Fish Tails

  Since the child seemed accepting of this idea, Grandma went on: “All the menfolk went away for a hunt a number of years ago, and there was a stranger man around. I think he’s your real . . . I don’t want to say Pa. Any man who can willy-­wag is called Pa around here, and every jackrabbit can breed, so the title’s meaningless. One of my uncles told me of a place north of Wellsport where they raise fine horses. When time comes to breed the mares, they’re bred to the finest stallion they have, because his get will be better than others. Better for the mare, too, so she can take pride!”

  “Mares take pride? Grandma!”

  “My uncle swore to me they do! And the man who came to live here the summer you were conceived, he was like that fine stallion. That man was a chosen sire, one you’d be proud to claim descent from. He was like the fathers of my children, maybe even more so. If you hadn’t been born, I’d have stayed where I went when Gralf first came into this house, but you were different. So I came back to keep you safe.”

  “Why didn’t you just take me with you, Grandma? Hmm?”

  Grandma frowned at her boots, shook her head. “I don’t know, and that troubles me. I grew up believing my life had a purpose. I was told so, several times, and though I don’t know where the idea came from, I believed it. The things that have happened to me, the children I’ve borne, were purposeful. I thought the same about you, that you were here for a purpose. My raising you here might have been that purpose. Something just told me not to do anything drastic, to wait for it. Wait for something to happen. I don’t know what. Just something.”

  Needly stared, all kinds of ideas clashing together, making strange, chaotic designs that spun into an instant’s beauty and then lost themselves. “But what if nothing happens, Grandma?”

  “Needly, there’s always that chance. I’ve been disappointed before, one way and another. I know you have, too. But, don’t forget, we’ve always kept your pack ready to go, everything in it you’d need. The best thing for you to do, child, is get up the mountain to Findem Pass, and down the far side. That’s the limit of the country called Ghastain. Then you’re in the land of the Artemisians. There’s a woman there known as Wide Mountain Mother. She’s the head person. She would know the way to the House of the Oracles, and one of her ­people could guide you there. The house where my family lives is quite near there. That house is mine now. There’s a little map in my notebook, the one with the plants in it, and the House of the Oracles is one of the landmarks. Tell the ­people in Artemisia that Lillis Show-­the-­way wants you to go there. Don’t giggle. That was my father’s name. The Artemisians know that’s my name and they’ll show you where it is. Be sure to take the Griffin’s tear and her feather with you along with the pouch with all the little bottles of things I make. I only tie them under my skirt when I’m going somewhere. If you take them, you tie them under your skirt. It’s not comfortable and it’ll keep them away from anybody but a child rapist. You have a weapon for that sort?”

  “Yes, Grandma.”

  “Be sure you do. I taught you to read. I taught you the Great Litany. Do you remember the Statement of Study?”

  Needly folded her hands. “The existence of the universe is proof of the Creator. That which exists can be seen, measured, and studied, and it does not lie. As we know healers by their healing, craftsmen by their craft, singers by their song, so we know the Creator through its creation. The dedicated study of creation reveals the nature of the Creator.”

  “And the Creator?”

  “The Creator sends no prophets, requires no worship, heeds no prayers. Creation itself includes the evidence of everything that was, the presence of all that is, and the possibility of everything that will be. Everything true is in it or will evolve in it. Creation simply is and cannot lie.”

  “And suppose a man brings forth a stone with words written upon it, or a scroll, or plate of engraved metal with writing upon it, claiming it bears the words of the Creator.”

  “At the moment of creation the Creator spoke, finally, absolutely, and infallibly through the totality of what was created. Having spoken the universe, which contains all that is, what need is there to speak again? Those seeking myths make them up out of their heads. Those seeking truth study Creation. The study may be arduous, but the universe remains there for any student and for all students. It does not reveal itself to some and withhold itself from others, it does not contradict itself in various languages, its changes and processes are part of itself, its laws are immutable. Those seeking comfortable myths and stories that children may learn without difficulty may go to the mythmakers and storytellers who are many upon the face of the earth and who dwell in houses of dreams.”

