“There are hot springs in this part of Ibri,” the servant said. “This keep was built on top of one; and there is a pool in the basement, which always steams and smells.”
Now I recognized the aroma: rotten eggs.
We came to a large room, paved with stone and covered by a broad, barrel vault. Metal lanterns hung from the ceiling on chains. As was the case with the lamps on the stairway, most were dark. But a few flickered dimly. I could see the bathing pool: round and carved from bedrock. Steps went down into it. Wisps of steam rose.
“Undress,” said the servant. “I’ll bring soap and towels.”
I complied eagerly. Only my scout hesitated, holding the baby.
“I’ll help you with the mite,” said my scribe, standing knee-deep in hot water.
The scout handed the baby over and undressed.
Soon I was frolicking in the pool, diving and spouting. Cries of joy rang in the damp, warm room. Is anything better than a hot bath after a journey?
The scout took the baby back and moved to the far side of the pool. When the servant returned, the scout sank down, holding the baby closely, hiding it in shadow. Wise mite, it did not cry!
The rest of me got busy, scrubbing shoulders and backs. Ah, the pleasure of warm lather!
Now and then, I gave a little yip of happiness. The servant watched with satisfaction, his/her/its arms piled high with towels.
On the far side of the pool, my best scout crouched, nursing the babe on a dry bud and watching the servant with hooded eyes.
At last I climbed out, dried off, and dressed. In the confusion—there was a lot of me—the scout managed to keep the baby concealed. Why I did not know, but the scout was prudent and usually had a good reason for every action, though parts of me still doubted about the wisdom of keeping the baby. There would be time to talk all of this over, when the servant was gone.
He/she/it led me up a new set of stairs. The climb was long. The servant entertained me with the following story.
The keep had a pulley system, which had been built by an ingenious traveling plumber. This lifted buckets of hot water from the spring to a tank on top of the keep. From there the water descended through metal pipes, carried by the downward propensity that is innate in water. The pipes heated every room.
“What powers the pulley system?” my scribe asked, notebook in hand.
“A treadmill,” said the servant.
“And what powers the treadmill?”
“Criminals and other people who have offended the lord. No keep in Ibri is more comfortable,” the servant continued with pride. “This is what happens when a lord is largely or entirely female. As the old proverb says, male bodies give a person forcefulness. Neuter bodies give thoughtfulness and clarity of vision. But nurture and comfort come from a person’s female selves.”
Maybe, I thought. But were the people in the treadmill comfortable?
The servant continued the story. The plumber had gone east to Ib and built other heated buildings: palaces, public baths, hotels, hospitals, and crèches. In payment for this work, several of the local lords mated with the plumber; and the local crèches vied to raise the plumber’s children, who were numerous and healthy.
“A fine story, with a happy ending,” I said, thinking of my fragment of a child, nursing on the scout’s dry bud. Envy, the curse of all artists and artisans, roiled in my hearts. Why had I never won the right to lay fertile eggs? Why were my purses empty? Why did I have to struggle to protect my testes and to stay off treadmills, while this plumber—surely not a better person than I—enjoyed fame, honor and fertility?
The guest room was large and handsome, with a modern wonder next to it: a defecating closet. Inside the closet, water came from the wall in two metal pipes, which ended in faucets. “Hot and cold,” said the servant, pointing. Below the faucets was a metal basin, decorated with reliefs of frolicking goxhat. Two empty buckets stood next to the basin.
The servant said, “If you need to wash something, your hands or feet or any other part, fill the basin with water. Use the buckets to empty the basin; and after you use the defecating throne, empty the buckets down it. This reduces the smell and gets rid of the dirty water. As I said, our lord is fastidious; and we have learned from her example. The plumber helped, by providing us with so much water.
“I’ll wait in the hall. When you’re ready to meet the lord, I’ll guide you to her.”
“Thank you,” said my scribe, always courteous.
