The Anome

by Jack Vance

  But Mur went unheeding down into the silk-tree brake and Geacles, ducking and sidling, followed.

  From the age of eight Mur had tended eighteen full-size trees, with over a hundred bobbins. He knew the angle of each twig, the cast of each leaf, the sap which each branch might be expected to provide. Each bobbin had its idiosyncrasy; in some, if the glass spring were wound too tightly the ratchet would jam; others refused to turn unless tilted; a few worked flawlessly, and these Mur used under the highest beads.

  Geacles watched from concealment while Mur made the rounds of his bobbins, winding the mechanisms, replacing full spools with empty ones, pinching suckers from the trunks. A dozen branches had gone dry; Mur cut into fresh shoots. The beads of sap oozed forth; Mur drew down filaments which hardened at once into strands of silk. Mur attached the ends to bobbins, assured himself that the rotating spools drew down the strands at a steady rate. Geacles watched in glum disappointment; Mur’s conduct was that of an industrious, innocent and responsible Pure Boy.

  Mur began to move at purposeful speed, as if he were anxious to finish. Geacles ducked back out of sight as Mur stepped forward to make a careful scrutiny of the hillside. Geacles grinned; Mur’s conduct was no longer that of an innocent Pure Boy.

  Mur set off downhill, moving so quickly that Geacles was hard-put to follow. Mur reached the path which skirted the boundary behind Rhododendron Way and set off to the east. Geacles was now at something of a disadvantage. If he followed along the path he must disclose himself. He darted through the berry patch, blundering into a nettle patch. Cursing and hissing he took shelter among the rhododendrons. Mur was well along the path, almost out of sight. Geacles followed crouching, dodging, running. He gained a spot where he could look along the path. Mur was nowhere to be seen. Geacles deliberated a moment, then pushed down into Rhododendron Way, highly questionable territory for a Pure Boy, not precisely tainted, but still ground to be walked on gingerly. No Mur. Puzzled now, Geacles returned to the path. Where was Mur? Had he gone into one of the cottages? Geacles licked his lips in horror, trotted along the path toward the cottage of Eathre. He paused to listen: Eathre was entertaining a musician. But where was Mur? Geacles looked this way and that. Surely not in the cottage with his mother and the musician. Geacles walked past, angry and uncomfortable. In some unfathomable manner Mur had evaded him … The music halted, then after a few runs and arpeggios, began again. It seemed to be coming not from the cottage but the garden. Geacles crept close, peered through the foliage … He turned. Fleetly, soundlessly, bounding like a hare, Geacles ran up the hill toward the temple. Eathre, glancing from her window, saw him go.

  Fifteen minutes passed. Down the hill on long point-footed strides came Great Male Osso, followed by two other Chilites, all three red-eyed from their galga-induced spasms. At the back came Geacles. The group marched down into Rhododendron Way.

  At Eathre’s cottage the group halted. The mid-day air was warm; the three suns rolled overhead projecting triple images in the dust of the road. No sound could be heard but the drone of the spiral-bugs in the foliage, and a far thumping from the tannery.

  Standing well back from the door, Osso signaled to a nearby child. “Summon forth the woman Eathre.”

  The child timidly went around to the back of Eathre’s cottage. A moment later the door opened; Eathre looked forth. She stood quietly, passive but alert.

  Great Male Osso demanded, “The Pure Boy Faman Bougozonie — is he here?”

  “He is not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “So I should guess, elsewhere.”

  “He was seen here, not fifteen minutes ago.”

  Eathre had no comment to make. She waited in the doorway.

  Osso spoke in a ponderous voice. “Woman, you would do well not to obstruct us.”

  Eathre smiled faintly. “Where do you see obstruction? Search as you will. The boy is not within; nor has he been, today or any other day since his rite.”

  Geacles darted behind the cottage, where he signaled. The Chilites, clutching their robes to themselves, went to look. Geacles pointed in excitement. “He sat on yonder bench. The woman evades.”

  Osso spoke portentously: “Woman, is this true?”

  “Why should he not sit there? The bench does him no taint.”

