He munched. He sucked his fingers. "You need to slacken up, Yaleen. Relax."
"Do I?" I nibbled and licked.
"Yes indeed. You're like a coiled spring. That's why you snap at people." He seized a soup bowl. "Glub-glub-glub-glub." He actually said this as he drank; I kid you not. "Slurp the stuff down, but savour it too."
"Likewise, gobble your famous fungus?" I'd been picking at my food on the lookout for any fungi, whether whole or minced. Which was simply a waste of time. As I recalled, the cultists were supposed to use the fungus in powder form. The meal could have been laced with it, and me none the wiser. Maybe the fungus possessed a distinctive tang. Never having tasted any, how should I know?
"There you go again!" He emptied a last dollop of soup down his throat, and then his tongue was out questing into the bowl, lapping up the smears. "That comes later, not now. So dig in; don't be shy. That's better!" He cheered me on as I began to do more justice to the stuffed vine leaves. He thrust a snail at me, expertly cracking the shell. "Try one of these!"
Eventually I had to cry quits. There are limits.
By the time that stage arrived I felt sleek and sensual; and I'd joined Mardoluc lolling amidst the cushions. (Somehow, he'd managed to avoid spilling anything.) He had awoken a buried fire in me which so far had only peeked out in the form of flashes of jealousy at Mum and Peli; and he'd done so without anything overtly erotic occurring. (Else, I'm sure I would have screamed the palace down.)
How can I put it? Touch had transmuted into taste; and now I wanted to taste more experiences, and wilder, but in some different mode than usual. I'm aware that frustrated people often console themselves with food, but that wasn't the case here. Mardoluc was flesh supreme Flesh-plus. Consequently he was more than flesh. His presence made me bigger and fleshier. He freed the woman hidden in the child. He expanded me. This made me want to expand further still, into some new sphere.
"You are one fine cook," I said.
He looked comically pained. "Just one? Not two? Or three? Or a whole kitchen of cooks all rolled into one?" A tear rolled down his cheek (with difficulty).
"Sorry, chef!"
"Apology accepted! Ah me, but I'm still famished."
"You can't be serious."
"Oh I am. I'm starving. I have a hefty appetite for truth, too."
So saying, we got down to business.
Truth. The truth about Mardoluc was that he had inherited a modest family fortune when he was barely out of his teens. The money came, of course, from trade in precious woods. Mardoluc's parents had been married ten years, with still no sign of an heir, when at his mother's persuasions they finally consulted a wise woman of the hinterland. She solved the problem—of sterility or impotence—with a potion. After Mardoluc's birth, however, his mother's womb had sickened, so that the boy would remain their only offspring ever; no daughter would inherit. When Mardoluc was ten, his mum had died. Heart trouble killed his dad a decade later.
Mardoluc only discovered the secret history of his conception upon opening his dad's death-letter. Presumably his dad spilled the beans in the hope of filling his heir with a new sense of responsibility. For had not Mum and Dad risked their health and mutual happiness to bring their son into the world? Whether accurately or no, his dad traced the genesis of his own heart condition back to that trip up-country and to the wise woman's medicine; not to mention the sickness of the womb which made his wife ail. Mardoluc, by his teens, had become something of a sensualist and epicure—hardly the sort of young fellow to hand over to with a light heart, unless he was first thoroughly dunked in cold water.
Mardoluc read the death-letter differently. To him it was clear that the wise woman in question had been a cultist; and that his mum and dad had conceived him by rutting whilst drugged. This accounted for the sensuality of his nature; and now his sensuality was pointed in a certain direction, namely the hinterland. Hitherto his epicurism had been cramped by the general squalor of Port Barbra; which was why he had lavished so much energy upon superb cuisine. Mardoluc was a creature of good taste, but only one sort of good taste—of the food variety—seemed possible in 'Barbra itself. Now he decided to search out his real home and extend the realm of his pleasures.
Yet the concept of a "real home" begged a number of questions. Such questions as: "Could I ever build a real home for myself anywhere in this world?" He knew that he might have fulfilled himself better in Ajelobo or far Aladalia. To be sure of this he would have had to sail to Ajelobo or Aladalia as a lonely passenger, unable to sail back again if he discovered he had made the wrong choice.
