The Book of the Ler

by M. A. Foster

Han could not see very well or very far in the dense woods. He knew he was on a slight slope, so, leaving the raft, he walked quietly through the darkness until he found the top of the low hill he was on. Through gaps in the trees he could see stars, outlines of more distant hills, darker places where valleys were. He performed several turns about the hill; he could see nothing—no lights, no smoke, no indication anyone but he walked the surface of Chalcedon. He didn’t even know directions. But he waited. He could find out. It would take time, but he had plenty of that.

  He marked groups of bright stars near the horizon, making a game of naming new constellations, which also helped cheer him up. He gave them fanciful names, some obscene, but he also noted very carefully both the shapes of the groups, and where they were in relation to his subjective landmarks, and their shadows—tree-shapes, rocks, peculiar horizon lines. He did not wait for a moon—Chalcedon didn’t have a moon either.

  Time passed slowly on Chalcedon, but after a time, what his watch said was several standard hours, he looked at the sky around the horizon again. Some of his constellations had sunk below the edge of the ground. Others had risen high in the night sky. Still others had moved more to one side or another. From his efforts and waiting, now he could determine the position of celestial north: it was higher towards the zenith than he had thought it would be. He was far to the north of the Capital, which was closer to the equator. And he knew which way was east, west, and south, even if he did not know how far their flight had offset them. He suspected he was somewhat to the west, also.

  There was no way to go, then, but south westwards. Han gathered up the pack, put it on, and set out, picking his way cautiously through the quiet darkness. He kept his knife out, at the ready; he did not know much about the native animal life of the planet, which was an object lesson he would never forget. If he ever got the chance to use such knowledge again.

  He walked through an empty land for days, until he lost count of them. Chalcedon was not a flat planet; it had a surface which undulated gently, sometimes more hilly, sometimes more flat, but never quite attaining real hills, or a plain. He crossed rivers, was rained upon, and walked, in a routine which soon evolved into two sessions each day: predawn to forenoon, rest, late afternoon to early night, rest. He found that walking as he was doing, he could not accommodate himself to the long day-cycle of Chalcedon. He was able to refine his measurement of the day; it was almost thirty-two standard hours long. And it did not vary. He could not estimate how far he walked, either; there were no landmarks visible for more than a few miles in any direction. One of the hills or ridges looked very much like another.

  He saw no animals, although rarely, at night, he heard cries from far away. He was not being tracked—the cries were never the same, except in their suggestion of endless emptiness. Nor did he see birds; apparently there were none on the planet, a fact which disappointed him. He knew the fruits were edible, that was one fact about Chalcedon which helped him along: it was one of the kindest worlds in the universe, without poison plants of any kind. Those he ate, adding his food concentrate, which he ate stoically, because it tasted terrible, and he purified water by the side of streams. And walked on, avoiding the thoughts he might have had about what he would do when he got somewhere.

  Han had stopped for the night, more tired than usual from climbing among rocky terrain all day. His place this night was in a dense grove of fragrant trees down in a narrow valley. So for a long time he did not notice that one part of the sky on the horizon was ever so slightly glowing. Much later, taking a turn around the patch of woods as he always did, just as a precaution, he noticed the glow. It had been too many days, and he was too tired to feel any excitement; besides he did not believe it was anything more than some natural phenomenon. He retrieved his pack, and wearily climbed to the top of the ridge.

  At the top, he looked down into a broad, flat valley, so wide he could not make out the far side, even with his newly used and practiced night vision. But that was not really what he was looking at. There were lights in the valley—weak, to be sure, but lights, like windows shining into the darkness. Not just one, either—many, as if of a small community. It was the most beautiful sight he could ever remember seeing. Forgetting his fatigue, he started out down the slope towards the lights, practicing the story he would tell, with all parts clear except how many days he had walked.

