by neetha Napew
But she gave him a cold look, her eyes dark under her disordered hair. Collecting up her heavy skirt with one hand, she set the other hand pale against her cheek and hastened from the chamber.
Next morning, after Toress Lahl had bathed and a slave woman had dressed her, Luterin took her before his mother and announced formally that he intended to marry her and not Insil Esikananzi. His mother wept and threatened - and in particular threatened the wrath of Luterin's father - and finally retreated to her inner room.
"We shall go for a ride," Luterin said coolly, strapping on his revolver and clipping a sling onto a short rifle. "I'll show you the Great Wheel."
"Am I to ride behind you?"
He regarded her judiciously. "You heard what I said to my mother."
"I heard what you said to your mother. Nevertheless, at present I am not a free woman, and this is not Chalce."
"When we return, I will have the secretary issue you a declaration of your freedom. There are such things. Just now, I wish to be outside." He moved impatiently to the door, where two stablemen stood holding the reins of two yelk.
"I'll teach you the points of a yelk one day," he said, as they moved into the grounds. "These are a domestic breed - bred by my father, and his father before him."
Once outside the grounds of the estate, they moved into the teeth of the wind. There was no more than a foot of snow underfoot. On either side of the track, striped markers stood, awaiting the time when the snow was deep.
To get to Kharnabhar, the peak, they had to pass the Esikananzi estates. The track then wound through a tall stand of caspiarns, the branches of which were fuzzy with frost. As they advanced, bells of differing voice told of Kharnabhar, as it emerged gradually from the cloud.
Everything here was bells, indoors and out. What had once had a function - to guard against the possibility of being lost in snow or fog - was now a fashion.
Toress Lahl reined her yelk and stared ahead, holding a cloaked arm up to her face to protect her mouth. Ahead lay the village of Kharnabhar, the lodgings for pilgrims and the stalls on one side of the main track, the housing for those who worked with the Great Wheel on the other side. Most of the buildings had bells on their roofs, housed in cupolas, each with its distinctive tongue; they could be heard when the weather was too bad for them to be seen.
The track itself led uphill to the entrance to the Great Wheel. That entrance, almost legendary, had been adorned by the Architects with gigantic bird-faced oarsmen. It led into the depths of Mount Kharnabhar. The mount dominated the village.
Up the face of the mountain the buildings climbed, many of them chapels or mausoleums erected by pilgrims on this holiest of sites. Some of them stood boldly above the snow, perched on rock outcrops. Some were in ruins.
Shokerandit gestured largely ahead. "Of all this my father is in charge."
He turned back to her. "Do you want to look more closely at the Wheel? They don't take you in there by force. These days, you have to volunteer to get a place in the Wheel."
As they moved forward, Toress Lahl said, "I somehow imagined that we should see a part of the Wheel from outside."
"It's all inside the mountain. That's the main idea. Darkness. Darkness bringing wisdom."
"I thought it was light brought wisdom."
Jostling locals stared at their metamorphosed shapes. Some locals bore prominent goitres, a common malady in such mountainous inland regions. They superstitiously made the symbol of the circle as they moved towards the entrance of the Wheel with Shokerandit and Toress Lahl.
Nearer, they could see a little more: the great ramplike walls leading in from either side, as if to pour humanity down the gullet of the mountain. Above the entrance, protected from landslides by an apron, was a starkly carved scene embodying the symbolism of the Wheel. Oarsmen clad in ample garments rowed the Wheel across the sky, where could be recognised some of the zodiacal signs: the Boulder, the Old Pursuer, the Golden Ship. The stars sprang from the breast of an amazing maternal figure who stood to one side of the archway, beckoning the faithful to her.
Pilgrims, dwarfed by the statuary, knelt at the gateway, calling aloud the name of the Azoiaxic One.
She sighed. "It's splendid, certainly."