  “Suppose a man calls himself a prophet and claims he was inspired by the Creator?”

  Needly sighed. “You paraphrased that one for me. ‘Better wholly understand one grain of sand than follow any prophet.’ The litany says, ‘There is evidence for every truth, if there is no evidence, there is no truth, for the CREATOR is truth; CREATION does not lie or play tricks.’ ”

  “Exactly. Don’t forget it. I remember one fool woman who told me the Creator put bones in ancient rocks just to fool us and make us think the universe was older than her book said it was. As though the Creator would LIE! Fool woman. She would rather worship a liar than pay attention to reality.” She sighed, reached out, and stroked the child’s hair. “Needly, you know, I first began to be . . . doubtful about the Oracles when I realized they don’t live by the litany. The ­people I grew up among, the ones I called my family, they lived by the litany, certainly insofar as studying creation goes. They certainly never said a certain thing was true unless it came from a deep understanding of that thing and everything known about it. They didn’t just quote some book or some scripture, they knew the proofs. They always told me that nothing exists without showing proofs of its existence, though sometimes one has to dig deep to find the proofs, deep into the edges of the universe or deep into the tiny of the atoms.

  “Now, remember what I’ve told you. The book and the labels on the bottles are clear. Lucky for us, Hench Valley men think reading is a female thing. They have no patience with it. And it’s a sorrowful thing to say, but I’m almost sure we’re the only two females in the valley who do.”

  Needly hugged her and promised to remember. And there Needly’s future rested. Until a later time.

  Chapter 2

  The Dreaming of

  Abasio the Traveler

  AT A SLIGHTLY LATER TIME, ONE RANGE WEST of the place called Hench Valley, Abasio Cermit, Abasio the Dyer, Abasio: First Father of the Sea-­Children of the Future, Abasio who is much married to the Princess Xulai and who is the supposed owner of the horse Blue—­a horse who knows very well he is not owned by anyone save himself—­that particular Abasio is nodding on the wagon seat and is, yet again, in the midst of a recurrent dream that has been visiting both his night’s sleep and his daytime dozes on the wagon seat.

  Xulai murmured, “He’s asleep again, Blue. And he’s been making those troubled noises. I don’t know what to do . . .”

  “What you do,” said Blue, “is make him tell you what he’s dreaming about.”

  “He won’t want to.”

  “He doesn’t want to do a lot of things you make him do. Like come in out of the rain or eat green vegetables. Now me, I like green—­”

  Rags, Blue’s partner in harness, interrupted. “She’s not worried about what you like. Xulai, really, you do need to make him tell you. Tell him it’s in your . . . wedding vows. I’ve heard about them. You did have vows, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t think he was paying attention.”

  “So much the better,” the mare said, with the equine equivalent of a giggle.

  “What?” demanded Abasio, suddenly wakening. “What?”

  Xulai breathed in deeply, gripped the wagon seat with both hands, and squeezed it, noting
with some dismay that all four ears were cocked to listen. “Where does the dream take place?” she asked, in as casual a voice as she could manage.”

  “Not on Earth,” he murmured, still drowsy. “I know that much. The trees are all wrong.”

  “The trees?”

  “The leaves are more blue and purple than green. And they group themselves differently. And I’ll swear they talk to one another. When the wind blows, I get this feeling it’s one grove speaking to another grove. And then there’s the tower. I’ve never seen one like it here.”

  “That’s interesting, Abasio. Can you describe it?” Before her, Rags’s ears twitched in what Xulai believed to be the equivalent of a pat on the shoulder.

  “It’s white. Tall. It has arches all the way around the bottom except for one space where there’s a spiral staircase going up to the balcony. Way up there. The balcony goes all the way around the walls of the tower, lighted by another set of arches, and, of course, the bell hangs there . . .” His voice trailed away.

  The ears twitched. They were very expressive ears, saying, “Ask a question, stupid.”

