The Shadow of the Torturer botns-1

by Gene Wolfe

  “Domnina laughed despite her fear, and said she could not guess. “ ‘Why it cancels itself. Think of two little girls running across a lawn without looking where they’re going. When they meet, there are no more little girls running. But if the mirrors are well made and the distances between them are correct, the images do not meet. Instead, one comes behind the other. That has no effect when the light comes from a candle or a common star, because both the earlier light and the later light that would otherwise tend to drive it forward are only random white light, like the random waves a little girl might make by flinging a handful of pebbles into a lily pond. But if the light is from a coherent source, and forms the image reflected from an optically exact mirror, the orientation of the wave fronts is the same because the image is the same. Since nothing can exceed the speed of light in our universe, the aceelerated light leaves it and enters another. When it slows again, it reenters ours—naturally at another place.’

  “ ‘Is it just a reflection?’ Domnina asked. She was looking at the Fish. “ ‘Eventually it will be a real being, if we do not darken the lamp or shift the mirrors. For a reflected image to exist without an object to originate it violates the laws of our universe, and therefore an object will be brought into existence.”’

  “Look,” Agia said, “we’re coming to something.”

  The shade of the tropical trees was so intense that spots of sunshine on the path seemed to blaze like molten gold. I squinted to peer beyond their burning shafts of light.

  “A house set on stilts of yellow wood. It’s thatched with palm fronds. Can’t you see it?”

  Something moved, and the hut seemed to spring at my eyes as it emerged from the pattern of greens, yellows, and blacks. A shadowed splotch became a doorway; two sloping lines, the angle of the roof. A man in light-colored clothes stood on a tiny veranda looking down the path at us. I straightened my mantle. “You don’t have to do that,” Agia said. “It doesn’t matter in here. If you’re hot, take it off.”

  I removed the mantle and folded it over my left arm. The man on the veranda turned with an expression of unmistakable terror and went into the hut.

  21. THE HUT IN THE JUNGLE

  A ladder led to the veranda. It was made of the same knobby-jointed wood as the hut, lashed together with vegetable fiber. “You’re not going up that?” Agia protested.

  “If we’re going to see what’s to be seen here we must,” I said. “And recalling the state of your undergarments, I thought you might feel more comfortable if I preceded you.”

  She surprised me by blushing. “It will only lead to such a house as was used in the hot parts of the world in ancient days. You’ll soon be bored, believe me.”

  “Then we can come down, and we will have lost very little time.” I swung myself up the ladder. It sagged and creaked alarmingly, but I knew that in a public pleasureground it was impossible that it should be really dangerous. When I was halfway up, I felt Agia behind me.

  The interior was hardly larger than one of our cells, but there all resemblance ceased. In our oubliette, the overwhelming impression was of solidity and mass. The metal plates of the walls echoed even the slightest sounds; the floors rang beneath the tread of the journeymen and gave not a hairsbreadth under the walker’s weight; the ceiling could never fall—but if it should, it would crush everything below it.

  If it is true that each of us has an antipolaric brother somewhere, a bright twin if we are dark, a dark twin if we are bright, then that hut was surely such a changeling to one of our cells. There were windows on all sides save the one through which we entered by the open door, and they had neither bars nor panes nor any other sort of closing. Floor and walls and window frames were of the branches of the yellow tree; branches not planed to boards but left in the round so that I could, in places, see sunlight through the walls, and if I had dropped a worn orichalk, it would very likely have come to rest on the ground below. There was no ceiling, only a triangular space beneath the roof where pans and food bags hung.

  A woman was reading aloud in a corner, with a naked man crouched at her feet. The man we had seen from the path stood at the window opposite the door, looking out. I felt that he knew we had come (and even if he had not seen us a few moments be-fore, he must certainly have felt the hut shake when we climbed the ladder), but that he wished to pretend he did not. There is something in the line of the back when a man turns so as not to see, and it was evident in his. The woman read: “Then he went up from the plain to Mt. Nebo, the headland that faces the city, and the Compassionating showed him the whole country, all the land as far as the Western Sea. Then he said to him: ‘This is the land I swore to your fathers I should give their sons. You have seen it, but you shall not set your feet upon it.’ So there he died, and was buried in the ravine.” The naked man at her feet nodded. “It is even so with our own masters, Preceptress. With the smallest finger it is given. But the thumb is hooked into it, and a man has only to take the gift, and dig in the floor of his house, and cover all with a mat, than the thumb begins to pull and bit by bit the gift rises from the earth and ascends into the sky and is seen no more.” The woman seemed impatient with this, and began, “No, Isangoma—” But the man at the window interrupted her without turning around. “Be quiet, Marie. I want to hear what he has to say. You can explain later.”

