Tales of Nevèrÿon

by Samuel R. Delany

  ‘And the animals and insects crawled or flitted away into the woods and the mountains; and the fish and swimming beasts slithered away in the water; and the birds and butterflies flew off through the air. And the fruit rotted on the trees and fell, uneaten, to the ground.

  ‘Then god came unto this desolate field that had once been a rich and lovely orchard. And she said: “Where are Jevim and Eif’h, whom I placed in my world to adore me and to praise the act?”

  ‘And Jevim and Eif’h stood and said: “We are here, god. We are praising the act in its purest form, the one and the many, the sun’s fire and the stars’ light.”

  ‘And god said: “I hear no harmony, only a single melody, sung by two voices, the one prideful in its pretention, the other shameful in its knowledge of sin. Know that I am angry. And I shall punish you, for you have not praised me in the diversity of my works. Eif’h, I shall punish you, unless any of my other creatures can speak for you and say that, during this day and night, you have praised me with and within diversity.”

  ‘And there was no answer among the beasts, birds, fish, and insects. And god said: “Eagle, you are a privileged beast. Can you not say anything for Eif’h?”

  ‘And the Eagle bowed her head and said: “I cannot say anything for Eif’h.”

  ‘So god pulled two trees from the ground, one of lithe, live green wood and one of hard, near-dry wood, and she struck Eif’h across the loins; and across the breasts; and across the face. And she beat Eif’h with the trunks of those two trees. And Eif’h screamed and cowered and clutched at herself and called for mercy; but god beat her bloody about the face and breasts and loins. And where god beat her on the face, coarse hairs sprouted; and where god beat her on the throat, her voice roughened and went deep; and where god beat her about the breasts, the very flesh and organs were torn away so that she could no longer suckle her daughters; and where god beat her about the groin, her womb was broken and collapsed on itself, and rags of flesh fell, dangling, from her loins, so that when they healed, her womb was forever sealed and useless, and the rags of flesh hanging between her legs were forever sore and sensitive, so that Eif’h was forever touching and ministering to them, whereupon they would leak their infectious pus.

  ‘Then god said: “Eif’h, I have beaten you until you are no longer a woman. For you can no longer bear, nor any longer suckle. You have praised neither me nor the act well.” And so Eif’h bowed her hairy face and covered her poor, ropey genitals, and was called no longer woman, but ’man, which means broken woman. And she was called no longer she, but ’he, as a mark of her pretention, ignorance and shame.

  ‘Then god said: “Jevim, I must punish you.”

  ‘And Jevim stood with her head bowed before her god, for she too knew shame in that she had not praised the difference and the diversity of god by which the act is manifest.

  ‘And god said, “Jevim, I shall punish you, unless any of my other creatures can speak for you and say that, during this day and night, you have praised me with and within diversity.”

  ‘And there was no answer among the beasts, birds, fish, and insects. And so god raised her two trees and struck Jevim across the groin: and she drew blood, as the daughters of Jevim have bled, every month, ever since. But here Jevim fell to her knees and cried out: “God, your blows are just and right, but will you not ask your privileged beasts if they can speak for me, as you asked them for Eif’h?”

  ‘And god halted her blows and said: “Worm, you are a privileged beast. Can you say anything for Jevim?”

  ‘And the worm raised her head and hissed: “Only that when Jevim first joined with Eif’h, she tasted an apple in order to praise you in your diversity.”

  ‘And god’s anger against Jevim abated. And she said: “Go, Jevim, and Eif’h,” which, in my language, means both “Jevim’s companion” and “Jevim’s shame” – “go woman and ’man, and roam the earth, the hills, the forests, and the seas. Go in shame for your misprision. Cherish one another and console one another and make one tribe: and praise me as I am to be praised, both as the one and as the many. But know you both that to praise the sun as the purest manifestation of the act – either as the one or the many – is to praise cold ashes for the heat given by a roaring fire in winter, for such is the sun to the act within the womb of god. And know you both that to praise the stars as the purest manifestation of the act – either as the one or the many – is to praise the dried pits of cherries in autumn for the sweetness, richness, and healthfulness of the apple, the pear, and the peach in spring, for such are the stars to the act within the womb of god. Know you both that the act is more than and other than any of these. Praise the sun’s warmth on the water in summer and the cold frost on the stones in winter and the difference between them, and you will praise the act, for the act may only be praised through difference. Praise the dry seeds of the pomegranate and the stars scattered on the night and the difference between them, and you will praise the act, for the act may only be praised through diversity. Praise the dark hard rock and the soft red fruit and the difference between them, and you will praise the act, for the act may only be praised through distinction.”

