by G. Howell
The Civilized World
Central Land-of-Water and Cover-My-Tail
Forward
This isn’t the beginning. This isn’t where my life started; not my old one, not my new one. But perhaps this is the point I stopped simply surviving and started living. Started learning.
Which is what you’re doing - You’re still reading. Good for you. It might help. I’m not going to pretend that I have all the answers. Not for you. All I can say for certain is that it won’t be easy. I can’t provide an exact roadmap to what comes next, but perhaps I can offer a sort of general guide to what comes after those first shocks. It might help you avoid some of the mistakes I made. It might keep people alive, including you.
Those were tough times, I’m quite willing to admit that. The loss of an entire world, the shock of the new one, the unutterable weirdness and shocks and brutality… It’d all piled on and dragged me down. I’d struggled, faltered, hit bottom, and then somehow gone on with help from people unquestionably better than I am. Now, I don’t have any facts about you or your exact situation - I don’t even know if you’re from the same when - so you’ll doubtless have your own challenges. But there will commonalities.
The physical differences you expect. You learn to deal with those. It’s when you get below those and actually have to deal with people, that’s when the difficult ones boil to the surface. There are those you’d can anticipate: powerful people wanting more, or to simply keep what they’ve got; normal people angry over a perceived slight; frightened people; confused people … But there are so many that come from the misunderstandings and misinterpretations and differences in nature and culture. When both sides relax and start assuming, that’s when the problems start. What’s natural and normal for one can be a shocking surprise for the other. Relying on so-called common sense and taking ‘what’s obvious’ for granted… now that will lead to interesting times.
I had to learn these. Far too often it was the hard way.
They don’t work like we do. Not only individually, but also as a society. Oh, on the surface there’re remarkable similarities. A lot of that’s down to form following function. There are ground-level efficiencies that things break down to, but underneath it all their entire social structure runs on different rules. Read what I’ve left you carefully. I’m fully aware that while you might comprehend what I recount, it’s damn difficult to understand at a gut level - to interpret the world the way they do. You’ll find yourself slipping back to assumptions: looking for the leader, looking for the love, looking for the family.
Don’t. They’re not there. Look for the Guild. And… watch out for the Guild.
------v------
Storms over Open Fields
I ran, the rasping breathing of the big cat sounding just a few steps behind.
High in the perfectly clear vault of a cobalt-blue sky the white eye of the sun beat down, raising heat ripples from the dry earth. Unseen choruses of cicadas rasped and sizzled away from the long sienna-gold grass. Drifting pollen and the glittering specks of droning, darting insects filled the shimmering air of the lake meadow, their background noise punctuated by occasional birdsong chiming in from the stand of windbreak pines down near the lake.
Spring blossomed across this part of this world, washing away the last vestiges of winter for another year.
And I ran. Golden grass and packed earth pounded under my feet. Clouds of warm dust from the dry meadow earth puffed up with every footfall, coating my legs. The heat of day sucked rivulets of sweat from my bare skin, the moisture evaporating almost immediately in the warmth. I drew lungfuls of hot spring air, concentrating on breathing, trying to maintain the pace while coughing snarls sounded close on my heels. A quick glance back showed the big bipedal cat chasing close behind had gained a little again. Teeth flashed in the gaping maw as another snarl coughed out, a strand of spittle dangling from the panting jaws. Claws in the broad toes caught at the turf as the long legs flashed, the tail sweeping to the side for balance as he drew closer in a burst of speed that proved to be the final straw. His gait faltered as he staggered and dropped aside. I slowed, turned to see him bending over with hands braced on wobbling knees as he wheezed and panted.
“Rot you,” I heard him gasp between breaths. “Enough!”
“Come on,” I grinned, jogging in place. “That was only two laps. You did better last time.”
Chaeitch hissed something obscene, flagged me away with a disgusted wave and turned to stagger over to sprawl out in the shade amongst the roots of the old pine. Collapsed in a heap there, sucking oxygen, he turned into a bundle of tawny gold that was almost lost against the summer-burnt grass.
I went to do another five laps of the field.
Chaeitch ah Ties. He wasn’t human, but he was one of the oldest acquaintances I had in this world; one of the few Rris I felt I could genuinely catalogue as ‘friend’. We’d met during my early days in the alien city of Shattered Water, when we’d been thrust together in a working relationship that hadn’t been entire amicable. Things had changed. He’d been open-minded toward me, someone to talk to. We’d become drinking buddies and I’d found he was quite willing to help me, to score a few free bottles, and to answer the endless questions I had about his world. Amused and bemused at times, certainly, but not judgmental. Now, we still worked together, but I’d come to consider him a good friend.
What he considered me was a little more difficult to define. Rris minds don’t work like human ones. Yet he acted like a friend, so that’s the slot I filed him under.
Rris. What to say about Rris? They’re sentient felines, that’s a good start. Whereas back home apes had clambered and screeched to sapient ascendancy, here a species of proto-feline had made the same transition to bipedal tool user. They’re superficially similar to lynxes, with the same tufted feline features and neutral colorations. But to say they’re lynxes is to say that humans are chimpanzees. There’s a family resemblance, but so much variation.
