“We’re almost there. No more climbing.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he replied a little too quickly. “I’m not tired.”
The ground leveled off and the forest began to thin. Raising her voice, Fawn called out in the singsong Parramati dialect. Stepping up alongside her, Pulickel was rewarded with his first glimpse of a live seni.
It looked exactly like the recorded images he’d been studying for the past several months. Smaller than expected, it exhibited all the specified characteristics of a juvenile of the species.
“This is Kirtra’a.” Fawn made an elaborate rolling gesture of greeting with her forearms. “He’s a young male on the cusp of sexual maturity.”
“I can see that.” While Pulickel studied the young seni, it gazed back at him out of narrow, solemn eyes.
Not yet fully grown, Kirtra’a’s head barely reached Pulickel’s chest. To the young native, Fawn Seaforth must have seemed like a true giant. The average mature seni would just be able to look the newly arrived male xenologist in the eye.
Leaping into the air on its powerful hind legs, the native did a complete backflip, landing exactly where it had been standing. Taking into account regional variations, this was a fairly universal form of greeting on Senisran. It was the gesture Fawn had attempted to simulate by rotating her forearms.
So both she and the seni were more than a little surprised when Pulickel promptly duplicated the native’s athletic move. He staggered slightly when he landed back on his feet and attributed his unsteadiness to the presence of the small backpack. Without it he was certain he could have performed the flip perfectly. While Fawn could only gape, the young Parramati experienced a paroxysm of delight, barking and tootling excitedly.
“I couldn’t do that if I practiced for a year. I’d break my neck.” Fawn eyed him admiringly.
“You don’t have a gymnast’s body,” he explained modestly. “Poor size-to-strength ratio.” Kirtra’a continued to squeal and jabber in wide-eyed wonder. “Don’t feel diminished because of it.”
“I don’t—but I really wish I could do that.”
When the juvenile finally calmed down, Pulickel found he could understand it clearly. All the long hours spent listening to and mimicking language recordings paid instant dividends.
“My name is Pulickel Tomochelor.”
“Pu’il To’chor.” The youngster did his best to duplicate the sounds, many of which were more guttural than a seni could manage. “I am Kirtra’a. Welcomings to Torrelauapa, Pu’il. You do the Greeting!”
“A poor effort.” His back had begun to throb but he was damned if he was going to wince. “Not as good as I could do when I was younger, I’m afraid.”
The seni had long, narrow, blue, catlike eyes with slitted pupils. The meter-long tail that protruded from the back of the elegant woven skirt was naked as a rat’s. Exotic, intricate patterns decorated the skirt, which was worn by both males and females, the individual designs telling another Parramati all there was to know about the wearer, from age to family lineage to status within the wearer’s village.
Bipedal and completely hairless, the seni’s smooth, featureless skin was the color of finely milled raw cocoa. Each of the two short arms ended in delicate hands that terminated in the three fingers, the central one being considerably longer than the other two. In contrast, the three toes on each foot were thick, strong, and of equal length. There were no nails or claws, fingers and toes alike ending in blunt fleshy pads. Crouching on powerful legs, the seni rested with elbows bent and both hands held close to the chest in an attitude resembling that of a hunting praying mantis.
The seni were the first intelligent species encountered by either humanx or AAnn explorers whose principal mode of individual locomotion was hopping. They were perfectly capable of taking one step at a time, but for anything faster than a crawl, they preferred to hop. They kept their hops short, though according to the literature they could, when startled, leap extraordinary distances.
The seni face was reflective of the species’ gentleness and intelligence. Beneath the slitted eyes a long, narrow snout held a mixture of cutting and grinding teeth, terminating in a constantly active black nose. Snout and head were boldly striped, but the high, bladelike, independently rotating ears were not.
