The Awakeners - Northshore & Southshore

by Sheri S. Tepper

  The students before him, three of them, were egglings who hardly knew the meaning of the Covenant. They did not understand humiliation. It was Sliffisunda's job to teach them, to let them know how far the Thraish had fallen from their onetime communion with the gods, and by imparting that knowledge to cleave these youngsters to the doctrine of rage that governed the Talons.

  "Perch," he directed them, waiting impatiently while they settled before him, wings outspread, heads carried well back on their flexible necks, foot talons stretching beyond their knees as they crouched, knees on feet, in the posture of subordination.

  "I want you to imagine you are a flier," he said at last, when they were well settled. "Just a flier, a female. Not a Talker at all. I want you to imagine it is long ago, more than a thousand years."

  There was a snigger at this. There was always a snigger at this, but Sliffisunda waited without outward show of impatience for his own heavy regard to make their eggishness manifest. Soon they felt his disapproval and became uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot, staring at him from lowered eyes.

  Sliffisunda's voice became a monotone, a rhythmic chant. "It is spring. You have slept the winter away in the caves low in the mountains of the north. Now the time of warmth has come, and you emerge from your cave to the time of rejoicing. Your name is Shishus, flier of the Thraish... "

  His voice was hypnotic. They would imagine, combining what they knew in their blood with what they had learned and what he would tell them in his chanting. They would fall into a trance, and in the trance they would dream that last awakening of ancient times.

  In the trance it seemed that the season of warmth had come upon the northern plains. The cold rains were over. On the endless prairies the tall grass moved like water, silver blue like the River the grass moved, breaking around the herd of weehar as the River broke on the rocks of Shfor, near the Talons. The herd whuffled nervously as Shishus's shadow fell across them, she crying, "Rejoice! Warmth is come!"

  The weehar rejoiced in their own way, heads down, legs trembling. Each thing rejoiced in its own way.

  Even trees, doubtless. With warmth came the end of hibernation, the season of rejoicing, the season of Potipur's Promise to the Thraish.

  Shishus whispered the name of her people. "Thraish." The word was a rejoicing in itself. After the lonely time of cold, she longed for Thraish, for huntmates. First the rejoicing. Then the obligatory trip to the Talons for the dancing as the moons gathered. Then mating. Then nesting, the joy of nestlings. "Thraish," she whispered, turning on her strong wings above the prairie.

  Though perhaps the Talkers would suggest again that the dancing not take place. As they had at the last Conjunction. Last warm season there had been rebellious muttering against the Talkers, and Shishus had been a leader in that rebellion. In old times Talkers had been wise, settling disputes over nesting sites or huntmates. Last season - no, the season before that and before that as well - they had not been helpful. Not orthodox. Of late the Talkers seemed to doubt Potipur's Promise, the promise of ten thousand years: "Do my will and ye shall have plenty."

  Thinking of it made Shishus angry. Among the free fliers there was talk of overthrowing the Talkers. Shishus had told them it was foolish talk. It was not necessary to overthrow the Talkers. They could simply be ignored!

  Potipur's Promise was holy. Long, long ago the Thraish had been hungry. All the hoovar had been eaten and were gone. Then came the Talker Shinnisush, bringing Potipur's Promise to the people. "Follow me and ye shall have plenty!" And after the promise there had been great explosions in the northlands, mountains jutting fire, and endless herds of thrassil came, driven out of the north by the fire, driven from behind the great mountains. The Thraish had rejoiced in plenty once more.

  But in time the thrassil also were gone, eaten. Then the world had shaken again, and the weehar had come, down in great herds to the silver-blue plains that lay between the Riverlands and the northern mountains.

  Great herds.

  Shishus planed in a wide gyre, peering down. One herd only. Small. Perhaps she should wait to find a larger herd. No. Cold season had been long, and soon huntmates would arrive. She threw back her head and cried loud into the sky, "Invitation! Join! Rejoice! Summer beasts are here."

  Below, Shishus's shadow fell across beasts, and they began to gallop, a frenzied flight, knowing time to rejoice was near. Far on the western horizon two winged specks moved toward Shishus, crying as they came, "Rejoice, rejoice." Her huntmates: Slililan, Shusisanda.