Questions such as this: "My parents risked a lot to bring me into the world; okay, point taken. But where did they bring me from? What was I, before I was? Am I even the same person as I was yesterday?"
In Mardoluc's case good taste wasn't confined to the sensual domain but was a general cast of mind: composed of savour and discrimination. So whilst he fed his flesh excellently—increasing his already hefty anchor-hold on the world—he also asked himself some deep questions.
In the course of our tettytet he said, "How much do you remember of your own first origin, Yaleen?" And he answered himself, thus: "Why, nothing! At first your mind wasn't capable of knowing that it existed. It had to learn existence little by little. When it had learnt, and when you'd become a person with an identity, everything which went before became hidden in a timeless mist. You had congealed out of that mist, like a roux stiffening a milky sauce, but never at any single definable moment.
"Perhaps something akin happens throughout life. Identity isn't bom of communion with the past. It's caused by loss of the past. Forgetfulness forges the person; not memory."
"Till we enter the Ka-store, Papa!" I'd taken to calling him that. "When we die, our whole life is ever-present to us."
"Ah yes. We're only fully present after we die. Not before. Do you know, I suspect that we might have been looking at existence the wrong way round? Could it be that our Kas originate not at birth, but at death? Could it be that they give us our being in retrospect? Could it be that from out of the illuminated Ka-state after death we project a cone of awareness backwards through our whole lives like the beam of a lanthom—a beam which fades out, the further that it pierces into the past? You have twisted back into the past, Yaleen. Thus it is written in The Book of the Stars. What say you?"
"Gosh, I dunno. So you've read Stamno's copy?"
"But of course. The copy's back in 'Barbra now." He waved a hand dismissively. "What say you?"
"One thing I do know: the Ka-store can't last forever. If our sun ever blazes up and bums the world, or if its fires die and our world freezes, I guess the Worm will die too. Where Kas go to afterwards, seems a good question."
"Maybe they don't go, but come. If only we could solve this teaser! The moment flees; we cannot stop it—only slow it with a drug. You twisted back into the past, Yaleen. If only you could halt the flow of time—without having to die! We might leam what time is, and existence too. Then we could really fight the Godmind."
"So that's what you want from me. Do you know what the Worm wants, Papa? It wants me to contact worms on other worlds. It thinks I ought to jump out of a balloon and kill myself."
"A balloon? I don't follow."
"I should go up in a hot-air balloon and leap out of the sky. Splat. Then it can scoop me up and send me through Aif-space on my travels."
"My proposal seems rather less drastic, don't you think?"
"I wonder. I do wonder."
"Are you worrying that you might end up like Peepy, prematurely aged? Or like me, a monstrous mountain of lard, a tun of tummy? Oh I fully admit that this fullness of fat can't all come from eating!" He grinned. "How could mere eating have done this to me?"
"A complete mystery," I said.
"I'm thirty-two years old. Soon I'll have a heart attack, just like my own dear Papa. The circle of my existence will be complete. Pretty big circle, though, stretching all the way around me! Big enough, ma
ybe, to bend time itself? If you could but show me how.
. . . Time might stop and I might live forever inside a single moment. Ah dreams, ah just desserts, ah extraordinary dinners!" I couldn't tell how much was joke and how much in deadly earnest; but if plea this was, he didn't stoop to beg or wheedle.
"One use of the drug won't warp you," he promised.
Well, one use of it hadn't warped Marcialla; just screwed her up for a while.
"Maybe," I said, "you can't actually stop time entirely. If you get close to doing so, maybe time shifts you—to some other time?"
"Ah! Now, why's that?"
"Perhaps if time did stop completely, everything would have to stop existing?"
"We would only find non-existence: is that what you're saying?"
I shook my head. That didn't seem right. I'd spent time—no, not time exactly; I'd spent a period of "never-ever"—in the void. In the void there was nothing. But the void itself wasn't nothing. The void was bubbling and simmering with—
"Not non-existence," I said. "Pre-existence is what you'd find. The potential to exist."
