High Couch of Silistra

by Janet Morris

  Disgusted, I ripped the snarl out in a clump and straightened up. My shoulders were sore from too long spent tensed in one position. I stared again at the walls that bound me in. Only one cube directly adjoining held an occupant, and this was the cube I had arbitrarily dubbed north. In it was a black couch or platform, with no identifying device—identical, as far as I could see, to mine. Recessed into the north wall was an oblong about the height of the lower part of my body, but an arm’s length off the floor. Set beneath this box, sunken into the clear floor, were what could only have been, as in my cube, a bowl and plate. Within the clear oblong box, the length of my lower body, an arm’s length wide, and that high off the ground, writhed an unpleasant-looking, thick, roiling brown mass. Half between gas and liquid, it was ever in motion, and tiny sparks of colored light chased each other sporadically across the restless surface. I was glad it was enclosed.

  I had tried to remember the details of my awakening on the platform when the bronze man and woman found me. I wanted to know if this was indeed the cube into which I had arrived, or another. I did not remember the brown-filled container, and likewise I did not remember the dark-brown Hertekiean-looking man who inhabited the cage adjoining north.

  My hands went to my neck. I tried, once again, to get my fingers under the metal band that encircled my throat. But I could not ease the unyielding-pressure. It fit so snugly I found it uncomfortable, irritating. I ran blind fingertips over the alien engraved script, as I had a hundred times since my awakening. The glyphs did not give up their message. I wondered what information was written there. And why.

  I had not had anything to eat. There had been no food presented me. I thought I had been up perhaps eight bells, for my stomach rumbled angrily. The sky was all times, nonsequentially. Some of it was always any time of day or night one could choose. I would have to see whether or not a pattern emerged in the sky’s movements. The level of light had so far stayed the same. There was no glare, nor shadow, nor bright or dim. It was actually very good light, but unnerving. If there was no pattern in the sky, I would have to rely upon my internal clock.

  I had seen the dark man, who seemed very bronzed for a Hertekiean, go to his plate and bowl under the brown mass and proceed to eat and drink. I had gone to my bowl, hungrily, thinking it was feeding time, but no food or drink had appeared.

  Across the walkways I could see others, in their cubes. Behind them, on the eastern side, a volcano belched and fumed. On the western side, a great ice floe dipped and rose. To the north and south, I could see nothing but the top row of the seemingly endless stacked cubes. I remembered the dream I had had in the hover the day Dellin and I had left the Liaison First’s for Arlet; that dream of time-space jammed together in a checkerboard land where an expanse of winter laid half-atop a chunk of primal sea, bubbling over an unseen edge into a volcano vomiting fire and ash onto a plain fluid with waving grain. This was surely that place. I recollected that in that dream I had seen a huge bronze figure, and that figure had worn my father’s ring. I had thought the dream allegorical. I now knew better. But my father’s ring was still safe, bound to my waist by my eighteen-strand chald.

  When I saw the Hertekiean again rise and go to his box of brown swirl, I rose myself and went and pressed my body against the wall we shared in common. He took up his bowl and plate, and I motioned him to me. He came up to the wall, and I could see the steam rising from the large chunk of black seared meat, running with bloody juice, upon his plate. My mouth watered.

  I pointed to my open mouth, then my stomach, rubbing it, then his plate. Then I shrugged and opened my arms wide. I hoped my signing made sense to him. The dark eyes followed me, his brow furrowed. He pointed to my bowl and plate. I shrugged again. My dark neighbor put down his plate and bowl. He pointed to his temple, then to the brown roiling mass enclosed in the clear oblong, then to his plate.

  I shook my head. The Hertekiean tossed his tangled mane of waist-length hair and folded himself into a cross-legged sitting position, facing me. I pressed my face against the partition that separated us and spoke to him slowly in Standard, then Hertekiean. He put his hand to his ear, then signed no. He could not hear me. His eyes met mine for a moment; then he dropped his gaze and picked up his plate. He took the chunk of meat, with its delicate pink-red center, and tore at it with teeth and fingers. The bloody juice ran down his chin and arms. He pointed once again to the brown oblong within my cube. I went to it, turning my back to him. I could not bear to watch him eat.