  ‘And Jevim went out into the world, a contrite and wiser woman, to adore her god and praise the act as she had been bid. And Eif’h went after her, a contrite and wiser ’man, to assist her in adoration and praise. And they cherished and consoled one another and made one tribe. And again the daughters of Jevim and Eif’h prospered and praised among the works of god in her diversity. And that is the tale of our world’s making.’ Raven folded her arms.

  In the silence, one sailor snatched two fish from the grill. Glancing about, another placed down two more.

  ‘So, now, Heathen Woman –’ Raven laughed – ‘I have told you the tale of how god made the world, and its works, and women and ’men.’

  ‘It’s certainly a good story,’ Norema said.

  Bayle, watching them, had felt a tightening in his belly that had begun at the flaying of Eif’h; the tale’s sense of attack had centered in a knot of muscle just behind his testicles.

  ‘But mark my word, woman,’ Raven went on, ‘the ’men in this strange and terrible land will try to take even this tale and turn it to their own, distorted purposes, be it Eif’h’s name or Jevim’s apple, or the privileged beasts themselves – even as Eif’h once turned the eagle and the worm to her purpose. For truly, ’men are the same all over, whether in your land or mine, however different the customs of each.’ She looked around. ‘Well, the rest of you ’men, the pretty ones and the not so pretty, have you overheard the tale you wished to hear? Come, which one of you will serve me some fish, for we are all daughters of Jevim and Eif’h, are we not?’

  One sailor laughed; then another. (Bayle thought it an uncomfortable and embarrassed laugh.) Someone handed a roasted fish up to Raven; moments later, other fish went to Norema and Bayle; and the sailors’ attention had moved to some other sailor’s tale.

  At one point, Bayle, standing at Norema’s shoulder, greasy fingers picking at a comb of fishbones, said: ‘What a strange tale that woman told. It made me very uncomfortable.’

  Norema turned to him sharply. ‘It was awful!’ she whispered. ‘It made my flesh crawl.’ Her face, in the quarter-light from the lantern, became for a moment shockingly ugly.

  In his surprise, Bayle realized his own discomfort was now all mental: somehow the tenseness the tale had produced in him had settled his whole insides, and all the ghosts of incipient seasickness, plaguing him since they had launched, had mysteriously, if not magically, vanished – as though the tale had been a healing spell!

  The spring night turned chill, and naked sailors sat or strolled the deck as though there had been no drop in temperature. And however awful Norema thought Raven’s tale, Bayle, as he joked and grew more easy with the sailors, saw she certainly spent more time talking with the Western woman than with him. ‘But what must a story like that do to your men?’ Bayle overheard Norema ask. ‘Making
god a woman, making men into broken women, it seems as if it tries to cut them down at every turn.’

  ‘But there are no ’men in the story,’ Raven said. ‘Except Eif’h. And besides, it is only a story. I like it – it is a good story for me. As for ’men – well, it explains to ’men why they are weak and ignorant, instead of setting up for them – as so many of the tales do in this strange and terrible land – impossible goals that no ‘man could rise to and which must make all your ’men feel guilty when they fail. Believe me, our ’men are much happier with our stories than your ’men are with yours. But then, our way is the natural way ordained by god herself, whereas I have no idea whose set of social accidents and economic anomalies have contoured the ways of your odd and awkward land.’

  ‘I can’t believe that your men are happier,’ Norema said.

