They inspected the sarcophagus and the rest of the chamber but found nothing else. “Come on,” Carson said as he took a last look around. “We're done here. That bastard Stephens cleaned it out. Let's take some final recordings and get back to Verdigris City. Stephens, or whoever he is, is probably off-planet by now, but we need to report it.”
* * * *
“I have the preliminary results, Dr. Carson.”
Carson had taken his specimens to be analyzed as soon as he'd returned to civilization.
“Great. What can you tell me about the sample?” This was it.
“The bone is mammalian. The structure looks the same as the indigenous Verdigrans, which isn't surprising considering where you found it. Preliminary DNA tests confirm that.”
Carson slumped. “You're sure?”
The technician nodded. “Yep.”
Damn. He'd been so certain that there was something special about that pyramid. He'd been hoping that the body had been a spacefarer. Even if Stephens had made off with most of it, this sample should have been enough for Dean Matthews to give him another chance, to keep on looking. But now . . .
“Oh, okay, thanks,” Carson said. It was almost an afterthought when he added, “What about the stone fragment, the talisman?”
“Sorry, we must have messed up the analysis on that.”
“What do you mean? It was radioactive. Was that a problem?”
“Oh, no. Well, no and yes.” The technician looked a bit sheepish. “We get radioactive specimens in all the time, so that wasn't a problem. It's the source that's messed up.”
“I thought it might be the gems. What do you mean, ‘messed up'?”
“Not the gems. The thing contains several grams of technetium-99.”
“What?” Carson said, straightening.
“A beta-emitter. If the talisman weren't broken you'd never have noticed the radiation; it wouldn't get through the case. Technetium-99 betas are low energy.”
“What's the half-life?” Carson wasn't sure what the significance of the technetium was, but it was something that could be dated.
“About 211,000 years. It's artificial, of course. Technetium isn't part of any natural decay sequence, and geologically speaking, all its isotopes are short-lived.”
Carson felt his heart pound. This meant a technological origin. With the provenance corrupted it wasn't scientific proof, but he was sure the origin was alien, not human. Had there been another body in the sarcophagus after all? Retrieved by comrades, perhaps? They might well have left the other artifacts alone.
“So, not a product of a primitive civilization, then?” Carson wanted to be sure.
“What? You're joking. You need a reactor to make technetium. In this it's part of a betavoltaic battery. I've never seen this specific design, and the whole thing looks like carved rock except where it's smashed, but there's some kind of circuitry inside. That battery will put out a couple of milliamps for a hundred thousand years.”
“How old is it?”
“That's the weird thing, sir. I wasn't going to bother running isotope ratios to determine the age—”
“What? Why not?” To be this close . . .
“Well, I mean, how old could it be? Twenty, thirty years tops? I ran them anyway. I'm sorry, but the original sample must have been contaminated. I don't trust the results.”
“Just tell me.” Carson felt a knot growing in the pit of his stomach.
“About fifteen thousand years. As I said, it makes no sense.”
“Oh.” There was a ringing in Carson's ears, and the room seemed to sway a bit. It wasn't proof enough to publish, not yet, but it should be enough to sway Dean Matthews. He'd get his second chance.
He realized the tech was waiting for something more from him. “Right. Well, thank you. Just e-mail me the reports.”
Carson thought about what the technician had said. If the case hadn't been broken he wouldn't have noticed the radiation—and it would look just like a primitive talisman. If there was one, there might be another, possibly intact. He'd have to review the artifact databases, perhaps run an image comparison search, then request and examine anything it turned up. A lot of grunt work. Carson chuckled to himself. Dean Matthews was going to be amazed at Carson's sudden interest in cataloging, not arrowheads, but talismans.
Copyright © 2011 Alastair Mayer
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Novelette: KAWATARO
by Alec Nevala-Lee
Most things do make sense—if you know how to look at them.
I.
The kawataro stood at the side of the road. Hakaru saw it for the first time as he was trudging along the highway, suitcase rolling behind him in the rain. It had been half a mile by foot from the train station, and although he had been looking for the turnoff to the village, it was so narrow, less than six paces wide, that he was on the point of walking past it entirely when the statue caught his eye.
He halted. The statue was about the height of his chest, sunk into the ground near the remains of a gate. It had been carved by hand from some hard, dark material, either stone or very dense wood, and depicted a vaguely humanoid figure, its face flat and stupid, the dome of the head bald except for a fringe of hair. A few flecks of old paint, nearly obliterated by time, gave an impression of yellow, scaly skin. Beneath the chin, the throat was puffed out and distended, like the vocal sac of a frog.
Hakaru, uneasy, was about to continue along the road when he saw three other figures lined up nearby. At first, through the curtain of rain, he thought they were statues as well. It was only when one moved slightly that he realized he was looking at a group of three children standing about ten yards away. The oldest, a boy who seemed no more than twelve, was wearing a raincoat, once red, that had been spattered with dark mud nearly up to the sleeves.
“Hi there,” Hakaru said, giving them a friendly wave. “Is this the way to Hana?”