  I squatted before my bowl and plate. Nothing appeared upon the plate, nothing within the bowl. My mouth watered uncontrollably, and every time I swallowed I was reminded of the unpleasantly tight band around my neck.

  I felt of the band again, and again failed to find lock or seam, clasp or closure. My stomach seemed intent upon devouring itself in lieu of food. The thick air, with its strange odors, only aggravated my hunger. I could feel rivulets of sweat running down my back, over my buttocks. I put my head in my hands and fought the hysteria rising in me.

  Eventually the call of my hunger and the trembling of my limbs faded. Hopefully, my captors would, at their leisure, provide me food. I ran my hands once again over the oblong container that held the brown mass, then about the floor around the recessed bowl and cup. There was no way I could find to precipitate a meal—no button, no lever, no dial or bar to be turned or pressed. I sighed and rose. Through the floor I could see below me the white-blond head of the female occupant of the cube beneath. She, also, had fed.

  I did a full dhara-san routine, the first I had done since arriving long ago in Arlet. My body was stiff and angry with neglect. The contortions and twists and stretches of physical discipline calmed my mind and restored my equilibrium. I stood on my head and counted two thousand, and when I came down, soaked with sweat, I lay for a time looking up at the sky, letting my mind roam at will.

  I thought long of Silistra. I wondered with much concern about Sereth—if he would make it safely to Arlet, if he would acquire the coin girl who nurtured Tyith’s child, his grandson. Dellin, I was sure, would not be easily convinced that the Slayer had properly discharged his commission. The Day-Keepers, also, would be little pleased. I hoped that those farsighted ones, with their insightful awareness, would be easy on the Slayer. Although, in my service, he had acted often in ways unacceptable by tradition, he had had little choice. If the Day-Keepers were aware, by their devious methods, that he had left chalded corpses on the road to Santha, without any attempt to ascertain their identity or take up their chalds, his very livelihood, his position among the Slayers, would be in jeopardy. Though he and I knew he had done no wrong, given the circumstances and the pressures upon us, none not cognizant of the situation would agree. And I was not there to uphold him. It was at that moment I conceived this accounting, that I might testify on his behalf, though I was worlds away. How I expected to get my writing to those I would inform was not clear to me. Now that I am almost finished, it is still unclear.

  I sat up in time to see the Hertekiean relieving himself in the southwest corner of his cube. I followed suit, finding by example the area of my own prison designed for that purpose. My water drained into the floor through some method I could not apprehend, since that area, as the rest of the cube floor, seemed solid to the touch. But I was much relaxed when I had finished.

  My mind returned to Silistra like metal to a magnet. I wondered whether Dellin would risk his relationship with Sereth and let his loss show. The Liaison Second’s face was often in my mind in those first days, as was Sereth’s, and those of the others who had been involved with my journey. Celendra would be much trouble to Sereth, who had lost, on my account, her only child. I did not envy him, though he was free and I a prisoner, for she would be formidable in her rage.

  I slept and awoke. Remembrance of my dream, one of a long luxurious shower, was so strong I could smell the water. My throat was parched and dry and my tongue furred in my mouth. I sat up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. I g
ot to my feet and walked listlessly to my bowl and plate. Water covered the floor of the whole northern end of the cube. I went to my knees before the bowl and plate and found them overflowing with blessed wetness. The water I had smelled upon awakening overflowed the bowl. I drank thirstily, kneeling in the puddle. Then I rolled my body around in it, rubbing the moisture over my skin, my hair, my face. Only when I had soaked myself, naked but in chald and collar, did I sit back and try to make sense out of what had happened.

  I saw my neighbor peering at me. He nodded his head encouragingly and rubbed his stomach. I had dreamed of water, of shower, of infinite wetness. Either my awareness of available water had precipitated the dream, or the dream the available water. I was inclined to think the latter. My stomach was swollen with air, gurgling loudly. The water had lubricated my thinking, as well as my parched innards. It had had a strange taste, metallic, gritty, but it had been water.

