Then he fell silent and said nothing more for quite some time while he tried to decide how he was going to act now that he knew what the mission was about. Eventually he reached the conclusion that he would still have volunteered to come even if he had known the whole truth; that being part of the group selected for such a mission was gratifying; and that while the journey had suddenly gained certain frightening aspects, he did not regret that aspect of it. Besides, nothing could have kept him from going wherever Beedie went, though he carefully did not explain this to himself. After a little time he felt better about it, and actually smiled as he followed Beedie on down the seemingly endless stair.
“What was it you said about not stopping at Nextdown?” Mercald asked her. “I didn’t understand that part.”
“Mavin said she would meet us on the stairs before we get to Nextdown, and she doesn’t want us to go to Nextdown at all if we can help it. She thinks old Slysaw has been building strength there, and likely we’d be set upon. It’s important that they not lay hands upon you.”
“How would they know we are coming? Are the Banders set to assault any Birder who shows up?” Mercald was edgy with uncertainty, fearful and made touchy by his fear.
“Mavin thought old Slysaw had probably hired a Messenger or two. We know Slysaw is up on Topbridge. One of the Chafers from Bridgers House saw him. So he might have sent word ahead of us to Nextdown. She says she’ll be very surprised if he didn’t.”
“I didn’t know there was a way around Nextdown,” commented Roges, hearing this for the first time.
“Neither does she. But Mavin says if there is a way, she will have found it by the time we get there. She thinks there may be some construction stairs used by the Bridgers in times past that will duck down this side and join the stairs to Midwall farther on.”
“If so” said Mercald, “I’ll wager they’ve rotted away by now. Nextdown is the second oldest of all the bridges, and it hasn’t been renewed at all. Any construction stairs would be lair for crawly-claws by now.”
“I thought Topbridge was the second bridgetown built,” said Roges. “Before the fall of Firstbridge.”
Mercald shook his head. “Nextdown had been started before Firstbridge was destroyed. There were already stairs down to it, which is how a few Firstbridgers escaped. Then, it was from Nextdown they moved up to build Topbridge. It’s all in the records we have left at the Birders House. Not that they’re complete in any sense. Mostly they’re things that were rewritten from memory after Firstbridge was broken.”
“Do they say where we came from, Mercald?” Beedie had been curious about this ever since Mavin had spoken of the wide world above the chasm.
“Only that we came from somewhere else, long ago. We lived on the surface under the trees until the beasts drove us out. And why that happened is a mystery. Some say it’s because we sinned, disobeyed the Boundless. Others say the Demon Daudir brought it upon us out of wickedness.”
“I haven’t ever heard of the Demon Daudir!” Beedie was indignant. “If it’s an old story, why haven’t I heard it?”
“Because it’s accounted heresy,” replied Mercald. He had stopped for a moment at a place the stair root they were on switched to another one, heading back along the root wall. Stairs were made by pulling a side root diagonally along the root wall as far as it would go, then cutting steps into it and building rails where necessary. Except for the short stretch between Potter’s bridge and Miner’s bridge, one root was not sufficient for the whole distance and crossovers were needed. At these crossover points, small platforms gave space to rest. Travelers caught between bridges by nightfall sometimes slept there, too. Mercald stopped to take off his high feathered hat, folding it up with some care and stowing it away in his pack wrapped in a handkerchief. His robes were next, and when he had finished all the regalia was hidden away and he appeared to be merely another traveler. “Daudir was supposed to be a Demon who arrived out of the Boundless in the time of our many-times-great forefathers. She brought disaster upon our world, so it is said, and our own troubles were the result. However, this is not in accordance with the Birders’ teaching, so we don’t talk of it.”
Beedie wondered if Mavin knew the legend, and if so what she thought of it. “Why isn’t it in accordance, Mercald? Is it a story?”
“Everything is a story,” muttered Roges, unheard.
“It isn’t a story,” Mercald said. “But it is doctrine. Do you want to hear it?”
“If it isn’t too much trouble.”
