Book of Transformations

by Mark Charan Newton

  Everything here seemed superbly crafted, and unique. The details carved into every structure were massively ornate, intricate geometric designs, or baroque and sprawling, as if the trees themselves had grown in that mesmerizing manner.

  Lan turned to Cayce. ‘So what’s your house like?’

  ‘Nothing here is mine,’ Cayce laughed.

  ‘Well, where do you live?’ she asked.

  ‘Villarbor.’ He gestured to the forest.

  ‘You own the entire city?’

  ‘No one owns any of it.’ Cayce wore his usual serene expression. ‘There are no rulers to order us about. We share communal hab units grafted into sections of the forest. We choose where to live and, quite unlike Villjamur, no one has to pay a fortune to be in the most fashionable areas. We self-organize and choose everything about our way of life ourselves. Should any of us wish to live elsewhere, we can move and build other places, fashion them out of the forest providing others are not against this wish. One can make each place with as much craft and care as one desires.’ Cayce paused to contemplate his words. ‘When the first cultists came here,’ he explained, ‘around about the time Villjamur was established, they adopted the ways of the local tribes – the newcomers did not want to interfere with the natural way of the land, and that philosophy of self-organizing has evolved into what we have now.’

  ‘I understand, I think . . .’ Lan lied. ‘It just makes no sense without money and a governing body.’

  ‘We have found governments and traders do not have the majority’s interest at heart,’ Cayce replied. ‘We cope well – we organize, distribute, work mutually with other autonomous hubs and districts across the island . . . I know what you are thinking – this all seems impossible without money and without rulers. But, it helps that we are cultists, so we can do anything we want, because money does not dictate or place values. I had to run the decision bringing you here past assemblies of the community – because there is a reason we generally keep outsiders away, a reason we don’t like their influence or their ideas – and why I’m reluctant for you to converse with us too much: what we have here works well. The Empire is a hegemony, attempting to impose its dominance on the rest of the Archipelago, crippling island after island in order to sell the fineries you see in Villjamur, and you would do well to understand that. But out here, in Villarbor, it just would not be sustainable. On an island like this our systems would implode. Here, we take only what we need. We will have some food tonight and you may sample some of the delights the forest offers, and then you can return to Villjamur as one of the sacred few to have witnessed this place.’

  *

  Cayce led her into a humid tree grove. Fat roots had formed an organic archway, and citizens of the forest stepped out from between them, drifting along wide paths through the vegetation. The pace of life here was leisurely. People were standing idly chatting, gripping baskets of metal, hunks of bars and piping and cogs. Children played games among the foliage, whilst a handful of smaller ones sat down on the grass listening to a man for what must have been a lesson.

  ‘Presumably without money, these children don’t have to pay to be schooled?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ Cayce replied. ‘They have access to everything – it is extremely important that every child can learn to read and write.’

  Lan was surprised, recalling the guilt of her own expensive education, despite the abuse she suffered. ‘What are they being taught?’

  ‘They’re being taught how to think.’

  The treetops flared with purple lighting, which stretched under-canopy in flat pulses, and Lan’s heart raced at this electrical activity. No one else took notice of it.

  They passed through an area that might have been an iren in Villjamur. Here it was something entirely . . . relaxed – a few rows of people openly weaving fabric or cooking food, stopping occasionally to talk to passers-by. Lan marvelled at the quality of decorative crafts on display, and the variety of fruit and vegetables. The choice.

  Lan noticed that some of the wooden habs flickered inside, as if a smith was working steel – but she suspected it was magic being worked, rather than metal.

  ‘Is everyone here a cultist?’ she asked.

  ‘By your definitions, probably,’ Cayce remarked. ‘With one exception, I should add. On Ysla, we are all of us equal. On Imperial soil cultists use relic technology for their own gains, occasionally bartering their skills for positions of power, even to fight against others in order to further their agendas. One will find none of that occurs on this island – we do not express power over people in our communities, or even the local tribes.’

  *

  In the evening, Lan joined Cayce’s table at a large outdoor banquet, and basked in the balmy air. Such a mild evening . . . It’s something I’d almost forgotten.

  Coloured lights and strips of bright material littered the forest clearing like a star-field. Children mingled with adults at a vast table shaped like a broken letter O, with people sitting both inside and out, mainly humans, but also a few rumels, and even one Ceph further down, who Cayce glanced to more than once. In the centre, a group of musicians played lute-like instruments, and drums and violins beat out loud melodies based on local folk songs. The forest vibrated with an energy that reminded her of the shows. There must have been a few hundred people there, each of them drinking and eating exotic foods – ones that could only really grow so far south, with such an altered climate. Succulent fruits and mellow-tasting mead, and thick stews and soft bread. The tables were overflowing.

  And this was the first time she’d been amongst so many people, able to feel quite safe. Yes, she could think about herself now with great relief. There was no deep-rooted fear that she would be victimized. When people talked to her there still remained an echo of her former self-consciousness, and that would perhaps linger for some time, but for now she could cover it up with her interest in this other culture.