  “A nephew of mine,” the naked man continued, “a member of my own fire circle, had no fish. And so he took up his gowdalie and went to a certain pool. So quietly did he lean over the water he might have been a tree.” The naked man leaped up as he said this, and posed his sinewy frame as though to spear the woman’s feet with a shaft of air. “Long, long he stood… until the monkeys no longer feared him and returned to drop sticks in the water, and the hesperorn fluttered to her nest. A big fish came out of his den in the sunken trunks. My nephew watched him circle, slowly, slowly. He swam near the surface, and then when my nephew was about to drive home the three-toothed spear, there was no longer a fish to be seen, but a lovely woman. At first my nephew thought the fish was the fish-king, who had changed his form that he might not be speared. Then he saw the fish moving beneath the woman’s face, and knew that he saw a reflection. He looked up at once, but there was nothing to be seen but the whisk of the vines. The woman was gone!” The naked man looked up, mimicking very well the amazement of the fisherman. “That night my nephew went to the Numen, the Proud One, and slit the throat of a young oreodont, saying—” Agia whispered to me, “In the name of the Theoanthropos, how long do you mean to stay here? This could go on all day.”

  “Let me look about the hut,” I whispered back, “and we’ll go.”

  “Mighty is the Proud One, sacred all his names. Everything found beneath leaves is his, the storms are carried in his arms, the poison holds no death unless his curse is pronounced over it!”

  The woman said, “I don’t think we need all these praises of your fetish, Isangoma. My husband wishes to hear your story. Very well, but tell it and spare us your litanies.”

  “The Proud One protects his supplicant! Would not he be shamed if one who adores him were to die?”

  “Isangoma!”

  From the window, the man said, “He’s afraid, Marie. Can’t you hear it in his voice?”

  “There is no fear for those who wear the sign of the Proud One! His breath is the mist that hides the infant uakaris from the claws of the margay!”

  “Robert, if you won’t do something about this, I will. Isangoma, be silent. Or leave and never return here again.”

  “The Proud One knows Isangoma loves the Preceptress. He would save her if he could.”

  “Save me from what? Do you think there’s one of your dreadful beasts here? If there were, Robert would shoot it with his gun.”

  “The tokoloshe, Preceptress. The tokoloshe come. But the Proud One in his condensation will protect us. He is the mighty commander of all tokoloshe! When he roars, they hide beneath the fallen leaves.”

  “Robert, I think he’s l
ost his mind.”

  “He has eyes, Marie, and you don’t.”

  “What do you mean by that? And why do you keep looking out that window?” Quite slowly, the man turned to face us. For a moment he looked at Agia and me, then he turned away. His expression was the one I have seen our clients wear when Master Gurloes showed them the instruments to be used in their anacrisis. “Robert, for goodness’ sake tell me what’s wrong with you.”

  “As Isangoma says, the tokoloshe are here. Not his, I think, but ours. Death and the Lady. Have you heard of them, Marie?”

  The woman shook her head. She had risen from her seat and opened the lid of a small chest.

  “You wouldn’t have, I suppose. It’s a picture—an artistic theme, rather. Pictures by several artists. Isangoma, I don’t think your Proud One has much authority over these tokoloshe. These come from Paris, where I used to be a student, to remonstrate with me for giving up art for this.” The woman said, “You have a fever, Robert. That’s obvious. I’m going to give you something, and you’ll feel better soon.”

  The man looked toward us again, at Agia’s face and my own, as though he did not wish to do so but found himself unable to control the motion of his eyes. “If I am ill, Marie, then the diseased know things the well have overlooked. Isangoma knows they’re here too, don’t forget. Didn’t you feel the floor tremble while you were reading to him? That was when they came in, I think.”

  “I’ve just poured you a glass of water so you can swallow your quinine. There are no ripples in it.”

  “What are they, Isangoma? Tokoloshe—but what are tokoloshe?”

  “Bad spirits, Preceptor. When man think bad thought or woman do bad thing, there is another tokoloshe. He stay behind. Man think: No one know, everyone dead. But tokoloshe remain until end of world. Then everyone will see, know what that man did.”

  The woman said, “What a horrible idea.”

  Her husband’s hands clenched the yellow stick of the windowsill. “Don’t you see they are only the results of what we do? They are the spirits of the future, and we make them ourselves.”

  “They are a lot of pagan nonsense, that’s what I see, Robert. Listen. Your vision is so sharp, can’t you listen for a moment?”

  “I am listening. What do you want to say?”

  “Nothing. I only want you to listen. What do you hear?” The hut fell silent I listened too, and could not have not listened if I had wanted to. Outside the monkeys chattered, and the parrots screamed as before. Then I heard, over the jungle noises, a faint humming, as though an insect as large as a boat were flying far away.

  “What is it?” the man asked.

  “The mail plane. If you’re lucky, you should be able to see it soon.” The man craned his neck out the window, and I, curious to see what he was looking for, went to the window on his left and looked out as well. The foliage was so thick that at first it seemed impossible to see anything, but he was staring almost straight up past the edge of the thatch, and I found a patch of blue there.

