Macroscope

by Pierce Anthony

  The first man spoke again, more formally: “This is Persis, girl of peace.” The girl performed a motion suggestive of a curtsy, smiling. Her teeth were bright and even. “This is Lida, beloved of us all.” The second girl genuflected, smiling as politely as the first. “And my dear friend Durwin.” The second man raised his hand in a formal wave rather like a salute, hoisting an eyebrow merrily.

  “And I,” the speaker said diffidently, “am Hume — lover of my home.” His smile was the most winning of all.

  Beatryx tried to speak, but Hume squatted to touch her lips lightly with his slender finger. “Do not name yourself. Surely we know you already. Have you not brought joy to us?”

  “She who brings joy!” Durwin exclaimed. “Her name would be—”

  “Beatrice!” the two girls cried.

  “No,” Hume said solemnly. “That would be common joy, and hers is uncommon.”

  Durwin studied her. “You are right. Look at her hair! She is as a diamond amidst quartz. Yet joy must be her designation. Not Beatrice, nor Beatrix—”

  “But Beatryx!” Hume finished.

  “We shall call her Tryx,” the girl Persis said;

  Beatryx listened to all of this with tolerance. “You knew my name already,” she said.

  “We knew what it had to be,” Hume said, and offered no further explanation.

  “Where is this?” She looked at the white sand and he strings of seaweed and the green-white surf.

  “Where,” Hume inquired gently, “would you like it to be?”

  “Why, I don’t really know. I suppose it doesn’t matter. It must be like Ivo’s dream, when he went to Tyre — only it seems so real!”

  “Come,” Durwin said. “Evening is hard upon us, and the village is not in sight.”

  “Yes,” Lida agreed. “We must show you to our companions.”

  Then Beatryx was walking down the long beach, seeing the light of the setting sun refracted off the rolling water in splays of colored light. The men paced her on either side and the girls skipped next to them. Inland the palmlike vegetation rose, casting long and waving shadows in the distance. The air was warm and moist, rich with the briny odors of the sea. Underfoot — all feet were bare, including hers, she suddenly realized — the sand was hot but not uncomfortable, spiced with multihued pebbles and occasional conchlike shells. The word “murex” came to her, but she could not place either the source or the meaning; certainly she had never seen shells quite like these before.

  Half a mile down the curving shoreline rested the village, a cluster of conical tents on the beach. In the center she saw a bonfire, great fat sparks leaping into the darkening sky, occasional fluffy wood-ashes drifting in the air current coming in across the water. She could smell the burning cellulose, together with hot stones and charred seaweed, and the hungry aroma of roasting fish.

  Hume took her by the arm and guided her into the crowd. “This is Tryx,” he proclaimed. “Come from the water, and great joy to us that she is sound and well.”

  “Another rescued!” someone cried. They gathered about, dark-haired, slender, glowing with health and friendliness. There were about thirty in all, as comely a group as she had ever seen. “See how fair she is!” a girl exclaimed.

  Beatryx laughed, embarrassed. “I am not fair! I’m almost forty!” With that she wondered where Harold was. It was strange to be anywhere without him, and not entirely comfortable, though these were certainly nice people. Harold and Ivo and Afra — were they still back in the floating chamber, watching her as the three had watched Ivo before? But she had no Schön-personality to direct the trip… it was all so complicated.

  The others smiled. “We must build a house for you,” one said, and immediately there was a flurry of action. One of the tents was evidently a storehouse; from it the men and women, working in cheerful concert, brought poles and rolls of clothlike material and lengths of cord. Some quickly planted the poles deep in the sand and bound them together at the top, while others wrapped the cloth around the outside of the resultant structure. Beatryx noticed that there were snap fastenings at the edges, so that the material could be easily joined to itself and to the uprights.

  And it was complete: a many-colored teepee residence for her to stay in while she was here. They stood back and looked at her expectantly.