As we talked, it became increasingly obvious to me that probably that very same day I was going to sample some fungus powder, no doubt in a black current cocktail. Papa Mardoluc had gained some curious insights by use of the drug; and the same drug had acted as a catalyst upon the Worm too. (New words: use 'em, or lose 'em!)
Later, half a dozen more women arrived accompanied by a couple of men. They bore baskets of provisions. Mardoluc explained how a thriving little farm had been set up nearby especially to supply the palace. This farm even had its own miniature river, according to him. A stream had been deepened, widened and diverted round in an ox-bow shape for part of its length. A bucket-chain, worked by a windmill, quickened the flow by transferring water from the tip of the downstream "horn" across to the upstream horn; hence the presence of pollfish on the breakfast menu.
Presently Mardoluc heaved his way upstairs to see to lunch. Since he declined my offer of culinary assistance, I was left to my own devices and I went outside on to the moss-sward so as to be alone of my own free choice rather than by default.
In full daylight the moss appeared darker than ever. The living velvet had become a black mirror, a lustrous hummocky expanse of polished jet. It reminded me of a certain lava-field near Firelight. Here, however, the surface might look as hard as could be—stiff, slippery—yet really it was soft and yielding. My eyes told me lies about it. Only touch told the truth. Earlier on I'd been leery of touch. Now I sank my fingers into springy vegetable flesh.
Flies seemed to shun the moss. Maybe they could smell something which I couldn't smell. More likely the darkness of the sward confused their simple senses. The sward confused me too, but I adored it.
No, that was why I liked it! It upset my balance—in a way which made me feel more agile within myself.
Meanwhile, what of the Crackerjill? My absence would be a certainty by now. Peli's, too. The possible consequences bothered me a bit. The river guild could hardly cut off one of my feet in reprisal, the way they had cut off Tam's hand. Even so, they might send Peli away from me as punishment. They might beach her in 'Barbra as tit for tat for her part in my misdemeanour. I would have ruined her life; and 1 could hardly see Peli becoming a bosom-buddy of Credence's.
While I was brooding about this, and trying to imagine agile solutions, sprightly outcomes, Peli herself emerged from the doorway. She looked more edgy than refreshed.
I scrambled up and was just starting to reassure her that we were in safe hands—when Peera-pa followed her through the veils, wrinkling her nose.
"You can relax," I was saying.
"Shut up, will you?" muttered Peli. "I just farted in there, that's what. I didn't think anyone would notice. But it smelt like a kitchen-full of fried poppadums."
"Oh dear."
"I was amazed."
"That's quite a nice smell, poppadums."
"Not when it comes out of someone's arse." Peli shifted away, stared at the sky, whistled innocently.
"Ahem," said Peera-pa.
"Oh hullo," said Peli. I giggled helplessly.
Peli made a bluff lunge at conversation. "Er, why does that fat fellow call you Peepy, then?" she asked.
Peera-pa pulled up her hood and half-veiled her face.
"Perhaps because I only peep at the Truth instead of peering steadily." She sounded hurt. "A glimpse is better than being blind!" Aye, and perhaps her name hinted how strangers peeped at Peera-pa's young-and-ancient face?
"Dum-di-dum-di-dum," hummed Peli.
A whole kitchen-full of big thin crinkly flour-biscuits, sweaty with boiling oil! Papa-dums! I sniggered and hastily slapped myself across the cheek.
"Sorry," I said.
"For what?" asked Peera-pa, staying veiled.
"Thought a fly bit me. Forget it, forget it. It's nothing."
Perhaps Peera-pa had come out with the intention of confiding in me, as Papa Mardoluc had done. (Unless she had simply popped out for some fresh air!) Alas, if so, Peli's fart and its aftermath had blown that tender chance away.
"Hmm," said Peera-pa. "We should have lunch now. Empty bellies, empty brains; empty bowels and gasbags!"
"I'm still stuffed tight from breakfast," I said. "Papa's such a splendid cook." Might honest flattery retrieve the situation?
"You'll be starving later on. It's better to fill up beforehand."