I changed into clean clothing, the last I had, and put bardic crowns on my heads4. Each crown came from a different contest, though all were minor. I had never won a really big contest. Woven of fine wool, with brightly colored tassels hanging down, the crowns gave me an appearance of dignity. My nimble-fingered scouts unpacked my instruments: a set of chimes, a pair of castanets, and a bagpipe. Now I was ready to meet the lord.
All except my best scout, who climbed into the middle of a wide soft bed, child in arms.
“Why did you hide the mite?” asked my scholar.
“This keep seems full of rigid thinkers, overly satisfied with themselves and their behavior. If they saw the child they would demand an explanation. ‘Why do you keep it? Can’t you see how fragmentary it is? Can’t you see that it’s barely alive? Don’t you know how to cut your losses?’ I don’t want to argue or explain.”
“What is meant by ‘I’?” my male parts asked. “What is meant by ‘my’ reasons?”
“This is no time for an argument,” said the poet.
All of me except the scout went to meet the keep’s famous lord.
The Straightener sat at one end of a large hall: an elderly goxhat with frosted hair. Four parts of her remained, all sturdy, though missing a few pieces here and there: a foot, a hand, an eye or finger. Along the edges of the hall sat her retainers on long benches: powerful males, females, and neuters, adorned with iron and gold.
“Great your fame,
Gold-despoiler,
Bold straightener of scrota,
Wise lord of Ibri.
“Hearing of it,
I’ve crossed high mountains,
Anxious to praise
Your princely virtues.”
My poet stopped. Straightener leaned forward. “Well? Go on! I want to hear about my princely virtues.”
“Give me a day to speak with your retainers and get exact details of your many achievements,” the poet said. “Then I will be able to praise you properly.”
The goxhat leaned back. “Never heard of me, have you? Drat! I was hoping for undying fame.”
“I will give it to you,” my poet said calmly.
“Very well,” the lord said. “I’ll give you a day, and if I like what you compose, I’ll leave your male parts alone.”
All of me thanked her. Then I told the hall about my stay at the ruined keep. The retainers listened intently. When I had finished, the lord said, “My longtime neighbor! Dead by murder! Well, death comes to all of us. When I was born, I had twenty parts. A truly large number! That is what I’m famous for, as well as my dislike of men, which is mere envy. My male bodies died in childhood, and my neuter parts did not survive early adulthood. By thirty, I was down to ten bodies, all female. The neuters were not much of a loss. Supercilious twits, I always thought. But I miss my male parts. They were so feisty and full of piss! When travelers come here, I set them difficult tasks. If they fail, I have my soldiers hold them, while I unfold their delicate, coiled testicles. No permanent damage is done, but the screaming makes me briefly happy.”
My male bodies looked uneasy and shifted back and forth on their feet, as if ready to run. But the two neuters remained calm. My poet thanked the lord a second time, sounding confident. Then I split up and went in all directions through the hall, seeking information.
The drinking went on till dawn, and the lord’s retainers were happy to tell me stories about the Straightener. She had a female love of comfort and fondness for children, but could not be called
tender in any other way. Rather, she was a fierce leader in battle and a strict ruler, as exact as a balance or a straight edge.
“She’ll lead us against Bent Foot,” one drunk soldier said. “We’ll kill him and bring the children here. The stolen children, at least. I don’t know about Bent Foot’s spawn. It might be better for them to die. Not my problem. I let the lord make all the decisions, except whether or not I’m going to fart.”
Finally I went up to my room. My scout lay asleep, the baby in her arms. My male parts began to pace nervously. The rest of me settled to compose a poem.
As the sky brightened, the world outside began to wake and make noise. Most of the noise could be ignored, but there was a wishik under the eaves directly outside my room’s window. Its shrill, repeating cry drove my poet to distraction. I could not concentrate on the poem.
Desperate, I threw things at the animal: buttons from my sewing kit, spare pens, an antique paperweight I found in the room. Nothing worked. The wishik fluttered away briefly, then returned and resumed its irritating cry.