  “It’s very nice,” she said. “But—”

  They waited, but she could not go on. It way very nice, and their society was very nice — but how could she inquire the purpose of it all? She had entered some kind of — diagram? — something with little balls falling and wheels spinning, and she had seen strange animals as though one of Harold’s charts had come to life, and finally she had fallen into a pond with talking fish — or had she been the fish, somehow? — and some kind of writing on the bottom. She understood vaguely that it all had to do with history and the reason she and Harold and Ivo and Afra had come to this place. That place. But now she was by herself, and there was no history and no explanation, and she did not know how to phrase her question.

  If only Harold were here to take charge! He was so practical about such things.

  “Thank you so much,” she finally said.

  “A paean!” Hume cried, and suddenly the group was in song, a melody of sheer exuberance and youthful glee. The voices of the girls were like flutes, marvelously clear and high.

  Then they were all sitting around the fire, now a ring of dimming coals, and passing spicy, juicy fish around, each one wrapped in tough green leaves. For drink there was something very like coconut milk, but richer and more filling. She worried that it might be alcoholic, but was soon satisfied that it was not.

  No one seemed to have lamps, and when the last of the fire died they were sitting in the dark. The men were exchanging stories of the fish they had speared or almost speared that day, and the territory they had explored: some fabulous fish, some astonishing territory, if everything were to be believed. The girls spoke of the pretty flowers they had seen inland, and the colored stones they had collected. No one asked Beatryx where she had been, and she was glad of that because she did not see how she could explain.

  It was all very pleasant, and even the sea-breeze was not cold; but there was one problem. She had dined well and sipped well, and certain urgencies of nature were developing. But which tent…?

  On her left sat Hume; on her right, Durwin. She could not inquire.

  At last the gathering broke up and the merry voices faded into the night. It was time to retire.

  She stood up uncertainly. She was no longer sure where her tent was, or what she should do once she reached it. As for the other—

  A gentle hand took her arm. “Will you walk with me?” Persis’ soft voice came.

  Thankfully she accepted the guidance. They walked out of the village and into the line of vegetation; she could tell only by the retreating sound of the waves and by the occlusion of a swath of stars by overhanging branches every so often. Now and then her foot came down on a twig or pebble, but there was nothing harsh enough to cause pain.

  “Here.”

  “Here?” They were still in the forest; she was sure of that much. Night insects chirruped and fluttered nearby. Where was the building?

  Persis squatted down.

  Beatryx realized, with a despairing shock, that this was it. There were no lavatory facilities! Nothing but the bushes. And these people weren’t even disturbed!

  Harold would have arranged to build a privy, at least…

  There was a fluffy mattress on the floor of her domicile, and no wind entered to disturb things. Persis showed her where to hang her bathing suit, and left. The advantage of the teepee format was that everything was within reach in the dark. It was comfortable enough.

  Comfortable enough physically, but not aesthetically. To sleep without night clothing… and no sanitary facilities! She knew she was being foolish, but these were aspects of the primitive idyl that disturbed her profoundly.

  Now she wondered about t
he sleeping arrangements of her companions. It seemed to her that there had been fewer than twenty structures in the village. Not enough for each person to have one. Were a number of these young men and women married? She had seen no sign of this; no rings on any fingers, no marital designations.

  Perhaps Hume and Durwin shared a tent, and Lida and Persis. Young people often did not like to remain alone. Nor, for that matter, did people like Beatryx herself. Still—

  She knew what Harold would say: other peoples, other customs. Let them be.

  If only he were here!

  In the morning the young men gathered more dry branches for the fire, but did not light it. The girls brought fruit from the forest, harvesting it from somewhere, and more coconuts. The nectar, it turned out, was from these. Teams of men punched holes in the mighty-husked objects and skillfully poured the juice into gourds. The women added flavoring from crushed berries.