  As he drew nearer to the lights, a process that seemed interminable, probably since the clear air distorted distances for him, he first grew suspicious, and then disappointed. One by one, the lights went out, except one group which seemed to belong to a house. Han had hoped for a human settlement, but apparently this was going to be a ler village; he could catch an occasional glimpse of the suggestion of shape of the houses—and humans did not live in low, rambling ellipsoids. The braid houses they called the yos. As he drew nearer, he could see that it was a thriving little community—there were well-tilled fields on all sides, barns, sheds, houses, now mostly dark. But it was isolated—there were no power lines, no beam towers, and beyond the narrow paths beside the fields, no roads. The paths were marked only by hoofprints and footprints, footprints that showed, even in the dark, four toe marks and hardly any weight on the narrow heel.

  Han guessed that just about everyone would be asleep by now. Ler liked sleep, and normally went to bed soon after dark, even in their civilized places. Here, they probably worked hard during the long day and would never stay up late. Still, though, it was late, yet the lights were just going off. Only one yos was still well lit, and it seemed to be making up for all the rest of the village. He was close enough now to hear voices in the dark. Voices! They were faint, and what he could hear of them was in a strange and alien language—ler Singlespeech—but they filled him with joy. He suppressed an urge to shout, and continued on.

  Presently he stood before the well-lit house, or yos. Han knew about their peculiar custom of living in a dwelling without angles—but he didn’t know why they preferred them. The barns and sheds seemed angular enough. He had never seen a yos except in pictures. It looked just like descriptions he had heard—a random collection of flattened ellipsoids, following the contour of the ground, each “room” mounted on its own pedestal, a foot or so off the ground. He wondered, how did one announce oneself? Did one step up to the door and knock? There was no door on this particular yos, but a woven curtain. Perhaps one stood in the yard and crowed like a rooster. He felt giddy, drunk with fatigue and a longing to be with people again.

  The problem solved itself. Out of the yos came an oldster, with long, white hair. The person stopped, looked incredulously at Han for a moment, and then, quite coolly, considering the circumstances, spoke to him. Han didn’t understand a word of it. It was indeed ler Singlespeech. He shook his head in what he hoped the creature—he couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, the usual ler apparent sexlessness becoming even more ambiguous from aging, as was also the case with humans—would understand him to mean that he couldn’t understand what he or she or it was saying. He started to speak, but the oldster interrupted him, saying something and pointing at the ground. It seemed to mean, “Wait here.” Then it darted back into the yos. Han waited.

  Presently a younger one appeared at the door, cast a quick look about the yard, and disappeared. In a moment, it returned. Han identified it as a young girl, mature, fertile, for she was carrying an infant which she nursed. Then the creature spoke.

  “Yes? What will you do here?” Han felt a certain sense of unreality. The voice was unmistakably male. He felt an edge of something like lunacy, remembering, idiotically, the words of a character in a written novel of the classical period: If you think you’re going crazy, it means you aren’t. He decided to answer anyway.

  “I am Han Keeling. Trader and spaceman. There was an accident and I was ejected from the ship. I landed north of here, many days, I don’t know how many. I would ask your hospitality and assistance if you have any to give.” It was the longest speech he had made in ma
ny days. His voice sounded strange to his ears.

  “I am Dardenglir. You must excuse us for acting so odd, but we are very far out here and we see few humans. Hardly any of us even know Common: this is an old village and most of us have been here several generations. I am not from here by birth, but my own village is hardly less isolated. But of course we will help. What do you need?”

  “Food. A few days’ rest. And directions. I am trying to get back to the general area of the Capital.”

  “I understand. It will be easy. Will you accept our, house, here?” The words sounded peculiar. “We are crowded now, for there was a birth tonight, and we have stayed up overlate, celebrating. But we have room, and there is food, warmth, people. We can find a place.”

  “I accept gratefully, Dardenglir.”

  “Then come in.” He did not wait, but turned and vanished back into the house. Han could hear him speaking inside. He followed, climbed the stairs, and went in, through the curtain, which in Chalcedon’s mild climate seemed to be all the protection they needed from the elements.