At last my scout woke. I explained the problem. She nodded and listened to the wishik for a while. Then she fastened a string to an arrow and shot the arrow out the window. It hit the wishik. The animal gave a final cry. Grabbing the string, my scout pulled the beast inside.
“Why did I do that?” I asked.
“Because I didn’t want the body to fall in the courtyard.”
“Why not?”
Before she could answer, the body at her feet expanded and changed its shape. Instead of the body of a dead wishik, I saw a grey goxhat body, pierced by the scout’s arrow, dead.
My males swore. The rest of me exclaimed in surprise.
My scout said, “This is part of a wizard, no doubt employed by the keep’s lord, who must really want to unroll my testicles, since she is willing to be unfair and play tricks. The wishik cry was magical, designed to bother me so much than I could not concentrate on composition. If this body had fallen to the ground, the rest of the wizard would have seen it and known the trick had failed. As things are, I may have time to finish the poem.” The scout looked at the rest of me severely. “Get to work.”
My poet went back to composing, my scribe to writing. The poem went smoothly now. As the stanzas grew in number, I grew increasingly happy and pleased. Soon I noticed the pleasure was sexual. This sometimes happened, though usually when a poem was erotic. The god of poetry and the god of sex are siblings, though they share only one parent, who is called the All-Mother-Father.
Even though the poem was not erotic, my male and female parts became increasingly excited. Ah! I was rubbing against myself. Ah! I was making soft noises! The poet and scribe could not feel this sexual pleasure, of course, but the sight of the rest of me tumbling on the rug was distracting. Yes, neuters are clear-eyed and rational, but they are also curious; and nothing arouses their curiosity more than sex. They stopped working on the poem and watched as I fondled myself. 5
Only the scout remained detached from sensuality and went into the defecating closet. Coming out with a bucket of cold water, the scout poured it over my amorous bodies.
I sprang apart, yelling with shock.
“This is more magic,” the scout said. “I did not know a spell inciting lust could be worked at such a distance, but evidently it can. Every part of me that is male or female, go in the bathroom! Wash in cold water till the idea of sex becomes uninteresting! As for my neuter parts—” The scout glared. “Get back to the poem!”
“Why has one part of me escaped the spell?” I asked the scout.
“I did not think I could lactate without laying an egg first, but the child’s attempts to nurse have caused my body to produce milk. As a rule, nursing mothers are not interested in sex, and this has proved true of me. Because of this, and the child’s stubborn nursing, there is a chance of finishing the poem. I owe this child a debt of gratitude.”
“Maybe,” grumbled my male parts.
The poet and scribe said, “I shall see.”
The poem was done by sunset. That evening I recited it in the lord’s hall. If I do say so myself, it was a splendid achievement. The wishik’s cry was in it, as was the rocking up-and-down rhythm of a sexually excited goxhat. The second gave the poem energy and an emphatic beat. As for the first, every line ended with one of the two sounds in the wishik’s ever-repeating, irritating cry. Nowadays, we call this repetition of sound “rhyming.” But it had no name when I invented it.
When I was done, the lord ordered several retainers to memorize the poem. “I want to hear it over and over,” she said. “What a splendid idea it is to make words ring against each other in this fashion! How striking the sound! How memorable! Between you and the traveling plumber, I will certainly be famous.”
That night was spent like the first one, everyone except me feasting. I feigned indigestion and poured my drinks on the floor under the feasting table. The lord was tricky and liked winning. Who could say what she might order put in my cup or bowl, now that she had my poem?
When the last retainer fell over and began to snore, I got up and walked to the hall’s main door. Sometime in the next day or so, the lord would discover that her wizard had lost a part to death and that one of her paperweights was missing. I did not want to be around when these discoveries were made.
Standing in the doorway, I considered looking for the treadmill. Maybe I could free the prisoners. They might be travelers like me, innocent victims of the lord’s malice and envy and her desire for hot water on every floor. But there were likely to be guards around the treadmill, and the guards might be sober. I was only one goxhat. I could not save everyone. And the servant had said they were criminals.