The children said nothing. Hakaru had a good idea as to why they didn't respond, but still found it faintly unnerving. As he resumed his walk, moving past the silent group, he sensed that their eyes remained fixed on his back.
A moment later, climbing over a rise, he came into view of the village itself. Off in the distance, he could make out a handful of fishing boats casting their nets on the gray swell of the ocean. Pausing to catch his breath, he took in the lighthouse on the jetty, the silver thread of the river, and the main street that ran through the center of the village. As the street climbed higher, the drab rows of black tiled roofs gave way to a cluster of modern houses. Beyond that point, the land rose steeply in a line of rocky bluffs, their crests carpeted with forest.
He was about to descend to the village when he noticed that the children had followed him. Now they were standing a few yards off, lined up in a neat row, regarding him with the same lack of expression as before. He waved again. In response, one of the children, a girl, turned to the boy in the red raincoat, making a series of gestures with her hands. The boy signed back impatiently, as if telling her to wait, his eyes never leaving Hakaru's face.
Turning away, Hakaru headed down the road. Each time he glanced over his shoulder, the children were still there. When he reached the inn at the edge of the village, he looked back, meaning to give them an ironic farewell, then halted. Behind him, the street was empty.
Unsettled, he went into the inn, which was small and dark. Through a sliding screen at the far end of the entrance hall, he could see into a rock garden. A second later, hearing the quick sound of footsteps, he found himself looking into the gaunt face of the innkeeper, who bowed and led him over to a desk. When Hakaru gave his name, the man smiled. “You aren't from around here, are you?”
“I'm a graduate student at Osaka University,” Hakaru said. “I was born in Canada.”
The innkeeper's smile widened, but something else closed off in his narrow eyes, as if he had already marked Hakaru off as an outsider. “And how long will you be staying
with us?”
“I'm not sure,” Hakaru said, signing the register. “At least two weeks. Perhaps longer. Do you know Dr. Nakaya?”
“Of course,” the innkeeper said, glancing over Hakaru's shoulder. “In fact, here she is now—”
Hakaru turned to see a woman entering the hall, umbrella in hand. She was close to his own age, with a pair of sensible glasses and an air that could charitably be called severe. “Hakaru Hashimoto?”
He set down his bag. “Yes. I've been looking forward to working with you—”
Dr. Nakaya broke in. “Don't thank me yet. We may not have anything to work on at all.” She studied him with a critical eye. “If you have a jacket and tie, put them on, then get back here. You and I have an appointment.”
Something in her expression told him not to waste time with questions. A few minutes later, they were walking together down the sodden road. Hakaru did not see the children from before. “We're going to the village school,” Dr. Nakaya said. “A local councilman, Miyamoto, is there now. Knowing what he thinks of me, the meeting might go better if I bring a man along.”
Hakaru heard a note of bitterness in her voice. Around them, the rain had slackened. He stepped aside to make way for a pair of women who were coming up the street, signing rapidly to each other. “What do you need me to do?”
“Nothing. If he asks who you are, just say that you're affiliated with the university. When I give you a signal, get up and talk to the schoolteacher. It doesn't matter what you talk about, but try to make it look like you're discussing Miyamoto's performance.” She looked over at him for the first time since leaving the inn. “What do you know about the situation here?”
“Only what I saw in the articles you sent. I know, obviously, that this is an historical burakumin village—”
She shot him a glance. “Careful with that word. Make sure you don't use it around Miyamoto. The locals don't mind, but the townspeople across the river can be sensitive about these things.”
“Of course,” Hakaru said. Discrimination against the burakumin, the descendants of outcaste undertakers and leatherworkers, had been illegal for more than a century, but old prejudices still remained. Many burakumin still lived in separate, impoverished villages or neighborhoods, but most Japanese reacted to the situation by refusing to acknowledge it. “So what does this have to do with us?”
“The burakumin on this side of the river have been isolated from the rest of town for a long time, both geographically and culturally. At the moment, there's a proposal before the town council to merge the entire village with another town a mile away. A merger wouldn't change the lives of most villagers, but it would mean that the children would be bused to a larger school.”
Hakaru understood the problem at once. “Including the children in your study.”
“Exactly.” She quickened her pace. “As soon as I heard about the merger, I rushed back, which is why my usual cameraman wasn't available. I understand you've had experience with child development studies. We'll be taping subjects of all ages, but without the children, we have nothing.”
They reached the school. In the dingy playground, which was still damp, an afternoon class was at recess. The students, dressed in matching white shirts and kerchiefs, ranged in age from six to eleven. Most laughed and shouted as they ran, but a few were noticeably silent, and even the loudest ones were signing at the same time, with nimble, fluent gestures of their hands.
Going inside, they entered a classroom lined with tiny desks. At the front of the room, a teacher in her twenties was seated next to a man in gray slacks and a pink collared shirt. The councilman, Miyamoto, appeared to be going over some records, a stack of folders on the desk by his elbow.
As the newcomers entered, the teacher and the councilman rose. After a round of the usual pleasantries, Dr. Nakaya got down to business. “We need to talk about this merger. I've petitioned the council several times for an audience, but haven't received a very receptive response.”
