Oshenerth

by Alan Dean Foster

  In its natural state it was more beautiful to look at than if polished fragments of it had been hanging around her neck.

  A streamlined shape materialized in front of her and she started slightly, wondering if she would ever get used to the velocities squid and cuttlefish regarded as normal. Sathi extended one of his two longer hunting arms toward her.

  “Here,” the famulus squeaked. “Master Oxothyr says you should swallow this.”

  Taking the tablet from the squid’s tentacle, Irina frowned. The crude reddish disc was the size of a quarter. “I don’t know if it’s a bitter pill or not,” she quipped, “but it’s an awfully big one. Why should I take it? What’s it for?”

  Bioluminescent spots and slashes danced along the famulus’ flanks. “The Master says it is to keep your insides from blowing up as we go deeper.”

  “Oh.” She nodded slowly. “That sounds like a good reason. I’ll do it.”

  The squid’s body bobbed once in acknowledgement. Then he was gone in a blur of blue-green luminescence.

  She studied the oversized pill. From Sathi’s blunt description of the consequences that would result if she did not take it, it was clear that the tablet had to do with the increasing pressure she had been feeling as the expedition continued its descent. Evidently the mersons, like their companions the manyarms, had the ability to adjust to and cope with the greater pressures to be found at depth. Oxothyr’s pill was therefore a preventative. Some sort of barometric prophylactic. She had no idea what the pill was made of or how the shaman had contrived it.

  Her ignorance caused her no hesitation. By now she trusted Oxothyr completely. Even if she had not, she had no choice. Parting her lips, she shoved the pill into her mouth and sent it careening down her throat. Its diameter caused it to go down awkwardly.

  Some of that was due to her body’s instinctive modification of the swallowing reflex. She could hardly chase the pill with a glass of water. Despite not having had, in its former sense, a drink in weeks, she had yet to miss the feeling. In Oshenerth thirst was an all but forgotten sensation.

  Not long after the midday meal and the resumption of their journey, she noticed that a dim light which had appeared in front of her had begun to grow stronger. Members of the expedition clustered closer to one another. Seeing Oxothyr in the middle of the gathering, she kicked harder to join him.

  The intensifying glow came from the returning Chachel and Glint. She arrived just in time to hear their report. Chachel glanced in her direction but said nothing. For someone who vocally and at length evinced not the slightest interest in her, she had caught him looking at her on more than one occasion. The luminescent eel secured around his neck did nothing to inform his expression.

  “Something coming this way,” Glint was telling everyone. “It’s odd. You can feel pressure as if from many individuals, and yet it is slight. Large, but not massive. And there’s something else accompanying it.”

  “Spralakers?” one of the manyarm soldiers drifting nearby inquired anxiously.

  “No.” Chachel hovered in the glow cast by his friend. “Music.”

  O O O

  Unsurprisingly, in the dark and quiet of the deep they heard the approaching procession before they could see it. The harmony had a strange synchronization that reminded Irina of hundreds of differently tuned bells. Yet the actual sound was entirely new to her. More than anything else, it put her in mind of a multitude of distant electric harps. Only when the increasing blue-red glow in the distance began to resolve itself into individual shapes did a cautious Oxothyr venture an identification.

  “A coelenterate chorus! I have heard of such, but have never seen one.” Emulating his eagerness, his body turned bright yellow with small puce spots. “We must be careful.”

  “Why?” Reaching down, Irina nonchalantly pushed aside the tip of a coiling tentacle that was absently trying to loop itself around her left ankle.

  “Because that which is rarely encountered is always worthy of caution,” the shaman explained.

  But as the deep-water chorus drew close enough so that individual shapes could be more precisely distinguished, and as the sight and sound took her breath away, she found that circumspection was the farthest thing from her mind. She was sure she had seen more beautiful sights underwater—but at the moment she could not think of one.