  “Are you a keen judge of this? Where is the boy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Osso turned to Geacles. “Try the Pure Boy quarters. Fetch him here.”

  With great zeal Geacles sprang away, arms and legs pumping. He returned in five minutes, grinning and panting like a dog. “He is coming, he comes.”

  Mur stepped slowly forth into the road.

  Osso stood back. Mur, wide-eyed and somewhat pale, asked, “Why did you wish to see me, soul-father?”

  “I call to your attention,” said Osso, “the sorry fact that you came here mother-milking and playing idle music.”

  “With utmost respect, soul-father, you have been misled.”

  “There is the witness!”

  Mur looked toward Geacles. “He has not told the truth.”

  “Did you not sit on this bench, a woman’s thing? Did you not take a musical instrument from this woman’s hand? You are female-foul, and not on good footing.”

  “The bench, soul-father, is from outside the under-temple. Notice, it stands away from the cottage, across the garden boundary. The khitan is my own property and was given me years ago by a man. Before my rite I took it into the temple and passed it through agapanthus smoke; you can still smell the reek. Since then, it has been kept in the play-hut I built with my own hands yonder; there it is now. I am guilty of no defilement whatever.”

  Osso looked blinking up at the sky while he gathered his thoughts. He was being made ridiculous by two Pure Boys. Faman Bougozonie with great cleverness had avoided any act of flagrant defilement, but this very cleverness indicated corruption … Geacles Vonoble, while inaccurate in his assertions, had correctly diagnosed impurity. If anything was certain, it was that Faman Bougozonie’s sophistries should not put truth and orthodoxy to rout. Osso said, “This seems a peculiar retreat for a Pure Boy, the yard behind his mother’s cottage.”

  “It seemed as good as any other, soul-father, and here at least I would disturb no one while I meditated.”

  “‘Meditated’?” croaked Osso. “Playing jigs and kestrels while the other Pure Boys performed their devotions?”

  “No, soul-father; the music helped fix my thoughts, exactly as you recommended.”

  “What? You claim that I recommended such an affair?”

  “Yes, soul-father. You declared that you found the construction of imaginary knots helpful to your austerities, and permitted that I employ musical tones to the same end.”

  Osso stood back. The other two Chilites and Geacles looked at him expectantly. Osso said, “I envisioned different tones, in a different environment. Your conduct stinks of secularity! And woman, what of you? Are you slack-witted? Surely you must know such conduct to be incorrect?”

  “I hoped, Great Male, that the music would assist him in his future life.”

  Osso chuckled. “The mother of Pure Boy Chalres, the mother of Pure Boy Faman. What a pair! You shall spawn no more such prodigies. To the tannery.” Osso swung around, pointed a finger at Mur. “As for you, we shall test the erudition you claim to have achieved.”

  “Soul-father, if you please, I only aspire to erudition!” cried Mur, but Osso already had turned away. Mur looked toward Eathre, who gave him a smiling shrug and went into the cottage. Mur whirled toward Geacles, but the Chilites stood in his way. “To the temple with you; did you not hear your soul-father?”

  Mur marched up the path to the temple. He went to his bay. Geacles followed and went to his own alcove where he sat looking across the room at Mur.

  An hour passed; a chime sounded. The Pure Boys trooped into the refectory. Mur hesitated, and turned a look back over the landscape, across road and cottages and off into the
purple distances.

  Geacles was watching. Mur heaved a sigh, and went down the passage toward the refectory.

  At the entrance stood the Chilite monstrator. He signaled Mur aside. “This way.”

  He led Mur around the temple, to a disused under-chamber. He swung open an old timber door and signaled Mur to enter. Holding high a glow-bulb, the monstrator led the way along a passage rich with the reek of old galga fume, into a large circular chamber, at the very heart of the temple. The limestone walls were dank and gave off the odor of mold; the floor was dark brick. From the ceiling hung a single light-globe. “What is this place?” Mur quavered.

  “It is a place of solitary study, where you will remain prior to your repurification.”

  “‘Repurification’!” cried Mur. “But I am not defiled.”