"To you, it may be no more than splendid. To those of us who have grown up in the religion, it is our life, the mainspring that gives us confidence to face the vicissitudes of this life."
Jumping lightly from his yelk's back, he took hold of her saddle and said, looking up at her, "One day, if my father finds me fit enough, I may in my turn become Keeper of the Wheel. My brother was to have been heir to the role, but he died. I hope my chance will come."
She looked down at him and smiled in a friendly way, without understanding. "The wind's dropped."
"It's generally calm here. Mount Kharnabhar is high, the fourth highest mountain in the world, so they say. But behind it - you can't see it for cloud - is the even grander Mount Shivenink, which shelters Kharnabhar from the winds of the pole. Shivenink is over seven miles high, and the third highest peak. You'll catch a glimpse of it some other time."
He fell silent, sensing that he had been too enthusiastic. He wished to be happy, to be confident, as he had been. But the encounter with Insil the previous evening had upset him. Abruptly he jumped back on his yelk and led away from the entrance to the Wheel.
Without speaking, he wended a way through the village street, where pilgrims were crowding among the clothing shops and bell stalls. Some munched waffles stamped with the sign of the Great Wheel.
Beyond the village was a steep ravine, with a path winding down into a distant valley. The trees grew close, with massive boulders between them. Drifts of snow lay here and there, making the route treacherous. The yelk picked their way with care, the bells on their harness jingling. Birds called in the branches high above them and they heard the sound of water falling onto rock. Shokerandit sang to himself. Batalix weakly lit their way. In the chasmlike valley below them, shadow ruled.
He halted where the track divided. One fork ran upwards along the slopes, one down. When she caught up with him, he said, "They say this valley will fill with snow when the Weyr Winter really comes - say in my grandchildren's time, if I have any. We should take the upper track. It's the easiest way home."
"Where does the lower track lead?"
"There's an old church down there, founded by a king from your part of the world, so you might be interested. And next to it is a shrine my father built in memory to my brother."
"I'd like to see."
The way became steeper. Fallen trees obstructed their way. Shokerandit pursed his lips to see how the estate was being neglected. They passed under a waterfall, and picked their way through a bed of snow.
Cloud clung to the hillside. Every leaf about them shone. The light was bad.
They circled past the cupola of the chapel. Its bell hung silent. When they reached level ground, they saw that a great drift of snow had sealed the door of the building.
As a native of Borldoran, Toress Lahl recognised immediately that the church was built in what was known as the Embruddockan style. Most of it lay below ground level. The steps which wound down its curving outer dome were intended to give worshippers a chance to clear their minds of worldly things before entering.
She scooped away snow so that she could peer through a narrow rectangular window set in the door. Darkness had been created inside, such light as there was penetrating from above. An old god's portrait gazed down from behind a circular altar. She felt her breath come faster.
The name of the deity eluded her memory, but she knew well the name of the king whose bust and titles stood, sheltered from the elements, under the porch above the outer door. He was JandolAnganol, King of Borlien and Oldorando, the countries which later became Borldoran.
Her voice shook when she spoke. "Is this why I am brought here? This king is a distant ancestor of mine. His name is proverbial where I come from, though he died almost five cen
turies ago."
Luterin's only response was to say, "I know the building is old. My , brother lies nearby. Come and see."
In a moment, she collected herself and followed him, saying, "JandolAnganol..."
He stood contemplating a cairn. Stone was piled on stone, and capped with a circular block of granite. His brother's name - FAVIN - was engraved on the granite, together with the sacred symbol of circle within circle.
To show reverence, Toress Lahl dismounted and stood with Luterin. The cairn was a brutal object in comparison with the delicately worked chapel.
Finally, Luterin turned away and pointed to the rocks above them.
"You see where the waterfall begins?"
High overhead, a spur of rock protruded. Water spouted over its lip, falling clear for seventy feet before striking stone. They could hear the sound of its descent into the valley.