  They met in midair, wingtips caressing, beaks touching the tender sweet places behind ears, glorying in touch, in flight. Then they cried together, fell together, talons extended, crying the great invitation to the weehar. "Rejoice! Rejoice!"

  The weehar rejoiced, galloping, snorting, leaping in a wild dance upon the grass, evading, skipping, falling at last beneath the clutching talons, beneath the spearing beaks. Blood ran hot into Shishus's beak.

  In Sliffisunda's aerie the young shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, beaks agape. They tasted the hot blood of the weehar, heard the cries of the huntmates. Sliffisunda chanted to them, telling them what to feel, what to experience. In the trance they heard Sliffisunda's voice:

  "Rejoice! Rejoice!"

  Away upon the prairie the few remaining weehar stopped running, stood trembling, the few young in the center of the group. This was how weehar prayed to Potipur. This is how the herd beasts rejoiced. Shishus stood upon one of the beasts she had killed, gorged now, beak dripping, and called to her huntmates to see the beasts rejoicing.

  "Not rejoicing," snapped Slililan. Slililan did not always sound like free flier. Sometimes she sounded almost like Talker. "No rejoicing, Shishus, silly flier. Weehar scared. Only scared. Herd too small."

  "Rejoice in own way," Shishus screamed. Slililan was spoiling their first feast. "Slililan makes unorthodox talk. Doubts Potipur."

  Slililan flew at Shishus then, battle ready. Only Shusisanda's bulk thrust between had stopped them as they stood with wings cocked high in threat, spear-beaked and blood-eyed.

  "Huntmates," Shusisanda whispered. "Time to rejoice."

  What had made them grow so angry? There had never been anger among free fliers before. They had fought only the mock battles of conjugation, vying for the dancing males. They had not fought one another. Was it something in the look of the plains? In the trembling silence of the few weehar?

  "Find bigger herd," Shishus demanded, lifting away from the many bodies that littered the ground. Perhaps they should not have killed so many. They could have killed only three, one for each of them, though they could have eaten only a tiny fraction even of that. Already grouped in a wide circle around the corpses were the silly fliers, those with no speech, waiting for their own time to rejoice. Shishus and her huntmates winged toward the Talons, uneasy as distances drifted by, uneasier yet when they came within sight of the peaks.

  There the hunters of Thraish, free fliers, gathered in their hundreds of thousands, thick as grass, their clattering so loud it reached the huntmates when they were still far away. The hunters had flown half around the world, had arrived at the Talons, but there had been no bigger herd of weehar.

  There had been no herds at all.

  The three huntmates arrived to sounds of the summoning rattle, propelled to and fro on its flexible sapling base by young fliers, telling Talkers to come out of their rocky towers.

  Speaker's rock was empty. No Talkers sat upon it.

  Rattle went on as sound of Thraish grew louder, more agitated.

  Then silence, for Talker came out, old Talker, blue with age, eyes deep-pouched, beak silver and ragged-edged. He came from a dark hole in rock, perched on doorstep, peered nearsightedly at great throng there, said in a dry, uninterested voice, "Rejoice, people of Thraish."

  There was only muttering from free fliers. Shishus, alone among throng, called response. "Rejoice!"

  All eyes came to Shishus, fastening upon her. Muttering grew louder
. Talker fixed his old eyes upon her, called to her.

  "You found weehar then, flight leader?"

  Shishus could not reply. This was not the way ceremony went: Talker asked again, and yet again, before Shishus could think to say, "Huntmates have rejoiced."

  "How many weehar did you find?"

  Shishus conferred with Shusisanda. How many had there been? Five claws? About that. Fifty.

  "And when you had rejoiced, how many left?"

  Three claws, perhaps. Or less.

  Silence then upon Talons. A long, uneasy silence, unbroken except by rustling of thousands shifting from foot to foot in an agony of apprehension.

  "Promise of Potipur," one called from midst of free fliers, whining. "Promise of Potipur.''

  "Ah, well," cried old Talker. "If Potipur has promised, then free fliers of Thraish have nothing to worry about."

