The End of the Game

by Sheri S. Tepper

  So, Peter and Ganver and I buzzed along the white roadways of Lom, carrying messages to Shadowpeople and trees, to flowers and rivers. Some of our messages were delivered to very large creatures: to a flitchhawk, to a D’bor wife, to a gobblemole. I knew these were the spirits of very large things; the spirits of forests or rivers or seas—parts of the whole with minds and wills of their own. They touched us, and we told them of the will of Lom. There was no difficulty in translation. The message was a—I suppose it was a chemical one. Transmitted through our skins. From crystal to our bloodstreams; from our bloodstreams to the equivalent in others. Simple. Easy. Without possibility of misunderstanding.

  I don’t know how long this went on. Long enough to learn about it, see it, understand it. Ganver left us in no doubt as to the purpose of the exercise. “This is how things were,” he said to us over and over. “Before man came.”

  We left the world of the Daylight Bell. I couldn’t tell how we got out. At one moment we were spinning along the road, the next we were in the flickering travel that told us we were traveling among the memories. Forests, oceans, other cities. Something that looked like a huge stadium full of peculiarly shaped revelers. When we moved among the memories, time slowed. I knew we were traversing actual distance. The Maze was very large, and we were moving across it, from side to side, end to end.

  Then we stopped again. Peter recognized the place.

  “The Blot,” he said. We were looking down on it from a height. It lay beneath us like a clot of filth, full of noise and stinks. Iron railways with cars that ran upon them. On every side the forest had been cleared; the stumps protruded from the earth like severed fingers. We spun down the road, down—onto nothing.

  The road had been broken. Torn up. Great chunks of it lay here and there. I could see no purpose to the destruction at first. Then I saw the stone of the road had been quarried to build a squat, ugly building against the mountain side. People went in and out of it, hurrying, bumping into one another. At one side a group of men screamed at another group. A dispute over some detail of the construction. The sound was ugly. The emotion was ugly.

  “Come,” said Ganver.

  We went away from there, into memory again. In and out. Always to scenes of destruction. Roads torn up. Forests leveled. River plains ignored while slopes were cleared. Cliffs of easily quarried stone neglected while roads were torn up to build ugliness.

  And then we saw scenes of rebellion. Those great creatures, the spirits of the places, creatures like the Flitchhawk and the D’bor Wife, rose up. Ganver let us watch while they rose in wrath and fought against the intruder.

  And we watched the intruder, man, fight back. With chemicals and fire; with sonic beams and huge machines. The Magicians from the Base fought back. Far to the west, over the sea, the people of the Chasm were driven down into the depths by that rebellion. Here in the east the people were scattered, fleeing the wrath of the facets of Lom.

  But in the end the Magicians conquered. Those who had risen up were made captive in their own places. Chimmerdong was ringed with gray fire. Boughbound was dead. The spirits of Ramberlon dammed up and driven away. Only a few of the great ones roamed free still, and they roamed a saddened world.

  “Would you blame me, human?” asked Ganver. “Boughbound Forest was my friend. So was River Ramberlon. Great beings, those. Lost, now, for a thousand years. Would you blame me?”

  Peter answered. “I would not blame you if you had killed us, Ganver. We were stupid, heedless beasts, and Lom would have been better without humans. But you didn’t kill the humans. It’s Lom who’s dying.”

  “And with Lom dies the Flitchhawk,” I said. “Isn’t Flitchhawk your friend, too? D’bor Wife will die as well. And all the Shadowpeople. And likely you, too, Ganver, unless your scarlet egg can protect you, like some eternal womb. I agree with Peter. I could have forgiven you for killing all us humans, but why are you killing the world?” At that time it seemed the only thing to say. At that time in my Eesty shape I cared more about the world and all its glories than I cared about myself, the human, Jinian. I knew then why the Eesties made judges out of their accusers. Having seen what we had, I hated us, even myself, though I had never cut a tree and had done more to restore the roads than anyone else I knew.

  “Let us go back to the city of the Bell,” it said. So we returned.

