by Anissa Gray
〈Because it’s reflex〉 came the answer in his mind. 〈It’s deeper than thought.〉
“But will I remember it? Can I teach it to others?”
〈You’ll remember some of it. You’ll make mistakes but it will come back to you, because it’s now deep in your mind, too. You may not be able to explain well what you do, but they can watch you and learn that way.〉
The bow was ready. He unstrung it again and then began work on the arrows. The Oversoul had led him to a place where many birds nested—he found no shortage of feathers there. And the short straight arrow shafts came from the tough woody reeds growing around a pool. And the arrowheads from obsidian crumbling out of the side of a hill. He gathered them all, having no idea of how to work with them; yet now the knowledge poured out of his fingers without ever reaching his conscious mind. By dawn he would have his arrows, his bow, perhaps in time enough for him to get a few hours of sleep. After that it would be daylight, and his real test: to track and follow his prey, and kill it, and bring it home.
And if I do, what then? I will be the hero, striding back into camp, triumphant, with the blood of the kill on my hands, on my clothing. I will be the one who brought meat when no one else could have. I will be the one who made it possible for the expedition to go on. I will be Velikodushnu, I will be the savior of my family and friends, everyone will know that when even my father shrank from the journey I was the one who found a way to continue, so that when we go forth among the stars and human feet again step on the soil of Earth, it will have been my triumph, because I made this bow, these arrows, and brought meat home to the wives ...
Then, in the midst of his imagined triumph, another thought: I will be the one held responsible from then on if anything goes wrong. I will be the one blamed for every misfortune on the journey. It will be my expedition, and even Father will look to me for leadership. On that day Father will be irretrievably weakened. Who will lead then? Until now, the answer would have been clear: Elemak. Who could rival him? Who would follow anybody else, except the handful who will do whatever the Oversoul asks? But now, if I return as the hero, I will be in a position to rival Elemak. Not in a position to overwhelm him, though. Only to rival him. Only strong enough to tear the company apart. It would lead to bitterness no matter who won; it might lead to bloodshed. It must not happen now, if the expedition is to succeed.
So I can’t return as a hero. I must find a way to bring back the meat we need to live, to feed the babies—and yet still leave Father’s leadership unweakened.
As he thought and thought, his fingers and hands continued at their work, expertly finding the straightest reeds and nocking them for the bowstring, slicing them in deft spirals for the feathers, and splitting and lashing the other end to hold the tiny obsidian arrowheads.
Zdorab lay beside Shedemei, sweating and exhausted. The sheer physical exertion of it had almost defeated him. How could something that brought the two of them so little pleasure be so important to her—and, in its own way, to him? Yet they had accomplished it, despite his body’s initial disinterest. He remembered something that an old lover of his had once said—that when it came down to it, human males could mate with any creature that held still long enough and didn’t bite very hard. Perhaps so . . .
He had been hoping, though, in the back of his mind, that when he finally mated with a woman there would be some place in his brain, some gland in his body that would awaken and say, Ah, so this is how it’s done. Then the days of his isolation would be over, and his body would know its proper place in the scheme of nature. But the truth was that nature had no scheme. Only a series of accidents. A species “worked” if enough of its members reproduced faithfully and often enough to keep it going; so what if some insignificant percentage—my percentage, Zdorab thought bitterly—ends up being reproductively irrelevant? Nature wasn’t a child’s birthday party; nature didn’t care about including everybody. Zdorab’s body would be cycled back through the wheels and gears of life, whether or not his genes happened to reproduce themselves along the way.
And yet. And yet. Even though his body had had no particular joy from Shedemei’s (and certainly hers had finally become exhausted from the effort to please his), yet there was joy in it on another level. Because the gift had been given. Sheer friction and stimulation of nerves had won in the end, sparking the reflex that deposited a million hopeful half-humans-to-be into the matrix that would keep them alive for the day or two of their race toward their other half, the all-mother, the Infinite Egg. What did they care whether Zdorab had lusted after Shedemei or merely acted out of duty while desperately trying to fantasize another lover of a reproductively irrelevant sex? Their life was lived on another plane—and it was on exactly that plane that the great net of life that Shedemei so worshipped was woven together.
