‘So, it seemed my father knew all about it. At that age, grown people seem to know everything about everything – you accused me of that once, I remember.
‘Well, when it was time to sleep, back then when I was a child, I would lie on my blankets and go drifting into a certain world. I remember little of it now, except that there was music everywhere, and fountains of pearl, and beasts one could ride, and funny little furry things that talked …
‘So, one day I said to my father that I wished he would get me a – what was it I called them? a foozil or some such – get me a foozil. And he asked me what a foozil was, and I explained that it was one of the furry, talking animals, and he told me I had made it all up. Imaginary, he said.
‘Well, I had not known that the world I drifted in before sleep was only my own. I had thought it was a world everyone knew of. I thought we shared it, other people and I. It was the first time I knew that we all have separate worlds, Medoor Babji. No one else knew of my foozil. No one else had seen my fountains of pearl, or my wondrous beasts. How sad for them, I thought. Until I realized that they, each of them, had a world of his own.
‘And I was shut out of them, daughter! Oh, the tragedy and wonder of that! The wonder of knowing that my own universe, much of it unexplored, bright or dim, shadowed or sunlit, full of every possible expression of dream and imagination – that the universe I have inside me was not shared. But more tragic, to know that all around me were a hundred thousand others, also dim or bright, full of dream, none of which I could ever see or know. The tragedy of knowing I would never know! Do you understand what I mean, Medoor Babji?’
Medoor nodded, thinking perhaps she did, perhaps she did not. Her mother did not wait for a response.
‘I was a child. I didn’t realize how limited our lives really are. I decided to learn all about the worlds of others. I asked them to tell me stories of their worlds, and they gave me words, daughter. Do you know how limited words are? People try to describe their worlds to you, but their words are like a map drawn with a burned stick beside a campfìre. At best they let you in a little; at worst they hide the way entirely. I found that people go through life giving each other these little maps and little passwords. We explore one another, and gradually the maps accumulate, the passwords become more numerous. The more we are alike, the more we share, the more we understand. So, we Noor can see further inside one another than most. We can share each other’s worlds better than most. But we can never really see it all ….
‘So, you have a world inside you, child of my heart, which I can see a little. And the one you love, this Thrasne, he has a world as well, and it is utterly strange to me, to all the Noor. You ask me to love him for your sake. And I have not even a little map drawn with a burned stick to find my way to that.’ She smiled at Medoor Babji, shaking her head ruefully, receiving an equally rueful smile in return.
‘So, I must do what we all do. I will take it on faith. His world is real because you tell me so. I cannot perceive it. I can only assume it. I will love him for your sake, Doorie.’
Medoor Babji took her hand and held it tightly. There were tears on the Queen’s cheeks as she went on.
‘Perhaps you will ask him to show me what he can of his world. Perhaps he will give me a map. From his map, I will travel in his strange world of water and boats if I can.’
‘Oh, great Queen …’
‘Call me “Mother,” child. There may be no Queen of the Noor where we are going. There may be no throne for you to ascend.’
‘I think he is afraid of you, Queen Fibji.’
‘Well, so, and I am afraid of him as well. We must do what we can about that. I will give him passwords to walk in my world, and he must give me passwords to walk in his, so we can pass each other by without disruption. There are many passwords, child. “Be careful,” or “ Forgive me,” or “ I love you,” or “Take care of my child.”’
‘What do I do if he still loves Pamra the Prophetess? Or believes he does? Or remembers doing so?’
‘You have told me he is an artist, and she was beautiful. I never saw her, but I have seen the image of her in the Temple here. He may always love that image of her. But it will not matter. Pretend it is God he loves, or his art. It is much the same thing.’
‘And you will give me your blessing?’
‘You have had my blessing since I conceived you, Doorie. It is not something one can take back. But if you want it renewed, so be it. Have your Thrasne, child. To whatever extent you can. Take whatever password he gives you, and be grateful.’
