Hair Peace

by Piers Anthony

  Sometimes she really had to focus on keeping her feet on the ground, because she was trying to come across as a regular garden-variety girl. She had seen from the reaction of strangers to the Hair Suits how distorted things could get when their special powers were too openly displayed. Her classmates knew that she had a connection, but did not know that she had herself become a supernatural creature. They were, of course, watching her; any slip, such as literally flying, would ruin her partial anonymity.

  Regardless, she had new interests to indulge, such as ancient poets. Wordsworth had lived from 1770 to 1850—memorization of such dates now came easily to her—had loved a French woman, but lost her when England and France went to war, separating them, and he was poor. Idola related to that, though her family was not poor—not wealthy, but not poor—and she was not separated from her boyfriend. Not by a war or an ocean, at any rate; just by ordinary routine, such as school. She could handle that. The poet was concerned about the French Revolution and the rise of Napoleon, which happened on his watch. She had studied France in another class, so related to that too. He was actually there! So she approached Wordsworth with a recently-opened mind.

  All she had to do was select a poem and discuss it knowledgeably in class. In older days, circa last year, she would have picked one of the shortest items in the book, such as maybe “She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways,” only twelve lines long. It was about a girl few folk knew or loved, concluding, “She lived unknown, and few could know/ When Lucy ceased to be;/ But she is in her grave, and, oh,/ The difference to me!” That got to her; she could have been that girl, who maybe died, she thought, unloved, then was mourned too late. By maybe someone famous like Wordsworth. What a grand way to expire!

  But that was then. Now she was a Chip Monk, with enormously broadened horizons. Now she meant to tackle the most challenging poem, “ODE: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood.” Just the title was a challenge! Her problem was not in understanding it herself, but finding a way to describe it to the ordinary children of her class so that they could understand it, when it was frankly well beyond the sixth-grade level.

  She was trying her best to continue seeming average, as her classmates did not know of her transformation. Her teacher did, but Mom had had a talk with her that ensured her silence. Mom was good at that sort of thing, buttressing her argument with subtle but persuasive telepathy.

  That meant describing the essence of the poem in language anyone could understand. Part of its thesis was that babies came to the mortal world with a suggestion of that immortal realm from which they had just departed. Not that Wordsworth had believed that; he was just invoking the popular mythos for his art. “Not in entire forgetfulness,/ And not in utter nakedness,/ But trailing clouds of glory do we come/ From God, who is our home:/ Heaven lies about us in our infancy!”

  Beautiful! But the children were all too likely to take it literally, titter at the nakedness, and look for little clouds; serious allegory was beyond them. Maybe a more concise statement, farther along in the poem: “O joy! That in our embers/ Is something that doth live,/ That nature yet remembers/ What was so fugitive!” But would they understand that this too was figurative; there were no hot embers in anyone’s pants? She did not trust them.

  Maybe this: “Though nothing can bring back the hour/ Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower.” But the naughty boys would claim the splendor was a naked woman sunbathing there. Boys were like that. Actually it referred to the blooming of the flower in the grassy field, like the one before her, showing its splendor, its glory, only for an hour or a day before fading, never to be recovered. That was the tragedy of life, that dullness governed except for brilliant moments, and folk just had to make do with what remained. “We will grieve not. Rather find/ Strength in what remains behind.” Such as the ordinary plants that produced the flowers in their moments of splendor.

  She gazed out across the field of flowers, mourning those that had faded yesterday. What a marvel each one was, yet most of them would die unnoticed and unmourned. Never again would she see a flower without being reminded of its mortality, thanks to the poet’s insight.

  Then Idola became aware that she was not alone. There was something at the edge of the field, her clairvoyance told her, but she couldn’t identify it. It seemed invisible. For that, she would need help. Maybe Aunt Quiti, with her Hair Suit telepathy, could clarify it. Idola remained still, so as not to reveal that she had caught on to the presence in the field, knowing it was no ordinary weed, and set her mind on Contact.

  I am here, Quiti thought. I will read its mind, if it has a mind.

  Quiti merged her telepathy with Idola’s clairvoyance; so that it was as if the two of them were a single entity, their mind ranging out across the field, searching out the mystery. They had learned to do that, because they were friends and trusted each other, and because their merged powers were greater than their separate ones. Thus Idola could become telepathic, temporarily, while Quiti became clairvoyant. Right now that really helped.

  They located the oddity; it remained obscure. But Quiti’s knowledge was a significant advantage. That’s no regular creature. That’s galactic.

  Galactic!

  I recognize the traces. Not a species we have encountered before, however, but definitely from a foreign system.

  I knew there was something about it, Idola thought. What’s it doing here?

  That’s the sixty four million dollar question. Quiti continued to focus, studying the alien. It’s a child.

  A child!

  A lost child. A little boy.

  That changed things. Maybe trailing clouds of glory, Idola thought, with a background of canned laughter.

  We have to help it. For Quiti had a motherly streak, for all that she had not yet birthed her own children.

  Idola was glad to agree. How?

  There was the question. See if we can summon him here.

