I knelt down beside Faxe. He looked at me with his clear eyes. For that instant I saw him as I had seen him in the dark, as a woman armed in light and burning in a fire, crying out, ‘Yes—’
Faxe’s soft speaking-voice broke the vision. ‘Are you answered, Asker?’
‘I am answered, Weaver.’
Indeed I was answered. Five years from now Gethen would be a member of the Ekumen: yes. No riddles, no hedging. Even then I was aware of the quality of that answer, not so much a prophecy as an observation. I could not evade my own certainty that the answer was right. It had the imperative clarity of a hunch.
We have NAFAL ships and instantaneous transmission and mindspeech, but we haven’t yet tamed hunch to run in harness; for that trick we must go to Gethen.
‘I serve as the filament,’ Faxe said to me a day or two after the Foretelling. ‘The energy builds up and builds up in us, always sent back and back, redoubling the impulse every time, until it breaks through and the light is in me, around me, I am the light … The Old Man of Arbin Fastness once said that if the Weaver could be put in a vacuum at the moment of the Answer, he’d go on burning for years. That’s what the Yomeshta believe of Meshe: that he saw past the future clear, not for a moment, but all during his life after the Question of Shorth. It’s hard to believe. I doubt a man could endure it. But no matter …’
Nusuth, the ubiquitous and ambiguous negative of the Handdara.
We were strolling side by side, and Faxe looked at me. His face, one of the most beautiful human faces I ever saw, seemed hard and delicate as carved stone. ‘In the darkness,’ he said, ‘there were ten; not nine. There was a stranger.’
‘Yes, there was. I had no barrier against you. You are a Listener, Faxe, a natural empath; and probably a powerful natural telepath as well. That’s why you’re the Weaver, the one who can keep the tensions and responses of the group running in a self-augmenting pattern until the strain breaks the pattern itself and you reach through for your answer.’
He listened with grave interest. ‘It is strange to see the mysteries of my discipline from outside, through your eyes. I’ve only seen them from within, as a disciple.’
‘If you permit – if you wish, Faxe, I should like to communicate with you in mindspeech.’ I was sure now that he was a natural Communicant; his consent and a little practice should serve to lower his unwitting barrier.
‘Once you did that, I would hear what others think?’
‘No, no. No more than you do already as an empath. Mindspeech is communication, voluntarily sent and received.’
‘Then why not speak aloud?’
‘Well, one can lie, speaking.’
‘Not mindspeaking?’
‘Not intentionally.’
Faxe considered a while. ‘That’s a discipline that must arouse the interest of kings, politicians, men of business.’
‘Men of business fought against the use of mindspeech when it first was found to be a teachable skill; they outlawed it for decades.’
Faxe smiled. ‘And kings?’
‘We have no more kings.’
‘Yes. I see that … Well, I thank you, Genry. But my business is unlearning, not learning. And I’d rather not yet learn an art that would change the world entirely.’
‘By your own foretelling this world will change, and within five years.’
‘And I’ll change with it, Genry. But I have no wish to change it.’
It was raining, the long, fine rain of Gethenian summer. We walked under the hemmen-trees on the slopes above the Fastness, where there were no paths. Light fell grey among dark branches, clear water dropped from the scarlet needles. The air was chill yet mild, and full of the sound of rain.
‘Faxe, tell me this. You Handdarata have a gift that men on every world have craved. You have it. You can predict the future. And yet you live like the rest of us – it doesn’t seem to matter—’
‘How should it matter, Genry?’
‘Well, look. For instance, this rivalry between Karhide and Orgoreyn, this quarrel about the Sinoth Valley. Karhide has lost face badly these last weeks, I gather. Now why didn’t King Argaven consult his Foretellers, asking which course to take or which member of the kyorremy to choose as prime minister, or something of that sort?’
‘The questions are hard to ask.’
‘I don’t see why. He might simply ask, Who’ll serve me best as prime minister? – and leave it at that.’
‘He might. But he doesn’t know what serving him best may mean. It might mean the man chosen would surrender the valley to Orgoreyn, or go into exile, or assassinate the king; it might mean many things he wouldn’t expect or accept.’
‘He’d have to make his question very precise.’