The Queen brushed at her trousers and threw back the long tassels of her hair. ‘It is time we were done with this serious talk. All day has been full of weeps and moans. I cried this morning, thinking of all those who would not come with us to this River. How many there were who would not follow me! How many there were who stayed, to revenge themselves upon those who had persecuted us. How many there were who chose that, rather than this …’
‘The River is frightening,’ Medoor admitted. ‘I was frightened by it.’
‘They were not frightened of the River,’ Queen Fibji contradicted. ‘They were frightened of going where there would not be any enemies to fight. These were the young men with battle in their blood. They thumped their spears on the ground and leapt high in a battle dance and sent their spokesmen to me to explain. They spoke of honor. Of glory. I tried to tell them what I have told you, but it meant nothing to them. I told them of my father. I told them the riddle he had given me as a child. “Of what good are dead warriors?” I asked them. It did no good. They stayed behind. They did not see my world, child. They would not see my world …’
She gazed out over the water, not seeing Medoor Babji’s eyes fixed on her, wide and terrible.
And she, Medoor, within herself but without speaking, said to her mother, ‘Mother, I found the answer to your father’s riddle. I sent a message to tell you …’
She imagined that the Queen was silent for a moment, thinking, ‘Of course you did. And you told me you were pregnant. And that Southshore awaited. And those things drove the other from my mind. So. You have the answer. Will you tell it to me?’
‘It is the answer to your riddle of long and long ago. The riddle your father set you. “Of what good are dead warriors?’ I found the answer to that.’
‘Where did you find it?’
‘I learned it from the Treeci, by chance.’
‘So? Come, child. Why this hesitation? Tell me!’
Medoor imagined herself delaying, knowing she was right, and yet the answer was a hard and hurtful one. ‘Warriors are those who desire battle, Mother.’
‘Yes?’ The Queen would be puzzled.
‘Warriors are those who desire battle more than peace. Those who seek battle despite peace. Those who thump their spears on the ground and talk of honor. Those who leap high in the battle dance and dream of glory …
‘The good of dead warriors, Mother, is that they are dead.’
The Queen would stand staring at her for a long time. After that time, tears would begin to run down her cheeks. Medoor saw them clearly. If she told her mother the answer to the riddle, her mother would cry once more and there had been enough tears today. She would not tell her mother the answer. Not today. Perhaps not ever. It was a stony answer, a hard answer.
When all the warriors were dead, when they made no more children like themselves, then others might live in peace. She would not tell the answer, but she would keep it in her heart.
‘Let us go down to the River,’ said the Queen.
They walked together down toward the Gift, the ship that was to take them to Southshore.
29
There were some others who would sail aboard the Gift as well: Haranjus Pandel, the widow Flot, and two very old and feeble people, Tharius Don and the lady Kesseret. Tharius had sent word for her to meet him in Vobil-dil-go, and here he had begged passage for them both from Thrasne.
‘I have not seen a flier in weeks
,’ the lady said, her voice quavering. ‘I think the last was a month ago.’
‘They are probably all dead,’ answered Tharius, his voice emotionless. He had done grieving for the Thraish. His grief over Pamra Don had been all the grief he had left. ‘I was wrong, that’s all. A few survived for a time, eating stilt-lizards and the lesser birds, until there were no more. Except for a few, they wouldn’t eat fish, even to save their lives.’
‘Medoor Babji told me a strange thing,’ the lady said. ‘She said that at the time of the hunger, long and long ago, all the Thraish who could eat fish had done so. They left Northshore then, in fear of their lives. Only those who couldn’t do it had remained here on Northshore, and there were very few of them. And all those who lived here on Northshore were descendants of those few who could not. It wasn’t your fault, Tharius. It was bred in them. They couldn’t. That’s all.’
‘It’s no one’s fault,’ he said.
