“So,” she pulled her gown over her head with a quick, graceful movement, “let’s have an orgy now!”
“N’Rasia,” he protested in dismay, “we can’t; there’s no time.”
ORGY, I told the Compaq.
It hesitated as it scanned its parser.
ONLY TWO CHARACTERS PRESENT.
Hmmn … Nathan’s hobbits had interesting minds.
EXECUTE.
DEFAULT. EXECUTING.
A default orgy? Only in the digital world of computers.
She was smothering him with passionate affection. Wisely he stopped resisting.
I opted out, remembered my promise, and returned to see the poor councilor on the flat of his back as the afternoon of orgy was beginning.
“Sorry,” I said aloud.
HORMONES, LOTS OF THEM, I typed in.
EXECUTING, it responded instantly, as though it were a word it heard all the time.
Very interesting hobbits.
I got out of there in a hurry.
The Two Moon Meal was a complete success, a mellow, pleasant mixture of solemn ritual and delightful conversation, with some deeply moving incidents.
N’Rasia and G’Ranne, as unlikely a team as one can imagine, made the meal work.
There were seven men and three women inside the brilliantly lighted chamber, surrounded by screens with rich abstract paintings. The men wore long robes with short cloaks in contrasting colors like those of nineteenth-century cavalry officers and large jeweled medallions around their necks. The women were clad in what might be tolerable as nightgowns in our world—pastel gowns with thin straps, deep necklines and long slits in the side.
It was a fertility festival, after all.
B’Mella was tense, jumpy; G’Ranne icy cold, the most skeptical as well as the most physically attractive person at the table. (She had found something shimmeringly beautiful to wear despite her protests that she had nothing appropriate for the festival.) You didn’t even want to look at her too long lest she distract you from the purposes of the evening.
Lenrau did not notice her, however; he was tongue-tied at the sight of his enemy in a nearly transparent blue-green gown which made her about as desirable as any woman could possibly be. Kaila and Malvau made awkward small talk.
No Ranora. Where the hell was she?
ACCESS ILEL.
INPUT/OUTPUT ERROR ATTEMPT TO GO BEYOND EOF.
HUH?
It repeated the message, which I took to mean that in this game, the ilel finally did what she damn well pleased.
So N’Rasia, looking gloriously wanton after her orgy with her gold and silver hair falling on splendidly naked shoulders, took charge. She became the woman I had spoken with on the beach the night before—Was it the night before? I couldn’t remember.
Lightly, graciously, with a joke here and a smile there, she assumed the role of hostess and gradually cracked the ice. It was a marvelous performance, as unlike the shallow bitch I had first encountered as I could imagine. The bitch, I told myself, was still there—a frightened, self-hating child, temporarily replaced by the magnificent woman who was presiding over the making of history at this meal. The bitch had dominated for most of her life. At least for these happy moments the other N’Rasia was free.
Even G’Ranne melted and chatted pleasantly about her interest in painting. How the hell N’Rasia had learned that this lovely ice cube painted I didn’t know.
Unless Kaila and ’Vau had briefed one another pretty thoroughly.
Then very tentatively N’Rasia guided the Duchess and G’Ranne into a discussion of their artistic efforts.
“Do you find painting preferable to combat?” the Duchess asked bluntly.
The girl blushed. “Certainly, my lady. One has something at the end to show for one’s efforts.”
For the first time I became aware that there was intelligence lurking behind those scorching blue eyes.
“I quite agree, child.” B’Mella smiled her approval. “The Lord Our God approving, we will soon be able to view each other’s work.”
“May it please His Holy Will.”
I didn’t even know that they were into painting.
’Vau beamed at his wife’s performance, and B’Mella, liberated from her obligation to be the hostess, turned from the warrior maiden to a very close study of the Duke, as though she were studying a battlefield before a campaign began.
He, poor man, was swiveling his head back and forth, like a Ping-Pong watcher, between the dazzling women on either side of him.