The seni were omnivores, taking fruits from the forest, edible invertebrates and coelenterates from the sea, and vegetables and tubers from their elaborate gardens. It was a robust mix, and by and large they were a healthy species. Epidemics were unknown. Clever and adaptable, it was no wonder they had populated nearly all of the larger island groupings and many of the smaller ones on the planet.
His ability to execute the traditional seni greeting had certainly started him off on the right foot with the youngster. Approaching fearlessly, Kirtra’a put both hands on Pulickel’s waist and squeezed gently with all six fingers. The xenologist didn’t flinch as the young native gazed into his eyes, the toothy snout not far from his face. What was it going to do next? he wondered. Kiss him, bite him, or lick him with the long, flexible seni tongue? That was one gesture he had no intention of returning.
It simply squeezed once and then retreated by means of a second backflip. With a contented squeal, it whirled and bounded off in the direction of the village, doing multiple front flips along the way, apparently for the sheer pleasure of it.
“Well, it looks like you’ve endeared yourself to one Parramati, anyway.” Fawn started down the path. “It’ll be interesting to see if you make the same impression on any of the big persons.”
He trailed close behind, grateful they were no longer climbing. “Why? What do they do? Backward two-and-a-half gainers?”
“No, just the same single backflip. They’re just a lot harder to impress. Harder than me, anyway.”
“As an adolescent I was number two on my local gymnastics team. One doesn’t have to be large to do well at athletics.”
“Hey, am I arguing?”
By way of general conversation he inquired politely, “I suppose you also participated in physical culture?”
“Starting center for four years in my social matriculation group. All-regional. I got banged around a lot.”
“Doesn’t look like you suffered from it.”
She smiled thinly. “I banged back. Hard.” She lengthened her stride as they approached the village.
5
As was so often the case with primitive species, he heard the village before he saw it, and smelled it before he heard it. The pungent odor was not unpleasant, however, and a few deep breaths sufficed to familiarize him with it. Between the cultivated gardens and the surrounding rain forest there were so many flowering plants in the immediate vicinity that the thick musk of the community was somewhat masked by a rush of natural perfume.
Fawn made a sweeping gesture. “This is Torrelauapa. Largest village on the island, though by no means the only one.”
“How many are there?” he asked.
“Not sure. You have to delineate the number of houses and their proximity to one another that you want to use to define a ‘village.’ I’m still working on a definitive census.”
It was hard to get a feel for the size of the community because the various structures were scattered among numerous tall shade trees. These were very different from the blue-barked growths he’d first encountered at the touchdown site and the beach. They had thick trunks of brown or yellow and dense overarching clusters of spatulate leaves. Clumps of maroon flowers burst like frozen fireworks from among the leaves. Obviously well tended, the trees served to shield the buildings and their occupants from sun and rain.
A narrow but fast-flowing stream wound its way through the village, drawing volume and energy from the high mountains in the distance. Upon leaving the last of the houses it tumbled, not into a freshwater pool, but over a fifteen-meter-high cliff directly into the ocean below. The watery finger of the steep-sided cove now visible off to the visitors’ right was much narrower than the bay Fa
wn had used to access the station. Thousands of green, blue, and red growths clung to the sheer rock walls, overhanging the water.
The shallow cove was alive with a circus of sea-creatures, clearly visible as they swam back and forth in the transparent water. As well as being safe from large oceangoing predators, they could enjoy the mix of fresh and salt water in the aerated environment at the waterfall’s base.
On the far side of the cove, he could see where narrow switchbacks had been cut into the side of the cliff. At the water’s edge, where several large rocks protruded from the shallow inlet, a simple floating dock had been constructed of stripped small trees and reeds. Secured to this were several of the sturdy outriggers common to all of Senisran.
Each boasted double masts inclined forty-five degrees from the water and from one another. Not one or two outriggers, but a whole sequence splayed from the sides of each craft. The largest was attached to the side of the boat, the smallest the farthest distance away. The larger the craft, the greater the number of outriggers it deployed. When taken together, winglike sails and outriggers gave the boats the appearance of water birds at rest.