I have finally been caught in that net, for reasons that no gene could plan for; I was greased at birth, to slip away from the net forever, but I have been caught anyway, I have chosen to be caught, and who is to say that mine is not the better fatherhood, because I acted out of pure love, and not out of some inborn instinct that captured me. Indeed, I acted against my instinct. There’s something in that. A hero of copulation, a real cocksman, if the others only knew. Anybody can pilot his boat to shore in a fair wind; I have come to shore by tacking in contrary winds, by rowing against an ebbing tide.
So let the little suckers make it to the egg. Shedemei said it was a good time for them to have their competition for survival. Let one of them, a strong and sturdy one, reach his microscopic goal and pierce that cell wall and join his helical deoxyribonucleic acid to hers and make a baby on our very first try, so I don’t have to go through all of this again.
But if I have to, I will. For Shedemei.
He reached out and found her hand and clasped it in his. She did not awaken, but still her hand closed ever so slightly, gently enclosing his.
Luet could hardly sleep. She couldn’t stop thinking about Nafai, worrying about him. In vain did the Oversoul assure her: He’s doing well, all will be well. It was long after dark, long after Chveya slept from her last suckling of the night, before Luet drifted off to sleep.
It was no restful sleep, either. She kept dreaming of Nafai sidling along rocky ledges, creeping up the face of sheer cliffs with sometimes a bow in one hand, sometimes a pulse, only in her dream the cliff would grow steeper and steeper until finally it bent backward and Nafai was clinging like an insect to the underside of the cliff and finally he would lose his grip and drop away . . .
And she would come half-awake, realize it had been a dream, and impatiently turn her sweaty pillow and try to sleep again.
Until a dream came that was not of Nafai dying. Instead he was in a room that shone with silver, with chromium, with platinum, with ice. In her dream he lay down upon a block of ice and the heat of his body melted into it, and he sank and sank until he was completely inside the ice and it closed over him and froze. What is this dream? she thought. And then she thought, If I know that this is a dream, does that mean that I’m awake? And if I’m awake, why doesn’t the dream stop?
It did not stop. Instead she saw that, instead of being trapped in the ice, Nafai was sinking all the way through it. Now the shape of his back and buttocks, his calves and heels, his elbows and fingertips and the back of his head began to bow downward at the bottom of the ice block, and she thought—what holds this ice in the middle of the air like this? Why didn’t it also hold Nafai? His body bulged farther and farther downward, and then he dropped through, falling the meter or so to the shining floor. His eyes opened, as if he had been asleep during his passage through the ice. He rolled out from under the block, out of the shadow of it, and as soon as he stood up in the light, she could see that his body was no longer what it had been. Now, where the lights struck him, his skin shone brightly, as if it had been coated with the finest possible layer of the same metal the walls were made of. Like armor. Like a new skin. It sparkled so . . . and then she realiz
ed that it was not reflecting light at all, but rather it was giving off its own light. Whatever he was wearing now drew its power from his body, and when he thought of any part of himself, to move a limb, or even just to look at it, it fairly sparked with light.
Look at him, thought Luet. He has become a god, not just a hero. He shines like the Oversoul. His is the body of the Oversoul.
But that’s nonsense. The Oversoul is a computer, and needs no body of flesh and bone. Far from it—caught in a human body it would lose its vast memory, its light-fast speed.
Nevertheless, Nafai’s body sparkled with light as he moved, and she knew that it was the Oversoul’s body he was wearing, though it made no sense to her at all.
In the dream she saw him come to her, and embrace her, and when she was joined to him, she could feel that the sparkling armor that he wore grew to include her, so that she also shone with light. It made her skin feel so alive, as if every nerve had been connected to the molecule-thin metal coating that surrounded her like sweat. And she realized—every point that sparks is where a nerve connects to this layer of light. She pulled away from Nafai, and the new skin stayed with her, even though she had not passed through the ice that gave it to him. It is his skin I’m wearing now, she thought; and yet she also thought: I too am wearing the body of the Oversoul, and am alive now for the first time.