"He rode out here one day on a hoxney, when the weather was better. Jumped - man and mount. The Azoiaxic knows what made him do it. My father was at home. He it was who found my brother, dead on this spot. He erected this cairn to his memory. Since then, we have not been allowed to speak his name. I believe that Father was as heartbroken as I."
"And your mother?" she asked, after a pause.
"Oh, she was upset too, of course." He looked up again at the waterfall, biting his lip.
"You think greatly of your father, don't you?"
"Even-one does." He cleared his throat and added, "His influence on me is immense. Perhaps if he were away less, he would not be so close to me. Everyone knows him hereabouts for a holy man - much like your ancestor, the king."
Toress Lahl laughed. "JandolAnganol is no holy man. He is known as one of the blackest villains in history, who destroyed the old religion and burnt the leader of it, with all his followers."
"Well, we know him here as a holy man. His name is revered locally."
"Why did he come here?"
He shook his head impatientlv. "Because this is Kharnabhar. Everyone wants to be here. Perhaps he was doing penance for his sins... "
To that she would say nothing.
He stood staring down into the valley, into the confused hillsides.
"There is no finer love than that between son and father, don't you agree? Now I have grown up, I know other kinds of love - all with their lure. None has the purity - the clarity - of the love I bear for my father. All others are full of questions, of conflicts. The love for a father is unquestioning. I wish I were one of his hounds, that I could show him unquestioning obedience. He's away in the caspiarn forests for months at a time. If I were a hound, I could be forever at his heel, following wherever he led."
"Eating the scraps he threw you."
"Whatever he wished."
"It's not healthy to feel like that."
He turned towards her, looking haughty. "I am not a lad anymore. I can please myself or I can subdue my will. So it must be with everyone. Compassion and firmness are needed. We must fight unjust laws. As long as anarchy does not take over, Weyr-Winter will be endurable. When spring comes, Sibornal will emerge stronger than ever. We are committed to four tasks. To unify our continent. To rectify work, and consolidate it organisationally with regard to depleted resources... Well, all that's no concern of yours...."
She stood apart from him. The clouds of their breath formed and dispersed without meeting. "What role do I play in your plans?"
He was uneasy with the question, but liked its bluntness. Being in Toress Lahl's company was like occupying a different world from Insil's. With a sudden impulse, he turned and grasped her, staring into her eyes before kissing her briefly. He stepped back, drawing deep breath, drinking in her expression. Then he moved forward again and this time kissed her with greater concentration.
Even when she made some response, he could not banish the thought of Insil Esikananzi. For her part, Toress Lahl too struggled against her late husband's phantom lips.
They broke apart.
"Be patient," he said, as if to himself. She gave no answer.
Luterin climbed back on his mount, and led the way up the track which wound through the dark trees. The bells on the animals' harness jingled. The little snowbound chapel sank behind them, soon becoming lost in the obscurity.
When he returned, a sealed note from Insil awaited him. He opened it with reluctance, but it contained only an oblique reference to their quarrel of the previous evening. It read:
Luterin:
You will think me hard, but there are those who are harder. They offer you greater danger than ever I could.
Do you recall a conversation we once had about the possible cause of your brother's death? It took place, unless I dreamed it, after you had recovered from that strange horizontal interlude which followed the death. Your innocence is heroic. Let me say more soon.
I beg you use guile now. Hold "our" new secret for a while, for your own sake.
Insil
"Too late," he said impatiently, screwing the note up into a ball.
XIV
THE GREATEST CRIME
But how could anyone be sure that those tutelary biospheric spirits, the Original Beholder and Gaia, had a real existence?
There was no objective proof, just as empathy cannot be measured. Microbacterial life has no knowledge of mankind: their umwelts are too disparate. Only intuition can permit mankind to see and hear the footsteps of those geochemical spirits who have managed the life of a functioning whole world as a single organism.