“Do I smell particularly foul tonight, Lord Lenrau?” she asked lightly, her jaw tilted upwards, that wonderful little smile playing at either end of her mouth.
“If I were a poet like Kaila, I would think of a better image, my lady. At the moment all I can say is that you smell as sweet as this fruit tastes.”
She laughed and blushed a little. “That will do very nicely as a compliment, my Lord. I wasn’t searching for one, however. I was looking for something to say and, being what I am, started contentiously.”
He was now fascinated by something more than the nearly visible charms under her dress.
“The issue, my lady … may I call you B’Mella…”
“Even ’Ella…’Rau.”
“The issue, ’Ella, is not your physical loveliness, which not even the most foul-minded can deny in their sane moments, nor the wisdom of your rule, nor your courage, but whether you can endure for a little while someone who is so much less endowed with these qualities than you are.”
She put down the broad spoon with which they slurped up their fruit, lifted her wine goblet to him, and offered him a sip from it. “If we are to be friends at all, ’Rau, you must permit me to deny your last statement without any responding argument.”
He sipped the wine and offered her his goblet. “Can I at least say that you have a quicker tongue than I do?”
“You can say it, but it isn’t true.”
“Noble Lord Kaila.” N’Rasia beamed like a proud mother. “It would seem that the day of contesting courtiers is returning.”
Everyone laughed, and two quick political deals were made. Fishing and lumbering problems were solved deftly, with nods from the rulers, who were much more interested in each other than in the casual but deeply serious political conversations that were taking place around them. It was agreed that a commission would be set up to supervise disarmament.
G’Ranne was watching the peace process with eyes that were now searchlights, taking in every nuance, evaluating it, filing it for future reference. How had I missed her intelligence before?
ACCESS G’RANNE, I instructed the 286.
EXECUTING.
She sat up straight as though she were listening for my instructions.
FACILITATE PEACE.
She nodded slightly, quick and responsive agreement.
“If my lady permits,” the ice maiden spoke reverently, “I would serve with you on such a commission.”
“No one I would prefer more,” B’Mella turned on all her personal charm, “if your own Lord does not fear that we two women will connive against him.”
“I do much fear that,” he said. “But I cannot think of more appropriate or effective connivers. Be it done.”
A lot of progress, then a loss of nerve. Even the recklessly engaging N’Rasia couldn’t keep the conversation alive. Enemies of the decades and the centuries could not possibly be this pleasant. The room filled up with the poison gas of second thoughts. The Duke and Duchess turned away from one another, suspicion replacing interest.
CUT IT OUT, I demanded. CONTINUE FRIENDSHIP.
They paid no attention. I held the REPEAT button down. Still nothing.
Bastards. Resisting grace, that’s what they were doing. Poor N’Rasia was close to tears.
The main course was brought in to dead silence—a dish which I can describe only as a monumental soufflé.
And with it arrived one ilel, right on time.
Her time, that is.
She piped her way in, playing a nonsense tune; then she looked up at me, blew a few notes on my theme just to keep me on my toes, and flounced up to the Duke. She bowed to him with elaborate respect and then held her pipe behind her back as though she didn’t want anyone to know she had it.
“My lady,” you could hear Lenrau’s sigh of relief all over the room, “I believe you have on more than one occasion encountered this maiden, but now permit me to formally present her to you. This is Ranora.”
“Good evening, Ranora,” the Duchess said gravely. “It is a very pretty dress you are wearing.”
The ilel sniggered, blushed, and hid her face.
“She regrets,” ’Rau was talking easily and smoothly again, “that we did not accept your offer to become a hostage when these conversations began.”
Ranora nodded vigorously.
“Oh? Why is that? I would have been a very difficult hostage, I fear.”
“She is not mute, you know, ’Ella. It is a game she plays.”
Ranora made a face of displeasure.
“She can be shy if she wishes, ’Rau.” The Duchess was just as smooth. “When she wants to talk to me she will.”