What does this dream mean?
But since she was asking the question in a dream, she got only a dream answer: She saw the dream-Nafai and her dream-self make love, with such passion that she forgot it was a dream and lost herself in the ecstasy of it. And when their coupling was done, she saw the belly of her dream-self grow, and then a baby emerged from her groin and slid shining into Nafai’s arms, for the babe, too, was coated with the new skin, alive with light. Ah, the child was beautiful, so beautiful.
〈Wake up.〉
She heard it like a voice, it was so clear and strong.
〈Wake up.〉
She sat bolt upright, trying to see who had spoken to her, to recognize the voice that lingered in her memory.
〈Get up.〉
It was not a voice at all. It was the Oversoul. But why was the Oversoul interrupting her dream, when surely the Oversoul had sent the dream in the first place?
〈Get up, Waterseer, rise up in silence, and walk in the moonlight to the place where Vas plans to kill his wife and his rival. On the ledge that saved Nafai’s life you must wait for them.〉
But I’m not strong enough to stop him, if murder is in his heart.
〈Being there will be enough. But you must be there, and you must go now, for he is on watch now, and thinks that he and Sevet are the only ones awake … he will soon be scratching on Obring’s tent, and then it will be too late, you’ll not make it to the mountain unobserved.〉
Luet passed through the door of her tent, so sleepy that she still felt as if she were in a dream.
Why must I go down the mountain? she asked, confused. Why not just tell Obring and Sevet what Vas plans for them?
〈Because if they believe you, Vas will be destroyed as a member of this company. And if they don’t believe you, Vas will be your enemy and you will never be safe again. Trust me. Do this my way, and all will live, all will live.〉
Are you sure of this?
〈Of course.〉
You’re no better at telling the future than anybody else. How sure are you?
〈The odds of success are, perhaps, sixty percent.〉
Oh, wonderful. What about the forty percent chance of failure?
〈You are such an intelligent woman, you’ll improvise, you’ll make it work.〉
I wish I had as much faith in you as you seem to have in me.
〈The only reason you don’t is because you don’t know me as well as I know you.〉
You can read my thoughts, dear Oversoul, but you can never know me, because there is no part of you that can feel the way I feel, or think the way I think.
〈Do you imagine I don’t know that, boastful human? Must you taunt me for it? Go down the mountain. Carefully, carefully. The path is visible by moonlight, but treacherous. Obring is awake now; you have made it just in time. Now stay ahead of them, far enough that they can’t hear you, far enough that they can’t see.〉
Elemak had noticed when Sevet and Obring both took extra flagons from the stores. He knew at once what it meant—that there was a plan to make a run for Dorova. At the same time, though, he could not believe that those two would ever have come up with a plan together—they never spoke to each other privately, if only because Kokor made sure they had no opportunity. No, there was someone else involved, someone who was better at this sort of deception, so that Elemak hadn’t noticed his or her theft of an extra flagon.
And then, just before night, Vas had volunteered for the hated late watch, the second-to-last one before morning. Obring had taken the last watch already. It didn’t take a genius to realize that they intended to leave on Vas’s watch. Fools. Did they think they could make it down the mountain and across the waterless sand of the beach around the bay on two flagons of fresh water each? Not carrying babies they couldn’t.
They aren’t going to take their babies.
The thought was so outrageous that Elemak almost didn’t believe it. But then he realized that it must be true.
His loathing for Obring redoubled. But Vas … it was hard to believe that Vas would do such a thing. The man doted on his daughter. He had even named her for himself—would he leave her, heartlessly?
