Pathways

by Jeri Taylor

  She found a sharp blade among her father’s possessions, and began to sever chunks of her long curls, cutting them close to the scalp in ragged layers. Only when most of her tresses lay on the floor did she feel cleansed of Toscat’s plump hands. She carefully gathered the cut hair and took it outside the periphery of the city, into a passageway, where she found a rounded indentation in one of the stones. She placed the hair there and burned it, finding a soothing catharsis in watching the curls of smoke dissipate in the cool, dark air, as though dissolving Toscat into nothingness.

  That night, she sat at the table with her parents, who apparently couldn’t decide which shocked them most: her misbehavior with Toscat, or her self-induced hairstyle. She could see her father struggling with feelings of outrage, shame, and compassion.

  “I thought I’d taught you there are ways to achieve your goals,” said Benaren aloud, genuinely trying to understand his daughter’s aberrant behavior. Kes was grateful that her parents, at least, avoided the slothful temptation to speak only telepathically. “If you approach someone with courtesy and reasonableness, if you treat them politely, with respect—you’re a lot more likely to get what you want.”

  “I tried that. He was stubborn and insufferable.”

  “So you succumbed immediately—and brought yourself to his level.”

  Kes dropped her eyes. It was a fact, she’d lost control in an instant. Her father’s chastisement rang true. “You’re right. But I honestly believe that the outcome would have been the same no matter how self-possessed I was. He just wasn’t going to tell me about the ancient records.”

  “He’s under no compunction to do so,” offered her mother. “There are rules which govern a society. Here, the Elders decide those rules, and it isn’t up to a child to question them.”

  Kes’s head snapped toward her mother. “Why not? Why isn’t it all right for anyone to question authority? Even a child. If the authority is valid, it should stand up to examination.”

  She saw her mother and father exchange a glance, but she couldn’t read what was communicated there. She thought, however, that she detected a hint of pride.

  “Tell me this,” continued Benaren, “what made you do that to your hair? Did it have anything to do with Toscat?”

  “I’m not sure,” replied Kes, and at this point that was true. Surely the fact that the Elder had touched her hair wasn’t reason enough to cut it off, even though it had seemed so at the time. “I think I just wanted to be different.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw a twist of a smile appear on her mother’s lips, then as quickly disappear. “It will grow,” said Martis philosophically, and that was the end of the discussion of her hair.

  A month later, Kes stood in the middle of the Assembly floor. Her hair was somewhat neater than it had been after her impromptu styling, as her mother had sat her down and trimmed the uneven parts so it looked purposeful, rather than as though she’d been attacked by someone with a dull knife. She was wearing a new outfit, one Daggin’s sister had made for her. It consisted of soft leggings and a tunic over that, and Kes was more comfortable in it than she’d ever been in any clothing. There was an ease to the outfit, a freedom of movement, that she found liberating. But there, on the floor of the Assembly, she was an oddly incongruous sight.

  She was nervous about what she planned to do, but she’d discussed it with Daggin and the others in the farming group, and they all agreed it was a necessary step—and that Kes was unquestionably the one to take it.

  “Citizens of Ocampa,” she called out in a clear, confident voice. “Please listen to me. I want to let you know of something extraordinary that’s happening in our society. There are records—written records—that tell of our past. We could all know the circumstances which brought us to live here, beneath the surface. We could learn about the Caretaker, and why he put us here, and why he provides for us. We could know these things—but our Elders won’t give us access to those records. They insist the writings are for their eyes only, and they withhold these ancient truths from the public. Is this fair? Do they have that right? Shouldn’t we all be allowed access to our history?”

  She noted that a small group of people had gathered round, but realized it was primarily Daggin and their friends. Most of the Ocampa were transfixed by the entertainment screens, and couldn’t stir themselves enough to pay attention to this minor insurrection that was occurring in front of them. Kes kept going.