  Jellyfish she had encountered before. Usually as individuals, occasionally in small groups, drifting in aimless glutinous indifference through waters both warm and chill. Sometimes they had been as quiescent as the dead, while on other occasions their pastel-tinged bells had throbbed like transparent round hearts as simple reflex action pushed them spasmodically through the water. Certainly she had never seen them dance.

  Much less sing.

  A cornucopia of light, sound, and movement, the gelatinous procession approached the travelers in a parade of individual glories. Some of the jellies had specks of impossibly intense crimson and gold running around the edges of their bodies as well as through them, like so many electrified rubies and citrines chasing one another in endless procession. Others sent waves of limpid blue spots running down their trailing tentacles, passionate streams of turquoise fire that dripped away into darkness like incandescent tears.

  This flashing, coruscating carnival of bioluminescence was accompanied by a melodious ringing and chiming that put Irina in mind of a traveling Balinese temple procession. Not for nothing in Oshenerth were the bodies of such jellyfish called bells. They rang and tinkled and clanged in perfect mystic counterpoint to the viscous light show. It was as if all the bells in an orchestra’s percussion section had suddenly come to life and decided to mate in an orgy of reverberation with several randy gamelans. She had never imagined, much less heard, anything quite like it.

  Sliding in and out, through and among the hundreds of trailing photophore-flashing tentacles were several dozen arrow-like fish. Silver of side and tiny of eye, they generated a different but complimentary sound as they rubbed against the tentacles. They were, she realized in amazement, playing the lethal stinging strands like bows on strings.

  Pulsing in time to the music they generated and strobing their internal lights in perfect visual counterpoint, the glutinous chorale was in no hurry to drift on by. Its dawdling progress was fine with Irina. Being a spectacle she might never encounter again, she was keen to savor it for as long as possible. Indeed, once in the vicinity of the captivated travelers the procession seemed to slow, as if its constituents’ rhopalia, or sensory organs, perceived that their energetic visual and auditory efforts had found an admiring audience.

  Irina realized that she could not turn away from so much splendor nor close her ears to the hypnotically seductive sounds. Hovering motionless in the dark water she stared and smiled at the nomadic parade, wishing that the presentation might never end. Barely aware of the mersons and manyarms around her, she noticed that though this was their world they were equally entranced by the phantasmagoric display. Even Oxothyr seemed spellbound. Very dimly, a part of her realized that there might be something wrong with this. But the notion evaporated almost as fast as it had formed in her mind.

  So focused had become her attention and that of her companions, merson and manyarm alike, that they did not notice nor did it trouble them that the rhythmic, pulsating swarm of sight and sound had ceased moving along its original path and was now drifting toward them with imperceptible patience. Each and every member of the expedition had been seduced by beauty. Utterly entranced by what they were seeing and hearing, it occurred to no one that the procession of soft-bodied medusae might be as dangerous as they were striking.

  Of them all, it was Chachel who had fought hardest against the dazzling paralysis. Characteristically morose, he was less subject to the effects of beauteous light and mesmerizing sound than his more ebullient companions. But even he was not immune. One especially glorious jelly shimmied and chimed before his eyes, its alluring array of bioluminescent lights strobing the same splendid patter
n over and over again, over and over, over and over. Like the others, he found himself lost in a haze of numbing majesty. Overcome with uncharacteristic emotion and seeking to share it, he turned and embraced the nearest individual.

  It happened to be Poylee. She did not hesitate to embrace him back.

  At a distance, Irina noted the entwining. It meant nothing to her. Why should it, when she found herself wholly subsumed in the glistening ballet pirouetting before her? Come closer, the music and the lights and the motion seemed to be saying. Partake of the joy and the wonder. Share in the boundless sensation. Dimly aware that her feet and lower legs seemed to be moving of their own accord, she felt herself being drawn inexorably forward by a beauty she could barely fathom.

  Then something was ripping at the bell of the medusa hovering just in front of her, shredding the fragile radiance. The repetitive pattern of bioluminescence the jelly was generating changed to one reflecting discontinuous alarm. She blinked, as if abruptly startled out of a dream. Peering down, she saw that a dozen potentially lethal tentacles dangled less than a foot from her body. Hastily, she backed away.