No. No, he has no intention of leaving her. Obring would leave his baby, yes. Obring would leave Kokor, for that matter—he chafed constantly in his marriage. But Vas would not leave his baby. He has another motive now. And it does not include escaping to the city with Sevet and Obring. On the contrary. His plan is to tell us that Sevet and Obring left for the city after he was asleep from his watch, and he followed them down the mountain, hoping to stop them, but instead he found their dead bodies, fallen from a cliff ...
How do I know all this? wondered Elemak. Why is this all so clear to me? And yet he could not doubt it.
So he gave himself the middle watch, and at the end of it, after he had wakened Vas and returned to his tent, Elemak did not let himself sleep, though he lay still with his eyes closed, breathing in a heavy imitation of sleep, in case Vas came to check on him. But no, Vas did not come. Did not come, and did not go to Obring’s tent. The watch dragged on and on, and finally against his will Elemak did sleep. Perhaps only for a moment. But he must have slept because he awoke with a start, his heart pounding with alarm. Something . . . some sound. He sat upright in the darkness, listening. Beside him he could hear Edhya’s breathing, and Proya’s; it was hard to hear anything else beyond that. As quietly as possible he arose, went to the door of his tent, stepped outside. Vas was not on watch, and neither was anyone else.
Quietly, quietly he went to Vas’s tent. Gone, and Sevet, too—but baby Vasnaminanya was still there. Elemak’s heart filled with rage at the monstrosity of it. Whatever Vas was planning—either to abandon his daughter or kill the child’s mother—it was unspeakable.
I will find him, thought Elemak, and when I do, he will pay for this. I knew there were fools on this journey, fools and dolts and weaklings, but I never knew there was someone so cruel-hearted. I never knew that Vas was capable of this. I never knew Vas at all, I think. And I never will, because as soon as I find him he’ll be dead.
It was so easy, leading them down the mountain. Their trust in him was complete. It was the payoff for his year of pretending not to mind that they had betrayed him. If he had ever shown even a spark of anger, beyond a certain coldness toward Obring, there was no chance the man would have trusted him enough to come along like a hog to the slaughter. But Obring did trust him, and Sevet too, in her sullen way.
The path itself had some difficulty—more than once he had to help them through a tricky place. But in the moonlight they often couldn’t see how very dangerous a p
assage it was, and whenever it was hard, he would stay and help them. So carefully taking Sevet’s hand and guiding her down a slope, or between two rocks. Whispering: “Do you see the limb you must hold on to, Obring?” And Obring’s answer, “Yes,” or a nod, I see it, I can handle it, Vas, because I’m a man. What a laugh. What a joke on Obring, who is so pathetically proud to be included in this great plan. How I will weep when we come down to carry the bodies back up the mountain. How the others will cry for me as I hold my little daughter in my arms, crooning to her about her lost mother, and how she is an orphan now. An orphan—but one named for her father. And I will raise her so no trace of her traitorous mother remains in her. She will be a woman of honor, who would never betray a good man who would have forgiven her anything but to give her body to her own sister’s husband, that contemptible, slimy little social climber. You let him empty his little tin cup into you, Sevet, my dear, and so I will have done with you.
“Here’s the place where Nafai and I tried to cross over,” he whispered to them. “See how we had to traverse that bare rock, shining in the moonlight?”
Obring nodded.
“But the ledge that saved his life is the real path,” said Vas. “There’s one hard place—a drop of two meters—but then it’s a smooth passage along the face of the cliff, and then we reach the easy part, right down to the beach.”
They followed him past the place where he had silently watched Nafai’s struggle. When it was clear that Nafai was going to make it after all, then he had called out and come to help him. Now he would help them down onto the ledge. Only he would not climb down to join them. Instead he would kick Obring in the head and send him over the side. Sevet would understand then. Sevet would know why he had brought her here. And she would, at long last, beg him for forgiveness. She would plead with him for understanding, she would weep, she would sob for him. And his answer would be to pick up the heaviest stones he could find and throw them down on her, until she had to run along the ledge. He would drive her to the narrow place and still he would throw stones until finally she stumbled or was knocked off balance. She would fall then, and scream, and he would hear the sound and treasure it in his heart forever.