  “Knowledge shouldn’t be hidden away from the people, it should be given freely to anyone who requests it. Knowledge itself isn’t dangerous—but lack of it can be devastating. Wouldn’t we be better off as a people if we had more knowledge, rather than less? These writings of our ancestors contain a gift more valuable even than energy and water—they contain truth. That’s a quality that is valuable in and of itself. All people should seek the truth, and those who govern should have that same quest. But we’re being denied the truth, because of a small group of people who have decided on our behalf that truth and knowledge are better off kept secret. Do you see any wisdom in that kind of thinking?”

  She glanced up at the glass-front façade of the structure that contained the Elders’ offices. She was fairly sure she saw Toscat’s squat shape standing at his window, peering down. The sight gave her a rush of vindication, and she turned to the small group that had gathered around her. She was gratified to see that it had grown somewhat; some of the citizenry had apparently developed curiosity about what was happening.

  “She’s right,” called Daggin from the periphery. “We ought to be able to study our own past. Why are these documents being kept from us? Is there some ulterior purpose? We should hold the Elders accountable for their actions!”

  A lusty cheer arose from the small band of their supporters, but the other Ocampans merely looked perplexed. This was a singularly unconventional event, one outside their ken, and they had no idea how to respond. The pacifying influence of the screens was more familiar, and some of them wandered back.

  “Who will go with me to the Elders?” called Kes. “Who will join in our demand to find the truth of our past?” Again, Daggin and the others pressed forward, calling, “We will!” But most of the citizens began to drift away, unable to absorb what Kes was proposing. She watched them melt back into the milling crowds, and for the first time began to feel doubt. These people were too far gone, too docile, too drained of initiative. They would never challenge the Elders.

  Then Kes saw a familiar figure standing near one of the columns. It was Martis, her mother, and she was smiling at Kes with what could only be called unabashed pride. Their eyes locked, Kes felt a surge of love pass between them, and her courage returned. She turned back to the crowd. “Come with me,” she rang out, “let’s go right now. They can’t refuse us.”

  She began to stride toward the office structure, followed by Daggin and their friends. She noticed that a few other Ocampans fell in behind them, though more from an instinct to follow than from revolutionary zeal. So be it, at least their numbers had swelled.

  Marlath’s face was startled when they burst into the anteroom and demanded to see Toscat. He was clearly disquieted by the appearance of this unruly group, for nothing like this had ever happened, so far as he knew. He stammered as he spoke.

  “I . . . I don’t know if he’s here. He may have . . . have gone to . . . to . . .”

  “Don’t bother, Marlath. I know he’s here. I could see him from the Assembly floor,” challenged Kes. At that point the door to Toscat’s office opened and he appeared, summoning as much mastery of the situation as he could.

  “Citizens, how can I help you?” he asked, and Kes was intrigued that he chose to speak out loud. They’d had an effect on him, after all.

  “We want the right to review the records our ancestors kept,” announced Daggin firmly. Toscat’s eyes swept the group and stopped on Kes.

  “I see you’ve been busy, Kes,” he said, with a hint of disappointment in his voice, as
though she had somehow personally betrayed him.

  “We all feel alike, Toscat, and we feel very strongly. What is your response?”

  Toscat surveyed the group for a moment, then threw open his hands. “I can’t make this decision myself. I must convene all the Elders. It must be discussed thoroughly before we find the true course.”

  “When will you convene?”

  “I’m not certain. I’ll have to discuss scheduling with the others.”

  “It’s not as though you have a great deal to do,” said Kes, unwilling to let him procrastinate indefinitely. Toscat drew his breath in sharply and glared at her.

  “How would a child like you know what responsibilities we must shoulder? You have no idea what our days are like—”

  “When, Toscat?”

  He drew a breath and sighed wearily. “I’ll try to convene everyone tomorrow.”

  “We’ll call on you before nightly rations, then.”