I climbed the stairs quietly, gathered my belongings and the baby, and left through a window down a rope made of knotted sheets.
The sky was clear; the brilliant star we call Beacon stood above the high peaks, shedding so much light I had no trouble seeing my way. I set a rapid pace eastward. Toward morning, clouds moved in. The Beacon vanished. Snow began to fall, concealing my trail. The baby, nursing on the scout, made happy noises.
• • •
Two days later, I was out of the mountains, camped in a forest by an unfrozen stream. Water made a gentle sound, purling over pebbles. The trees on the banks were changers, a local variety that is blue in summer and yellow in winter. At the moment, their leaves were thick with snow. “Silver and gold,” my poet murmured, looking up.
The scribe made a note.
A wishik clung to a branch above the poet and licked its wings. Whenever it shifted position, snow came down.
“The wishik cleans wings
As white as snow.
Snow falls on me, white
As a wishik,”
the poet said.
My scribe scribbled.
One of my cudgel-carriers began the discussion. “The Bane of Poets was entirely neuter. Fear of death made it crazy. Bent Foot was entirely male. Giving in to violence, he stole children from his neighbor. The last lord I encountered, the ruler of the heated keep, was female, malicious and unfair. Surely something can be learned from these encounters. A person should not be one sex entirely, but rather—as I am—a harmonious mixture of male, female, and neuter. But this child can’t help but be a single sex.”
“I owe the child a debt of gratitude,” said my best scout firmly. “Without her, I would have had pain and humiliation, when the lord—a kind of lunatic—unrolled my testes, as she clearly planned to do. At best, I would have limped away from the keep in pain. At worst, I might have ended in the lord’s treadmill, raising water from the depths to make her comfortable.”
“The question is a good one,” said my scribe. “How can a person who is only one sex avoid becoming a monster? The best combination is the one I have: male, female, and both kinds of neuter. But even two sexes provide a balance.”
“Other people—besides these three—have consisted of one sex,” my scout sai
d stubbornly. “Not all became monsters. It isn’t sex that has influenced these lords, but the stony fields and spiny mountains of Ibri, the land’s cold winters and ferocious wildlife. My various parts can teach the child my different qualities: the valor of the cudgel-carriers, the coolness of poet and scribe, the female tenderness which the rest of me has. Then she will become a single harmony.”
The scout paused. The rest of me looked dubious. The scout continued.
“Many people lose parts of themselves through illness, accident, and war; and some of these live for years in a reduced condition. Yes, it’s sad and disturbing, but it can’t be called unnatural. Consider aging and the end of life. The old die body by body, till a single body remains. Granted, in many cases, the final body dies quickly. But not always. Every town of good size has a Gram or Gaffer who hobbles around in a single self.
“I will not give up an infant I have nursed with my own milk. Do I wish to be known as ungrateful or callous? I, who have pinned all my hope on honor and fame?”
I looked at myself with uncertain expressions. The wishik shook down more snow.
“Well, then,” said my poet, who began to look preoccupied. Another poem coming, most likely. “I will take the child to a crèche and leave her there.”
My scout scowled. “How well will she be cared for there, among healthy children, by tenders who are almost certain to be prejudiced against a mite so partial and incomplete? I will not give her up.”
“Think of how much I travel,” a cudgel-carrier said. “How can I take a child on my journeys?”
“Carefully and tenderly,” the scout replied. “The way my ancestors who were nomads did. Remember the old stories! When they traveled, they took everything, even the washing pot. Surely their children were not left behind.”
“I have bonded excessively to this child,” said my scribe to the scout.
“Yes, I have. It’s done and can’t be undone. I love her soft baby-down, her four blue eyes, her feisty spirit. I will not give her up.”
I conversed this way for some time. I didn’t become angry at myself, maybe because I had been through so much danger recently. There is nothing like serious fear to put life into perspective. Now and then, when the conversation became especially difficult, a part of me got up and went into the darkness to kick the snow or to piss. When the part came back, he or she or it seemed better.
Lightspeed Magazine Issue 49 Page 27
