Pyotr looked startled. "There was an old scandal whispered about my maternal grandmother, that she had been impregnated by a gypsy lover before her marriage. But how you should know that—"
"Oh, grandson," laughed the 123-year-old patriarch of Verkhnyaya Bzyb. "Surely you have guessed by now why I know it, just as you know what kind of special human being your late wife was, and what your daughter is, and why you were commanded to bring her to us."
Pyotr stopped dead, turning away from the old man in a fury, willing himself to be sober again, free of the thrall of this bewitched village Vera had rebelled against so many years earlier, when she had run away to the Black Sea Coast and civilization...
"Vera left us," Seliac said, "because she did not love the man we chose to be her husband. And she took seriously the tenets of dialectical materialism presented in the schoolbooks, with their naive, romantic view of the perfectability of human nature through a mere socialist revolution. Vera came to believe that our ancient soul-way was superstition, reactionary and elitist, contravening the basic socialist philosophy. And so she denied her birthright and went to Sochi just before the Great Patriotic War. She threw herself into hospital work and studies, remained a valiant maiden, and seemed wed to Party loyalty and her profession of healing. She almost managed to forget what she had been, as others have done when distracted by the turmoil of modern times. Over the years we called out to her, but there was never an answer. We mourned her as lost. But all unknown to us, quite late in life she had found you, her ideal mate, and when she was forty-two your marvelous child was born."
"Tamara..."
Pyotr still refused to face the village elder. He stood on the stony bank of a brook at the edge of the walnut grove, looking over the countryside. The steep little fields and pastures were a green and golden patchwork on the slopes. Crowded against their low rock walls were hundreds of white-painted hives, piled high like miniature apartment complexes, the homes of mild-tempered Caucasian bees that flew about everywhere gathering late-season nectar for the aromatic honey that provided the village with its principal income. Thyme was still blooming, and hogweed and melilot and red clover, filling the crisp air with fragrance. Grasshoppers sang their last song of doom before the frost, which had already whitened the highest northern ridges below the spine of the Bokovoi Range. It was here in these mountains that Jason had sought the Golden Fleece; and here that Prometheus stole the divine fire; and here that defiant tribes guided by sturdy centenarians withstood wave after wave of conquering outlanders: Apsny, Land of the Soul, a place of legends, where human minds were said to accomplish wonders that conventional science deemed impossible! But not all scientists scoffed, Pyotr recalled. There were other believers besides the egregious Vasi-liev. The great Nikolai Nikolayevich Semyonov, who had won the 1956 Nobel Prize for Chemistry, had spoken in favor of psychic research, and it was studied seriously in Britain and America. But even if such things as telepathy and psychokinesis did exist, did they have pragmatic value?
Seliac Eshba bent and picked up a green walnut fruit from the ground. "Does this?" he inquired, his dark eyes twinkling. "It is a thing with a tough husk; and if you break into it, it stains the fingers badly, and then there is a second inner shell that must be cracked before the meat is reached. But the walnut is sweet and nourishing, and if a man is patient and long-sighted he may even plant it in the ground and someday reap a thousandfold." Seliac scrutinized the green ball and frowned. "Ouff! A weevil has been at this one." Cocking his arm, he flung the useless thing over the brook into the pasture. "Perhaps the goats will eat it ... but for the finest trees, one must choose the best possible seed."
"As you have?" Pyotr's laugh was bitter. "You draw a striking analogy. But even if it's a valid one ... Tamara is only one little girl."
"But a mental titan. And there are others—not many yet, but increasing in numbers—all over the world."
Pyotr whirled about to lock eyes with the village elder. "You can't possibly know that!"
"We do know."