  A shadow lay upon the city. There was pain in the city. The Eesties moved jerkily, there was an uncoordinated feel to things. Sound was not always pleasant. We ached with the feeling of the place.

  “Do not go to the pool,” someone called. “We are not going to the pool.”

  Ganver stopped. “What is this? What Eesty rejects the pool of bao?”

  “We,” said the voice. “We of the Brotherhood.”

  It came into view then. One star tip painted in the mockery of a human face. Ribbon-decked. One of those who had abused Queynt. One of the Oracle’s followers.

  “And how many of you are there, Riddler?” Ganver’s tone was indulgent, even fond, the voice of age to the silliness of youth. The Eesty that confronted us was not large, not old. Scarcely larger than Peter and I. “How many? A few fives? You children? Who have only carried the will of Lom for a season or two? And now you are a Brotherhood?”

  “We are those who protect Lom from the interlopers,” it asserted in a proud, impatient voice. “Seemingly, we are the only ones. The rest of you go on as though nothing were happening. Look around you, old star! Look what these filthies are doing to our world!” At the sound of its voice, several others had gathered around it, all with that painted caricature of a face, all with the fluttering ribbons. Suddenly I understood these painted faces, these ribbons. The faces were a symbol; a symbol of’ that which was to be destroyed. The flapping ribbons were Symbolic of the clothing men wore. They costumed themselves as the enemy, mocking him. Ganver’s attitude and voice did not change as he reasoned with them.

  “Do you not trust Lom to meet this challenge, Riddler? Lom has met others. Greater ones than this. Don’t you trust Lom?”

  “Lom is deluded. We waited, old one. We waited for wrath. For destruction. We waited for the mountains to flame and send these creatures into smoke, as happened in the time of the mud monsters. As in the time of the metal beasts from the farther star. Nothing. Only corrupt messages come from Lom, pitiful messages, messages which seek to bring these men into wholeness. The Brotherhood will not carry these messages.”

  “The Brotherhood may not,” said Ganver, and his voice was like thunder in the city. “But Ganver will, and all the Eesties of Lom who are not witless children.”

  We were in the Temple of the Bell once more. The lamp glowed with its glorious light; Shadowpeople sang from the book; dignified Eesties with solemn faces lifted crystals from the pool and laid them upon the curb. Green they were, glowing like drops of dew upon new leaves. We took them, absorbed them, then went out of that place.

  “Oh, by all the gods,” moaned Peter, reaching for me. We had no hands to hold with, but we touched. The human parts of us could not believe the message we carried.

  Lom had decided that man was destructive because he was weak. Man knew no way but destruction. He knew no way of quiet strength and slow building, no way of harmony and peace. He was weak and small and needed weapons and walls to protect himself. He did not believe in the kindness of others. He did not perceive the willingness of Lom to provide, even to these foster children from some other world.

  And Lom, in response to this weakness, had decided to give man Talents. The message we carried was the Talent message, to be touched to children yet unborn.

  All I could think of in a dazed way was that the Gamesmen would be much less proud if they knew. I—suddenly I was much less proud. My Talent of beast talking, it had been given. My Talent of Wize-ardry. Was that, too, a gift? Peter’s Talent of Shifting. And Mavin’s. Himaggery’s Wizardry. All the Seers, the Sentinels, the Armigers. All the Sorcerers. Nothing of our own. Only what we had be
en given? Tragamors and Elators, nothing of their own. In each of us, it was a Lom gift.

  We had stopped our travels in a space of gray nothing, a cloudy, peaceful place. Ganver confronted us here, looking into our hearts, knowing that we knew what message it was we carried. “How much do you need to see?” Ganver asked. “How much of what we did, we Eesties? We carried the gift which Lom gave; we carried it high and low, far and near. To every place men dwelt, we carried it. Not all received it. Of those who did, most misused it. Some few learned to control it. Those you call the Immutables, they learned to do so. But most, most simply accepted it. Shall we go into the later memories, shall we see what happened then?”

  I knew what had happened. More of what had already happened. Men began to use their strengths as they had used their weaknesses. To destroy.