‘Medoor Babji told me something else. She says that when the dead are put in the River, they are touched by blight and then taken by the strangeys to the islands. They go on living there, Tharius. They grow slower and slower, rooting themselves like trees, time all quiet around them. I want to go there.’
‘Why? Why?’
‘Because there has never been time for me. Only for the cause. It would be nice to have time for me.’
He buried his face in her hair and said nothing. He would grow roots beside her if she liked. He didn’t know whether to believe Medoor Babji’s tale or not.
‘It’s a pity Pamra Don could not have been put in the River. What did you do with her body, Tharius?’
‘Buried it,’ he said. ‘Wrapped it in a robe and buried it beneath a thorn tree. There was nothing but bones. And a kind of child-shaped shell that Lila hatched out of. I think it was Lila.’
‘Lila?’
He told her of Lila. He had heard more about Lila from Thrasne, though he wasn’t sure how much of that he believed, either. ‘I don’t know what it was that went into the River,’ he said. ‘The strangeys called her their child. She was something strange.’
‘They’re taking up the plank,’ she said. ‘The oars are beginning to sweep.’
He looked out across the railing. The River slid between the Gift and the shore, and they began to move out onto the waters. All the deck was crowded with Noor amid a sprinkling of other folk. ‘Half a year,’ he said. ‘To Southshore.’
‘It is unlikely we will see it,’ she said, contented. ‘I don’t care.’
Behind them on the bank, a few standabouts stood watching their slow progress. Most of them paid little attention. Too much else was happening. There were no workers anymore. The Towers were empty. There were no fliers, not anywhere. All of them had starved to death, it was said, though a good many had been killed when they’d attacked humans, trying to dose them with Tears or carry them off to the Talons. If one wanted excitement, one might think about joining the war going on, back on the steppes. Two Protectors of Man, one true, one false, fighting each other, and who knew which was which? There was even talk that one side wanted to kill off all the Noor. People were taking sides, joining up with one or the other, getting irate about one side or the other in taverns. Some were Peasimites, some Jondarites, and the gods knew where it would all end.
The gods knew; not that anyone meant the old gods. Potipur was finished. His image was scratched right off the Temple walls, and so were Viranel and Abricor. The Mother of Truth stood there now, shining, and people came from far away to make measurements of her so they could carve copies for their own Temples. The man who had carved her had actually known her, so it was said, before she was the Light Bringer. He had written it, right there on the image, for all the doubters to see.
Still, other carvers carved her differently. Sometimes they carved her with a child in her arms, sometimes with a flame-bird chick, for it was told how a flame-bird had hatched in her arms when she was put in the fire. Her soul, some said, which flew straight to the God of man. Something else, others said, which had not looked like a flame-bird at all. She had been burned by Jondarites, some said. By Peasimites, said others. By the fliers, said others yet. But who knew the truth? Priests used to answer the questions like that, but they were gone, along with the Awakeners. Who knew where? They unbraided their hair, laid down their staffs, wiped the paint from their faces, and disappeared. Just like anyone else, now.
The gates were gone now. People went east if they felt like it, though some felt very uncomfortable about it. And sure as sure, some oldsters couldn’t stand the changes and had to carry their dead west for the Holy Sorters, even though everyone knew there weren’t any such things. The Rivermen kept watch, though. There weren’t any bodies left lying around to attract fliers, even though no one had seen any fliers for weeks. Sooner or later, everyone ended up in the River.
Or across it. For there was word of a new land there, a far land, a land where the Noor were going – and smart of ’em, too, if the Peasimites were coming. Now and then someone might stop a moment and look in that direction, saying the word over as though it had some magical meaning.
Southshore.
30
They were somewhere near the Island of the Dead when the two old people died. First Tharius Don, all at once, with one deep, heaving breath; then Kessie, calling his name once and then not breathing again, as though there were no reason to breathe once the other was gone. Thrasne found Medoor Babji crying over them, the tears lying on her cheeks like jewels, and he kissed them away, comforting her.