  As incessant as midges, the locals attempted to quiz her about the outside world. Cayce kept suggesting that people leave her be, to allow her to recover in peace, and she softly smiled her apologies to them.

  The discussion surrounding her was wide-ranging, though often concerning matters of organization: transportation, how many people would man the bridges the next week, assemblies to be held, union guilds, schooling, districts, skills. For the most part it seemed all these people did was plan what needed to be done, but there was a good deal of talk of spiritual practices and liberal arts. There was a lot of talk of the finer points of sorcery, too, but most went over her head. Conversations at some parts of the table flared into altercations and semi-rows, though elders stood up and softly waved for calm. They all seem a lively bunch on Ysla.

  A name was suddenly whispered across the table, and the expressions on faces soured considerably and conversations quietened.

  Lan leaned towards Cayce. ‘Who’s Shalev?’

  As he struck alight a roll-up, Cayce observed the reactions of others along the table. Eventually, still looking their way, he answered Lan. ‘She is someone who was . . . of an unpleasant nature. She did bad things.’

  ‘A criminal?’ Lan asked.

  ‘We have no criminals here.’

  ‘What—?’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Cayce muttered calmly, and took a drag. ‘I said we have no criminals. We have no prisons. We do not punish in the same ways as the Empire.’

  ‘How do you stop people from stealing things?’

  ‘If no one owns anything, how can someone steal? If someone can have anything they want by asking, work, relic, or by doing it themselves, then there exists no need to steal. Most crimes are against property – and here, that is a non-existent term.’

  ‘Who decides these rules?’

  ‘We all do,’ Cayce replied. ‘We all have a democratic say in our own affairs, and this includes making the rules by which we live.’

  ‘I take it there’s no Inquisition here, so who the hell polices all of this?�
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  ‘No, there’s no Inquisition. We have our own community body who see to it that everything is fair, and democratically assign a punishment according to the offence that is committed, and to ensure the victim is suitably compensated.’

  ‘What about murder?’

  Something flickered behind Cayce’s eyes then.

  Lan pressed him further. ‘Is that what this Shalev person did, kill someone?’

  Cayce glanced at the others who were now listening in to the conversation. ‘No. Not just some one. Shalev was thought to have killed several people through her erratic practices. She was an unstable person, who did not fit in with our ways despite being brought up here, for the most part. Shalev is not an indigenous cultist. She came from a neighbouring island. She was difficult for many here to understand, and she was never popular because of that. Then her experiments became more reckless, and civilians were killed due to some of her relics. She failed to accept responsibility for her actions, and was exiled from all the communities across the island.’

  ‘Where do you think she’s gone now?’ Lan asked.

  Cayce glanced down at the table. This was the first time she had seen him lose his cool demeanour. ‘Shalev always talked about hurting the Empire – in fact, this was a contributing factor to her being exiled. Shalev wanted to impose our own systems elsewhere – as there has been much talk amongst our own people over the centuries of doing the same. But Shalev wanted to use violence to achieve this, which contradicts our way of life. So, in answer to your question, I fear she has headed to Imperial soil.’

  *

  Cayce walked her back to a hab, both of them harmlessly giddy on the local alcohol. It was still humid despite being deep into the evening, and as they stepped across the firm decking, Lan quizzed Cayce relentlessly. ‘Why help me, Cayce? I want to know. I’m just a nobody, so why? Please, be honest.’

  ‘You are quite the solipsistic lady.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. I want to know who the person was who helped me. Who you really were, before I walk back to that cold island on the other side of the Archipelago possibly never to see you again.’

  Cayce gazed at her for some time and gestured for her to enter the hab. Hesitantly she shuffled inside. The darkness abated as he lit a lantern, and the soft glow warmed his anxious face.

  Everything inside looked carved from the forest, from the floors to the furniture. Pinned up against the walls were detailed diagrams of the human body, in one corner a stack of books leaned over precariously, whilst thick bundles of paper were scattered haphazardly across the floor. A window faced out across the dark forest crown.

  He drew curtains across the window to block out the night, and bolted the door shut – suddenly Lan grew fearful.

  ‘Sit,’ he instructed, and she quickly collapsed into a wooden chair by the desk.

  He stood before her, sliding off his white robe. Then he commenced unbuttoning his undershirt.

  She froze, said nothing. Is he going to hurt me?

  Very slowly he peeled back his shirt and dropped it to the floor in a pool of his clothes.

  Lan’s jaw dropped.

  Scar tissue blossomed around his deltoid muscles, and between there and his pectorals she could see severe blistering – no, the faint bubbles of suction cups, some even protruding, pushing up through human skin. He had been very grotesquely altered. The colour of his arms was noticeably lighter than around his abdomen – they did not look to be his own.

  He watched her watching him and she began to apologize pathetically for her stunned reaction. From her of all people.