The village was comprised of elongated huts fashioned from local materials. All had thatched roofs while several could boast of raised stone foundations. None was more than ten meters in length, and each was a riot of color thanks to the brilliantly hued materials of which they were composed. The Parramati fondness for weaving was evident in the intricate patterns that decorated every wall and roof. It looked more like a circus encampment than a native community. The naked, bare, beige-colored flesh of the Parramati themselves was plain and dull beside their dwellings.
But the sight that literally took Pulickel’s breath away, more than the magnificent little waterfall or the explosively tinted longhouses, were the wonderfully intricate gardens that climbed the terraced mountain slopes on the far side of the village. Now he understood what Fawn had been talking about when she had referred to them as an art form. The growing of food seemed incidental to the elaborate aesthetics that had been employed.
The few images that had been included in the research recordings came nowhere near doing the Parramatis’ agricultural accomplishments justice. The actual terracing was comparatively unspectacular and, as expected, followed the natural contours of the mountainside. What distinguished them were the exquisitely carved and entwined trellises and arbors that protected them from damage by direct sun and wind. It looked as if the entire mountainside had been clad in a single gigantic, interlinked wooden sculpture. In intricacy and purity of design, it reminded him of the skeletons of microscopic foraminifera. In addition to the wondrous carving, every centimeter of the huge, rambling construction had been painted in delicate hues and designs.
Not merely decorative, the trellises provided protection for new, young plants and support for those maturing. Water lines handfashioned from hollow stems and branches irrigated the ascending gardens. Each as deeply carved as the trellises and arbors, they were perfectly integrated into the overall design.
From a distance Pulickel could make out large figures woven into the upper reaches of the vast, rambling structure. In all his years of study, he’d never seen anything quite like it.
“It’s something, isn’t it?” Fawn shouldered her pack higher on her shoulders. “Every pattern has traditional meaning, every outlined figure its own story. Once you know the Parramati, you can identify any family or clan by its piece of the communal garden. Kusum is right there, for anyone who knows how to read it. So are the roads.”
“Roads?” He squinted. “I don’t see any paths wider than the trail we’re on now.”
She looked back at him and smiled. “When the Parramati speak of roads, they’re not talking about cleared strips of land. You’ll find out. What do you think of Torrelauapa?”
“Very impressive. You were right. The few official recordings don’t come close to doing it justice. These gardens must represent hundreds of years of work.”
“And they keep adding to the artistic quotient every day. A section of carving here, a little paint there.” She stepped over a dislodged rock. “The Parramati are quite a people.”
As they entered the village outskirts, she began searching individual Parramati faces. “We’re looking for a male named Jorana.”
“Is he the chief? No,” he hastened to correct himself, “you said there were no chiefs.”
“That’s right. He’s just one of many Torrelauapa big persons. Someone who’s respected by his fellows for any number of possible achievements. A big person isn’t necessarily smarter than anyone else, or stronger, or a better fisherman. They just have respect. Remember, no big person ranks another. Technically, they don’t even rank the lowliest citizen. This isn’t Ophhlia or Nalauevu.
“That’s one reason why we’re having so much trouble forging any kind of formal alliance with these people. Jorana could agree to put his name to a treaty, but Osiwivi or Massapapu might not. Since no one can compel anyone else, you practically have to sign a separate treaty with each adult Parramati.”
Pulickel was nodding to himself. “I begin to see the scope of your problem here. Securing a treaty isn’t impossible; it’s just going to take time. Time and patience.”
“That’s right. And meanwhile, the AAnn are working just as hard to convince individual Parramati to bond with them.”
“Controlled anarchy,” he murmured.
“Isn’t that a good definition of Athenian democracy?” She pointed. “There he is. Jorana’s a famous carver.”