  Muttering began again, angrily this time. Potipur had promised plenty, but there was no plenty. So... So... There must be fault somewhere. Evil. Sin. Talkers, most likely. Their fault. Their sin. Doubting.

  The old Talker might have read their minds. "Who told you free fliers last warm season not to eat weehar?"

  Muttering. It was true. Talkers had told them that. Talkers had said weehar were too few. Free fliers had told Talkers something different instead. Free fliers had told Talkers to keep quiet. Had told them, "Promise of Potipur."

  "Last warm season, who told males not to dance? Who told free fliers not to breed last Conjunction? Who told the fliers to break their eggs?"

  The Talkers had told them. Talkers said to eat fish. Foul fish that softened beaks, made feathers fall, which made free fliers unable to fly at all. Talkers said not to nest. Not do Conjunction. But flight leaders had cawed laughter. Promise of Potipur. Shishus had cawed laughter with all free fliers. Do will of Potipur! Breed. Grow more numerous. Have plenty!

  "Who told fliers to eat, breed?" Old Talker had a voice like rocks rubbing together in flood. "Flight leaders said eat, breed. Flight leaders, like Shishus there. She called shame on Talkers. Told you Potipur would provide plenty. So... Ask flight leaders where is rejoicing Potipur will provide."

  The Talker had gone then, quickly, down inside the stone, where it would be safe against Thraish, for Thraish were very angry at Talkers.

  At first.

  Anger was there. But Talkers were not there. Free fliers could not attack them. Could not spear beak, buffet wing. Talkers were different. Males who would not dance. Males who changed, instead. Knew more. Used more words. Had different thoughts. Lived down in stone, somewhere deep where Thraish could not get to them.

  So, wrath turned against others. Against flight leaders.

  Against Shishus, flying, flying, hiding among stones, in grass, walking along streams to hide, not flying, huntmates lost, pecked to death, only Shishus living, eating stilt lizards, eating worms, living, while all around Thraish died by thousands, thousands. Starving.

  In the towns along the River lived the two-legged outlanders, humans. Despicable no fliers. Good smelling. Pull of hot blood. Weak. Slow. Some fliers hunted this meat. Some fliers ate this meat, died. Screaming, insides burning, they died. Human meat was poison to the Thraish.

  Some ate fish. Feathers dropped out for a time. Bones changed. Couldn't fly. Treeci, meaning "crawler." Fish eaters. Filth. Betrayers of Potipur.

  Some, like Shishus, ate lizards, worms, bodies of dead fliers. Only those few like Shishus lived, eating dead fliers, smaller birds, not eating the poisonous humans, not eating fish as the foul Treeci did, who forsook Potipur's Promise, giving up their power of flight. It was a test, a test. Potipur testing. Soon would come Potipur's Promise.

  Of the Talkers, only a few lived. Of the fliers, only a few, like Shishus, survived. In the aerie, the egglings woke from their trance, gagging, no longer full of giggles.

  "Attend," said Sliffisunda. "Some survived. Shishus, whose story you have heard, survived. And many of us, the Talkers, survived. It was one of our number, Thoulia, who learned that the flesh of the humans could be softened by Tears of Viranel and then safely eaten by us. We took them, the soft, weak humans, took them to eat.

  "We chose not to eat fish, not to become flightless, not to betray the Promise of Potipur.

  "But the humans fought us. Many of them died. Many of us died. Thoulia said to us, ‘They will never let you take them without fighting. And if you kill them all as you did the weehar, what will you eat? And if they kill us all, who will keep Potipur's name alive?'

  "We chose rather to arrange matters in order to assure ourselves a sufficiency of human flesh.

  "We made treaty with humans. We offered some few of them the elixir of the Talkers in return for the flesh of other humans. Dead flesh for the fliers, who are many. Live flesh for us Talkers, who are few. We gave some few of them the elixir if they would worship our gods. We offered some of them long, long life if they would become Awakeners, build the Towers, let the Thraish feast in their bone pits and live upon those Towers. One Tower at first, then two. Then four. Then many. Few free fliers at first, then more. Not many, about eighty thousand. Living on Towers of life. Towers."

  The young ones shifted on the floor. They had not yet had time to take in what they had learned. They looked at him with baffled eyes, one, bolder than the rest, whispering, "But we despise the Towers?"