  Ganver did not show us much. It did not need to. There were more broken forests, more broken roads. There were creatures killed who should never have been killed, whom it was a monstrous arrogance to have killed. There were Great Games played upon the plains of the world, leaving them deep in blood, bones, and cold. Seldom—oh, too seldom—were there places of beauty built. Too seldom were there things of beauty done.

  “Do you accuse me?” Ganver asked. “Do you still accuse me.”

  Peter was stubborn. “My question is still the same, Ganver. Why are you letting Lom die?”

  “Let us go back to the city of the Bell,” said Ganver.

  So, we went back for the third time. This time the city hummed with dissension, like a warnet hive, full of hostile rumor. The ribbon-decked young Eesties were everywhere, and those old ones of Ganver’s bulk seemed somehow diminished. “We go to the pool,” called a familiar voice. “But we do not carry this last message of Lom.”

  “Why, Riddler?” asked Ganver in a voice that already knew the answer. “Why?”

  “Lom is mad! It has chosen to set these monsters beside the Eesties. It has messaged them to become as we are. To run the roads of Lom!” They pushed us before them, thrusting us into the Temple. The pedestal where the lamp had rested was toppled. The lamp had rolled into a corner and lay there, lightless. There were no Shadowpeople singing. The book was closed. There were young Eesties at the pool, painted ones. They were fishing blue crystals from the silver surface as fast as they rose to the top. From the low curbing they were raking them into baskets, carrying them away. Before any of the young ones could move to stop him, Ganver had seized two of the brilliant blue stone gems and passed them to us, into us.

  After all that time of refusing, all that time of denying compulsion, I was compelled to know what the message had been that Lom had designed for men.

  Which was only to show mankind what we had just seen and call him to run the roads of Lom, to serve as the Eesties served and to live as the Eesties lived.

  Which was only to invite man to become like the angels.

  Across the pool, the one they called the Riddler danced along the curbing, taking up the crystals one by one. “We will not carry this message, old Ganver. This message goes into a deep cavern somewhere. Let the man-beasts die of their own destruction, as they will. And when they are gone, we will carry Lom’s messages once more. Until then, let Lom rest in peace, let Lom recover its senses. Until then, no messages will be carried.”

  “Are you teaching rebellion, Riddler?” Oh, but Ganver’s voice was weary and sad, carrying so much pain it made me want to weep. It did not make the Riddler weep. Instead, it posed, making a mockery of humankind of its Eesty shape.

  “Oh, my dear, but of course. What could we possibly preach but rebellion? We are the true Eesties! Not witless fools of old rolling stars who should know better!”

  I knew him then. Of course. How could I not have known him even among all his fellows dressed as he was? The Riddler. Rebel angel. Not one of the Oracle’s followers, but the Oracle himself.

  And he looked aside from Ganver at me, at Peter, seeing us, sneering at us. He knew us. This was not only memory but a time-place in which actuality existed, and the Oracle saw me not as an Eesty shape but as who I was.

  3

  THE DAYLIGHT BELL

  We went out of the time-place, leaving the Oracle behind us. “I have one more time-place to show you,” said Ganver.

  I could guess what place that was. Ganver intended to show us the place we had just left, only somewhat later in time.

  It had come to me as I stood there confronting the Oracle beside that pool with its low coping, feeling the echoes in the tower that lofted above us and the purposeful activity all around. The Temple of the Bell and the place we had seen at the edge of the Maze—the place with the roaring, angry crowd—were one and the same. I would have realized the connection sooner except that the Temple of the Bell was bright and joyful, full of purpose, while the place we had seen at the edge of the Maze had been colorless, dim, full of horrid shouting.

  “You want to show us the Bell being destroyed,” I said. “We have already seen it happen. Several times. We don’t want to see it again.”

  “That place where the metal thing fell down?” asked Peter. “The gray place where all the Eesties were yelling?”

  “That place. Yes.” Ganver still sounded sad, anguish in its voice. The poor old thing was grieving. I knew why it had retreated to the scarlet egg—what had Mavin called it? “Ganver’s Grave.” It had gone there to bury itself away from the destruction.