  Looking around, she saw that one by one the other members of the expedition were slowly emerging from the stasis into which they had slipped. The coelenterate procession’s wonderfully harmonious music was collapsing into harsh dissonance. Lights that had been flashing on and off in perfect synchronicity dissolved in bursts of distressed color. Instead of continuing to press their sting-immune silver bodies between and against hanging tentacles in order to generate melody, the numerous bow-fish had drawn themselves up against the bodies of their protectors. They huddled there against the underside of their chosen bells, seeking security.

  Meanwhile the enraged Sathi and Tythe continued to rip into one medusa after another, tearing them apart with the suckers on their arms or shredding the frail bodies with their sharp beaks. Each time one was attacked and had its mesmerizing lights and music interrupted, another dazed merson or bewildered manyarm found full consciousness restored to them.

  Fleeing at far greater velocity than they had shown themselves capable of attaining previously, the surviving jellyfish and their slender-bodied Piscean cohorts fled into the concealing darkness. Internal lights were turned off and all sound suppressed to cloak their escape.

  As soon as they realized what had taken place, the recovering members of the expedition gathered around the two now exhausted famuli. Grateful merson hands stroked the squids’ silvery sides while the tentacles of their fellow manyarms entwined with those of their jelly-coated saviors.

  “How did you know what was happening?” a grateful Jorosab asked.

  “Yes,” wondered Glint. “Somehow you two were immune.” The cuttlefish was pulsing an embarrassed orange. “I didn’t even realize what was happening to me.”

  “None of us did.” Having pushed a reluctant Poylee away from him, a plainly bemused Chachel was struggling to make sense of what had overcome them all. Irina was as curious as anyone. Unsurprisingly, it was Oxothyr who hazarded an explanation.

  “In this place of darkness, the action of so many bright lights blinking in rhythmic sequence combined with suitably complimentary music had the effect of numbing one’s perception. I myself was not aware of what was occurring.” An arm gestured expansively. “There is not one of you here who is not adept with spear or knife, bow or axe. These are weapons of heft and solidity. They are far easier to parry than soothing sensations.” He turned to his assistants. “Yet when all others were entranced you two were not affected. I am most anxious to know why.”

  One famulus looked at the other. It was left to Tythe to respond.

  “I do not know, Master Oxothyr. I can only say that I did not feel myself influenced as you describe.”

  “Nor I,” added Sathi. He seemed as mystified as his companion by their immunity to the medusas’ mesmerizing music and dance.

  Oxothyr pressed for enlightenment. “You did not find the lights dominating your thinking, the music anesthetizing your emotions?” The two smaller cephalopods were united in their response.

  “I just heard ringing noises,” insisted Sathi.

  “I just saw some colored lights,” declared Tythe.

  Oxothyr pondered their replies for a moment before turning to his attentive audience. “I think I understand what happened. While exhibiting an admirable eagerness in their chores and a demonstrable willingness to learn, neither of my attendants has ever revealed anything that might be construed as exceptional curiosity. Or even, to be charitable, what might be called average curiosity. They are loyal, and efficient, and reasonably competent at carrying out those tasks that I choose to give them. Initiative is an unknown concept to them. If they suffer from any explicit affliction, it is a certain quality of overarching dullness.” Reaching out, he put a tentacle around each of them. It was a gesture of gratitude, not intimacy.

  “We need all of us to be thankful for their keen lack of imagination. They were not affected by the medusas’ spellbinding music and captivating luminance because they were incapable of appreciating it.”

  As Oxothyr backed away, the rest of the expedition crowded around the two famuli to further express their gratitude. Irina was among them. It was instructive to see that even the best led and most carefully planned outing could suffer from an excess of intelligence. Come to think of it, she could remember more than one night out with her girlfriends that had ended badly when they had allowed themselves to be overcome by too much light, too much music, and too much physical attractiveness on the part of the opposite sex. On those occasions, however, salvation had not been a matter of abbreviated squid id, and had usually involved immersion in liquids of a kind other than salt water.