They have tails: sinewy tufted things that are as much a mirror of their emotions as human expressions are. They walk on two legs with a springing, toe-balanced gait and while their stamina leaves a bit to be desired, they are capable of amazing bursts of speed that would make any human Olympic sprinter want to rethink his career choices. Their fur and coloration can differ wildly depending on geographical adaptation. And they have needle teeth and razor claws, to which the many scars I carry will testify.
They’re a sharp people. And here they’re people; they’re the norm and I’m the exception, the alien.
And how did I come to be here?
To tell the truth, I haven’t the foggiest fucking idea. Whatever happened to me is something so far outside of my experience that I can’t even hazard a guess. Two years ago I was in another world. On holiday. Getting away from it all hiking in the hills of Vermont and... something happened. There was an incident of some kind that I only have the vaguest memories of: a massive discharge of energy of some kind, a blinding flash of light that was like the universe ending. And for me, it was. When I woke, I was elsewhere. I was here; about as far away from it all as it was possible to get. Things sort of snowballed from there.
Two years later I was stripped to the waist in the heat, jogging around one of the fields behind my more-than-adequate house. Chaeitch lounged in the shade under the tree, guzzled water and panted furiously as I pushed myself around the last two laps. He’d joined me on these workouts several times, but he never really seemed to get the point. Thinking about it, perhaps exer
cise wasn’t so beneficial to his physiology. So he blinked lazily as I eased on down and stretched, sweat rolling over old scars and war wounds, then wandered over to the parallel bar under the tree.
“You’ve changed, I think,” he mused, looking me up and down. I could see his eyes flickering over the network of scars that crosshatched my hide. “You’re bigger than you used to be.”
“Huhn,” I grinned as I jumped up to catch the polished wooden bar. He was probably right. I never used to be able to do thirty chinups in a minute. No cars, electronic media, fast foods, elevators or other modern amenities really helped you get in shape. And there were other incentives to bulk up a little. “Clean living and being chased by Rris does that to you.”
He didn’t laugh at that.
Oh yeah. My first few months, the first year here, had been something of a trial. The situation and isolation, the demands put on me, the assassination attempts... the world around me had all become too much. I’d cracked. Big time. That was another scar across my wrist.
Things had changed for the better. For the most part.
He watched as I repeatedly lifted my chin over the bar. “That’s really supposed to be beneficial for your health?”
“Uh-huh,” I grunted.
He snorted and plucked a strand of grass, gnawed idly at the end. “Looks far too strenuous to be healthy. And you’re leaking like a boiler. I can smell it from here.”
I dropped back down. I could have probably done more, but after a certain amount of activity that old wound through my shoulder starts to play up. I rolled one shoulder, then the other and winced slightly, then wiped sweat from my face and regarded the Rris: A little less than five foot of bipedal feline topped by another several inches of tufted ears. That was slightly taller than average for his race. His tawny furred body didn’t sweat, except on the pads of the feet and hands, but he did pant like an overpressured steam engine in hot weather, and on that day his pink tongue was lolling over needle teeth while his chest heaved. He’d stripped his expensive clothes off for that workout. Right off. They don’t have hang-ups with nudity, perhaps because even unclothed a Rris tends to be about as naked as a polar bear in mukluks. The males’ penis is hidden in a sheath, all that equipment tucked away close to the body. And both sexes’ groins are covered in thicker fur continuing down from the belly. Physically, there’s so little sexual dimorphism that telling the gender of a clothed Rris - at least for me - is tricky. Heck, even when they’re unclothed it’s not that obvious: you can tell what’s what, but with the fur it’s not as... blatant as human nudity is.
Chaeitch did decorate his sienna and grey hide though: There were little geometric curlicues and sigils shaven into the fur of his chest and shoulders and three small black dyed bands wrapped around each forearm. To my eyes, the lopsided blaze of white fur across his left ear was his most distinctive feature.
“Too hot for you?” I smiled sweetly.
His lolling tongue flicked around his black lips and he grinned back, bearing his teeth in a smile that was a mockery of mine. “Wait till winter.”
“Touché. At least I can put more clothes on. You’ll have to shave to take any more off.”
“And end up looking like you?!” He coughed in mock-disgust. “No thank you. I’ll suffer.”
I half-laughed. “Would you at least accept a drink?”
He looked thoughtful. “I think that I can manage. I heard rumors about an old Swampy River you received.”
“You’re remarkably well informed.”
He lolled his tongue. Or maybe he was merely panting. “H’risnth does seem to favor you.”
“In that case, so do most of the rulers of all the other kingdoms,” I sighed. “You know Kistrechiha sent me a tapestry?”
“I did not know that.”
“Oh, yes. Very impressive and very blatant. I’m not sure there’s a floor large enough for it.”
“Saaa,” he hissed. “The price we pay.”
“Your sympathy is underwhelming.”
“That was sarcasm?” he asked.
