Season of Wonder

by Paula Guran

  Oh, god. I just realized . . . maybe it is my fault. I’d forgotten till just now. Oh. You judge, Nick.

  About a week later Tatep and I were out gathering wood for some carving he plans to do—for Christmas, he says, but he wanted to get a good start on it—and he stopped gnawing long enough to ask me, “Marianne, what’s ‘human’?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I think when Clarence says ‘human,’ he means something different than you do.”

  “That’s entirely possible. Humans use words pretty loosely at the best of times—there, I just did it myself.”

  “What do you mean when you say ‘human’?”

  “Sometimes I mean the species Homo sapiens. When I say, Humans use words pretty loosely, I do. Rejoicers seem to be more particular about their speech, as a general rule.”

  “And when you say ‘human rights,’ what do you mean?”

  “When I say ‘human rights,’ I mean Homo sapiens and Rejoicing sapiens. I mean any sapiens, in that context. I wouldn’t guarantee that Clarence uses the word the same way in the same context.”

  “You think I’m human?”

  “I know you’re human. We’re friends, aren’t we? I couldn’t be friends with—oh, a notrabbit—now, could I?”

  He made that wonderful rattly sound he does when he’s amused. “No, I can’t imagine it. Then, if I’m human, I ought to have human rights.”

  “Yes,” I said. “You bloody well ought to.”

  Maybe it is all my fault. Esperanza will tell you the rest—she’s had Rejoicers all over her house for the past two weeks—they’re watching every scrap of film she’s got on Martin Luther King.

  I don’t know how this will all end up, but I wish to hell you were here to watch.

  Love, Marianne

  Marianne watched a Rejoicer child crack nuts with his Halemtat cracker and a cold, cold shiver went up her spine. That was the eleventh she’d seen this week. Chornian wasn’t the only one making them, apparently; somebody else had gone into the nutcracker business as well. This was, however, the first time she’d seen a child cracking nuts with Halemtat’s jaw.

  “Hello,” she said, stooping to meet the child’s eyes. “What a pretty toy! Will you show me how it works?”

  Rattling all the while, the child showed her, step by step. Then he (or she—it wasn’t polite to ask before puberty) said, “Isn’t it funny? It makes Mama laugh and laugh and laugh.”

  “And what’s your mama’s name?”

  “Pilli,” said the child. Then it added, “With the green and white beads on her quills.”

  Pilli—who’d been clipped for saying that Halemtat had been overcutting the imperial reserve so badly that the trees would never grow back properly.

  And then she realized that, less than a year ago, no child would have admitted that its mama had been clipped. The very thought of it would have shamed both mother and child.

  Come to think of it . . . she glanced around the bazaar and saw no less than four clipped Rejoicers shopping for dinner. Two of them she recognized as Chornian and one of his children, the other two were new to her. She tried to identify them by their snouts and failed utterly—she’d have to ask Chornian. She also noted, with utterly unprofessional satisfaction, that she could ask Chornian such a thing now. That too would have been unthinkable and shaming less than a year ago.

  Less than a year ago. She was thinking in Dirt terms because of Nick. There wasn’t any point dropping him a line; mail would cross in deep space at this late a date. He’d be here just in time for “Christmas.” She wished like hell he was already here. He’d know what to make of all this, she was certain.

  As Marianne thanked the child and got to her feet, three Rejoicers—all with the painted ruff of quills at their necks that identified them as Halemtat’s guards—came waddling officiously up. “Here’s one,” said the largest. “Yes,” said another. “Caught in the very act.”

  The largest squatted back on his haunches and said, “You will come with us, child. Halemtat decrees it.”

  Horror shot through Marianne’s body.

  The child cracked one last nut, rattled happily, and said, “I get my quills clipped?”

  “Yes,” said the largest Rejoicer. “You will have your quills clipped.” Roughly, he separated child from nutcracker and began to tow the child away, each of them in that odd three-legged gait necessitated by the grip.

  All Marianne could think to do was call after the child, “I’ll tell Pilli what happened and where to find you!”