  For their part, the two famuli soon sought surcease from the surfeit of gratitude, and were visibly relieved when the expedition resumed its journey in the wake of the near-fatal melodious interruption.

  O O O

  Days later they had lost not only the last of the light but whatever residual heat filtered down from the surface. She ought to have been freezing, Irina knew. Instead, she was cool but comfortable. Despite wearing next to nothing, her merson companions also showed no signs of discomfort. As for the expedition’s manyarms, they could remain comfortable throughout a significant range of temperatures.

  “Why aren’t we cold?” she asked Chachel, swimming parallel to his dimly lit form. “Don’t your kind ever get cold?”

  “Of course we do.” Though he would have preferred to avoid casual conversation, now that she had swum up alongside and formally engaged him, he could hardly just swim away. The hunter could be curt, he could be abrupt, but outright rudeness did not make for pleasant journeying. In such a small group it behooved everyone to remain on at least minimally polite terms with as many traveling companions as possible. So instead of brushing her off, he offered what he hoped would be a brief yet adequate explanation.

  “People—mersons—can tolerate cold quite well.” He gestured downward. “Were we to go much deeper than this, we would indeed begin to suffer. But we are not so deep yet that the chill affects us seriously.” Reaching out, he touched the center of her chest, just between a pair of Oxothyr’s enchanted blue lights. Her instinctive recoil caused him to frown.

  “I was just trying to make a point about pressure. Your changeling form has adapted to that also.”

  “Oh. Of course.” She felt foolish. And perhaps also just a little disappointed. “I was going to ask about that, too.”

  “You have a proper body now. One that is comfortable in and suited to the realworld, as opposed to your previous ugly demon form.” She did not argue his point, fully aware that any countervailing arguments she might offer would carry no weight here. “The temperature should not bother you unless it drops considerably more—which I do not think it will.” He gestured down into the blackness below them. “Do you understand?”

  “I think I …”

  “Good!” Having discharged his obli
gation to be civil, he kicked hard and shot ahead, his personal lights fading into the distance.

  The man would rather kill than converse, she told herself irritably. She’d met more convivial sharks. Not to mention octopods, squids, and one particularly ostentatious cuttlefish. Why should she care about his reactions, anyway? Because he happened to have been one of two who had saved her? The more she got to know Chachel, the more convinced she became that if not for Glint’s presence on the same hunting excursion that had led to them finding her, the gruff merson would have left her to rot on the surface. He was as boorish a man as she had ever met.

  No, not man, she reminded herself. Merson. They had even less in common than met the eye. Oxothyr was a better friend, Glint continually expressed more interest in her welfare. Then there was Poylee, who continued to treat her like some sort of otherworldly infection. Finding herself drawn closer to exotic cephalopods than to fellow bipeds suggested it was definitely time to press for a return to where she belonged.

  Except that she could not find the way home without help and she could not plausibly pester Oxothyr into spending the time to facilitate the attempt. Not with a war going on. She caught herself. It was the first time she’d thought of what she had seen over the course of the past several weeks in terms of a war. The word had not been used by the mersons or by the manyarms. An oversight, she was certain. What else to call it when hostile species invaded your territory, destroyed innocent communities, and slaughtered the inhabitants? Did the mersons think by not using the word that they might somehow minimize the consequences? Surely these folk were not that foolish?

  Everyone had spoken repeatedly of the abnormality, even Oxothyr. Had she landed, or rather sunk, into the first real war this world had ever experienced? Fighting was not unknown, as evinced by the enmity that existed between mersons and manyarms on one side and spralakers on the other. But perhaps such hostile encounters had previously been restricted to isolated, petty disputes. Rightly or wrongly, that was the impression she had received whenever such matters were discussed.