I waved affirmative and he chittered as I caught up my gear then fell in alongside as we headed on down through the grove of bent old windbreak trees to the lakeshore. It’s another problem of communicating between species: I have to concentrate not only on the words, but on the inflection. Different tones meaning different things in ears. I’ve come to the conclusion that if mankind ever did make contact with an alien species - besides my very isolated interactions – there’s no way you could let the average Joe meet with them. There’re so many ways to misconstrue and misunderstand that it’d be outright war straight after, ‘hi there’. Hell, diplomats might be even worse.
I was learning, though. Adapting.
“How are those mills you’re putting up going?” Cheatich asked as we walked, pointing to the makeshift scaffolds along the waterfront.
“Still got a lot of work to do,” I said. “It’s tricky. Get a good storm and they’ll tear themselves apart. There’re ways of designing the blades so they don’t spin too fast and that’s the hard part.”
“Huhn,” he mused and I saw his jaw drop a little. It was like that unfocused look a sort of human tends to get when they devote too much cerebral processing time to a problem. Chaeitch was that sort of Rris. He’d go after a problem like a terrier after a rabbit. But he blinked out of it, which either meant he’d solved it there and then or filed it for future reference. “And all those copper wires you’re playing around with? Eserisity?”
“Electricity,” I corrected.
He coughed in exasperation and didn’t even attempt the correct English pronunciation. “You’re going to have to find something else to call it,” he hissed as we dropped down the storm-bitten embankment onto the stone beach. The body of water I’d once known as Lake Eerie slap-slapped onto the sun warm stones, a terminator of dark wet rocks marking the waterline. Chaeitch just dabbled his feet and hands. I shucked my moccasins and dove right in.
No ozone depletion. No toxic industrial dumping, no nonbiodegradable litter, no pollution - save the biological runoff from a city of three-quarters of a million Rris a few kilometers away. I was pretty sure the lake could handle that. At least that’s what I told myself.
But it was wet and cool and got that drying sweat out of my eyes and hair. Chaeitch tossed pebbles at a bobbing stick and watched in amusement as I ducked and dove for a while. Rris aren’t great swimming enthusiasts. The last one I’d tried to teach to swim...
I floated in memories for a few minutes before wading out.
“Half ape, half fish,” Chaeitch laughed at me and skipped a couple of stones while I pulled my footwear on again. “How are those paintings going?” he asked as we ambled off along the shore.
“Slowly,” I said. “The paints are difficult to use. I might have to stick to charcoal for a while.” That was true. The locally available media was a real pain: more temperamental than egg tempera, and they had to be made up from scratch. No handy tubes of Winsor and Newton acrylic or guache here. It gave me a newfound respect for the old masters who certainly spent as much time making their paints as they did using them.
“A? You know Rraerch and Rasa are interested? They liked those other portraits you did. You could be starting another fad.”
“Not as ridiculous as the pants thing, I hope,” I said, remembering sight of Rris in blue-jeans analogs. It was right up there on my list of most disturbing things.
“Ah, they’re quite practical, actually. With the pockets.. much better than belt puches. It could be worse, you know. Hai, and speaking of fads, there’s another play at the Resound.”
“Not... one of those?”
He grinned, imitating my gesture of amusement.
I rolled my eyes and sighed, “Oh, Christ, it is, isn’t it.”
At least that tone he could understand: he cocked his head and chittered a laugh. I hoped he was right and they were a fad. I’d been to one before and had been surprised, bemused and more than a little embarrassed. And if rumors could be believed, some of the other skits coming out of the Rris thespian woodwork made that one seem tame.
The breeze off the lake was cool but the sun was hot enough to roast the worst of the water from me and my shorts while we wandered back down the beach to the house. With no phones, cell phones, pagers, no instant messages or email, days off here tended to be very slow and filled with nothing in particular, which we discussed at great length as we headed back home.
This may be a somewhat technically unsophisticated society compared with where I’d come from, but the house they’d given me – or that I’d bought - was actually a nice place, and it was a damn sight larger and better located than anything I could have afforded back home. Situated along the lakeshore just south of the city proper, it was set back at the crest of a gently sloping meadow of wild grass behind a windbreak of aged conifers. In the early mornings I could breakfast on a verandah looking out across the glittering waters of what I’d known as Lake Eerie.
The building itself was a rambling sometimes two, sometimes three-story construction of dark weatherboards, slates, towers and garrets with attic rooms and windows in the oddest places. It was big, but it didn’t have any of the modern construction techniques or amenities I’d grown up with. And it’d been built to accommodate Rris stature, which tended to the small side. I’d already got carpenters in to make modifications that included raising ceilings and doorways and other overheads so I wouldn’t concuss myself. With the aid of Chaeitch and his workshops there was now wetback hot water and central heating and the insulation would be in before winter. Hopefully. And also hopefully, sometime soon, there’d also be electric lighting. Candles and oil and gas lamps are atmospheric, but the novelty quickly palls when you have to deal with continual fire hazard, poor light, drifting ash covering everything and the pervasive smell of incompletely burnt paraffin.