It is intuition, again, which tells humanity that to live according to the spirit it must not possess, must refrain from dominating. It was precisely those men who met so secretively on Icen Hill, shut away from human contact, secure from contact with the outside world, who most feverishly tried to possess the world.
And if they succeeded?
The biospheric spirits are forgiving and adaptable. Intuition tells us that there are always alternatives. Homeostasis is not fossilisation but the balance of vitality.
The early tribal hunters who burned the forests to secure their prey gave birth to the ecosystems of the great savannahs. Mutability informs Gaia's cybernetic controls.
The Original Beholder's grey cloak was sweeping across Helliconia. Human beings defied it or accepted it, according to their individual natures.
Beyond the pale of human possession, the creatures of the wild made their own dispositions. The brassimip trees greedily stored food resources far below ground, in order that they might continue to grow. The little land crustaceans, the rickybacks, congregated in their thousands on the underside of stones of alabaster, working lodgements for themselves in the stone with secretions of acid; they would derive such light as they needed to sustain them through the stone itself. The horned sheep of the mountains, the wild asokin, the badgered timoroon, the flambreg on their scoured plains, indulged in fierce courtship battles. There was time for one more mating and perhaps one more: the number of living offspring born would be decided by temperature, by the food supply, by courage, by skill.
All those beings which could not be described as part of the human race, but remained suspended by a quirk of evolution just outside the hearths of humanity - wistfully looking towards the camp fires - those beings too made their dispositions.
The Driat tribes, given the gift of language and well able to curse in it, cursed and moved down from the hills to rocky shores of their continent, where they would find food in abundance. The migratory Madis were driven from their dying ucts to seek shelter in the West and to haunt the ruined cities mankind had deserted. The Nondads burrowed down between the roots of great trees, living their elusive lives little differently from in the scorching days of summer.
As for the ancipital race, each generation saw global conditions reverting to what they had been before the invasion of Freyr into their skies. To their eotemporal minds, the stereotype of the future was coming more nearly to resemble the stereotype of the past. On the broad plains of Campannlat, phagors became i
ncreasingly dominant, relying for meat on the herds of yelk and biyelk, which appeared in growing numbers, and becoming bolder in their attacks on the Sons of Freyr. Only in Sibornal, where their presence had never been strong, were they subject to organised counterattacks from humanity.
All these creatures could be seen as vying with one another. In a sense it was true. But in a wider sense, all were a unity. The steady disappearance of green things destroyed their numbers, but they remained intact. For all of them depended on the anaerobic muds on the Helliconian seabeds, working to bury carbon and maintain the oxygen of the atmosphere, so that the great processes of respiration and photosynthesis were maintained over land and ocean.
All these creatures, again, could be seen as the vital life of the planet. In a sense it was true. But fully half of the mass of Helliconian life lived in the three-dimensional pasturages of the seas. That mass was composed for the most part of single-celled microflora. They were the true monitors of life, and for them little changed, whether Freyr was close or distant.
The Original Beholder held all living forces in balance. How was life possible on the planet? Because there was life on the planet. What would happen without life? There could be no life. The Original Beholder was a spirit who dwelt over the waters: not a separate spirit endowed with mind, but a vast cooperative entity, creating well-being from the centre of a furious chemical storm. And the Original Beholder was forced to be even more ingenious than her sister goddess, Gaia, on nearby Earth.
Somewhat apart from all other living things, from algae and rutting sheep and rickybacks, were the humans of Helliconia. These creatures, although fully as dependent on the homeostatic biosphere as other units of life, had nevertheless elevated themselves to a special category. They had developed language. Within the wordless universe, they had assembled their own umwelt of words.
They had songs and poems, dramas and histories, debate, lament and proclamation, with which to give tongue to the planet. With words came the power to invent. As soon as words came, there was story. Story was to words as Gaia was to Earth and the Original Beholder to Helliconia. Neither planet had a story until mankind came chattering onto the scene and invented it - to fit what each generation saw as the facts.