  The child glanced over its shoulder, rattled again, and said, “Ask her could I have silver beads like Hortap!”

  Marianne picked up the discarded nutcracker—lest some other child find it and meet the same fate—and ran full speed for Pilli’s house.

  At the corner, two children looked up from their own play and galloped along beside her until she skidded to a halt by Pilli’s bakery. They followed her in, rattling happily to themselves over the race they’d run. Marianne’s first thought was to shoo them off before she told Pilli what had happened, but Pilli greeted the two as if they were her own, and Marianne found herself blurting out the news.

  Pilli gave a slow inclination of the head. “Yes,” she said, pronouncing the words carefully so Marianne wouldn’t miss them, “I expected that. Had it not been the nutcracker, it would have been words.” She rattled. “That child is the most outspoken of my brood.”

  “But—” Marianne wanted to say, Aren’t you afraid? but the question never surfaced.

  Pilli gave a few coins to the other children and said, “Run to Killim’s, my dears, and ask her to make a set of silver beads, if she doesn’t already have one on hand. Then run tell your father what has happened.” The children were off in the scurry of excitement. Pilli drew down the awning in front of her shop, then paused. “I think you are afraid for my child.”

  “Yes,” said Marianne. Lying had never been her strong suit; maybe Nick was right—maybe diplomacy wasn’t her field.

  “You are kind,” said Pilli. “But don’t be afraid. Even Halemtat wouldn’t dare to order a child hashay.”

  “I don’t understand the term.”

  “Hashay?” Pilli flipped her tail around in front of her and held out a single quill. “Chippet will be clipped here,” she said, drawing a finger across the quill about halfway up its length. “Hashay is to clip here.” The finger slid inward, to a spot about a quarter of an inch from her skin. “Don’t worry, Marianne. Even Halemtat wouldn’t dare to hashay a child.”

  I’m supposed to be reassured, thought. Marianne. “Good,” she said, aloud, “I’m relieved to hear that.” In truth, she hadn’t the slightest idea what Pilli was talking about—and she was considerably less than reassured by the ominous implications of the distinction. She’d never come across the term in any of the ethnologists’ reports.

  She was still holding the Halemtat nutcracker in her hands. Now she considered it carefully. Only in its broadest outlines did it resemble the one she’d made for Tatep. This nutcracker was purely Rejoicer in style and—she almost dropped it at the sudden realization—peculiarly Tatep’s style of carving. Tatep was making them too?

  If she could recognize Tatep’s distinctive style, surely Halemtat could—what then?

  Carefully, she tucked the nutcracker under the awning—let Pilli decide what to do with the object; Marianne couldn’t make the decision for her—and set off at a quick pace for Tatep’s house . . .

  On the way, she passed yet another child with a Halemtat nutcracker. She paused, found the child’s father, and passed the news to him that Halemtat’s guards were clipping Pilli’s child for the “offense.” The father thanked her for the information and, with much politeness, took the nutcracker from the child.

  This one, Marianne saw, was not carved in Tatep’s style or in Chornian’s. This one was the work of an unfamiliar set of teeth.

  Having shooed his child indoors, the Rejoicer squatted back on his
haunches. In plain view of the street, he took up the bowl of nuts his child had left uncracked and began to crack them, one by one, with such deliberation that Marianne’s jaw dropped.

  She’d never seen an insolent Rejoicer, but she would have bet money she was seeing one now. He even managed to make the crack of each nut resound like a gunshot. With the sound still ringing in her ears, Marianne quickened her steps toward Tatep’s.

  She found him at home, carving yet another nutcracker. He swallowed, then held out the nutcracker to her and said, “What do you think, Marianne? Do you approve of my portrayal?”

  This one wasn’t Halemtat, but his—for want of a better term—grand vizier, Corten. The grand vizier always looked to her as if he smirked. She knew the expression was due to a slightly malformed tooth but, to a human eye, the result was a smirk. Tatep’s portrayal had the same smirk, only more so. Marianne couldn’t help it . . . she giggled.

  “Aha!” said Tatep, rattling up a rainstorm’s worth of sound. “For once, you’ve shared the joke without the need of explanation!” He gave a long, grave look at the nutcracker. “The grand vizier has earned his keep this once!”