"I suppose you claim some kind of telepathy—"
"Only a little of that, and not over great distances. The real knowledge comes because of our close rapport with the earth, with her seasons and rhythms, those of the year and those of the aeon. This land round about you with its hidden fertile valleys and secret caves is the place where humanity first learned to dream. Yes! It happened here, in the Caucasus, as the great winter ebbed and flowed and primitive people honed their minds yearning for the glories of spring. The hardships they endured forced them toward the long fruition. Do you know that walnut trees will not bear fruit in the tropics? They need the winter. In the old days, they needed it twice! Once to stimulate the fruit to form, and again to rot the thick husks so that the inner nut would be set free to germinate. Our human cycle is much longer, but we, too, have passed through our first great winter and attained the power of self-reflection. Over the ages our minds have ripened slowly, giving us greater and greater mastery over the physical world, and over our lower nature."
"Oh, very good! And now I suppose the superior nuts are ready to fall! The winter of nuclear war that threatens—is this what will bring about your mental revolution? Are we to look forward to supermen levitating over glowing ashes, singing telepathic dirges?"
"It might work out that way," the old man admitted. "But think: One doesn't have to wait for the walnut husks to rot naturally, not if one is determined—and not afraid of stained hands." Work with us, grandson. Help us prepare Tamara to meet her peers, to use her great gifts worthily. There will be a price you and I must pay, but we dare not wait passively for the terrible season to do our work for us ...
Seliac held out his brown-dyed hand to Pyotr, smiled, and waited.
9
BERLIN, NEW HAMPSHIRE, EARTH
21 OCTOBER 1966
THE NOTION OF killing Don insinuated itself into his mind as he was clocking out of the paper mill that Friday afternoon, and the other office workers called out to him.
The women: "Night, Rogi! Save a pew for us at the wedding."
The men: "See you at the Blue Ox tonight. We'll give that big stud a sendoff he'll never forget!"
And the snide crack from Kelly the Purchasing Agent, Rogi's boss: "Hey—don't look so down in the mouth, fella. The best man always wins, even when he loses!"
Rogi grinned lamely and muttered something, then plunged into the stream of exiting employees with long strides.
After the bachelor party. He could do it then. Don would be so drunk that his mental defenses would be shaky and his offensive coercion and reflexes slowed. The two of them would have to cross the bridge over the Androscoggin on the way back to the rooming house.
(Am I going crazy? My God, am I seriously considering killing my own brother?)
My PK would be strong enough. It had been the last time, when the fishing boat tipped in Umbagog Lake. Only my will had been too weak.
(An accident! Of course it had been an accident. And unthinkable not to haul Don up from the depths, swim with him to shore, and pump life back into him...)
A car went by Rogi as he walked through the parking lot, windows down and radio playing. His throat constricted. The song was "Sunny," and that had been his private, precious name for her. But she had willingly surrendered it to Don along with all the rest.
Rogi went down to walk along the wide river. It was a fine evening, with the sun just gone behind Mount Forist and the trees touched with color from the first light frosts: the kind of evening they had loved to share, beginning with the days they had walked back from the library. There was a certain grove of trees down by the shore, on the other side of the CN tracks, and a large flat rock. The trees muffled the noise from the traffic along Main Street and gave an illusion of privacy.
He found himself coming upon the place, and she was waiting for him.
"Hello, Rogi. I hoped you'd come. I—I wished you would."
And my mind's ear heard you!
; He only nodded, keeping his eyes on the ground.
"Please," she begged him. "You've avoided me for so long and now there's no more time. You must understand. I want tomorrow to be a happy day."
"I wish you every happiness, Sunny ... Marie-Madeleine. Always."
Mentally, he saw her hold out supplicating hands. "But it'll all be spoiled if you're miserable at the wedding, Rogi. If you blame Don. He couldn't help what happened any more than I could. Love is without rules. Quand le coup de foudre frappe..."
He laughed sadly. "You're even willing to use French when you talk about him. But with me, you pretended you didn't understand. It made me bold. I said things to you that I'd never dare say in English. Very casually, so the tone wouldn't give me away. Sneaking les mots d'amour into ordinary conversation and thinking what a sly devil I was."
"You were very sweet."
"And of course you really did know how I felt. From the start."
"Of course. And I learned to love you. I mean—to love being with you. No! Oh, Rogi, try to understand! With Don it was so different. The way I feel about him—"
He clenched his teeth, not trusting himself to speak. His eyes lifted and met hers, those innocent blue eyes lustrous with tears. His mind cried out to her:
You were mine! It went without saying. All we had to do was wait until we were old enough. That was sensible, wasn't it? And he had so many others to choose from, so many other girls he could have taken. Did take. Why did he need you, too, Sunny?