The Parramati big person was seated at a simple bench whose upper surface consisted of the flat side of a split log. Shade was provided by an open-sided thatched roof, a shed without walls. Limber three-fingered hands worked with tools of bone, shell, beak, and stone. At the moment the native was working on one of three table legs. Each was roughly a meter in length and magnificently incised. One had already been inlaid with carved shell and bone and rubbed to a high polish.
Technology the Parramati might not have, but their culture was clearly of a high order. Pulickel knew the table legs alone would fetch a good price in Ophhlia. He couldn’t imagine what the intact, completed table might bring from a collector on Earth or New Riviera. Aboriginal alien artifacts were one product modern technology couldn’t synthesize, hence their continuing value to the cognoscenti.
And the art of each island group, each archipelago, was unique and different. Based on what he’d seen so far, that of Parramati could stand with the best of it.
Noticing their approach, the elderly big person put down his tools and rose from his working crouch. Placing his head upon the ground and flattening his ears, he executed a simple backward roll.
“Jorana can’t do the flip anymore,” Fawn informed her companion.
“What do I do? If I do the somersault will he be insulted?”
“You don’t have to do anything,” she assured him. “Jorana’s used to my lack of acrobatics. It’s not expected of humans.” Raising her voice, she switched to the lilting singsong dialect of Parramat.
“Hello, Jorana! May your road be straight and clear.”
“As may yours, F’an.” Despite the slight quaver in his speech, Pulickel had no trouble understanding him.
“This is the coming of the other human I told you about.” She indicated her attentive companion. “He is called Pulickel.”
The old one’s jaws ground slowly from side to side as if he was grinding bone. “Pu’il. A difficult name.”
“I am sorry,” Pulickel replied fluently. “Pu’il will be perfectly satisfactory.”
“But your real name is longer. Will it satisfy you to be so identified?” Long cat-eyes gazed speculatively at the xenologist.
“So long as you don’t confuse it with one belonging to one of your wives.” Pulickel knew alien humor was always a difficult proposition, but he’d never been cautious where language was concerned.
A gargling sound came from the Parramati’s thr
oat, signifying not only acceptance and understanding but appreciation. Fawn looked on admiringly.
Jorana turned to her. “Is Pu’il a big person among your kind?”
“Bigger than I. Big enough to talk about things I cannot talk about.”
The alien turned back to his work. “Well, it is always good to talk,” he commented noncommittally. “Come and sit. I am working on a Pr’ithma ceremonial table.”
The two xenologists accepted the invitation, settling themselves crosslegged close to the Parramati and beneath the shade of the thatched shelter. This left the alien squatting on its haunches, looking down at them. The seni used tables and beds, but not chairs. With their powerful hind legs, they could remain in a squatting/sitting position for hours at a time.
They watched quietly while their host used a wooden block lined with tiny sharp-edged shells to sand a rough section of tabletop. “One cannot reduce the beauty of the wood,” he murmured. “But one can transform it.” A slitted eye glanced at Fawn. “Ascela was asking for you.”
“Who’s Ascela?” Pulickel inquired.
His companion reverted to terranglo for the explanation. “Another Torrelauapa big person. Much younger than Jorana, not as big or as strong, but maybe smarter.”
“But that doesn’t mean he ranks Jorana.”
She smiled approvingly. “Now you’re getting the hang of it. And Ascela is female.” Turning back to the woodworker, she swung her pack off her back and resumed speaking in the local tongue. “I have something for you, Jorana.” Reaching into the carryall, she brought out a glassine envelope containing a dozen colorful titanium fishhooks. Pulickel was quick to note that the smallest was the size of his little finger. Apparently the Parramati diet included some fairly sizable denizens of the deep.
Taking the bag, Jorana made a show of inspecting the contents. Then, with a regretful yip, he handed it back. “I am sorry, F’an, but I cannot accept these.”
Her expression fell. “Why not?”
“Because we hunt the waters with straight points, not curved ones.”
Howling Stones Page 7