  “Why did they destroy the Bell, Ganver? I suppose it was the Oracle and his crew. The one you call Riddler.”

  “The Oracle, yes. The Brotherhood. The rebellious young Eesties.Only a few of that generation stayed with us, allied with us, with the elders. Come. You have not seen all that I have to show you. It is painful, but you must see it.”

  And we were off into the flickering twilight of’ memory travel once more, never a pause, light as blown leaves, until at last we came to the place. This time, however, we did not arrive inside the Temple. This time we were outside, watching the multitude gathered there.

  Dim that city. Gray and chill. Walls were dirty and buildings smokestained. There were no Shadowpeople there. While none of the huge old Eesties were there, there was a great mob of the Oracle’s Brotherhood, dancing in their ribbons, chanting and shouting in a zealot’s parody of purpose, a frantic anarchy that could see no farther than the next bit of inflammatory oratory being shouted on every corner. Ganver remained with us where we were, hidden behind a partly fallen wall near the Temple. “Watch,” it said sadly. “Watch and learn.”

  A flight of white stone stairs led to the Temple entrance, wide and gentle as the Eesties preferred them, like a shallow fall of frozen water in their polished perfection. The Oracle stood on the broad terrace at the top, speaking to its assembled minions. The painted face was more detailed, and it wore a garment that was more robelike than the mere ribbons it had worn before. Cressets burned beside it, stinking of grease-soaked wood, and I thought of Pfarb Durim. Pfarb Durim must once have been as beautiful as this city once had been; and yet in my lifetime it smelled as this one did now, of smoke and sick violence. The Oracle’s voice and the smoke rose upward, equally oily, equally black.

  “These man-animals have the luck of beasts and the weapons of devils. They wage Great Games upon one another, but still they breed faster than death can take them. They survive their own malice, their own stupidity. They do not fall to their own destruction, and they will not fall to those who hunt them. Still they bask in Lom’s favor, but the time of that favor is done. . . .”

  The Oracle’s voice rose in a brazen, monstrous shout: “Let loose the shadows!

  “Shut out the light. . . .

  “Let them die in the darkness. . . .

  “And when they are dead, we will build the Tower up again and cast the Bell once more. . . .

  “Let loose the shadows!”

  The assembled multitude screamed, howled, babbled. I looked around. There were no older Eesties, none like Ganver, none there to spe
ak against what was being done by this mob.

  “Where were you?” I cried, horrified. “Why weren’t you here?”

  “We had tried,” it said wearily. “We had tried and been rebuffed. We could have destroyed them utterly, but we did not do so. Many of us had grown weary. Some of us . . . felt a kind of sympathy for them, for our pride had been hurt as well. Who can say? I was not here. I had gone away. I had told myself I could not bear it.”

  From high in the Tower came that sound of agonized breaking we had heard before. When the Bell came down, it was with a great shattering, as though the heart of the world broke in pieces. Stupefaction greeted this at first, then rebellious, impudent cheering, which built to a clamorous roar.

  Which faded almost at once into horrified silence. The sound of that roaring was still in our heads. Only very gradually did we perceive the other sound, the sound the mob had heard, reverberating, growing, a vibration loosed upon the city. From the north. The sound of the Shadowbell, going on, and on, and on, not dying but growing, louder with each moment, the dissonance keening in a knife-edge of noise, drowning the Eesties’ voices until it became the only sound, the only reality, driving the light before it as clean water is driven before the muddy flood. We watched as the light ran out of the city before the flood of shadow, as the white stairs crumbled, as the Tower shattered before that sound and fell.

  And those who had cheered were crushed under stones, sprawled onto rippling pavement suddenly full of chasms. Roofs cracked and swayed, crumbled into shards and dust. Walls tumbled. Shadow filled the streets, fluttering, deadly shadow. Many of the Brotherhood fled, stupidly shrieking, leaving behind one figure to stand at the top of the stairs, swaying as the city died, its painted clown’s face staring down at Ganver, at me. What was it thinking? What had it really thought would happen? Was it so misled by its own ambition it could not have known what would occur here? I did not have long to wonder about it.