  Inside, the room was circular in plan, and a wide shelf went all around it, except where round holes interrupted the curve, and except for an area to his left, where a raised platform served as a hearth, smoking outwards through a hooded vent into the ceiling. There were candles, lanterns, and people. They were strange to him, but he felt the same as all survivors—they were people. He blinked in the light.

  While one of them gathered up some food, apparently from the party which had been going on, Dardenglir introduced them all. There were two infants, one small girl-child, four adults, and four older ones. It was the whole braid—past, present, and future. And there was no mistake, Dardenglir was male. But Han kept quiet.

  Indeed it was a birth celebration. One of the females had apparently given birth this night, for she lay back on some cushions, bare, and her face was flushed and happy, while the infant nuzzled at her breast. Han noticed the cord was still attached. They looked at Han with more curiosity than he felt to them, while Dardenglir spoke rapidly, in Multispeech. Then they all smiled. They waved at the hearth.

  “Eat, drink. Be happy with us. There is a trough in the yard for washing and you can sleep in there, to your right.”

  Han nodded with what he hoped was a polite gesture, and gratefully did as he had been asked. He ate, went out and washed in icy water, returned, and with a gesture, crawled into a dark, smaller space; there he found, eventually, something soft, like a blanket, and pulling it over himself, he slept, deeply.

  He awoke. Alone. There was light in the room, another smaller ellipsoid; the light came through translucent windows which had the appearance of cloudy stained glass. Han reached over and touched one: it felt rougher than glass—it was rock, ground down to translucency and polished, travertine or alabaster, he thought. The effect was one of warmth and beauty, even though he could see no way to open them. How did they get circulation? He looked around, and finally saw that there was a vent in the domed ceiling very much like the one over the hearth, only smaller. The whole “room” was a bed, apparently. All around were quilts and cushions, neatly folded, seemingly placed at random. No one was in the room except Han. The surface underfoot was yielding, but not soft. Like everything else he had seen since he had entered, everything seemed to be handmade. He wondered about the unopenable windows, as they obviously did not have, and would not want, any kind of air-conditioning equipment. But perhaps they looked at houses, especially in this mild climate, as being more shelter than fortress or castle; if you wanted to see outside, why you could go outside and perceive it totally.

  He crawled out into the larger room, which served as entry, common room, and kitchen all in one. It was also empty, but cleaned and straightened from the night before. He listened, trying to determine if anyone was in the house. There was no sense of presence in the house at all, although he was aware of voices outside. He hesitated. Han felt his beard, which had become unkempt during the long walk. And they would not have anything to trim it with, probably. He wondered how he looked to them, if Liszendir had thought him “too angular, too hairy.” Proportions all different. Still, they had been both generous and kind.

  He went to the front and pushed the curtain-flap aside. The yos was, he now saw in daylight, situated on a low hill. Not far away, a clear stream made water noises with restraint and probity, commenting on the site, the village, the clear air. A wooden trough conducted water to a point near the house, where it collected in a large wooden tub. The overflow was led back to the stream by a similar wooden trough. At the place where the used water rejoined the stream, he could see a small naked girl-child, about four years old in human terms, playing, making little dams, which she would then subtly damage and watch the penned water flow out and overcome the dam. She looked up and saw Han. She looked at him directly, unafraid, but with a certain amount of wide-eyed wonder. She stopped playing, and shyly approached the steps, coming up to Han to touch his beard. Then she laughed, and abruptly ran off, calling to someone in a gay, musical voice.

  Presently Dardenglir, the ler Han had met the night before, arrived, still with the infant slung under his arm. Yes, he had been right: it was definitely a male person. Now that he had been around Liszendir for a while, he could sense differences—the walk, the hips, the general carriage. Dardenglir greeted Han courteously.

  “The sun is up, friend, and now so are you. That is a good thing.”

  “I don’t know how to begin to thank you . . .”

  “Not at all. We have very few visitors here. The last human visitor we had built a large edifice on yon hill.” Han turned to look. There was no edifice, nor were there signs one had ever been there. He looked back to Dardenglir, smiling. “So you see it as it is. Even ler do not come so far often. And we are easy—all we ask in return are a few tales, and a hand in the fields.”