“As a Birder, I have no choice. Trouble or no, I must tell what is to be told. That’s what Birders are for. So. Let me follow you and Roges, and that way you can hear me as I talk…
“The Story of the Creation of All. Ahem. Time was the Boundless lived alone, without edge or limit, lost in contemplation of itself. Time was the Boundless said, ‘I will divide me into parts and compare one part against the next to see if I am the same in all parts of me, for if there is difference in anything, in this way may I discover it.’
“So the Boundless divided itself, one part against another part, and examined all the parts to see if difference dwelt among them, and lo, there was difference among the parts for what one part contained was not always what another part contained.
“So the Boundless was lost in contemplation, until the Boundless said, ‘Lo, I will divide me smaller, in order to see where the difference lies.’ And the Boundless divided itself smaller yet, finding more difference the smaller it was divided…”
“I don’t understand that at all,” murmured Beedie to Roges.
“It would be hard to tell the difference between Beedie and Beedie,” Roges whispered. “But if you divided yourself in pieces, I suppose it would be easy enough to tell your left foot from your elbow.” He smiled behind his hand.
“Until at last,” Mercald went on in full flight of quotation, “the Boundless was many, myriad, and the differences were everywhere. Then did the Boundless hear the crying of its parts which were lost in the all and everything. ‘Woe,’ they cried, ‘we are lost’”
“I should think so,” muttered Beedie. “What a thing to do to oneself.”
“So it was the Boundless created Bounds for its parts and its differences, and places wherein they might exist, that the differences might have familiarities in which to grow toward Boundlessness once more…”
“And a good thing, too,” said Beedie. “Now, what has that to do with not believing in Daudir the Demon?”
Mercald shook his head at her, provoked. “Obviously, this chasm is a familiarity, a Bounded place which was created for us by the Boundless. We are the differences who live here. If it was created for us by the Boundless, then it can have nothing to do with Demons or devils or anything of the kind. All of that is mere superstition and beneath our dignity as people of the chasm. Doctrine teaches that all differences are merely that – differences. Not necessarily good or evil.” He then fell silent, climbing a little slower so that the other two drew away from him
“Try not to tread on him,” said Roges. “All the really religious Birders are sensitive as mim plants. You touch them crooked, and they curl up and ooze. As judges go, Mercald isn’t bad. He’s true to the calling.”
“You speak as though some might not be,” she said, surprised.
“Some are not. I come from Potter’s bridge, and we had Birders there as judges I would not have had judge my serving of tea for fear they’d condemn me under chasm rule. It was pay them in advance or suffer the consequences, and those among us too poor to pay suffered indeed.”
“Wasn’t it reported to the chasm council?”
“Oh, eventually. Before that, however, there was much damage done. In the end, it was only three of them were judged by their fellows and tossed over, two brothers and a sister, all corrupt as old iron.” He moved swiftly to one side of the stair, reaching out toward a ropey root that hung an arm’s length away. It was dotted with tender nodules, the green-furred ones called root m
ice, and he cut them cleanly from the root to place them in the pouch at his belt. “Enough for the three of us,” he said. “And some left over for breakfast.” He knelt, peering through the railings. “Ah. Look there, Bridger. In that little hole in the biggest root along there, see – behind the three little ones in a row.”
She knelt beside him, searching until her eyes found the waving claws, moving out, then in, then out once more. “A crawly-claw,” she whispered. “Do you suppose we could get him?”
“Do you suppose we should? With a judge following after? We’re not Hunter caste.” He was laughing at her, she knew, but at the moment she didn’t mind.
“I caught one once,” she confessed, blushing at the memory of her illicit behavior. “A little one. I had to hunt all up and down the root wall for enough deadroot to cook it, but it was worth it. Isn’t it all right if we’re out on the root wall?”
“We’re not on the root wall. We’re on the stairs. And there’s likely to be a party coming up or coming down past us any time. No. Likely hunting a crawly-claw would take longer than would be prudent.”
“It’s true. They pull back in and disappear, and you have to burrow for them. Well, all right,” she agreed.
