into birds.”
Michael’s eyes had closed, but he listened carefully to every word.
“Of all the races, the Sidhe preserved only a few of the Spryggla, that we might build for them. They let us live in comfort, and in time we grew accustomed to our fate. We were given work. They took my ancestors off to the stars with them, and we built great things out there. They returned to the Earth eventually, and I was born.”
“How old are you?” Michael asked.
“I don’t know,” Lin Piao said. “How much time has passed on Earth?”
Michael opened his eyes. “How should I know?”
“Perhaps I will describe something for you, and then you can decide. When I was last on Earth, the greatest human ruler of all time reigned.” He spread his hands, his voice carrying a hint of sarcasm.
“Who was that?”
“He was a scion of Genghis Khan. His name was Kubla. From shore to shore of the great lands, he demonstrated the new power of the humans, rising again over the sad Sidhe.”
“That was seven hundred years ago, I think,” Michael said.
“Then I am three thousand and seven hundred years of age, by the time of Earth. And how old are you?”
“Sixteen,” Michael said. He started to laugh and choke at once. Lin Piao Tai made a gesture of magnanimity.
“And yet here you are, traveling the Realm, free and independent. Marvelous. You seem tired, my friend, and evening is coming. Perhaps you should rest.”
“So soon?”
“Time in the Realm still surprises you? My servants will make up a bedchamber.”
“How did you come to the Realm? Why did
you leave Earth?”
“Tomorrow,” Lin Piao said. Michael followed as the Spryggla went to a wall and pulled back a panel, revealing another dark corridor. In a small, sparsely furnished room, a feather mattress rested on finely woven reed mats, while on a nearby table a tall candle flickered in a glass dish beside a plate of cold tea and crackers—“For the night, should it last longer than expected and you become hungry.”
The accommodations were the most luxurious Michael had seen in the Realm. He lay on the mattress, pulled the blanket around his chin and was asleep in seconds.
Beware, beware, his—
Shh! Hiss!
On a dreamless plain, voyagers
Voyage, their eyes shut tight; listen
To the dripping voices. Children
Grow, discard ashes, cinders.
Judas selves linger, ponder;
Judas others ponder, linger;
Rude as strange words in the not-dream
Ponder, linger, and always scheme…
Michael jerked awake, shivering. He felt in deep danger. His body was wet with sweat; the mattress and blanket were soaked. The candle had burned halfway and flickered with his sudden breath, making the close gray walls dance like gelatin.
He turned his head to the other side of the room and saw one of the gold servants standing a few feet away, its head in shadow. Michael reached out and lifted the candle. The servant’s face rearranged itself in blocks like a clockwork puzzle or toy. Suddenly all the pieces slid into place and the face became a smoothly sculpted blank. It bowed to him, but remained where it stood, as if posted to guard.
Michael felt under the covers and found the book, still in his pocket. He lay back and tried to remember what had jerked him awake. Perhaps another brush with Death’s Radio. The contacts seemed to come more often now, but he seldom remembered them.
A bell chimed in the hallway outside the room. Lin Piao Tai walked slowly past, carrying a gold and crystal lantern with a leaf-shaped reflector. He winked and smiled at Michael, then motioned for him to follow. “A fine morning,” he said as Michael left the bedchamber, buttoning up his shirt. “The finches are singing in the gardens, the lilies are in bloom, breakfast awaits.”