  He nodded and disappeared back into his office, shutting the door firmly. Kes, Daggin, and the others exchanged a triumphant look. “See you tomorrow, Marlath,” said Kes, and they all filed out with feelings of great victory.

  Of course, the Elders didn’t convene the next day, nor the next, nor the next. And when they finally did, under great pressure from the militant and tenacious group of farmers, they didn’t make a decision. They kept this delaying tactic up for days, and would probably have continued it indefinitely, if something extraordinary hadn’t happened, something so bizarre and unexplainable that even the Elders became worried.

  One afternoon, as Kes, Daggin, and the others sat in the Assembly hall, discussing what further measures to try to bring pressure on the Elders, there was a sudden and unusual sound, a ringing, a shimmering, that seemed to come from nowhere and which became almost painfully loud. People covered their ears in discomfort, and gradually, the ringing faded away.

  When it was over, two alien beings lay on the floor of the hall.

  Awed, wary, a few of the braver souls crept toward the beings, who were clearly of a species unlike theirs. Their skin was covered with a thick white fur, they were much taller than Ocampans, and their heads were elongated into a spherical shape. They were quite the strangest beings Kes had ever imagined.

  “Where did they come from?” someone asked, but received no answer. People moved closer, and noticed that there were what appeared to be sores dotted on the arms and shoulders of both aliens. Glances were exchanged and shoulders shrugged as no one knew what to do next.

  Kes moved through the group to stand over the alien beings. “They’re sick,” she announced. “We have to help them.” She knelt down and ascertained that both were breathing, but apparently unconscious. “Daggin, get the medical service.” Daggin hurried off, and Kes was glad there was someone there who wasn’t stupefied into immobility by this amazing appearance.

  Within minutes, Toscat and two of the other Elders had arrived, followed shortly by physicians from the medical service. Toscat surveyed the situation, and the unconscious aliens, and made a pronouncement: “The Caretaker has sent these beings to us. It is our duty to care for them.”

  How he had arrived at this conclusion was a question Kes would like to have asked, but she didn’t want to ruffle Toscat any more than she already had. She still had hopes that the Elders would relent and grant access to the historical writings. Besides, she agreed that they had a responsibility to help these aliens, regardless of where they had come from or how they had gotten there.

  The two large, furry beings were carried off to the central clinic, after which no news of them was forthcoming.

  However, within days, two more arrived in the same manner.

  These beings more closely resembled the Ocampa, except that their ears were tiny and unembellished, and their skin was a dark red color. They had no hair on their heads. They, too, had the sores which had appeared on the first pair, and like those first arrivals, they were carried off to the medical center.

  These strange visitations became a regular occurrence, every several days witnessing the advent of two more sick beings, all of them different from the Ocampa, all of them unconscious and ridden with sores of unknown origin.

  The Elders seemed flummoxed by the events. They convened regularly, often staying up well into the night cycle, the lights from their offices the only lights seen in the Assembly hall. It was after two weeks of this that Toscat summoned Kes.

  This time she stayed on her feet rather than get swallowed into the voluptuous cushions of Toscat’s couch. The plump little man looked haggard; the jowls of his cheeks seemed to sag a little more than before, and the skin beneath his eyes was yellowish, signifying a lack of sleep.

  “We know the Caretaker is sending us these aliens for a purpose, but we are unable to comprehend what that purpose might be. We have cared for them to the best of our ability, but so far, every one of them has died. We are failing the Caretaker.” This was interesting news, but didn’t explain just why he had summoned Kes. She held her tongue and waited. Toscat paced away from her, hands clasped behind his back.

  The next seemed difficult for him to say; she was sure she heard his voice catch a few times. But it didn’t matter, because what he said was so exciting that she scarcely cared what he sounded like. “It has occurred to us . . . that is, the possibility has been broached . . . that the Caretaker was for some reason unhappy that you were not granted permission to read the old texts. Not that I give this theory any credence, mind you, but others have posited it, and it’s been agreed that we dare not risk offending the Caretaker, even unintentionally.” He paused, gazing out the window. They both heard the characteristic shimmery ringing which had become so familiar, and knew that more aliens had arrived.