  Sliffisunda nodded his approval. This one would go far.

  "Yes, egglings," he said in a grating whisper, lifting his tail to deposit a symbolic dropping on the subject under discussion. "Never forget it. We despise the Treeci, our own kind, who betrayed the Promise of Potipur and gave up their wings. We despise those who are consumed by us, made into shit by us. We despise those among them who will sell their kindred for a few years of stinking human life.

  "Yes, egglings. We despise the Towers, and the Chancery. We despise all humans in the world of the Thraish. We allow mankind to live only that we may live winged as Potipur commands. If we could not live as our god commands, we would die. And every human would die with us, for we despise them all."

  When the egglings had gone, he left the wide perch to go to one of the openings in the stone. The humans called them windows and put glass or oiled paper over them. The Thraish called them spy holes and hid them behind hangings or piers of rock. This one looked toward the north.

  The north! Behind the great mountains.

  Sliffisunda had seen thrassil there, and weehar. Though he had not yet been hatched when the great beasts were last seen, he knew them when he saw them, as he knew his own wing feathers. He already knew the taste and smell of them. And he knew filthy humans had them and would never give them to the Thraish voluntarily.

  Which did not matter. Now that the Thraish knew they were there, it would not take long to get them. A few strong fliers had already been instructed to go through the pass in the deep night, find young ones, carry them out. Indeed, the task might already have been accomplished.

  A dozen young ones would grow up, become a herd. A herd would become a great, great number in time. And when there were enough of them...

  "Now, egglings," he imagined himself saying at some not-too-distant time. "Now, egglings, every human shall die, because Potipur our god commands that we kill them all."

  25

  Once Pamra had heard the voices clearly, her doubts and fears left her. Rapture and joy had returned. The rapture that had abandoned her at the worker pit when she had found Delia; the rapture that she had thought forever gone; the joy she had felt in Neff s company; the joy she had thought eternally lost; now they had returned, both, so that she walked encircled by peace and sureness, unable to remember a time when she might have doubted.

  Thrasne watched her and hated what he saw. Before Strinder's Isle she had begun to talk with him, begun to care about the Gift, begun to take part in the daily life of the River. He had begun to plan for their future together. He knew of a carpenter in Darkel-don who would rebuild the owner-house into a fit place
for Pamra, Pamra and their children. He thought of a weaver he had met in one of the little towns past Shfor. From her he would buy covers for the beds and hangings, for the colors she used were the colors of sunset and dawn, warm as light itself. He would buy gowns for Pamra herself, gowns of that long fiber pamet grown only in the bottom lands near Zephyr, soft as down. She would respond to these gifts with affection and approval. They would plan together for their future. It was all there, in his mind, how each thing would happen in its time.

  Now she had left him, gone elsewhere, become as remote as the girl he remembered outside the Tower in Baris, tolerating his presence, perhaps. Perhaps not noticing he was there. She spoke to him of voices, gently, as though to a child, as though he should be able to hear what she heard. She nodded, smiled, as though in conversation. Sometimes she sat upon the deck of the Gift with Lila on her lap, pointing to something Thrasne could not see, but which he suspected Lila did see. At least the child's eyes followed Pamra's eyes, followed and fixed in a kind of concentration that was not childlike.

  Seeing Pamra like this, he began to be afraid she would leave him, though for the time being she seemed willing to stay on the River. He saw her sometimes murmuring to herself, as though rehearsing words she would say, but when they stopped at Trens and Villian-gar, or any of a dozen other small townships, she made no move to go ashore.

  Once, she had shared in his life, at least a little. She had chatted with him of the sights along the shore, sometimes gone to the market with him in the towns where they stopped. She had cooked for him, appearing to enjoy it. He had told himself it was only a matter of time, of patience - both of which he had in seemingly unlimited quantity.

  Now, since Strinder's Isle, all his plans seemed moved into some future so remote he was not sure there was enough time after all. For the first time he thought of himself growing old, still without her. Old, still alone. No children to roll about the owner-house floor and to learn to be boatmen in their turn. No woman to share the everlasting voyage, no Suspirra. What right had she to destroy his hopes? When he had watched over her, sought her out, saved her?