“But we’ll keep an eye out for any wireworms. And if we see any, we get them, whether there’s a Hunter around or not.” Beedie had never had enough fried wireworms, and there were never enough in the market to satisfy her appetite, even if she had had enough money to buy them all.
Mercald had caught up with them, evidently restored to good humor by his time alone. He moved ahead of them now, after admiring the crawly-claw and quoting in great details several recipes for preparation of the beasts, and they continued their downward way. Beedie, her legs accustomed to hard climbs by hours each day spent in spurs, did not feel the climb, but she noticed that both the others stopped from time to time, wriggling their legs and feet to restore feeling numbed by the constant down, down, down.
They had not come far enough yet for the quality of light to change much. It was still that watery green light the Topbridgers knew as daylight, full of swimming shadows cast by the leaves as they moved in winds from outside the chasm. Beedie remembered the light on Nextdown as being less watery and more murky, darker. She had heard that on Midwall and Miner’s bridge, lanterns were used except at midday, and of course on Bottommost they were needed at all times. She had heard, also, that the eyes of the people on Bottommost were larger, but this might well not be true. Surely travelers from Bottommost would have come to Topbridge from time to time, but she had never noticed any strangers with very large eyes.
They went on. A group of chattering Porters passed them going up, followed not much later by a second group, their legs hard and bulging with climbing muscle. A Messenger swooped by on flopperskin wings, calling to them as they went, “Luck to the quest, Bridger…” before falling away out of sight in the direction of Potter’s bridge. The light began to fail; the stairs became hard to see. Far below them lights began to flicker in a long line, stretching from the root wall out across the chasm in a delicate chain, growing brighter as they descended. They stopped at the railing to look down, hearing the voice behind them without surprise, almost as though they had expected it.
“What took you so long?” asked Mavin. She stood in the shadow, half-hidden behind a fall of small roots, almost invisible.
“We had no wings, ma’am,” said Roges, grinning at Mavin with what Beedie considered astonishing familiarity.
“Fair blow Maintainer. Well, I had hoped to tell you of a sideway by this time, some kind of trail or climb around Nextdown. I’ve looked. Up the wall and down it, behind the roots and before them. Nothing. What was there has rotted away and been eaten by the wireworms long since.”
“So we must go to Nextdown after all” said Beedie.
“Where needs must, sausage girl. However, we’ll not do it without a little preparation. There’s a house full of Banders near the stair – the very house your Aunt Six told me you used to occupy, Beedie. Evidently all the Bander kin from upstairs and down have come to fill it full, and every window of it has eyes on this stairway. They’ve been warned we’re coming. There’s talk of assault and the taking of a Birder hostage. So, lest harm fall…”
“Lest harm fall?” questioned Mercald, fearfully.
“We shall commit a surprise. As soon as we figure one out. However, why don’t we have something to eat first. Have you supplies, Maintainer?”
“Fresh root mice, ma’am. And things less fresh brought from Topbridge. We can have a cold supper.”
“No need for that. There’s a cave in the wall, just here, behind these roots, and a pile of deadroot in it enough to warm twenty dinners. There is also a convenient air shaft which guarantees we will not suffocate in our own smoke. Even if all this were not so near and so convenient, I would want it to be a good bit darker before we attempt to go past that Bridgers House. So we might as well rest a while and enjoy our food.”
“We saw a crawly-claw, Mavin. I wanted to hunt it, but Roges said the Hunter caste might catch us at it.”
“Are they especially delicious, girl?”
“They are the best thing next to wireworms. Even better, sometimes.”
“Then we’ll have to try and hunt one down, somewhere along the way, Hunter caste or no.” She wormed her way behind the bundle of roots, showing them the way into the cave. The sight of it surprised them all, for it was lit with one of the puffed fish lanterns glowing softly to itself in the black. Snaffled from Nextdown by a strange bird, said Mavin with some amusement. There was also a vast pile of deadroot, looking as though it had fallen there rather than been gathered in. Roges set about building a fire, laying his supplies ready to hand on a spread sheet of flopperskin.