  I tried visualizing a thick parr steak. I saw it in my mind, charred black on the outside, barely warmed in the middle. Nothing happened. I opened my eyes and regarded the Hertekiean, squatting by our snared wall, staring at me intensely. He put his finger to his temple, pointed to the brown roiling mass above my plate and bowl, closed his eyes, squeezing them dramatically tight together, rubbing his stomach. It could mean no other thing.

  I sat myself a hand’s breadth in front of the oblong brown mass and tried again. This time I brought to bear every scrap of information I had about parr steak. I tasted it. I felt the juice, hot and steamy, run down my throat. I conceived the texture of it, how many teeth would tear a bite from the larger chunk, what mastication of that bite involved, muscularly and tactilely. I went through chewing and swallowing motions with my throat and tongue, all the while seeing in my mind’s eye with three-dimensional clarity that which I wanted to eat. Every time I swallowed, I was reminded of the metal collar around my neck. I envisioned as well as I could the molecular structure of the cooked pan;. My stomach cried out in desperation. I heard a soft thudding sound with my straining ears.

  Cautiously I opened my eyes. On the plate, within its recess, was a shapeless brown mass, gelatinous and oozing. It steamed and quivered there. It was not parr steak, by any means, but the smell that came to me on the steam convinced me it was food.

  As I leaned forward and took the plate upon my lap, I saw the Hertekiean, his arms raised wide above his head, applauding me in the fashion of his homeland.

  I stuck my finger into the oozing, unappetizing mass and put that finger in my mouth. It was not any food I had ever tasted, but it resembled, in its tang and saltiness, parr meat. I picked the plate up and devoured the gooey, warm, semi-solid mass. When I had licked the plate clean and with my fingers wiped every smear from my face, I carefully replaced the plate in its recess.

  So I began to learn to feed myself. I had said once to Dellin, long ago, that it was a wonder that I could do so. Now, such was truly the case. I worked long on my visualization of parr steak, and on the fourth try I had something that resembled, in taste and texture, that food. The Hertekiean had tried to sign me some obscure message, pointing to the brown mass and shaking his head, circling his hands and then lowering them slowly to the ground, but I was too concerned with the mechanics of feeding myself to pay him more than token attention. My second try at the parr had given me mediocre results, soft and claylike in texture. That I had thrown to the part of the cube where I had relieved myself, and it had been absorbed by that self-cleaning section of floor. The third I had partaken of briefly, also. Its color and texture were better, but the taste was not right. The fourth I enjoyed mightily, tearing at the firm-textured, juicy flesh. Then, my hunger sated, I sat myself on the black platform which served me as couch and considered my surroundings again, greatly cheered. At least I would not starve.

  From that greater distance I conceived my water. Evidently distance from the brown oblong made no difference. When I had filled my bowl with water that I had visualized from a clear bubbling brook, icy and cold, I went and tasted it. I nodded approvingly as the chill liquid spread inside me, pure and refreshing. If one could get a little water, I reasoned, conscious suddenly of my begrimed state, one could get a lot. I lay myself over the recessed depression that held bowl and plate and created for myself a sporadic lateral shower. First I managed to wet my body from above the waist; then I moved up and soaked my hips and legs. Finally I laid my head between bowl and plate and washed, soapless, the filth from my hair. The water ran dark a long time, with Silistran dirt and dust.

  I took up my position against the south wall and began combing my hair with my fingers. I smiled, for the first time since my arrival—clean, and with a full stomach. My situation took on a different light. Doubtless this was some simple mistake, soon to be remedied by my father. Surely he would not allow me to be treated so. I felt a sudden superiority to my cube-mates. They would stay forever in this dismal place, while I, certainly, would be soon rescued by my father and treated regally, as befitted my station as daughter of one of the lords of this world. My former psychic blindness was beginning to lift: I could feel the timelines regrouping. Soon, I was sure, I would be able to see, to ascertain the probabilities inherent in this time, and guide my own among them.