  “Maybe—” Idola said hesitantly, returning to physical speech so as to use a parallel mode of communication.

  “Out with it, girl. Don’t make me read your mind.”

  That was the idea. “I have the clairvoyance, so I know where he is. But I can’t actually see him. He’s definitely alien.”

  “But maybe if you can send him a come here directive—”

  “I tried,” Idola thought. “But he’s afraid of me.”

  “Yes. He’s a child. Maybe his mother warned him not to trust strangers.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So we need something else,” Quiti said.

  “But he might trust another mother.”

  “That’s crazy!”

  “I do get some crazy notions,” Idola agreed. “But if one thing doesn’t work, maybe another will.”

  Quiti sighed. Then she focused. Alien child. I am someone’s mother. Respond to me.

  Idola knew that while Quiti had never birthed a baby, she did have a son: twelve-year-old Tillo, a Hair Suit she and handsome Roque had adopted so he could have a family. That had led to marvelous things, such as Tillo meeting Idola, who was well familiar with the adoption process, who had promptly adopted him as her boyfriend. As a result of that association, Idola had later become a Chip Monk, with powers of her own, and they made a marvelous couple. It was bound to become more impressive once they became hot blooded teens. So Quiti did have the authority of the mother office.

  And the alien child did respond. I sense you. Not hear or see or feel, because the alien might not have those senses, but a mind contact was sensing. Definite progress.

  “Well, screw me into a socket and turn on the power,” Quiti muttered. “It’s working!”

  “You’re so smart,” Idola said.

  “Cut the crap, girl. It was your idea.”

  It was good-natured humor, because they were both geniuses, thanks to their alien associations. Fortunately, they really liked each other. Quiti was in many respects the woman Idola wanted to become.

  Then Qu
iti focused again, while Idola tuned in. Alien child, what is your name?

  Name?

  The thing that identifies you as an individual. What does your mother call you?

  The answer was a conflux of magnetic currents.

  Idola smiled. The kid was after all an alien creature.

  “Maybe we can give him a name, for our use,” Idola suggested.

  “Another crazy yet practical notion. Pick a name.”

  Idola was at a momentary loss, something that seldom happened to her. “Maybe if we could at least see him.”

  Child, show yourself.

  There was a hesitation. Then something vaguely resembling a new plant appeared among the flowers. It was like a stick figure, a metallic column with a single wheel at the base and a cluster of wire loops at the top, forming a figure rather like, yes, an alien flower.

  “Flower,” Idola said promptly.

  We will name you Flower, Quiti thought to the alien child. You will answer to that name, at least while you are on our planet.

  Flower, the child agreed obediently.

  Flower, come here.

  And, slowly, the sunflower stalk moved toward them, fading in and out as it progressed, as if not quite certain of its orientation.

  “Maybe he’s not well,” Idola said, concerned.

  Flower, are you ill? Quiti asked with proper motherly sympathy.

  No. Just lost.

  But you are fading.

  It is hard to maintain the image when I’m strange.

  “He means he feels strange on this strange world,” Idola said.

  Of course it is hard, Quiti agreed supportively. Where is your mother?

  I don’t know! Flower wailed mentally. He was now directly in front of them.

  How did you get here without her?

  I followed a worm hole, but I forgot to plant a locale, and now I’m lost. He dissolved into mental tears.

  “A worm hole,” Idola said. They knew about worm holes; they gave easy access to the rest of the universe. “Anyone could get lost.”

  I am a Hair Suit, Quiti thought, her six-foot tresses flaring like a whirled cape. Do you know of our kind, Flower? We’re Galactics.

  Yes, he agreed faintly.

  And my companion is a Chip Monk. Do you know of them?

  Yes.

  So you know we’re real people, not savages.

  Yes. That is why I sought you. I thought you might help me.

  “That explains why he came to me,” Idola said, pleased. “He recognized my galactic aura.”

  I am going to hug you, Flower. Remember, I’m a mother.

  She did not do it physically, but mentally. Her essence, imbued with reassurance, reached out and enclosed the child.

  And it worked. Flower settled down, comforted, no longer tearful. He was at this point more child than alien.

  Now they were able to get more of the story. Flower’s folk were the Ghobots, or Ghost Robots, not held in high regard by other galactics, but generally tolerated. Neither Quiti’s Hairs nor Idola’s Chips knew of them specifically, but that did not mean they were not legitimate. They traveled around, entertaining the natives of many cultures, generally well received at first. Then, too often, the sentiment turned against them. They had been expelled from their last planet, and were now looking for a new one. Flower had happily joined the search, thinking it a kind of game, and had spied a promising world beyond a worm hole. He had zipped to it, but forgotten to plant his locale, which was marking a spot, rather like blazing a trail. Without that marker, he could not return; he was lost. His mother had, of course, told him repeatedly, always to mark his place, but he was young and made mistakes.

  Your mother must be frantic! Quiti thought.

  Yes. I’m a bad boy.

  Not bad. Just foolish.

  Foolish, he agreed, accepting her adult decision.