  Marianne laughed, and Tatep rattled. This time the sound of the quills sobered Marianne. “I think your work will get you clipped, Tatep,” she said, and she told him about Pilli’s child.

  He made no response. Instead, he dropped to his feet and went to the chest in the corner, where he kept any number of carvings and other precious objects. From the chest, he drew out a box. Three-legged, he walked back to her “Shake this! I’ll bet you can guess what’s inside.”

  Curious, she shook the box: it rattled. “A set of beads,” she said.

  “You see? I’m prepared. They rattle like a laugh, don’t they? A laugh at Halemtat. I asked Killim to make the beads red because that was the color you painted your scalp when you were clipped.”

  “I’m honored . . . ”

  “But?”

  “But I’m afraid for you. For all of you.”

  “Pilli’s child wasn’t afraid.”

  “No. No, Pilli’s child wasn’t afraid. Pilli said even Halemtat wouldn’t dare hashay a child.” Marianne took a deep breath and said, “But you’re not a child.” And I don’t know what hashaying does to a Rejoicer, she wanted to add.

  “I’ve swallowed a taipseed,” Tatep said, as if that said it all.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Ah! I’ll share, then. A taipseed can’t grow unless it has been through the”—he patted himself—“stomach? digestive system?—of a Rejoicer. Sometimes they don’t grow even then. To swallow a taipseed means to take a step toward the growth of something important. I swallowed a taipseed called ‘human rights.’ ”

  There was nothing Marianne could say to that but: “I understand.”

  Slowly, thoughtfully, Marianne made her way back to the embassy. Yes, she understood Tatep—hadn’t she been screaming at Clarence for just the same reason? But she was terrified for Tatep—for them all.

  Without consciously meaning, to, she bypassed the embassy for the little clutch of domes that housed the ethnologists. Esperanza—it was Esperanza she had to see. She was in luck. Esperanza was at home writing up one of her reports. She looked up and said, “Oh, good. It’s time for a break!”

  “Not a break, I’m afraid. A question that, I think, is right up your alley. Do you know much about the physiology of the Rejoicers?”

  “I’m the expert,” Esperanza said, leaning back in her chair. “As far as there is one in the group.”

  “What happens if you cut a Rejoicer’s spine”—she held her fingers—“this close to the skin?”

  “Like, a cat’s claw, sort of. If you cut the tip, nothing happens. If you cut too far down, you hit the blood supply—and maybe the, nerve. The quill would bleed most certainly. Might never grow back properly. And it’d hurt like hell, I’m sure—like gouging the base of your thumbnail.”

  She sat forward suddenly. “Marianne, you’re shaking. What is it?”

  Marianne took a deep breath but couldn’t stop shaking. “What would happen if somebody did that to all of Ta . . . ”—she found she couldn’t get the name out—“all of a Rejoicer’s quills?”

  “He’d bleed to death, Marianne.” Esperanza took her hand and gave it a firm squeeze. “Now, I’m going to get you a good stiff drink and you are going to tell me all about it.”

  Fighting nausea, Marianne nodded. “Yes,” she said with enormous effort. “Yes.”

  “Who the hell told the Pincushions about ‘human rights’?” Clarence roared. Furious, he glowered down at Marianne and waited for her response.

  Esperanza drew herself up to her full height and stepped between the two of them. “Martin Luther King told the Rejoicers about human rights. You were there when he did it. Though you seem to have forgotten your dream, obviously the Rejoicers haven’t forgotten theirs.”

  “There’s a goddamned revolution going on out there!” Clarence waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the center of town.

  “That is certainly what it looks like,” Juliet said mildly. “So why are we here instead of out there observing?”

  “You’re here because I’m responsible for your safety.”

  “Bull,” said Matsimoto. “Halemtat isn’t interested in clipping us.”

  “Besides,” said Esperanza. “The supply ship will be landing in about five minutes. Somebody’s got to go pick up the supplies—and Nick. Otherwise, he’s going to step right into the thick of it. The last mail went out two months ago. Nick’s had no warning that the situation has”—she frowned slightly, then brightened as she found the proper phrase—“changed radically.”