"Before I take the timestop drug?"
She nodded, as though this was taken for granted. Perhaps Papa had already tipped her the wink, that I would.
"Incidentally, Yaleen, I ought to advise you that some participants may be more interested in the erotic aspects."
"We're not prudish. Are we, Peli?"
"Dum-di-dum. Oh no."
"That's their chosen path. You two won't be involved." Peera-pa turned back to the doorway. Over her shoulder she added, "Peli can be, if she wishes. Assuming that she hasn't put everyone off." She disappeared through the veils.
"Oh sod," mourned Peli. "How can I go back inside?"
"Urn, sweet as roses?"
"Sweet as what?"
"Roses. The Godmind's favourite flowers. Never exported to the colonies."
"Oh, those."
And so to lunch: of snakemeat in aspic, galantines, salads, quiches, stuffed bluepears. I don't know how Mardoluc managed, either in the preparation or in the consumption. Trays sat everywhere and people moved from one to another, continually changing places— except for Papa in his pit, to whom mighty tidbits were brought whenever anyone shifted. The meal was like a weird change-your- partners dance, or a kids' game of musical cushions. I didn't notice anyone conspicuously avoiding Peli; though with everyone, us included, bobbing up and sitting down elsewhere, you never knew where you were.
I did notice Credence staring fixedly at me, at one point, like a cat intent on a flutterbye. She hastily adopted a sweet smile. Peera-pa, unveiled once more, dipped into our orbit amiably enough then out again. I exchanged pleasantries with many of the cultists, and they with me. In the midst of all, conducting the food-dance, reposed Mardoluc.
Finally, Peera-pa clapped her hands. The trays were all whisked back upstairs—whither Peli and I and others all repaired briefly to visit the privies.
Once we had all reassembled in the big room, Peera-pa unlocked one of the lacquered cabinets. Within, were bottles of an oily yellow liquid with several fingers of sediment in the bottoms; numerous glasses; and a few phials full of darkness which I had no difficulty in identifying as the substance of the Worm.
Peera-pa unstoppered the phials, emptied these into one of the yellow bottles and shook vigorously so that sediment and oil and blackness were mixed into a turbid cocktail. She agitated a couple of other yellow bottles too, without adding anything.
"Today," she said to the assembly, "Papa and I will pierce the veil of fleeting phenomena in company with the priestess of the current, blessed be she. We three shall follow
the black way. Monitors will be Credence and Zelya and Shooshi. Everyone else will follow the usual amber path."
"Excuse me, but what are these paths?" I asked.
Peera-pa indicated the different bottles.
"Oh. And what are monitors?"
"Monitors don't take any drug. They stay in ordinary time, to watch over you. When you speed up afterwards, they ensure that no harm comes."
"And they see to our nourishment!" Mardoluc had hauled himself out of his pit by now and joined the rest of us. "The drug takes about ten minutes to act," he told me. "The slowing effect can last for a good five hours, though it's strongest earlier on. Then the speed-up takes over—"
"And we gobble all the left-overs. I've seen the drug in action."
"Left-overs! Tut, you insult me. There's a whole new feast awaiting."
"Those who wish to take partners may now disrobe," announced Peera-pa.
Both men from the farm and four women undressed. They jogged up and down for a while, showing off.
Peera-pa distributed glasses of the amber liquid first of all; and Peli wound up with one in her hand.
"Wait a mo," she said. "Why shouldn't I be a monitor?"
Credence answered, "You've no experience. Drink up, now!"
"I ought to keep an eye on Yaleen."
"You'd find it very boring."
"What, me, as can keep watch for hours without fidgeting?"
A chuckle rumbled from deep within Mardoluc. "In that case you're an ideal subject for the drug." Other people were already downing their amber drinks.
Credence gave a negligent shrug. "It's up to you. We can hardly pour the stuff down your neck. But you might easily misinterpret what you see, seeing as you know fart all about it."
Peli flushed redder than usual.
"Which might make you interfere inappropriately," agreed Mardoluc. "You might do something we'd all regret."
"It's okay, Peli," I murmured. "Honest, Papa knows best."
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