“This is a busy time,” Miyamoto said, taking a seat as the teacher excused herself, moving to the other side of the classroom. “Perhaps we can schedule something for after the merger—”
Dr. Nakaya sat down. “At that point, it will be too late. The vote needs to be postponed. I don't think the council understands what it has here. If the merger goes ahead as scheduled, a unique opportunity will be lost forever.”
“I was born here,” Miyamoto said. “I think I know something about this place.”
“I'm not sure you do,” Dr. Nakaya said. “Let me remind you of the situation. Two centuries ago, this neighborhood was founded by an outcaste fisherman. We don't know much about him, except that his family was very large, and nearly every resident on this side of the river is descended from his sons. We also know that he was deaf. More specifically, he was a carrier for a form of recessive deafness that has been passed down to a substantial percentage of his descendants.”
“This is common knowledge. You don't need to lecture me about my own village.”
“I'm not finished. Because the village was an outcaste community that was shut off from the surrounding population, it became endogamous, with a high rate of intermarriage. As a result, of the thousand living residents, nearly five percent are deaf. And in just the past few generations, they've spontaneously developed a functional language for signing with each other and the rest of the village. A new language, with nothing in common with existing sign systems.”
“Once again, you aren't telling me anything I don't know,” Miyamoto said. “We're all aware that this village is special—”
“More than special. It's extraordinary. I've been a linguist for my entire professional career. We have theories about how languages grow and develop, but almost never have a chance to observe it in the field. This is the only place in Japan, perhaps in the world, where we can watch a new language evolve. The first generation with a large number of deaf villagers, born seventy years ago, signed with a simple pidgin, which the second generation turned into a real language. And the children who are alive today have given that language form and complexity. No one taught them how to do this. They did it themselves. And it needs to be studied.”
Miyamoto's smile had grown increasingly forced. “So what is it that you want?”
“I want to document this language properly. We need to videotape conversations with deaf children and adults, analyze the recordings, and compile a dictionary and grammar. We've already begun the process, but it takes time. And if you send these students to the school across the river, the unique properties of this language will be altered at once. They'll be taught all day in Japanese and standard sign language, and the culture they've created will be lost.”
“All right,” Miyamoto said impatiently. “You've made your case. Now let me tell you my own point of view. There's no question that this merger is good for the town. I also happen to believe that it is best for these children. You see, it's our responsibility to help people like this—”
As the councilman spoke, Hakaru felt a gentle pressure against his leg, and realized that Dr. Nakaya was pressing her foot against his calf. He remembered that he was supposed to go up to the teacher. As he rose, Miyamoto broke off for a second, watching him warily. Walking across the room, Hakaru approached the teacher, who was looking out at the children in the yard. “Hi there.”
“Hello,” the teacher said, smiling nervously. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“I wanted to speak with you about arrangements for taping,” Hakaru said, glancing at the councilman, who was watching them with poorly disguised concern. “You've worked with Dr. Nakaya before?”
“Yes, several times over the past year,” the teacher said. She led him into a short corridor that ran alongside the classroom. At one end, an open door looked out at the schoolyard. The wall was covered in children's drawings, a grid of bright pictures in crayon and watercolor. “We usually put the camera here.”
Hakaru checked the spot, co
nfirming that there was an electrical outlet and room for his equipment. When he was done, he wanted to ask the teacher what she thought of Dr. Nakaya, but something held him back. Instead, to delay his return to the classroom, he made a show of studying the drawings on the wall. There were many pictures of fishing boats. Elsewhere, there were a number of drawings of the school itself, with stick figure children playing outside, and—
He paused. Set among the other pictures was a rough drawing in crayon, barely more than a sketch. It showed a figure with a yellow face, its head bald, its throat a distended pouch. The creature's mouth was a black, screaming hole. He pointed at the picture. “Do you know what this is?”
The teacher frowned. “I'm not sure. It was done by a child in the morning class.”
“I see,” Hakaru said. As he spoke, however, the teacher turned her eyes away, and he had the sudden impression that she was lying.
Before he had the chance to ask about this, he heard something bounce lightly across the floor of the hallway, followed by a set of footsteps. A large plastic ball came to a stop at his feet. Running a few steps behind it was a tiny girl, pigtails flying, chasing the ball with her arms extended.
Hakaru picked up the ball. Handing it back to the girl, he said, “What's your name?”
The girl said nothing. Holding the ball, which was nearly the size of her head, in both hands, she glanced into the adjoining classroom. Following her gaze, Hakaru saw that she was looking at Dr. Nakaya, who was speaking in a low voice to the councilman, her face tense and angry.
The teacher smiled down at the student. “Her name is Amaya. She is six years old.”
Turning back to the girl, Hakaru found himself pointing to the drawing of the yellow face. “Can you ask her what this?”
The teacher seemed bothered by his request, but finally signed the question. Amaya turned away from the other room, then looked up at the drawing. Reaching up with one hand, she made a curious gesture, as if shaping a pouch under her chin. Then she ran back outside. Hakaru watched her go. “What did she say?”
Analog SFF, June 2011 Page 18