  “Come, come,” said the monstrator. “Why dissemble? Do you believe you can outwit your soul-father Osso, or myself for that matter? If you did not physically defile yourself, you committed a hundred acts of spiritual defilement.” He waited, but Mur was silent. “Notice,” the monstrator went on, “there are books on the table yonder: Doctrines and Exclamations, an Analytical Catechism. These will give you comfort and wise counsel.”

  Mur scowled around the chamber. “How long must I stay here?”

  “A proper time. In the cabinet is food and drink; to the side is a sump. Now a final word: submit, and all will be well. Do you hear?”

  “Monstrator, I hear.”

  “Life is a choice of paths. Make sure you choose correctly, because you may never return to choose again. Call for Galexis!”

  The monstrator departed into the corridor. Mur looked after him, half of a mind to follow … But he had been brought here to meditate; if he departed, he would incur something worse than repurification.

  He listened. Nothing but the secret murmur of underground places. He went to stand in the gap and peered down the corridor. Surely someone watched. Or an alarm or a trap had been set. If he tried to follow the monstrator he might encounter something unpleasant … “Submit,” the monstrator had told him. “Submit and all will be well.”

  Submission might well be the wisest course.

  Soberly Mur turned away from the opening. He went to look at the table and seating himself examined the books. The Doctrines were hand-printed in purple ink on alternate sheets of red and green paper; they were inordinately difficult to read and contained many strange expressions. Nonetheless, thought Mur, it would be wise to study them carefully. The Exclamations, to be uttered during nocturnal worship, were not quite so important, adding only elegance, as they did, to the spasms.

  Mur recalled that he had eaten no lunch, and jumping up went to the cabinet. He found a dozen packets of dried berries: enough to nourish him for as many days, or even longer, were he frugal, as common sense dictated. Three dark green glass jugs held ample water. There was no cot or couch; he must sleep on the bench. He returned to the table, took up the Analytical Catechism, and began to read:

  Q:

  How long have Chilites known Galexis?

  A:

  Four thousand years ago the Great System was initiated by Hakcil, who was prompted to the use of galga by an overbearing and malodorous spouse.

  Q:

  How many guises does Galexis assume?

  A:

  Galexis is as protean as the face of the ocean, and is at once singular to each and universal to all.

  Q:

  Where was Galexis before the Chilites discovered the sacred herb?

  A:

  Galexis, sempiternal and immanent, has given umbral revelation to men of all eras, but only the Chilites, by performing the Absolute Dichotomy, have made Galexis real.

  Q:

  What is the Absolute Dichotomy?

  A:

  It is that act of perception which on designating Corporeal Female as dross and taint, celebrates the Beatitude of Galexis.

  Q:

  What is the purpose of the Holy Receptacle?

  A:

  In the dueness of time, a Perfection will be yielded: the fruit of Galexis and the males.

  Q:

  What will be Perfection’s Role and Destiny?

  A:

  He shall take news of Galexis across the worlds. Where he walks the females shall cry woe …

  Mur put down the Catechism, which he found unutterably boring. He noticed marks on the table: dozens of marks. Names carved into the wood, some worn by time, others comparatively fresh … What was this one? ‘Chalres Gargamet’ … Something cold gripped the pit of Mur’s stomach. Here they had brought Chalres. How had he died? Mur rose slowly to his feet. He stared around him. Were there other entrances? He made a circuit of the room, testing the damp limestone, which everywhere seemed solid. He slowly returned to the table, to stand under the lamp. His skin crawled as he considered the bleak shape of his future. The repurification rite might well be more rigorous than the original rite … The open door held a horrible fascination. It indicated the way to the outdoors, where Mur dearly longed to be; on the other hand it threatened a terrible penalty. He thought of Chalres, dead, broken, face down in the tannery sump …

  Desolation seeped over Mur’s spirit. The light cast a weird glare illuminating the pitiful scratchings on the table. He must submit.

