by Clayton, Jo;
The Skirrik was gathered into a miserable knot, his six limbs tucked up tight against his segmented body; he was being slammed from sideboard to wall, rolling helplessly, groaning, the breath whistling painfully through his spiracles. Every time he hit, it sounded to Skeen like the times she’d used a small wooden mallet to break lobster claws; she winced, then eased herself down and pulled off all the blankets from her bunk. With a great deal of difficulty, she managed to get a little padding between him and the wall, then between him and the sideboard that kept him from rolling completely out of the bunk. He still rocked and groaned, but the ominous crashing sounds were gone. She put her hand on his thorax, tried to steady him. “Chulji, Chulji Sipor, what do you need, how can I help you?”
He heard her. The sound of her voice triggered a shout, then he convulsed. And shifted. Min. What the.… He began shuddering and shifting from shape to shape to grotesque blends of the basic forms he could take. The changes quickly became so violent, the groans so wrenching that Skeen was afraid he was dying. She chewed on her lip. Nothing she tried helped him. Bathing his face or whatever it was showed up in the convulsions. Talking to him. Holding him. He just got worse. Cursing under her breath, she hauled herself along the bed, got the door open and fought her way to the Captain’s quarters. She beat on the door, praying to a hundred gods that Timka wasn’t sick, too.
Timka looked a bit pale, but she was on her feet and her shape was holding steady. “Skeen, what.…”
“Chulji. I just found out he’s Min. He’s really sick, Timmy. Shifting all over the place, like he’s tearing himself apart. I don’t know what to do.”
Timka frowned. “I think I know what … go on back, I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Timka looked at the convulsing boy for a moment and touched him, her hand twitching in time with his shifts. She bought out a metal object like a small tuning fork, struck it against the bed post and put the stem against his head when the boy went through a momentary and partial Skirrik phase. He shuddered and became mostly Skirrik though his extremities kept mutating through stranger and stranger shapes. She talked to him with voice and whatever else it was Min used to communicate voicelessly with Min, striking the fork over and over again, touching him over and over with its stem. Gradually the convulsions slowed, gradually the violence of the changes lessened, gradually the groans quieted; the boy calmed. Sweating, her weariness showing after an hour of this, Timka brought the boy into his Skirrik shape and kept him in it until the ship left the storm behind.
She collapsed against Skeen when the boy finally threw off his seasickness and slipped into a deep sleep. Shuddering, limp and exhausted, she let Skeen ease her down onto the lower bunk and bring her cup after cup of water. Finally she sighed, dipped her fingers into the cup and splashed a few drops of the lukewarm water onto her face. She smiled wearily. “Now you’ll know what to do if it happens to me.”
“That likely?”
“No. He doesn’t have a waterform yet, when he does he won’t have to worry about sea Choriyn.”
“You’ve a dolphin shape, why’d you say what you did?”
“There are many Chorinyas. A Min never knows what will provoke a Choriyn until it happens.” She smoothed her small hand across Skeen’s brow, wiping away the scowl. “No, my Pass-Through friend, the past doesn’t count, each Min has different sensibilities.” She yawned, got heavily to her feet. “Time I was getting back.”
“What do I do when he wakes?”
“Send him to me.” Timka moved her shoulders, passed her hand over her sweaty hair. “The main thing is to get food into him, to replace the flesh he lost. He’ll be rattling inside the shell for a day or so.”
“Got you.” After Timka left, pulling the door shut with a weary thunk, Skeen swung her booted feet onto the bunk and stretched out on the denuded pallet. She punched the pillow into the proper shape and considered getting undressed. It didn’t seem worth the trouble. Before she finished that thought, she was asleep.
HERE WE ARE IN ATSILA VANA, ANOTHER LEG OF THE QUEST COMPLETED. DON’T EXPECT MUCH, THESE THINGS ARE ALWAYS MORE COMPLICATED THAN THEY FIRST SEEM.