The ilel sniffed saucily at her master. So there, big guy.
“But why,” the Duchess went on, “did she want me as a hostage?”
“Her argument, gracious Lady, is that we could keep you forever and she and you would become great friends.”
More vigorous nods.
Brilliantly executed, my friends. You don’t need me.
“Why should she want to be my friend?”
“Well,” ’Rau grinned broadly, “she thinks you’re beautiful and sweet and good and wonderful.”
Ranora clapped her hands in agreement. Everyone else in the room was leaning forward to see what would happen.
“Gentle ilel,” the Duchess said sadly, “some think I am beautiful and others do not. But I am neither wonderful nor good, nor sweet.”
Poor woman, she meant every word of it.
Ranora threw her arms around the Duchess and held her tightly. “Don’t ever say that again,” she said fiercely. “It’s not true.”
Quite overcome, B’Mella clung to the ilel as fiercely as she herself was held. “You make me weep, imp child.”
“Now I’ll make you laugh.” She broke away from the Duchess, discarded her skirt, which she draped ceremoniously over the head of poor Kaila, and began her dancing, piping, and singing.
The songs were in a language I did not understand—and neither did the other guests, though they were constrained to join in the choruses. I guessed they were mild spring fertility songs—what one would expect and accept from a spritely young virgin.
She made them hold hands as they sang. The Duke and the Duchess hesitated, sensing that they were being shamelessly manipulated. Ranora forced their hands together. She didn’t have to force G’Ranne to take Kaila’s hands. I had beat her to it with my instructions. The ice maiden was certainly obedient.
Kaila didn’t seem to mind a bit.
Then when they were worn out with singing and the wineglasses were refilled, she performed a solo “concerto” in which she blended in pipe music and wordless sound her “Lenrau” and “B’Mella” themes. The piece was just light enough so that she could get away with it and not offend the mildly embarrassed leaders.
“I fear you have rather definite plans for me.” B’Mella shifted awkwardly in her chair when the music and applause stopped.
The ilel held out her hands innocently. Who, me?
“She has rather definite plans for everyone.” Lenrau had not drifted away to his distant world once that evening—just as the Duchess had not lost her temper once. “Welcome to the group.”
“One must listen carefully to the advice of such a wise old woman.” B’Mella held out her hand to the ilel, who kissed it reverently. “Especially since she will give you no choice but to listen.”
More laughter. Then while an ice-cream-like dessert was produced, a couple more commissions were set up. Everything was on track.
Then I remembered my other promise. What the hell should I do? Ah.
I keyed Ranora. DO MELODY FOR N’RASIA.
She spun in my direction with an expression of unabashed astonishment. What the hell are you talking about?
EXECUTE.
EXECUTING.
I doubt that the algorithm could make that one do anything she didn’t want to do. Still, she strolled over to the councilor’s wife and began to peer at her intently, as though probing into the older woman’s soul.
Embarrassed, ’Rasia tried to turn away. The ilel boldly took the other’s face in her hand and turned it back so she could continue to probe. ’Rasia flushed and squirmed, but she was not displeased with the gentle examination.
Ranora nodded wisely, turned in my direction with a “So all right, you were right” expression and lifted the pipe to her lips. She fluted a few high notes, examined N’Rasia’s crimson face again, nodded brightly, and began to play “N’Rasia’s theme.”
I am sad that my musical skills are so inadequate that I can’t play it for you, not even pick it out on the piano in the house at Grand Beach. All I can tell you is that its pure delicacy reminds me of the post horn passages from Mahler’s Third.
Occasionally I imagine even now that I hear it outside my 47th-story window in Chicago.
N’Rasia folded her arms across her breast and bowed her head as the ilel celebrated depths that only the two of them knew. Her husband knelt at her side, his arm around her shoulders. The Duchess, tears streaming down her face, knelt on the other side. Even the ice maiden buried her head in her hands.