  The Hertekiean was at our shared wall, trying to attract my attention. Poor thing. I wondered how long he had been here. I owed him something for trying to help me divine the function of the brown sludge within the oblong container. Perhaps when I was freed I would ask my father to release him. I got up and went and sat opposite him, the clear crystal wall a sound barrier between us. He kept shaking his head, pointing to my food box and his own. They were identical, as far as I could tell, save that his brown mass seemed a few shades lighter, and the texture not so dense; I signed my puzzlement. He again brought his hands slowly down until they rested on the floor. Then he raised them above his head, fingers wiggling, and brought them down, splayed, to the floor. I wondered what he was trying to say.

  After a time, disgusted, I went to my black couch and lay with my back to him. I had much better things to do than watch him sign. I would have read him, but for some reason I was not able. I wondered if the crystal was barrier to thought and emotion as well as sound. I could not, though I tried and tried, make connection mentally with any of my cube-mates. Nor could I sense any mind anywhere. I decided that it must be that the substance in which I was enclosed acted as a damper, for all my other psychic functions had returned to me, although they were of little use in this altered reality.

  I cannot say how much time passed before I slept, for I spent much of it within, trying to integrate my ego with my situation and those strengthened skills I felt within me. I seemed different in some subtle way and went deeper and deeper within, to attempt to assess that difference and familiarize myself with it. Yet I could find no specific area or understanding to which I had not had previous access. I was altered, but I knew not how.

  Upon awakening I conjured my food, drink, and shower, as I had done before. I worked hard at my dhara-san. It was painful, for I stretched muscles long ignored.

  Then I turned to what I now fondly regarded as my food box, and began experimenting. I created much food that I did not eat before I had managed a name fruit. When I had it, crisp and tart and red in my hand, I turned to materializing a starchy tun. I became absorbed and obsessed with the brown roiling mass that created at my bidding the desires of my mind. I settled into a routine of exercise and meditation, creation and thought, and I did not notice that the brown mass grew ever more tenuous, and the spark lights that had once chased each other in profusion fewer and fewer.

  When I had slept six times, it seemed to me that I was having more trouble than I had come to expect with the food production. I found myself straining harder and harder, and getting less satisfactory results. My parr was again claylike, my name soft and pulpy. I thought long on this. I had not had sign contact with the Hertekiean for three sleeps, since he had thrown up his hands disgustedly
one morning when I emerged from under my makeshift shower, and turned his back. With this deteriorating of the level of my objective success, the well-being I had experienced began also to fade. Perhaps my father was dead, in truth, and I would stay here until I died, half-starved and surely insane from boredom. I found it difficult to keep my mind on any one subject; it jumped and rambled and would not respond to my demands for silence and concentration.

  On the eighth waking period, I could get little but unrecognizable white sludge from my food box, and the brown mass seemed absolutely tenuous. It was then that I went to the wall I shared with my dark neighbor, with the plate of unpalatable lumpy gruel in my hands. It was a long while before he noticed me and came to stand there. I signed my plight by pointing to the plate and my much-diminished stock of brown foodstuff.

  He nodded and pointed to his own. When I had first compared the two oblongs, mine had been the darker, the thicker. Now his was noticeably more solid, though I thought it less dense than it had been when I first saw it.

  He held up eight fingers, then pointed to where I had discarded my rejected efforts and let the floor absorb them. Then he gestured again, his hands high over his head, fingers wriggling, bringing them down over his body, then shaking them, as if to rid them of excess liquid. With a sinking stomach I realized what he had been trying to tell me all along. There was a finite amount of brown semiliquid provided, and I had squandered most of mine. It was my own stupidity that had brought this about.

  The dark man shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands wide. There was nothing he could do for me. He wandered to his black couch and lay down upon it.

  I regarded the brown semiliquid left in my oblong food box. The less dense the brown stuff, the more difficult it was to control. I thought of my daily showers, and groaned out loud. I wondered what would happen when the wispy remains of the brown stuff were gone. If my father had intended to come for me, certainly he would have done so by now. Disconsolately, I ate the unappetizing white gruel. I dared not try for a better meal. The stiffness from resumed daily dhara-san had faded, and I threw myself into the postures with all my strength.