Seven days and two storms later, the Meyeberri dipped around the lefthand wing of a massive seawall and dropped anchor at the walled-off Freeport section of Atsila Vana. The two parts of the sea wall were built several millennia before by Skirrik, Aggitj, and Balayar under the direction of Funor engineers hired by the Chalarosh; in partial payment for their labor the four Waves were given freehold rights to sections of land about the bay. As she walked off the Meyeberri, Skeen saw Funor garden roofs rising over Funor walls, Aggitj castles, Balayar stilt houses, their extravagant colors glittering in the sunlight, tight packed Skirrik domes, and across the bay, the white peaks of Chalarosh stone tents.
She waited on the wharf while the Captain argued in mutters with Timka. He wanted her to stay with him, had been spending the last two days working on her, growing more and more hostile to Skeen as Timka smiled and patted him and agreed with everything he said but would not commit to stay. Now he was waving his arms about, struggling to keep his dignity intact but on the verge of exploding.
Pegwai left the Aggitj and the Skirrik boys, strolled over to her. “She could do worse. Has done. The Poet.”
Skeen grunted.
“You think she won’t stay with him.”
“She likes him.”
“Then why.…”
“If she stays, he’ll likely be killed. At least hurt.”
“The Poet? You’re beyond his reach. Way beyond.”
“Hm. No. Mintown.”
“Why?”
“Craziness. Hate. Ask Timka.”
Timka gave up trying to soothe him and walked away, moving quickly so he wouldn’t put his hands on her and try to hold her with them since his words couldn’t. She’d got fond of him, but she was Min, he Nemin; get him into his home islands and see how loving he’d be. When she ran from Telka’s spite, she learned painfully and early just how much Nemin promises meant, especially the ones men made to her. No matter how much good will there was in the homes where she stayed, and there was good will though she forgot that often enough in the depths of rage, she was never accepted with the unthinking freedom of the born Nemin; she was always the outsider, always the one the others made allowances for, always the one who made them feel uncomfortable when some local bigot got up on his hoofs and held forth on the disgusting and possibly dangerous habits of those animals the Min.
Skeen nodded to her, and started off, following Pegwai who was walking beside the two Skirrik boys, talking quietly to them. Timka stepped in behind Skeen, the tail of the parade, watching the narrow back of the tall Pass-Through. Muscles like wire, about as feminine as a sword. Odd woman. Interesting. Answered to no one. Timka thought back to her outburst in Oruda, wrinkled her nose. I’m going with her—she promised to take me and I’m going to hold her to that.
The Min-Skirrik boy troubled her, shook the steadiness of her intent because he offered her the kind of sanctuary she was ranting about back there. Among the Skirrik, far as she could tell from that brief visit, there was no Min-Nemin jangling. Min-Skirrik were everywhere, all ages, deeply involved in nest life. If she found a Skirrik-form, maybe Telka would let her be. No. No. No. She knew Telka’s will, strong as sword-steel and more lasting, knew it because she shared it, as she shared most everything else Telka was. There was no place on Mistommerk, no matter how far she ran, where Telka would leave her in peace. She didn’t understand Telka’s hatred; why was her sister so adamant about erasing her? Timka didn’t care that she had a duplicate with her abilities, almost her mind, who could match her form for form, each form as identical as the shape they were budded in. She’d never liked Telka much, knew the feeling was reciprocated, but there was plenty of room in the mountains, they didn’t have to come near each other. The budding; perhaps that was what did it, that twin budding, that splitting in half of the primal bud. Twins were rare among the Min and a
lways trouble; Timka ripened in the normal way and broke from their mother with no problem, but Telka clung and sucked life from her weeks beyond her time, nearly killed her, had to be separated by surgery, had fought the separation with a violence incredible in such a tiny, wholly instinctual being. Sucking and sucking and sucking substance from their mother until the knife did what the midwife couldn’t.