Why? It’s hard to say. A human person was portrayed for us in that music, a woman with faults and weaknesses we all knew and with strengths and beauty of which we were more or less aware. But the music cast those superficial traits aside like discarded garments and plunged deeply into the colorful, luxurious, sacred garden of the woman’s soul, exposed for us her deepest and richest beauty as a person, and bade us to celebrate her wonders as we heard them sung. We were introduced into the secret N’Rasia, the one she hardly knew herself, and invited to share in worship of the goodness that was reflected in her most hidden and splendid self.
Sexual love with her would have been, by comparison, only a minor and transient possession of some shallow secrets. All of us, for a few moments, possessed her as fully as we could ever hope to possess anyone in our lives.
Then, just when it all became too unbearably painful, Ranora broke the spell with a nutty, comic ending. Thank God. We were able to end with laughter instead of hysterics.
COMPLIMENT ILEL, I told G’Ranne, mostly to see whether she was unfailingly docile.
She nodded imperceptibly and ruffled Ranora’s hair, big sister to little sister. “When I am older and have as much character as the Lady N’Rasia, small imp, perhaps you will do that for me too.”
For once the ilel was surprised. She threw her hands in front of her face as though blinded by the light of such a possibility. Then she responded by hugging G’Ranne.
Fooled you, kid. You didn’t expect support from that quarter for another hundred years, did you?
She didn’t even seem to mind when G’Ranne and Kaila left the party together, not exactly hand in hand but close to it.
It was a good way to end the Two Moons Meal. The ice of the ages had been broken, everyone set out for home happy. Politics, wisdom, and love had triumphed. The author/player had very little to contribute, besides a whisper into the ear of the ilel. The plot was coming together. The way towards the denouement was open.
And my promise to N’Rasia had been kept. She’d had her orgy, her triumph, her celebration. How could she doubt any more that she was loved or that I—in my role as author/ God to her—loved her?
I was as exhausted as though I had written twenty thousand words in a day—try it for two days in a row and you’ll end up in the hospital. I sus
pended the game with relief and collapsed into bed.
You may have guessed that I was overinvolved. Later I would scratch a note for Nathan: “Provide author/player warning about overinvolvement.”
There is a note, which I’m sure you’ve seen, on the box of the game which says, “Psychologists recommend that no one play this game for more than two hours a day. Studies have revealed that it exhausts most players after that period of time.”
Actually the research says you can keep at it for four hours without freaking out. But do more than that for a couple of days and you become a blithering basket case.
Like me.
And there was worse to come. Even that night—their time—as I was to find when I returned to the game the next morning.
The next day was Saturday so we left for waterskiing absurdly early, 7:30 A.M., to beat the weekend crowds who create wakes and put your life in jeopardy by mixing boat driving and boat drinking.
The adolescents were in a giggly mood. It had been, I gathered, a wild night among the natives. “Like really excellent, but kind of crazy.”
Fine. You guys should know what kind of party I went to. No ilels in your bash on the beach.
Michele, of course, was humming N’Rasia’s theme.
I didn’t ask her about it.
But I did ask whether she ever blew on any kind of a horn when she was a little girl.
“No way,” she insisted vigorously. “You mean a trumpet or a French horn or a sax or something like that?”
“Well, or a penny whistle?”
“Certainly not … what’s a penny whistle, anyway?”
“Oh, a kind of Irish thing.”
“Is it,” giggle, “made out of pennies?”
“No, they call it that because it’s so inexpensive. The Chieftains and groups like that use it.”
The Chieftains not being a rock group, I’m sure she had no idea who they were.
“Well, if they’re still real cheap, would you get me one the next time you go to Ireland? I’d, you know, kind of like to play something like that.”
I don’t even want to think about that, especially with what happened later. Of course, ‘Chele being ‘Chele I’ll be in a lot of trouble if I don’t return from poor old Erin with a penny whistle next year.
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