  Breakfast was as supper had been: a communal gathering around the fire — still unlit — and distribution of succulent sections of fruit and cups of drink. Instead of tales of the day’s adventures, the dialogue was about forthcoming projects: where the best fishing might be had, whether it was time to move the camp to a new location, the prospects for rain.

  “I,” Hume said, “shall scout to the south this morning. Maybe I can find a suitable campsite.”

  “And who will go with you?” Persis demanded with a twinkle. “Do you think we can trust a man to make such an important survey?”

  “Tryx will go with me!” he replied jovially. “Was I not first to find her?”

  “Are you sure it was not her sunbeam hair you found first?” Persis concentrated with mock-brooding on a strand of her own black tresses.

  “I really don’t know anything about campsites,” Beatryx protested. It was foolish again, but she felt flattered by the frequent references to her hair. Once, of course, it had been quite fair, and some of the color lingered. Of course it would be subject to comment amid a black-haired group such as this, but it really was nothing remarkable.

  “Do you think he does?” Persis said. Beatryx took a moment to remember that this referred to knowledge of campsites. The matter seemed to be decided.

  She and Hume walked down the beach, not hurrying. Beatryx worried about sunburn, but clouds were growing in the sky and rain seemed to be a more likely problem.

  “Is it like this — all the time?” she asked, still having trouble framing her question. She had not understood, before, why Ivo had not simply snapped out of his Tyre-dream. Now she appreciated his situation. This world included sleep! Waking up was merely waking up, not a return. There was nothing to take hold of, no way to — she still couldn’t formulate it.

  “All summer,” he said. He carried a fishing spear that he used as a staff.

  So that was it! A summer holiday. “Where are your families?”

  “Oh, they’re inland. It is too dangerous for them on the beaches.”

  “Dangerous?” That didn’t sound like vacation!

  “The blacks,” he said, as though that explained it.

  “What are the blacks?”

  He looked uncomfortable. “They come up from the sea. I thought you knew all about — that. We have to stop them from infesting the land. Every year some try. If they ever take hold and start breeding—” He looked ahead. “There it is! I wanted you to see it.”

  She followed his gaze and spied an abutment of rock — a sheer cliff rising out of the sea, twenty feet high. It was an unusual formation, since the vertical side faced away from the ocean and toward the beach. Harold would have made some observation about reverse tidal undercutting, but she didn’t really understand that kind of thing. It was very pretty.

  The clouds had overcast the sun, but as if stage-directed they parted to let a beam come down. It struck the sea-side of the rock, and there was a brilliant flash from the edge.

  “What is that?” she asked, concerned.

  “The sun-stone,” he said, running toward it. She had to follow, bewildered.

  The overcast closed in again, but as she came up to the cliff she discovered why the rock had seemed to take fire. It was mirror-surfaced! The face toward the beach was a clean fracture that had been polished by nature or man until it shone. The beach was reflected in it, and the distant trees, making it appear almost like a window to another world.

  Could she step through? Would that convey her back to—

  Then she saw herself within it, and gasped.

  She had lost twenty years. Her hair was thick and blonde, as it had been before she settled in to married life. Her face was thin, narrow-chinned, like those of the girls here, and her figure appallingly trim.

  “And you said you were not fair!” Hume said, divining her thoughts. “You said you were forty.”

  “But I was — am,” she said, confused. “I don’t understand this.”

  “Why try? Too much understanding only brings sorrow, as we well know.” And he was off again down the beach, the mirror-rock a fancy only of the moment.

  She lingered, ostensibly to investigate the other facets of the structure, all as clear as the first but much smaller, but actually taking in the marvelous picture. The too-scant suit — now it was voluptuous. She was young again, and… fair. Perhaps she had known it before, and not believed.

  “Tryx!”

  She jumped, surprised by his impatience, and ashamed to be caught indulging in schoolgirl vanity, and ran to him. Yes, she could recognize it now: she had the vitality of a girl of seventeen.

  But Hume’s exclamation had not been impatient. He had found something.