“I didn’t know there were caves in the root wall.” Mercald was indignant, as though the existence of anything he did not know of was an affront to his priestly dignity.
“I think your people have become so caste-ridden, priest, that they do not use their humanish curiosity any longer. You have no explorer caste, do you? No. Nor any geographers? Your adventurous young are not encouraged to burrow about in the root wall?”
“Well, in a manner of speaking,” Beedie interrupted. “Bridger youngsters climb about from the time they can walk. I did.”
“Always under supervision, I’ll warrant. Always learning methods or perfecting skills. Well, it doesn’t matter; it’s only a matter of interest to me. In looking for a way around Nextdown, you see, I have found a number of curiosities, and I merely wonder that the people of the chasm seem unaware of them. For example, there is another cave somewhat below us which happens to be occupied by a strangeness.”
“Occupied?” Roges looked up from his folding grill, interested. “Someone living in the wall? A Miner, perhaps?”
“A person. He tells me his name is Haile Sefalik; by profession, a theoretician; in actuality a stranger, an outlander, not belonging in this chasm at all. He tells me he has come here for difference, for where he was before was same. I invited him to join us for supper.”
Roges made a face and turned to his pack for another handful of the root mice. He was slicing them into a pan with bits of dried flopper meat and a bulb of thickic. He did not comment. Mavin watched their faces, interested in the ways they received this news: Mercald fearfully; Roges with housekeeperish resignation; Beedie with delight.
“How wonderful! What is he, Mavin? I don’t know what a theo – a theor whatever is.”
“I’m not at all certain, sausage girl. That’s why I invited him. He looks hungry, for a start, so I presume a theoretician is not anything practical like a Harvester or a Bridger. He is living in an unimproved cave, so I presume it isn’t something useful like a Miner or Crafter. There is a sort of dedication in his expression which reminds me of you, Mercald, but he has no regalia at all.”
“What is he doing, then? In his cave?”
“So far as I can tell, he sits a
nd thinks.”
“Only that?” asked Mercald, scandalized.
“Only that. He’s being fed by the slow-girules. I saw two of them come in and leave him a few nodules while I was there. They talked at him, and he talked back at them, and they purred.” She smiled again, then held up one finger. “Shhh. I think I hear him on the stairs.”
There was a slow tread on the stairs, interrupted by frequent stops. Beedie ran to the cave entrance and peered between the roots, seeing a dark shape silhouetted against the lights of Nextdown, below them. “I know why it does that,” said a voice in a tone of pleased amazement. “It’s obvious.”
“You know why what does what?” asked Beedie, coming out onto the stairs. “Why what does what?”
“I know why it feels colder here than it does up above, among the trees. They always say it is because we are closer to the river, here, with more moisture in the air. Nonsense. We’ve come down a long way. There’s more atmosphere, more heat capacity, and the thicker air cools us faster. That’s all. I hadn’t thought about that until now. Interesting, isn’t it.” The person turned toward her, not seeing her. “Different. Not the same at all.” He moved blindly toward the place in the roots from which she had emerged, feeling his way between them to the firelit space beyond.
“Who’s they?” asked Beedie. “I never heard ‘they’ say that, about the river and the moisture.”
“They,” said the man, moving steadily toward the fire and food. “You know. Them.”
Beedie had no idea about them. She shook her head and followed him, seeing Mavin grasp him by one arm and lead him to a convenient sitting stone. He was dressed all in ragged bits and pieces, and his face was one of mild interest, unfocused, as though he did not really see any of them even while he took food from Roges’s hands. He had shaggy, light hair and a wild-looking moustache and beard which drooped below his chin, wagging gently when he spoke. The colour of his eyes was indeterminable, somewhere between vacant and shadow. After a long pause during which no one said anything, he murmured, “Perhaps it was some other place they said it about. That it was cooler lower down. Because it was wetter. Perhaps that was it.”
The Sheri S. Tepper eBook Collection Page 81