  The humming grew louder. Into view came the strangest flier I have ever seen. It was winged, as if it had been built by some race that had not yet realized that since it would not flap wings like a bird in any case, there was no reason its lift, like a kite’s, could not come from its hull. There was a bulbous swelling on each argent pinion, and a third at the front of the hull; the light seemed to glimmer before these swellings.

  “In three days we could be at the landing strip, Robert. The next time it comes, we would be waiting.”

  “If the Lord has sent us here—”

  “Yes, Preceptor, we must do what the Proud One wishes! There is none like he! Preceptress, let me dance to the Proud One, and sing his song. Then it may be the tokoloshe will depart.”

  The naked man snatched her book from the woman and began to beat it with the flat of his hand—rhythmic claps as though he played a tambour. His feet scraped the uneven floor, and his voice, beginning with a melodic stridulation, became the voice of a child:

  “In the night when all is silent,

  Hear him screaming in the treetops!

  See him dancing in the fire!

  He lives in the arrow poison,

  Tiny as a yellow firefly!

  Brighter than a falling star!

  Hairy men walk in the forest—”

  Agia said, “I’m leaving, Severian,” and stepped through the doorway behind us. “If you want to stay and watch this, you can. But you’ll have to get your avern yourself, and find your way to the Sanguinary Fields. Do you know what will happen if you fail to appear?”

  “They’ll employ assassins, you said.”

  “And the assassins will employ the snake called yellowbeard. Not on you, at first. On your family, if you have any, and your friends. Since I’ve been with you all over our quarter of the city, that probably means me.”

  “He comes when the sun is setting,

  See his feet upon the water!

  Tracks of flame across the water!”

  The chant continued, but the chanter knew we were going: his singsong held a note of triumph. I waited until Agia had reached the ground, then followed her. She said, “I thought you’d never leave. Now that you’re here, do you really like this place so much?” The metallic colors of her torn gown seemed as angry as she herself against the cool green of the unnaturally dark leaves. “No,” I said. “But I find it interesting. Did you see their flier?”

  “When you and the inmate looked out the windows? I wasn’t such a fool.”

  “It was like no other I’ve ever seen. I should have been looking at the roof facets of this building, but instead I saw the flier he expected to see. At least, that’s what it seemed like. Something from somewhere else. A little while ago I wanted to tell you about a friend of a friend of mine who was caught in Father Inire’s mirrors. She found herself in another world, and even when she returned to Thecla—that was my friend’s name—she wasn’t quite sure she had found her way back to her real point of origin. I wonder if we aren’t still in the world those people left, instead of them in ours.” Agia had already started down the path. Flecks of sunlight seemed to turn her brown hair to dark gold as she looked over her shoulder to say, “I told you certain visitors are attracted to certain bioscapes.”

  I trotted to catch up with her.

  “As time goes on, their minds bend to conform to their surroundings, and it may be they bend ours as well. It was probably an ordinary flier you saw.”

  “He saw us. So did the savage.”

  “From what I’ve heard, the further an inhabitant’s consciousness must be warped, the more residual perceptions are likely to remain. When I meet monsters, wild men, and so forth in these gardens, I find they’re a lot more likely to be at least partially aware of me than the others are.

  “Explain the man,” I said.

  “I didn’t build this place, Severian. All I know is that if you turn around on the path now, that last place we saw probably won’t be there. Listen, I want you to promise me that when we get out of here, you’ll let me take you straight to the Garden of Endless Sleep. We don’t have time left for anything else, not even the Garden of Delectation. And you’re not really the kind of person who ought to go sightseeing in here.”

  “Because I wanted to stay in the Sand Garden?”

  “Partly, yes. You’re going to make trouble for me here sooner or later, I think.”

  As she said that, we rounded one of the path’s seemingly endless sinuosities. A log tagged with a small white rectangle that could only be a species sign lay across the path, and through the crowding leaves on our left I could see the wall, its greenish glass forming an unobtrusive backdrop for the foliage. Agia had already taken a step past the door when I shifted Terminus Est to the other hand and opened it for her.

  22. DORCAS

  I had first heard of the flower, I had imagined averns would be grown on benches, in rows like those in the conservatory of the Citadel. Later, when Agia had tol
d me more about the Botanic Gardens, I conceived of a place like the necropolis where I had frolicked as a boy, with trees and crumbling tombs, and walkways paved with bones.

  The reality was very different—a dark lake in an infinite fen. Our feet sank in sedge, and a cold wind whistled past with nothing, as it seemed, to stop it before it reached the sea. Rushes grew beside the track on which we walked, and once or twice a water bird passed overhead, black against a misted sky. I had been telling Agia about Thecla. Now she touched my arm. “You can see them from here, though we’ll have to go half around the lake to pluck one. Look where I’m pointing… that smudge of white.”

  “They don’t look dangerous from here.”

  “They’ve done for a great many people, I can assure you. Some of them are interred in this garden, I imagine.”

  So there were graves after all. I asked where the mausoleums stood.

  “There aren’t any. No coffins either, or mortuary urns, or any of that clutter.