  A line of footprints crossed the beach from the water to the trees. They were not human; the indentations were too large and shallow, even where the moist sand near the surf held them well. Webbed prints.

  “It must have crossed within the hour,” Hume said tersely.

  A reaction ran up her bare back and tightened the nape of her neck. “A — black?”

  He nodded. “We can’t catch it now. Impossible to run it down in the brush, except with a full party.”

  “What can we do?” The tension made her feel nauseated in exactly the way Ivo had described.

  “I’ll stand guard here. You run back to the village and warn the others. And be careful — they usually travel in pairs and cross in different places, so that if we get one — hurry!”

  Fear gave her fleetness. She skipped over the sand, running at the line where the water gave it firmness, though the ocean horrified her now. Creatures from the deeps!

  She passed the mirror-stone and went on, panting already. How far had they come down the beach? At least a mile — a long, long distance, now. What if the black came back before she fetched the others? Hume had only his spear. Those awful footprints…

  She had to slow down. She was young, but she could not keep up this headlong pace. Her side ached.

  She walked, recovering. She felt guilty, as though she were malingering, but this was the best she could do. She glanced over her shoulder, half afraid something would be coming after her, and saw that the mirror-stone was already out of sight. That made her more nervous than ever.

  Something caught her eye in the water, and she turned back. She jumped, though she knew it was only a wave, or perhaps a bit of driftwood coming into sight between the swells. She started to run again, but the pain in her side came back quickly, dragging at her strength.

  Again that shape in the ocean, attracting her unwilling eye. She forced herself to look carefully, trying to convince herself all the way down inside that it was nothing. Only a freak swell caused by adjoining currents in the tide; that was what Harold would say, comfortingly.

  A black, monstrous-eyed head rose out of the whitening froth, two glossy antennae quivering.

  Beatryx screamed.

  It was the wrong thing to do. Instantly the head swiveled to cover her. She saw its banded snout, the fixed round hole of a toothless mouth beneath. It was earless, but it h
ad heard her — and now it was swimming or slithering toward her with alarming speed.

  She bolted for the forest, but the loose dry sand caught at her feet while giving way beneath them, impeding her and throwing her off balance. She fell, sand flying up and into her face. She choked on it and tried to brush it out of her eyes, but her hands were covered with it.

  Somehow she could not get coordinated. She remained on hands and knees in the sand, watching the creature through streaming eyes.

  The thing rose out of the water and came at her, a towering ebony figure. The scales of its thick body gleamed metallically. She saw through her sandy tears that its extremities — all four of them — were webbed. This was a black!

  Then it loomed above her, hoisted upon two legs, the great square bulk of its forward segment swaying near. The antennae vibrated, casting off drops of moisture…

  A cry in the distance! The black’s head rotated toward the sound and its dangling flipper-forefeet hoisted up. The others had heard her cries! They were coming! The brute shuffled around and away, driving for the ocean. But already a party of men were running along the fringe of surf, cutting off its retreat. The black was clumsy; it could not move rapidly on land, and she saw that the powdery sand inhibited its grossly webbed feet even more than her own. It was trapped.

  “Joy! You are all right!” Persis cried, running up to her and flinging herself to her knees.

  “Hume!” Beatryx gasped, remembering. “He — he’s watching for another one! Beyond the mirror-stone!”

  “The sun-stone!” Several men detached themselves and pounded on down the beach, holding their spears aloft. They understood.

  Meanwhile six men were closing in on the nearby creature. It spun about awkwardly, seeking some passage to the water, but there was none. At last it charged, a caged bull, raising its solid forelimbs threateningly.

  Durwin’s spear thunked into its body. The black stumbled, clutching at the shaft but not mortally wounded, and the men were on it.

  “Kill it! Kill it!” Persis screamed, her eyes dilated, her fingers curved into claws.

  “Kill it!” Beatryx echoed, horrified by the narrowness of her escape.