  “The Elders have decided that you may study the writings. Perhaps that will appease the Caretaker. Perhaps you will find in those texts some revelation that will explain why he is sending these beings to us.”

  Kes’s heart was pounding so loudly that her ears were pulsating. She was going to be able to read about their past! For once she felt a twinge of gratitude toward the Caretaker, whoever or whatever he was, for having such a profound influence on the Elders. If they hadn’t been so nervous about him, she might never have won the right to read the ancient records.

  “Come with me,” continued Toscat, “and you can begin immediately.” He turned and walked from the room, followed closely by Kes. They proceeded down the corridor to a tiny room Kes had never realized was there, as it was hidden by a door that had been made to resemble the wall. They entered the room, the doors closed—and then Kes’s stomach almost jumped into her throat as the little room began to descend!

  She turned to Toscat, eyes wide with surprise. “It’s a conveyance chamber,” he explained. “The only one in the city. It leads to the vaults.”

  This adventure was becoming more intriguing all the time. Vaults! Buried deep below the Assembly hall—who would have thought it? Kes took several deep breaths to calm herself, but she couldn’t quell the excitement that possessed her.

  They exited the chamber and walked down a long, dimly lit hallway until they reached its terminus. There Toscat put his hand on the wall in a particular location and the wall swung open—another concealed door. Toscat stepped through and gestured for Kes to follow him.

  The room had an unusual smell to it, a mustiness that Kes found appealing. It was the scent of history, and its odor was intoxicating. She looked around her to see the walls of the room lined with bookshelves, all of which contained bound books of various sizes and thicknesses. Some looked relatively new and unused; others were clearly ancient, the covers cracked and shriveled from age. In the center of the room stood a square table with two chairs precisely placed at either end, suggesting that they were rarely, if ever, used. Kes walked immediately to the section containing what she perceived to be the oldest of the books.

  “Those are the earliest of the writings,” said Toscat without emotion, which wa
s surprising to Kes, who was so excited to be here that she felt sick to her stomach. “They were composed by our forefathers soon after the Caretaker created our home here. A history was kept for many generations . . .” Toscat walked from one side of the room to the other, where the newer books were shelved, and gestured. “. . . until several generations ago, when the histories gradually dwindled out.”

  “You mean—people stopped writing about us? We’ve lost part of the past?”

  Toscat looked impatient. “What good was it doing us? Nothing ever changed, and fewer people knew how to read or write.” He turned to her and gave her a skeptical look. “I trust you can read. No one’s going to do it for you if you can’t.”

  Kes lifted her chin proudly. “Of course I can read. And write. My father and mother made sure of that.”

  Toscat made a funny sound in his throat, a cross between a grunt and a chuckle, which irritated Kes even more. She turned away from him. “Can I start now?” she asked coolly.

  The man shrugged. “As you like. The door will lock behind you automatically, so if you leave and want to return, you’ll have to contact me.”

  “It will take me days to go through all these books.”

  “I would imagine so. I’ll arrange to have food and drink brought to you.”

  He turned to go, but she was compelled to make one last effort to reach out to him, to share this remarkable experience. “Toscat . . . the first time you read these writings, weren’t you excited? Didn’t it inspire you?”

  He stared at her with a curious expression on his face. “I’ve never read any of these old tomes,” he said dismissively. “I’ve never had time—and I can’t imagine what good would come of it anyway.”

  He turned and went out the door, which closed behind him. Kes stared after him in amazement. Ocampan history was here, at his fingertips, and he’d ignored it. Something was very, very wrong with their people if they could purposely ignore the precious connection to their past. She went to the first book on the top shelf in the oldest section and pulled it out, releasing a small dust cloud as she did. She carried it to the table, opened it to the first scrawled page of writing, and began, in rapt absorption, to read.