  ‘But it is true,’ said Raven. ‘The story of Eif’h is very healing and healthful and reassuring for men. It teaches them their place in society and why they have it. It helps soothe the wounds god has inflicted them with.’ And Bayle, uneasily, remembered his own strangely alleviated seasickness and went off to wander among the other sailors. Their comments and jokes about the Western woman’s odd cosmogony were, anyway, not the sort you’d want women present for. Late in the darkness (it was perhaps eight o’clock), when all were exhausted, Bayle found the masked woman standing beside him. She put her hand on his shoulder and (surprising him) whispered: ‘So, not only are we all going to Garth, but we are all going to see Lord Aldamir. My island friend, there –’ she nodded toward Norema – ‘has at last figured out that you and she are in competition.’ Raven laughed, again and too loudly. ‘Well I’m glad I’m not. Do you want my cabin for the night, pretty man? I’m going to sleep on deck in a blanket. Oh, don’t worry, I shall not set on you in the night and besmirch your honor. But you have a berth on this ship with a space only half again the size of some eastern coffin and no doubt less than half as comfortable, whereas I have the royal favor of Krodar, of whom you have probably never heard, and would spend my night in the clear air. Come, I’ll show you …

  The lantern high in the companionway stained the boards an oily gold. ‘There,’ said the masked woman (whose breath, next to him, smelled of fish and fennel stalks – which the sailors had passed around to chew): she pushed open a door.

  The dozen clay lamps suspended from the ceiling beams by myriad brass chains glimmered through a cabin half again the size of Norema’s. Mumbling thanks, the potter’s boy stepped within: and, when the door had been closed behind him for three minutes, went running out to retrieve his bundle from the forepeak locker. He returned with the strap in his hand and the bundle banging from ankle to ankle. Inside again, he found two of the beds too soft (this cabin had three beds!), the other too lumpy; finally he unrolled his blankets and slept on the floor, wedged into the corner, as he would have were he sleeping in the storage loft at Old Zwon’s; as he would have were he sleeping in the forepeak locker; as he would have were he sleeping in the room with his brothers and sisters at home. Somehow, though, he was aware that this floor, that to be wedged into this corner, was luxury – which made him as uncomfortable, in its way, as the masked woman’s tale.

  3

  Three days later, standing at the rail in indigo dawn, Bayle watched the first mate walk away. The mate had just delivered a message from the Captain, apologizing that he would not see them before they docked, less than an hour hence. Bayle turned to watch the drifting mists along the shore and thought: In three days we have eaten with this Captain four times, talked with him about navigation, his three families, his collection of miniature clay idols, and have all decided he is a deep and impressive, if somewhat absentminded, man. Yet, save I take this same ship returning, I may never see him again. Strange are the ways of travel.

  Beyond mists, trees fell away with coming light. On the hills, cuprous ribbons slashed the slopes; rocky scarps rose toward jungle. The boat’s shadow shook on the water. Bayle had just made out where, in that dim green, his own shadow was (head, bunched shoulders, arm jackknifed on the rail), when another shadow joined his.

  ‘Well,’ said Raven, ‘your little competitor –’ for in three days it had finally come out in ways restrained and civilized, which, while they had taken much energy and concern from both boy and woman, would also not make fit subject for a tale of civilization’s economic origins, that Bayle and Norema were truly economic antagonists. ‘She is very worried about your feelings for her,’ Raven went on, for Bayle’s feelings were clearly a combination of sexual attraction and social resentment over a business situation in which he thought right was on his side. After all, his master was a poor potter whom Lord Aldamir had petitioned for a franchise. Norema’s mistress was a rich merchant who had chosen, just now, to petition Lord Aldamir for the same franchise.

  ‘Ah-ha!’ Bayle laughed. ‘She probably lusts after me and feels guilty at the same time that she must still fight with me over money,’ for these were barbaric times and certain distinctions between self and other had not yet become common.

  Raven’s masked smile, as she turned to watch the shore, suggested a more barbaric interpretation. Behind them, a sail collapsed; ropes ran on squealing pulleys; another sail clapped full. The boat turned, gently and inexorably, around a land spit which revealed – after six breaths – the dock.