  Clarence glared again at Marianne. “As a member of the embassy staff, you are assigned the job. You will pick up the supplies and Nick.”

  Marianne, who’d been about to volunteer to do just that, suppressed the urge to say, “Thank you!” and said instead, “Yes, sir.”

  Once out of Clarence’s sight, Marianne let herself breathe a sigh of relief. The supply transport was built like a tank.

  While Marianne wasn’t any more afraid of Halemtat’s wrath than the ethnologists were, she was well aware that innocent Dirt bystanders might easily find themselves stuck—all too literally—in a mob of Rejoicers. When the Rejoicers fought, as she understood it, they used teeth and quills. She had no desire to get too close to a lashing tailful. An unclipped quill was needle-sharp.

  Belatedly, she caught the significance of the clipping Halemtat had instituted as punishment. Slapping a snout with a tail full of glass beads was not nearly as effective as slapping a snout with a morning star made of spines.

  She radioed the supply ship to tell them they’d all have to wait for transport before they came out. Captain’s gonna love that, I’m sure, she thought, until she got a response from Captain Tertain. By reputation he’d never set foot on a world other than Dirt and certainly didn’t intend to do so now. So she simply told Nick to stay put until she came for him.

  Nick’s cheery voice over the radio said only, “It’s going to be a very special Christmas this year.”

  “Nick,” she said, “you don’t know the half of it.”

  She took a slight detour along the way, passing the narrow street that led to Tatep’s house. She didn’t dare to stop, but she could see from the awning that he wasn’t home. In fact, nobody seemed to be home . . . even the bazaar was deserted.

  The supply truck rolled on, and Marianne took a second slight detour. What Esperanza had dubbed “the Grande Alle” led directly to Halemtat’s imperial residence. The courtyard was filled with Rejoicers. Well-spaced Rejoicers, she saw, for they were—each and every one—bristled to their fullest extent. She wished she dared go for a closer look, but Clarence would be livid if she took much more time than normal reaching the supply ship. And he’d be checking—she knew his habits well enough to know that.

  She floored the accelerator and made her way to the improvis
ed landing field in record time. Nick waved to her from the port and stepped out. Just like Nick, she thought. She’d told him to wait in the ship until she arrived; he’d obeyed to the letter. It was all she could do to keep from hugging him as she hit the ground beside him. With a grateful sigh of relief, she said, “We’ve got to move fast on the transfer, Nick. I’ll fill you in as we load.”

  By the time the two of them had transferred all the supplies from the ship, she’d done just that.

  He climbed into the seat beside her, gave her a long thoughtful look, and said, “So Clarence has restricted all of the other ethnologists to the embassy grounds, has he?” He shook his head in mock sadness and clicked his tongue. “I see I haven’t trained my team in the proper response to embassy edicts.” He grinned at Marianne. “So the embassy advises that I stay off the streets, does it?”

  “Yes,” said Marianne. She hated being the one to tell him but he’d asked her. “The Super Plenipotentiary Et Cetera has issued a full and formal Advisory to all nongovernmental personnel . . . ”

  “Okay,” said Nick. “You’ve done your job: I’ve been Advised. Now I want to go have a look at this revolution-in-progress.” He folded his arms across his chest and waited.

  He was right. All Clarence could do was issue an Advisory; he had no power whatsoever to keep the ethnologists off the streets. And Marianne wanted to see the revolution as badly as Nick did.

  “All right,” she said. “I am responsible for your safety, though, so best we go in the transport. I don’t want you stuck.” She set the supply transport into motion and headed back toward the Grande Allez.

  Nick pressed his nose to the window and watched the streets as they went. He was humming cheerfully under his breath.

  “Uh, Nick—if Clarence calls us . . . ”

  “We’ll worry about that when it happens,” he said.

  Worry is right, thought Marianne, but she smiled. He’d been humming Christmas carols, like some excited child. Inappropriate as all hell, but she liked him all the more for it.