‘Yes. Then there’d be many questions, you see. Even the king must pay the price.’
‘You’d charge him high?’
‘Very high,’ said Faxe tranquilly. ‘The Asker pays what he can afford, as you know. Kings have in fact come to the Foretellers; but not very often …’
‘What if one of the Foretellers is himself a powerful man?’
‘Indwellers of the Fastness have no ranks or status. I may be sent to Erhenrang to the kyorremy; well, if I go, I take back my status and my shadow, but my foretelling’s at an end. If I had a question while I served in the kyorremy, I’d go to Orgny Fastness there, pay my price, and get my answer. But we in the Handdara don’t want answers. It’s hard to avoid them, but we try to.’
‘Faxe, I don’t think I understand.’
‘Well, we come here to the Fastnesses mostly to learn what questions not to ask.’
‘But you’re the Answerers!’
‘You don’t see yet, Genry, why we perfected and practice Foretelling?’
‘No—’
‘To exhibit the perfect uselessness of knowing the answer to the wrong question.’
I pondered that a good while, as we walked side by side through the rain, under the dark branches of the Forest of Otherhord. Within the white hood Faxe’s face was tired and quiet, its light quenched. Yet he still awed me a little. When he looked at me with his clear, kind, candid eyes, he looked at me out of a tradition thirteen thousand years old: a way of thought and way of life so old, so well established, so integral and coherent as to give a human being the unselfconsciousness, the authority, the completeness of a wild animal, a great strange creature who looks straight at you out of his eternal present …
‘The unknown,’ said Faxe’s soft voice in the forest, ‘the unforetold, the unproven, that is what life is based on. Ignorance is the ground of thought. Unproof is the ground of action. If it were proven that there is no God there would be no religion. No Handdara, no Yomesh, no hearthgods, nothing. But also if it were proven that there is a God, there would be no religion … Tell me, Genry, what is known? What is sure, predictable, inevitable – the one certain thing you know concerning your future, and mine?’
‘That we shall die.’
‘Yes. There’s really only one question that can be answered, Genry, and we already know the answer … The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty: not knowing what comes next.’
6: ONE WAY INTO ORGOREYN
The cook, who was always at the house very early, woke me up; I sleep sound, and he had to shake me and say in my ear, ‘Wake up, wake up, Lord Estraven, there’s a runner come from the King’s House!’ At last I understood him, and confused by sleep and urgency got up in haste and went to the door of my room, where the messenger waited, and so I entered stark naked and stupid as a newborn child into my exile.
Reading the paper the runner gave me I said in my mind that I had looked for this, though not so soon. But when I must watch the man nail that damned paper on the door of the house, then I felt as if he might as well be driving the nails into my eyes, and I turned from him and stood blank and bereft, undone with pain, which I had not looked for.
That fit past, I saw to what must be done, and by
Ninth Hour striking on the gongs was gone from the Palace. There was nothing to keep me long. I took what I could take. As for properties and banked monies, I could not raise cash from them without endangering the men I dealt with, and the better friends they were to me the worse their danger. I wrote to my old kemmering Ashe how he might get the profit of certain valuable things to keep for our sons’ use, but told him not to try to send me money, for Tibe would have the border watched. I could not sign the letter. To call anyone by telephone would be to send them to jail, and I hurried to be gone before some friend should come in innocence to see me, and lose his money and his freedom as a reward for his friendship.
I set off west through the city. I stopped at a street-crossing and thought, Why should I not go east, across the mountains and the plains back to Kerm Land, a poor man afoot, and so come home to Estre where I was born, that stone house on a bitter mountainside: why not go home? Three times or four I stopped thus and looked back. Each time I saw among the indifferent street-faces one that might be the spy sent to see me out of Erhenrang, and each time I thought of the folly of trying to go home. As well kill myself. I was born to live in exile, it appeared, and my one way home was by way of dying. So I went on westward and turned back no more.
The three days’ grace I had would see me, given no mishap, at farthest to Kuseben on the Gulf, eighty-five miles. Most exiles have had a night’s warning of the Order of their Exile and so a chance to take passage on a ship down the Sess before the shipmasters are liable to punishment for giving aid. Such courtesy was not in Tibe’s vein. No shipmaster would dare take me now; they all knew me at the Port, I having built it for Argaven. No landboat would let me ride, and to the land border from Erhenrang is four hundred miles. I had no choice but Kuseben afoot.