  Dawn activity in this southern port was minimal. As the hull heaved against sagging pilings, Bayle saw that what life there was on the boards centered in one corner. (‘All right, men, catch those ropes,’ shouted the first mate, standing at the far rail beside a sailor playing out a hawser.) On the dock the few dockworkers scurried away from a short woman wearing a green shift and a complex coiffure of thin, black braids. The heavy man beside her, from the satchels around his shoulders, was apparently her servant.

  Brown men hauled in ropes. A hump-back with a gaff hooked in some hempen loop on the hull and was nearly tugged off his feet till three men joined him and together they hauled the boat back in.

  Bayle glanced around at the deck to see Norema walking up among sailors. Somewhere, wooden wheels on a log crane lifted a gangplank then lowered it; the wooden lip caught behind the deckgate. The boat listed, rose.

  ‘My cartons,’ Norema said, stepping over Bayle’s bag (it was wedged against the lower-rail). ‘I suppose they’ll get them all off.’

  Raven grinned below her mask.

  The woman on the dock folded her hands and looked long and seriously the length of the railing till she apparently saw the passenger trio: her hands came apart, and she lifted her chin, smiling.

  Bayle, bewildered but smiling back, waved, as the woman, followed by her turbaned servant, strode to the gangplank’s foot, from where she beckoned them down.

  Norema (following a sailor whom the mate had peremptorily ordered to take her crates) and Bayle (wondering whether Raven might not choose that moment to prick him jokingly from behind with her two-pronged blade) came down the limber plank.

  ‘Well,’ said the woman, her hands folded again on the lap of her dress, ‘you must be the party Lord Aldamir is expecting. So pleased. His Lordship detailed me to come along, meet you and make excuses for his absence. But, then, I know you’ll understand.’ Her hand went out to Norema, who tentatively extended her own to take it.

  ‘Actually,’ Norema said, with a composure Bayle by now knew masked rank embarrassment, ‘I don’t think his Lordship was expecting me …’ She glanced at Bayle, even moved back a little for him (and Bayle felt a sudden surge of embarrassment at the prospect of stepping forward). ‘It’s Bayle, I think. Bayle’s the one who has corresponded with Lord Aldamir.’

  Bayle quickly dropped his bag and wiped his hand against his hip (breakfast had been fruit and fish, eaten with the sailors and no utensils; he had not yet thought to wash). ‘Yes,’ he said, shaking the old woman’s hand. ‘Lord Aldamir sent us a message when I was back in –’ He stepped from the plank’s end.

  From somewhere
behind and further up than he would have expected, came Raven’s bark: ‘His Lordship is certainly not expecting me!’

  ‘But I am sure he is!’ insisted the woman, ‘Lord Aldamir expects everyone. Now there, my dear.’ She released Bayle’s hand to take Norema’s again and pat it. ‘You must be the secretary of my old girlhood friend from Sallese, Madame Keyne. Am I right?’

  ‘Why, yes …?’ Norema actually stammered.

  ‘And Lord Krodar has apprised me of your coming … ’

  The woman bowed a little toward the masked Raven, who sauntered down the ribbed boards. (This rather astonished Bayle, who had, by now, decided the woman was noble, whereas Raven still seemed some barbaric, or near barbaric, ruffian.) ‘I’m Myrgot,’ the woman added matter of factly like someone either used to being known about before being met, or who simply did not care whether she was known or not. ‘Allow me to make up for his Lordship’s inconveniencing you by seeing you to the Vygernangx monastery.’ To her servant: ‘Jahor?’ who turned and shouted an order off the dock. A large wagon, pulled by three oxen, rolled out on the dock’s creaking boards. The driver, blond, barefoot, and bandanaed about the neck, leaped from the seat and started hoisting up Norema’s crates and carrier bags. Bayle stepped back as his own strapped roll was heaved up; then the driver was off haranguing sailors (obviously a practiced hand at receiving tourists) to make sure the ladies’ and gentleman’s luggage was all accounted for.