  “The fields part I can do, but what kind of tales?”

  “Events. What occurs in the wide world.”

  “Oh, those kinds of tales. Well, I can tell a few, but I doubt if many will understand my words.”

  “No matter there. I will translate. And if you stay long enough, I will teach you Singlespeech and you can tell it yourself. But right now, you and I are the only speakers of Common in the village. I am grateful for the practice—it has been a long time. I grow rusty, here in Ghazh’in.”

  Han came down from the steps into the yard. “Where are the rest?”

  “Here, there. Tanzernan, she who gave birth last evening, is today visiting with the insiblings of her old braid. She was thes, there. Today she has something special for them. She and I are korh and dazh, you would say ‘aftermother and afterfather.’ I wove with Pethmirian, who was madh, foremother. This is ours. She is out in the field today. Bazh’ingil repairs a cart yonder, by the barn. Do you know much about us?”

  “Only basics. I know no ler well, except . . . but never mind.”

  “You saw you came in the midst of a party. It was not only a birth we were celebrating, but the continuation of this Klanh, this braid. We now have our next insibling generation, boy and girl. The little one who likes your beard is Himverlin, of Bazh’ingil and Pethmirian. She is nerh, but for all that, she is a shy one.”

  “I understand. What happens if both are of the same sex?”

  “With the nerh, it is pure chance, but from then on, it is partly determined. By our interactions. I don’t know the word . . .”

  “Pheronomes? Chemical traces, like hormones that carry messages among individuals?”

  “That is how it works, but it is not perfect. If the toorh are both of the same sex, then the braid ends. They have to weave with others, like outsiblings. Even if we can find another braid in the same straits, with insiblings of opposite sex, ours and theirs both end. The four start new braids, with new names. But not so for us, now.”

  “So I see.”

  “It is good, then. Now, what of you?”

  Han did not answer immediate
ly. And of him, what indeed? What of the ship, the mission, Liszendir? A sudden pang passed through him.

  “Well, I have a long tale to tell, indeed. I may ask more than I answer.”

  “Aha!” exclaimed Dardenglir. “I see you are an apprentice mnathman of the ler.”

  Sage or wise man. “No, certainly not. Why would you think that?”

  “Because it is always the part of the wise to ask, not to answer; is that not why they are wise?” He smiled. Han felt like an idiot. Here he was, a cultured and educated member of a technological culture, a civilization which stretched across twenty-five planets or so, human worlds. Yet this farmer with an infant in his arms could disarm him in an instant. He realized better now why humans avoided ler, even though they were graceful, even beautiful creatures, man’s own kind, and peaceable in addition. It was disturbing. So, he thought, might have felt some poor Neanderthaler who had wandered into a Cro-Magnon tribe’s camp, in the Ice Ages of prehistoric Europe.

  “No. I am not a sage, of the ler or anybody else. As a fact, I feel somewhat like a fool. But never mind; you will hear all, when all of you are gathered together. And for the answers, and the help, I will freely offer what work I can do and what I can learn.”

  “Gladly, with the answers, such as we have. And work? There is plenty of that.”

  So in the morning of the long Chalcedon day, Han went to work at simple agricultural tasks. He spent the day with Pethmirian out in the field, picking beans and filling a small cart, which they pulled along the rows behind them. She showed him how to do it, shaking her head sadly when he displayed his one-thumbed hand. Her hands flew among the vines like small birds. But he learned.

  Towards evening, a shower blew up, moving lazily and deliberately after the manner of all Chalcedon weather, so Han and Pethmirian repaired to a shed, joining Bazh’ingil, where they spent the remainder of the day shelling the beans they had picked. Occasionally Dardenglir would drop in and talk for a while; then he would be gone again. As the afternoon rain slowly evolved into the deep blues of night, gradually everyone drifted to the water trough, where, with a great deal of splashing and whooping, everyone stripped to the skin and washed, bodies, clothes, everything. Han joined in; he was not bashful, but he was slightly embarrassed because nude, the differences between the two peoples became the most noticeable.