Telka was a whiny difficult baby, Timka started enjoying life the moment she was a separate being. Their mother loathed them both. By the time they were old enough to understand a few things, both children knew that their mother wouldn’t stay in the same room with them beyond the time needed for her to secrete the gel that they needed to grow and be strong. Their father was indifferent until their talents began to manifest, then he began planning how to use them in his drive for power. Telka’s obsession was equal to his, that too manifested early. He preferred her to the sunnier and more indolent Timka, kept Telka with him most of the time. They liked the same tricks, they had the same skewed outlook, they had the same ambition to control every aspect of life about them. Timka rebelled against their attempts to control her, despised their attitudes and goals. And showed that all too often when she was young. She endured spite from Telka and disdain from her father, but he didn’t mistreat her and if he caught Telka tormenting her, he scolded his favorite, even punished her. Both Timka and Telka understood that it wasn’t the malice he was punishing so much as Telka’s carelessness in letting the malice show.
Timka hated most of the things her father and her sister made her do, so she did them badly and lied when she was given tasks she found repugnant, things mean to intimidate and frighten people. After a while her father gave up on her, telling her with cold scorn that she was lazy and weak, too stupid to understand the uses of power. He called her ignorant and sly and ungrateful. And he stopped bothering with her. He was not a cruel man. He never beat her or tore her apart in company even when she’d been particularly stupid and incompetent, but he was a cold man. Being around him snuffed her, stifled her spirit, made her act and speak more stupidly than she really was. Her self-esteem sank lower and lower. She couldn’t gather enough sense of worth to be angry with him. Telka was different. Telka she could fight and did. Usually with a fair measure of success when her father and his minions weren’t around to interfere. Gradually she learned that she was a hair smarter, stronger, and quicker than Telka. More creative. Telka was cold like their father, calculating, rigid in her thought patterns. She had a superb memory, was shrewd enough to compensate for her lack of empathy when she wanted to manipulate people. They meant nothing to her, less than dead leaves, even her father; there was only one person in existence as far as she was concerned—her. When she saw loving gestures, when she saw other folk exhibiting their affections, she thought it was all acting, people using each other. There were a few times when she wondered whether she might be missing something, a few times when she had a tepid wish for some tenderness from someone, but that never lasted more than a breath or two; she thought of it as fools’ dreams and worthless.
After her father gave up on her, Timka moved in with Carema, the nurse-midwife-brewer who took care of the twins once they didn’t need their mother; she divided her time between learning herb-lore with Carema and running wild in the woods, playing kissy/touchy games with boys from the steadings deep in the mountains. She lagged behind Telka in the finding of her different shapes and the various mind skills Min practiced. Though she had greater natural stamina and scope than her sister, she lacked the will that drove Telka to excel, the vanity that demanded that everyone take note of how much she did excel. If Telka had left her alone, Timka would have vegetated happily in the woods, no rival, no danger to her ambitions, forgotten by everyone except Carema and a few young males. But she was like a sore tooth in Telka’s jaw. Telka wouldn’t, couldn’t, leave her alone. Again and again she forced Timka to act or react, again and again Timka pulled out of her depths resources that turned aside her sister’s attacks and taught them both that Timka would always be just that infinitesimal degree better, faster, more capable than Telka.
When she was just past puberty, working contentedly in Carema’s compound, Telka tried for the first time to kill her. Timka survived because the attack was so secret it gave her too much room to maneuver, because Telka was forced to use the largest part of her power in concealment, letting Timka scramble free and shield herself. The attack was over in a few breaths, almost a dream. But Timka had tasted the bitter hatred that flavored the fringes of the mindblow and knew who had set at her. Telka’s power frightened her; her sister had almost managed to trigger a massive stroke.
Timka said nothing. What could she say? My sister tried to kill me. Why? What did you do to make her act like that? I don’t understand it, I don’t know why, I think she hates me merely because I exist in the same world with her. No one would believe her. Telka might be cold, but she was admired, she’d learned that a little kindness brought a large return, as long as that kindness was seen but not paraded. She was calm, polite, a model child and young girl, almost (that unfortunate coldness) the daughter that any Min family would pray to have. Timka was careless, passionate, with a temper she too often didn’t try to control, she was lazy and wild and had a lot of bad habits with little respect for the authority of her elders. Those who liked her championed her, but she offended more than she charmed and charmed only those wild like her—outsiders, powerless, or the healers and singers, equally powerless. Telka had spent several years sighing over the estrangement between her and her sister, had carefully put about the idea that Timka hated her, had provoked Timka into attacks that appeared to arise from spite and jealousy. Very few would believe Timka if she claimed Telka had tried to murder her.