  But there was something else. Idola felt it, and knew that Quiti felt it, too. It was not that the boy was trying to deceive them: he lacked the guile. But something was not completely right about this situation. For one thing, why were the Ghobots first welcomed to a new planet, then rejected? Was there something about them that the natives learned that changed their minds? Why not just talk with them, to negotiate terms of residence and correct the problems? Flower clearly didn’t know, but it had to be important.

  “We need to know more, before we act,” Quiti said. “Suppose you babysit Flower while I go inquire.”

  “Inquire?”

  “I mean to ask the Sorceress. She should know.”

  “Ah. Of course,” Idola agreed. She was familiar with her from their first fantasy adventure, entertaining a galactic audience. The sorceress had been just another actress, but Quiti’s later association with her had increased her respect enormously, and she now thought of her as capitalized. It had become a title rather than merely a role.

  Chapter 3: Sorceress

  Quiti used the miniature wormholes route they had learned from the Chips; these had become familiar in the course of their galactic entertainments. They were essentially cracks in the fabric of the universe that bypassed the normal rules of space travel. Space-time might be considered a huge quilt, endlessly convoluted, folded in on itself, whose flea-like occupants were limited to the decorated surface and were not even aware of its considerable curvature. The cracks thus could connect close spots that seemed impossibly far apart to the fleas. To them, such travel seemed almost magical.

  Wormholes ranged in size from stellar to microscopic. The big ones could swallow stars and belch them out in other galaxies. The micros could transport single atoms to quantum obscurities. In between were the traveling ones that could accommodate human-sized folk, transporting them instantly to their termini, where other holes were available for further jumps. They were extremely handy for space travel because they could cover light years in instants.

  With certain cautions: living creatures were unable to use them, because any live creature that entered a wormhole emerged at the other end dead. They could be used to ship inanimate objects, but the fabric of wormholes was so convoluted that it was impossible to be sure that a given delivery would arrive in the right place. So their preferred use was for messages, though these too had their problems. They could arrive garbled or subtly changed. The Chip Monks had a natural affinity for wormholes and could use them to travel astrally, transporting their conscious spirits but not their bodies. So, in the end, the Hair Suits like Quiti had learned to use their telepathy to fathom the correct wormholes, the ones that went where folk wanted to go, rather than into chaos and limbo. With conscious selection and steering, it was like physical traveling, only without the body.

  Quiti parked her physical body, then entered a wormhole and steered her spirit to the planet and abode of the Sorceress, who was actually a sapient alien ribbon fish and galactic actress. She wasn’t actually a sorceress; that was merely the role she had played during their first encounter, and she kept the form for Quiti’s convenience. How a creature resembling a deep sea snake had achieved human-level intelligence Quiti had no idea; but the Sorceress was herself bemused by the manner a creature resembling a monkey perched on two feet on land had achieved similar status. They had met while playing roles in an animated fantasy adventure, and soon become friends. The Sorceress admired Quiti’s youthful vigor, and Quiti admired her friend’s experience and wisdom.

  The trail led to the watery planet, then to a particular sea, and finally to a coral-like overhang that was the Sorceress’s abode. Quiti emerged in the salty water and assumed the form of—a ribbon fish. “Sorceress!” she called via lateral line pulses. “Are you available?”

  “Quiti!” the Sorceress replied as she assumed the form of a human woman. “It is so nice to see you again.”

  The two faced each other. Quiti made a twisting serpentine wriggle, and the Sorceress formed a facial smile. They enjoyed emulating each other to the extent feasible, though neither form was physical; both were astral proje
ctions.

  “I have a problem,” Quiti said.

  “I regret I am unable to eliminate your land monkey nature. You are cursed with it as long as you live.”

  Quiti laughed. “Not that problem. It’s that we have encountered a lost galactic child we think we should help and we need more information.”

  “Ah. Tell me more.”

  “He’s actually quite sweet, but there’s something missing from what he is able to tell us. There’s a mystery that makes me wary. That’s why I came to you for advice. You have Galactic experience.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “It is what we call a Ghobot. That is, a ghostly robot.”

  The Sorceress smiled, knowing this was a form of nonsense. “Form a picture.”

  Quiti projected an image of Flower.

  “That is a /}]+^!” the Sorceress exclaimed, the word cryptic because Quiti’s alphabet lacked any equivalent sounds.

  “We call him Flower, because he vaguely resembles, well, a sunflower with a wheel at the base of his stalk.”

  “That will do. I am checking my Wormpedia. This may be an unfortunate encounter.”

  Quiti was alarmed. “Is that species dangerous?”

  “Not exactly. But there’s a fair prospect of this association becoming awkward to the point of danger, to you and the child alike.”

  “Flower certainly seems harmless.”

  The Sorceress pondered. “How shall I phrase this? Do you have peoples who are discriminated against by others? Even oppressed without proper reason?”

  “You mean like the Jews or Gypsies?”

  “Perhaps. Tell me more about them.”

  “Well, the Jews were the source of two of the greatest other religions on Earth, the Christians and the Muslims, yet they are widely distrusted for reasons that generally turn out to be false. The Gypsies have been treated similarly. In fact the Nazis—”