  Time passed: an hour. Mur listlessly chanted passages from the Catechism, words without meaning. He studied the Doctrine: Hakcil’s Original Elucidations. The volume was old, dog-eared, a fixture of the chamber. Mold had blurred the writing; the pages adhered to each other. The purple characters blurred into the red and green pages. Mur put down the book and studied the doorway: so appealing and so baleful. He speculated. Suppose he were to run down the passage, so swiftly that his feet skimmed the ground: he might gain the open air by sheer audacity. No. It would not be done so easily. By some means, he would be trapped. The timber door might be locked. For his insubordination he would meet Chalres’ fate. This was the Chilite way. If he made ignoble and utter submission, abasing himself before soul-father Osso, with fervent declarations of purity and disavowals of all and any mother-milking, past, present and future, he could preserve his status as a Pure Boy.

  Mur licked his lips. It was better than the sump. He bent over the Doctrine, committing whole paragraphs to memory, working till his head swam and his eyes smarted. On the fourth page mold obscured the characters, across fully half a page; the fifth and sixth pages were likewise blotched. Mur peered at the pages in dismay. How could he learn the Elucidations when they were illegible? Osso would never accept any such glib excuse. “Why were you not prepared with your own copy of Hakcil? When I was a Pure Boy, it was my constant companion!” Or “These pages are elementary: you should have known them long ago.” On the other hand, reflected Mur, the marred volume offered a valid pretext for him to try the corridor. If someone were on guard, he could display the illegible pages and ask for an ‘Elucidations’ in better condition … Mur half-rose to his feet. The corridor showed as a sinister dark rectangle.

  Mur sat down once more. The time must be well into the night; no Chilite would be standing on guard, certainly! Nor any Pure Boy. Might there be an alarm of some sort? Mur thought the prospect unlikely. The Chilites would not care to be disturbed at their spasms.

  The outer door had not been locked; perhaps the corridor was open! Mur licked his lips. More likely the passage held its own protection: a pit-fall, a snare, a booby-trap. A net or a cage might drop to imprison him. The way might be altered to lead into a cul-de-sac or a return loop with sand or mud on the floor, to trace his prowling. Or the passage might lead to a brink, and send him tumbling to his death.

  Mur glanced furtively sidelong at the dark portal, which now seemed to have secret eyes of its own. He sighed and returned to the mildewed books. But he could not concentrate; absently, with a stone chip, he scratched his name on the table-top with the others: in sad consternation he saw that he had carved ‘Gastel Etzwane’. Another evidence of contuma
cy, should anyone see. He raised his hand to scratch it out but in sudden anger threw the stone chip into the corner. He glared defiantly at the name. This was himself; he was Gastel Etzwane; they could kill him a thousand times before he’d become anyone else! His small flare-up of defiance waned. The facts were as before. He must remain here in the study chamber an unknown period, then face repurification. Or, despite the cold crawling up and down his back, he could test the passage.

  Slowly, he rose to his feet and crossed the room, one furtive step at a time. He looked down the passage as far as the overhead bulb cast a glimmer — ten or fifteen feet. He looked back up at the bulb; it hung ten feet over his head. He stood the bench on the table, and climbed up; the bulb still hung three feet out of reach. Mur descended to the floor, awkward and lumpish as an old man; once more he went to look into the dark passage. Beyond all reasonable doubt it was locked off — or it held a trap … Mur tried to remember the way of the passage. As the monstrator walked ahead, he had held his light-bulb high, revealing a vaulted ceiling of dank stone. Mur had seen neither cages nor dangling nets, though these might easily have been arranged after his passage. The trip in such a case must be a thread across the corridor, or perhaps an electrical contact, though the Chilites had small electrical expertise, and in fact distrusted both electricity and biomechanisms. The trap, if it existed, would be simple, and more than likely activated by a trip close to the floor.

  Mur’s heart rose up in his mouth as he contemplated the dark tunnel. It was the most important moment of his life. As Faman Bougozonie he could remain at the table to study Catechism and the incomplete Elucidations; he could become a fervent Chilite. As Gastel Etzwane he could grope along the passageway and hope to reach the open night.

  Chalres’ pitiful soiled body rose up in front of his eyes. Mur made a thin high-pitched sound of desperation. He had another vision: the face of his soul-father Osso: the high receding forehead with hair clinging in sparse locks, the intent red-rimmed eyes carefully scrutinizing. Mur gave another thin whimper; dropping to his hands and knees he crept into the dark.