She went deep into the woodland that night, waking no one, not waiting for dawn or telling anyone where she was going, running on the four feet of her cat form. She curled up in one of her secret nests and tried to think what she could do. Tell Carema, yes, that was the first thing; she shivered and whined in the thick darkness of the lair. No, not the first thing, the last, keep Carema free as long as possible from Telka’s menace, tell her because she’d have to fight against rumor and scandal meant to strip respect from her. Telka would have a hard time with that, Carema was tied too deeply into too many lives, but that wouldn’t stop her from trying. As long as I’m here, as long as Carema protects me. By dawn all her thinking and squirming was reduced to a single choice: either I stay and die and drag my friends down with me, or I take my chances with the Nemin.
Telka hated and feared Nemin with a fervor she had learned from their father; neither was likely to come after her. Timka thought briefly of trying to find their mother; she had her own fears of Nemin, but Tyamtok Twin-bearer had left the mountains long ago and from what Timka remembered of her she wouldn’t welcome either daughter. No, it’s Nemin for me.
She woke Carema just before dawn, told her about the attack and what she planned to do. Carema didn’t try to talk her around, just dug into her chest and gave Timka a small bag of Pallah coins and a Pallah skirt and blouse, then shifted into horse shape and carried Timka down to the Pallah Plain.
And all that was a score of years ago. Timka looked around her at the noisy melange of types, even wild Funor shorthorns without their robes and cowls, making nuisances of themselves stamping up and down the streets in herds of four or five; a score of years to make her way to Dum Besar, huh. And following Skeen the Pass-Through, she’d made ten times that far in a pair of months. She laughed and felt free again for the first time since she left the mountains, free and wild as those crazy shorthorns.
High mother Demmirrmar was wading about a shallow pool, tending the lilies and reeds growing there. When her cousin’s great grandniece brought the visitors, she settled herself on the sandy bottom of the pond and watched them approach, a pair of overblown lilies draped about her neck, muck trailing from the roots at the end of long limp stems, stains meandering through the
amethysts and ivory set into her thorax. Her lambent lavender gaze passed mildy over all of them, then she took the packet young Wanasi was thrusting at her, broke it open, and read what Ramanarrahnet had written. When she had finished, she clicked her mouth parts impatiently, tore the paper into long strips, swished them through the water until the ink was blurred into illegibility, handed the strips back to Wanasi. “Put that in the compost heap.” She pulled one of the lilies from around her neck, looked at it with a hint of surprise in the set of her head and threw it onto the grass. “Migara Rahneese, Chulji Sipor, be welcome to Atsila Vana.” She snapped her grippers and a dozen neuters trotted up, sank flat to the grass in front of her. “These will take you to your quarters, show you how to get on. We have called in a lot of youths this month, you won’t be lonely.”
Chulji dropped hastily in a submission crouch. “High Mother.”
She moved her mouth parts in astonishment, arched her neck. “Eh?”
“With your blessing, High Mother, I would like to continue on with Scholar Dih and the Seeker Skeen. They will allow this if you consent.”
The water rippled and splashed as Demmirrmar jiggled in a continuing astonishment. “What what, go on with these? You allow this, Scholar Dih?”
“With your blessing yes, High Mother, without it no. Chulji Sipor finds our quest something the poets will sing about, or so he has said to us, and he wishes to find the forms to conquer the Choriyn that shook him on the way here. For our part, we find him an amiable youth with talents that could be useful.”
“Hunting Ykx is not the safest of occupations.”
“So we said. And he said, outside the Nest what work is ever safe?”
“His family sent him to me. How can I say to them your child has died because I let him tie himself to some lika-brained nonsense like this?”