She said, "Rogi, I always want you to be my dearest friend. My brother. Please."
The temptation had been strong before but now it became overwhelming, a compulsion thundering in his brain that battered away the camouflage of abstraction he had erected to disguise it. Kill Don. Tonight.
He said, "Don't worry about me, Sunny. It'll be all right."
She was weeping, clutching the strap of her shoulder bag in both hands and shrinking away from him. "Rogi, I'm so sorry. But I love him so much."
He wanted to take her in his arms and dry her tears. He wanted to shout: You only think you love him! You don't realize that he's bewitched you—coerced you. When he's dead you'll come to your senses and realize that the one you really love is me. You'll cry bitter tears for him, but in time you'll forget that you ever loved anyone but me.
Aloud he said, "I understand. Believe me."
She smiled through the tears. "Be his best man tomorrow, Rogi, and dance with me at the wedding. We'll all drink champagne and be happy. Please tell me that you will."
He took her gently by the shoulders and kissed the top of her head. The smooth hair was as pale and shining as cornsilk. "I'll do whatever it takes to make you happy, Sunny. Goodbye."
***
Dave Valois nearly ruined the plan when he insisted on driving the two of them home after the bachelor bash at the Blue Ox. But Rogi pointed out that walking a mile in the fresh air was just what Don needed to sober up.
"Gotta burn off some of that booze. Ol' Donnie's got such a skinful, he'll be in a coma tomorrow 'less he walks it off. Father Racine won't 'preciate a zombie groom. No, sir! You just leave ol' Don to me."
It was three in the morning, the Ox was closed tight, and the gang was dispersing in dribs and drabs, bidding farewell with honks and convivial hollering. Valois and some others protested a bit, but gave in when Rogi took his twin's arm and started slowly down Main Street with him. Don was all but unconscious. Only Rogi's coercion kept him upright and plodding along the sidewalk. Dave circled the block in his Ford and came back to yell, "You sure you don't want a ride?"
"Damn sure," said Rogi. "See you in church."
A few minutes later, he and Don were virtually alone, walking slowly toward the bridge. It was a chilly night with no wind. The Androscoggin was a wide pool of ink reflecting a flawless duplicate of upside-down streetlights and the omnipresent pillars of steam that rose from the pulp mills.
Under his breath, Rogi chanted: "Pick 'em up and lay 'em down. Pick 'em up and lay 'em down. Attaboy, Donnie. Just keep slogging."
"Argh," said Don. His mind was a merry-go-round of fractured images and emotions—hilarity, triumph, anticipation, and erotic scenarios featuring Sunny and himself. He didn't suspect a thing. Rogi had thrown off most of the effects of inebriation and was concentrating on maintaining his mental shield and keeping Don moving. The two of them made slow progress to the center of the bridge. A few cars drove along Main Street, but none made the turn to cross the river.
Rogi came to a halt. "Hey—looky here, man! Look where we are."
Don uttered an interrogatory grunt.
"On the bridge, kid," Rogi caroled. "The good old bridge. Hey, remember what we used to do in high school? Walk the rail! Drive the other guys nuts. They didn't know we could use our PK to balance."
Don summoned concentration with a mighty effort. He giggled, exuding good-natured contempt. "Yeah, I 'member. You were chicken, though, till I showed you how."
"I'm not chicken now, Don," Rogi said softly. "But I bet you are."
The railing was not exceptionally high. It was of metal, wide and pipelike, interrupted every nine meters or so by a lamp stanchion. The two young men stood by one of those stanchions now and Rogi wrapped Don's arm around it so he wouldn't fall down.
"Watch this!" Grasping the lamppost in one hand, Rogi vaulted up. "I'm gonna do it now, Don. Watch!" He extended his arms, teetered a little, then began walking steadily along the pipe. The deep Androscoggin was a star-flecked black mirror nearly twenty meters below. Don could swim, but not strongly. It wouldn't take much mental strength to keep him under in his present condition. The tricky part was getting him off the bridge without laying a hand on him.