  ‘Now you have seen,’ Cayce whispered dolefully. ‘I . . . I was once a Ceph. I once swam underwater with them. I understand, to some extent, how you yourself feel. I longed to be human – deep within me I felt such a distance from the sea. I hated the cold depths. I craved light and knowledge, the land and human culture. I left my people, and am shunned by them now, for they do not appreciate the ways of this island. They are brutal and simple people. At a very young age I was made human by the cultists here, and given all the accoutrements of a human being. I became one of them, I learned their languages and their ways and practised until no one could tell me apart from any other. I grew to be who I am now, and it was not easy, but among this society I was welcomed, and that . . . that open-mindedness and generosity is something I wish to show others.’

  He held out wide the arms that were once not his own. ‘So, Lan, I understand your desire for transformation. That is why I helped you.’

  *

  There was so much more Lan wanted to know, but it was time to leave Ysla.

  Morning sunlight filtered into the hab and she listened as Cayce talked to her from the other side of his desk. He was informing Lan of the details of her transformation, how it would affect her, and she readily drank in his words, trusting him instinctively after he had revealed his own secrets to her. She had no doubt that this man understood her, though it did not make what he said any easier to absorb.

  ‘We’ve been able to give you as much of a functioning female anatomy as we thought we could,’ Cayce said. ‘And of course, we have . . . smoothed away masculine contours from your form, especially on your face, and in other ways – with hair and voice. These were simple enough. So firstly, you should be able to experience intercourse as a full woman, but I cannot say how much pleasure you will receive from it.’

  ‘I never got much anyway,’ she replied, grinning. Besides, for years she had never gone that far because she ran the risk of being discovered.

  Cayce ignored her dry humour, stalling over his next sentence. ‘You’ll also still . . . You will be unable to have children, and . . . there’s no way we can encourage natural menstruation.’

  Lan suspected as much, though always retained that vague hope of having the option, but now that hope had ultimately died, a small light in her heart went out for ever.

  ‘Aside from that,’ he continued, ‘and given that gender is a fluid notion – we are not Neanderthals who deal in binary on Ysla – I think you have many good reasons to be happy,’ Cayce concluded. ‘And are you happy with your physical state?’

  ‘I always felt like a woman anyway, but, you know, it’s so much more meaningful now? This isn’t just about how I look.’ She allowed a contemplative pause, and it was only in this silence that she realized how much more softer her voice had really become. ‘How much of this will remain a secret?’ Lan asked. ‘I wouldn’t want any of this getting out, is all. How many people know of what you’ve done to me?’

  ‘I understand.’ Cayce peered up. ‘A small network of cultists will be aware, but that is it. Besides, with all that ice around to worry about, who else will care?’

  ‘I’ll care.’

  Cayce folded his arms, hands under his armpits. He gave her a look of deep empathy. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lan said. His words were all very pleasant, but wasn’t she still some experiment to them? This was a mutual arrangement, after all. ‘There’s just so much to cope with.’

  ‘I told you there would be. People come looking for physical changes all the time, but they don’t understand just how connected the body and mind can be.’

  ‘I understand,’ she replied.

  ‘You may always have ghosts,’ Cayce warned. ‘Do not think they vanish overnight.’

  Before Lan departed she didn’t quite know what to say. Cayce merely stood there, alongside a doorway at the top of the stairwell leading down to where she’d be transported back to the freezing ice-wastes of Jokull. Others from the island had gathered in their multicoloured clothing – faces with which she was distantly familiar. The sun was intense, as it always was here. She gazed behind into the distance to see Villarbor, and its hundreds of hub communities stretching across the many shades of green that comprised the landscape. What a view . . . She would certainly miss this island, but was honoured to have at least witnessed such exoticism.

  Cayce guided her to the
steps. ‘The local tribes like to point out to us that for rebirth, first you must choose the path of death. I would recommend that it is an opportunity to let go of the person you were.’

  ‘I will,’ she replied. ‘I’ll go to Villjamur – I have just a little money saved, but yeah. No more life at the circus for me.’

  ‘Very wise,’ Cayce replied.

  ‘Cayce, I don’t know what to say . . .’ She was welling up, and thinking her emotional outburst absurd, but how could she thank this man who had given her a new life, the life which she naturally felt for all these years, which was both ever-distant and as close as a dream?

  ‘The pleasure is, indeed, all mine, sister,’ Cayce said gently. ‘I have explored new science here, and my order are thrilled with the work we have done together.’

  She suddenly embraced him, unable to hide her gratitude, and then she turned down the stairs, under the gazes of others, back towards the musky darkness.

  To a new life.

  FOUR

  There was some kind of military operation under way – she could at least be certain of that. Thousands of red-skinned rumels were massing on the snow before her, all garbed in alien clothing, carrying banners with bizarre insignia, and ranked in eerily precise rows. Orders were being issued in that base, guttural language of theirs, and then the sound of marching muted by the snow.

  But in the distance she could see thousands of those . . . things.

  Verain shuddered. She cringed at their ragged movements, at their monstrous insectile appearance. Those shells and claws. Though some distance away, they still put the fear of Bohr or indeed any other god into her. Each of them seemed to loom above their nearest rumel counterpart, yet despite the physical dominance, they were somehow subordinate to the red-skins.