‘Aiee, Medoor Babji, but those were old, old folk. Tharius Don told me he’d lived hundreds of years. More than you and me put together ever will.’
‘I know,’ she wept. ‘It’s just they loved each other, Thrasne.’
She would not be comforted, but she did stop crying. The late evening mist hid the waters, and he couldn’t see whether the island was really near or not, though he smelled it, or another one like it, and had been doing so all day. There was a peculiar odor about the Island of the Dead, a tree fragrance unlike any other, and he could detect it now, faintly borne on the light wind. The two old people lay on the deck, side by side, and the Noor Queen came out of the owner-house to say some words over them in a high, singsong voice before Obors-rom slid their bodies into the River.
They sank down, out of sight, quickly, as though eager to depart. Medoor Babji clung to Thrasne almost fearfully, and he held her close beside him, bringing her into his bed that night, big belly and all, feeling the babe kicking inside her with a kind of quiet joy and fear all at once. There had still been no words, no real words, between them. They had not talked of Pamra Don or of Thrasne’s feelings. He did not know how she felt about him, really, or how a queen’s daughter would be allowed to feel. He was afraid to ask. And yet she lay there beside him, deeply asleep, and he took it to mean something.
In the night he dreamed of Lila.
She had become a creature wholly strange, not human at all and yet, one could have said, not totally unlike. There was something one thought of as a head, with organs of sight and smell and perhaps taste and hearing, this part already fringed at the edges. There were parts that could have been arms and legs on their way to being something else, not flippers or fins, precisely, and yet fulfilling those functions as well as other, unimaginable ones. Her voice, when she spoke, was Lila’s voice, a child’s chuckling voice using words that set up unfamiliar chains of association in his mind as he heard her demanding to know why Medoor Babji was grieving.
‘Medoor Babji was crying because they died, and they loved one another,’ he explained to her.
‘My people tell me humans are maddened by death,’ she said. ‘It comes too quickly, severing love. People need time to become accustomed to it. Either they dwell on it all the time, worrying their lives away to make monuments to themselves, or they refuse to think of it at all, like Queen Fibji’s young warriors. It becomes an obsession with men, one way or the other
, so they forget to live. Like you, Thrasne.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Thrasne said in his dream. ‘What has that to do with me?’
‘Your mother died, Thrasne, and you could not bear that she was gone. So you created her again, as Suspirra, a carving, which was safe because it could not die. And then you found the drowned woman, and she was safe, too, because she was already dead. Then, when she fell into dust – I know; I was there – when she fell into dust you chose Pamra to continue to be Suspirra. You told yourself you wanted her to love, to bear your children. In truth you only wanted her never to change. You wanted her to be Suspirra.
‘It is easier to honor the dead than it is to love the living.’
‘That’s crazy,’ he said in his dream, but weakly.
‘Oh, but men are crazy,’ Lila said in her bubbling voice. ‘Only crazy people would have had things like Awakeners and workers. Only crazy people would dream of an eternal life in Potipur’s arms.’ She laughed. ‘A baby, held in arms, rocked to and fro, unchanging. Ah, ah, that is not eternal life, Thrasne. That is eternal death. Only a crazy man would have loved Pamra ….’
‘But I did love her,’ he argued, angry even in his dream, knowing he did not quite believe it.
‘Only because she was Suspirra. What was she otherwise? A narrow, ignorant woman. Maddened by death into rejecting life. Holding fast to a childish naiveté which protected her from seeing reality. A believer in impossible futures. A simple, totally selfish woman who saw no one’s need but her own, who invented a doctrine to meet that need and voices to validate it, who walked a way upon the world convincing others her myth was better than their myths, letting others suffer and die in the service of her madness, starving herself into spasms of self-generated rapture, not seeing, not hearing, only to be burned at last by that which she would not hear or see.’
‘She wanted to free the slaves. She wanted to stop the workers. She was a saint,’ he muttered.
Southshore Page 25