"Wah-hoo! Boy, that's a kick!" Rogi skipped along the pipe, which was a hand's span in width. When he reached the next stanchion he hugged it and swung himself around and around, cackling madly. "Oh, that's great! C'mon, Donnie. Now it's your turn."
Rogi jumped to the pavement and faced his brother, tensing.
Don blinked. His teeth gleamed in a crooked grin. "Don't wanna."
Rogi's guts lurched sickeningly. God! Had he leaked the hostility after all? Given himself away? "Aw. What'sa matter, Don? You too scared to walk the rail? Or maybe your li'l heart's throbbin' too hard, thinkin' about Sunny."
"Ain't my heart throbbin'," Don said, leering.
Rogi kept a grip on himself. "Then you're chicken."
"Nope. Just drunk's a skunk."
"Well, so'm I—but I walked the rail. I'm just as smashed as you and I walked the fucker. Thing is, I don't lose the power when I've got a snootful—and you do."
"Like hell!" Don balled a fist. "Famme ta guêle!"
"I'll shut up when you walk, pansy!"
Don gave a bellow, seized the stanchion in both hands, and hauled himself up. It was perfect. Even if someone saw them there could be no suspicion of foul play. Rogi was ten meters away and Don had taken his first step.
"So long, Don," Rogi said. "I'll take good care of Sunny."
He exerted both PK and coercion with all his strength.
Don screamed and his feet flew out from under him. For a split second he hung unsupported except by his own panic. Then he fell, but he caught the railing and clung to it, kicking. His heavy boots clanged against the ironwork. Rogi concentrated on his brother's hands, lifting the fingers from the dew-slippery metal one by one.
Don was crying his name and cursing. His fingernails broke and his hands slid down the uprights and scrabbled at the toe-plates and the rough concrete footing. Black blood from his lacerated skin splattered the front of his windbreaker. There was a long cut across his right cheek. Don's PK seemed to have deserted him but he still clung to the bridge with all his considerable physical strength, no longer wasting energy in kicking. Waves of rage and imperfectly aimed coercion spewed from his brain.
"Let go, damn you!" Rogi cried. He felt his own powers beginning to weaken. His skull seemed about to burst. He would have
to take a chance—get up close and stamp on Don's hands—
He was blind. Deprived of both vision and farsight.
A voice said: No, Rogi.
Unable to perceive his target, Rogi found that his coercion and psychokinesis were useless. He let out a shout of despair and relief and dropped like a dead man to the pavement. The voice that addressed him was calm and remote:
Once more it seems that I am fated to intervene. How interesting. One might conjecture that Don survived in some other fashion, and yet the proleptic foci show no asymmetry as a result of my obtrusion...
Rogi lifted his head and groaned. "You! You again."
It said: Your brother must live, Rogi. He must wed Marie-Madeleine Fabre and beget children of her according to the great pattern. One of those children will become a man of high destiny. He will not only possess mental powers more extraordinary than his father's, but he will understand them—and help the whole human race to understand them. This child unborn will have to overcome great hardship. He will need consolation and guidance that his parents will be unable to supply, and the friendship of another operant metapsychic. You will be that child's friend and mentor, Rogi. Now get up.
Nonono goaway let me kill him Imustonlyway must KILL—
Rogi, get up.
Better perhaps weboth die freaks damned unrealmen unrealhuman kill them kill them BOTH intowaterdowndowndissolve—
Du calme, mon infant.
Best. Would be best.
You know nothing. Nothing! Get up, Rogi. You will remember everything I have said and you will act upon it at the appropriate time.
"You're not my Ghost at all." The realization filled him with irrational sorrow.
The thing said: All of you are my responsibility and my expiation. Your entire family. Your entire race.
With great difficulty, Rogi climbed to his feet. He was no longer blind and he could see Don standing under a lamp, swaying, one hand over his face. Poor old Donnie.
INTERVENTION Page 8