The cook had seen that. I had sent him off at once, but leaving, he had set out all the ready food he could find done up in a packet as fuel for my three days’ run. That kindness saved me, and also saved my courage, for whenever on the road I ate of that fruit and bread I thought, ‘There’s one man thinks me no traitor; for he gave me this.’
It is hard, I found, to be called traitor. Strange how hard it is, for it’s an easy name to call another man; a name that sticks, that fits, that convinces. I was half convinced myself.
I came to Kuseben at dusk of the third day, anxious and foot-sore, for these last years in Erhenrang I had gone all to grease and luxury and had lost my wind for walking; and there waiting for me at the gate of the little town was Ashe.
Seven years we were kemmerings, and had two sons. Being of his flesh born they had his name Foreth rem ir Osboth, and were reared in that Clanhearth. Three years ago he had gone to Organy Fastness and he wore now the gold chain of a Celibate of the Foretellers. We had not seen each other those three years, yet seeing his face in the twilight under the arch of stone I felt the old habit of our love as it had been broken yesterday, and knew the faithfulness in him that had sent him to share my ruin. And feeling that unavailing bond close on me anew, I was angry; for Ashe’s love had always forced me to act against my heart.
I went on past him. If I must be cruel no need to hide it, pretending kindness. ‘Therem,’ he called after me, and followed. I went fast down the steep streets of Kuseben towards the wharves. A south wind was blowing up from the sea, rustling the black trees of the gardens, and through that warm stormy summer dusk I hastened from him as from a murderer. He caught up with me, for I was too footsore to keep up my pace. He said, ‘Therem, I’ll go with you.’
I made no answer.
‘Ten years ago in this month of Tuwa we took oath—’
‘And three years ago you broke it, leaving me, which was a wise choice.’
‘I never broke the vow we swore, Therem.’
‘True. There was none to break. It was a false vow, a second vow. You know it; you knew it then. The only true vow of faithfulness I ever swore was not spoken, nor could it be spoken, and the man I swore it to is dead and the promise broken, long ago. You owe me nothing, nor I you. Let me go.’
As I spoke my anger and bitterness turned from Ashe against myself and my own life, which lay behind me like a broken promise. But Ashe did not know this, and the tears stood in his eyes. He said, ‘Will you take this, Therem? I owe you nothing, but I love you well.’ He held a little packet out to me.
‘No. I have money, Ashe. Let me go. I must go alone.’
I went on, and he did not follow me. But my brother’s shadow followed me. I had done ill to speak of him. I had done ill in all things.
I found no luck waiting for me at the harbour. No ship from Orgoreyn lay in port that I might board and so be off Karhide’s ground by midnight, as I was bound to be. Few men were on the wharves and those few all hurrying homeward; the one I found to speak to, a fisherman mending the engine of his boat, looked once at me and turned his back unspeaking. At that I was afraid. The man knew me; he would not have known unwarned. Tibe had sent his hirelings to forestall me and keep me in Karhide till my time ran out. I had been busy with pain and rage, but not with fear, till now; I had not thought that the Order of Exile might be mere pretext for my execution. Once Sixth Hour struck I was fair game for Tibe’s men, and none could cry Murder, but only Justice done.
I sat down on a ballast-sack of sand there in the windy glare and darkness of the port. The sea slapped and sucked at the pilings, and fishing-boats jogged at their moorings, and out at the end of the long pier burned a lamp. I sat and stared at the light and past it at darkness over the sea. Some rise to present danger, not I. My gift is forethought. Threatened closely I grow stupid, and sit on a bag of sand wondering if a man could swim to Orgoreyn. The ice has been out of Charisune Gulf for a month or two, one might stay alive a while in the water. It is a hundred and fifty miles to the Orgota shore. I do not know how to swim. When I looked away from the sea and back up the streets of Kuseben I found myself looking for Ashe in hopes he still was following me. Having come to that, shame pushed me out of stupor, and I was able to think.
Bribery or violence was my choice if I dealt with that fisherman still at work in his boat in the inner dock: a faulty engine seemed not worth either. Theft, then. But the engines of fishing craft are locked. To bypass the locked circuit, start the engine, steer the boat out of dock under the pier-lamps and so off to Orgoreyn, having never run a motorboat, seemed a silly desperate venture. I had not run a boat but rowed one on Icefoot Lake in Kerm; and there was a rowboat tied up in the outer dock between two launches. No sooner seen than stolen. I ran out the pier under the staring lamps, hopped into the boat, untied the painter, shipped the oars and rowed out on to the swelling harbour-water where the lights slipped and dazzled on black waves. When I was pretty well away I stopped rowing to reset the thole of one oar, for it was not working smoothly, and I had, though I hoped to be picked up next day by an Orgota patrol or fisherman, a good bit of rowing to do. As I bent to the oarlock a weakness ran all through my body. I thought I would faint, and crouched back in a heap in the thwart. It was the sickness of cowardice overcoming me. But I had not known my cowardice lay so heavy in my belly. I lifted my eyes and saw two figures on the pier’s end like two jumping black twigs in the distant electric glare across the water, and then I began to think that my paralysis was not an effect of terror, but of a gun at extreme range.
I could see that one of them held a foray gun, and had it been past midnight I suppose he would have fired it and killed me; but the foray gun makes a loud noise and that would want explaining. So they had used a sonic gun. At stun setting a sonic gun can locate its resonance-field only within a hundred feet or so. I do not know its range at lethal setting, but I had not been far out of it, for I was doubled up like a baby with colic. I found it hard to breathe, the weakened field having caught me in the chest. As they would soon have a powered boat out to come finish me off, I could not spend any more time hunched over my oars gasping. Darkness lay behind my back, before the boat, and into darkness I must row. I rowed with weak
arms, watching my hands to make sure I kept hold of the oars, for I could not feel my grip. I came thus into rough water and the dark, out on the open Gulf. There I had to stop. With each oarstroke the numbness of my arms increased. My heart kept bad time, and my lungs had forgotten how to get air. I tried to row but I was not sure my arms were moving. I tried to pull the oars into the boat then, but could not. When the sweet light of a harbour patrol ship picked me out of the night like a snowflake on soot, I could not even turn my eyes away from the glare.
They unclenched my hands from the oars, hauled me up out of the boat, and laid me out like a gutted blackfish on the deck of the patrol ship. I felt them look down at me but could not well understand what they said, except for one, the ship’s master by his tone; he said, ‘It’s not Sixth Hour yet,’ and again, answering another, ‘What affair of mine is that? The king’s exiled him, I’ll follow the king’s order, no lesser man’s.’
So against radio commands from Tibe’s men ashore and against the arguments of his mate, who feared retribution, that officer of the Kuseben Patrol took me across the Gulf of Charisune and set me ashore safe in Shelt Port in Orgoreyn. Whether he did this in shifgrethor against Tibe’s men who would kill an unarmed man, or in kindness, I do not know. Nusuth. ‘The admirable is inexplicable.’
I got up on my feet when the Orgota coast came grey out of the morning fog, and I made my legs move, and walked from the ship into the waterfront streets of Shelt, but somewhere there I fell down again. When I woke I was in the Commensal Hospital of Charisune Coastal Area Four, Twenty-fourth Commensality, Sennehny. I made sure of this, for it was engraved or embroidered in Orgota script on the headpiece of the bed, the lampstand by the bed, the metal cup on the bed-table, the bedtable, the nurses’ hiebs, the bedcovers and the bedshirt I wore. A physician came and said to me, ‘Why did you resist dothe?’
‘I was not in dothe,’ I said, ‘I was in a sonic field.’
‘Your symptoms were those of a person who has resisted the relaxation phase of a dothe.’ He was a domineering old physician, and made me admit at last that I might have used dothe-strength to counter the paralysis while I rowed, not clearly knowing that I did so; then this morning, during the thangen phase when one must keep still, I had got up and walked and so near killed myself. When all that was settled to his satisfaction he told me I could leave in a day or two, and went to the next bed. Behind him came the Inspector. Behind every man in Orgoreyn comes the Inspector.
The Left Hand Of Darkness (SF Masterworks) Page 8