  Xulai said, “The bell. Is it a . . . large bell?”

  “Oh, yes. Large, silver. Beautiful tone. They strike it morning and evening with a long kind of rod with a leather-­covered tip. Makes a soft sound, but it goes out of the tower like a flight of birds. I imagine they can hear it . . . all the way to the edges—­”

  “Edges?”

  “Of Lom. The Edges of Lom. That’s what the place is called. And I know that because the women in the tower are talking about it. Two of them. They’re always the same women. The older one is named Silkhands, the other is named Jinian. Then there are two children. Jinian’s children. The boy—­possibly seven or eight years old—­is Crash, and the little girl, perhaps a year or so younger than Crash, is Crumpet.”

  “Very odd names!”

  “Nicknames. Obviously. When the women get irritated they call the children something else, something long, probably with hyphens in it. I can never remember those names when I wake up. The children beg for a story, and their mother tells them a story about Lom. About how their ­people came to Lom.”

  Xulai’s mouth fell open; her expression, if Abasio had been watching, was one of surprise, even shock. Silence fell, Xulai stared at the ears, which flapped encouragingly. “So, uh, we presume Lom is the name of the place where they are. Ah . . . where are you while this storytelling is going on?”

  “I’m hanging in the air over the pool.”

  She made an abortive gesture. “You didn’t mention a pool.”

  “Well, it’s set into the floor of the tower, slightly raised, with a kind of seat all the way around it. Only the seat is too narrow and too low for humans to sit on. The two women are sitting on cushions next to the statue. The statue is of a woman, an angry woman? Or maybe one who’s just been awakened or something. She doesn’t look tranquil. The whole tower is very tranquil, but not the statue. And there are creatures coming in and out of the tower, ­people and other creatures. Some of them are little ones, furry ones. And they come over to the pool and scoop something out of the the edge of the pool and take it away . . .”

  “Something?”

  “They shine, like . . . jewels, only very thin. Oftentimes they put them in their mouths, so I think it may be some kind of . . . food or candy? I don’t know. And I don’t know what they’re for. The dream doesn’t say. But I think the women know, because they don’t seem surprised at all.”

  “So you’re hanging in the air, over the pool? You don’t . . . worry about falling or anything?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t feel suspended and I’m not afraid of falling. I seem to be invisible to the women and to most of the creatures coming and going out . . . all of them very busy and purposeful.”

  “Invisible to most?”

  “Once in a while one of them says hello to me. There’s a Dervish who says hello. I think she is Jinian’s mother; at least Jinian says, ‘Good morning, Mother,’ when she comes in. And there’s what Crash calls ‘a glactic ossifer.’ His mother corrects him to say ‘galactic officer.’ A very strange-­looking thing. It’s standing in one of the arches, looking in. It nods at me, looks directly at me, smiles, seems to know me.”

  “Strange-­looking how?”

  “Nonearthly. Six legs, I think. Six arms. It really looks more like a shrub or short tree than it does a . . . person. Maybe it’s a vegetable person.” He laughed, a harsh, barking sound. “Do you think I’m going crazy?”

  “Dreams can be crazy without the person who dreams them being at all crazy,” she said firmly. “What’s the story about, the one the women tell the children.”

  “It’s evidently the history of ‘How the Earthers Came to Lom.’ About landing there, two ships of them, one in a valley, one on a mountain, how the ­people started settlements and also started behaving like . . . humans! That is, destroying the new world the way they did the old one, and how some being . . . a local god, maybe . . . gave them special talents that they used to play war games on one another. That kept the population fairly small. There was a . . . rebellion on the part of the local beings, the younger ones, against the humans, and during the conflict the tower was destroyed . . .

  “You see, the important thing was that it was not just a tower, not just a building or landmark, it was an essential part of the . . . wholeness of the place. There were two towers, the Daylight Tower and the Shadow . . . or maybe Twilight Tower. There was a verse: ‘Shadow Bell rings in the dark, Daylight Bell the dawn. In the towers hang the bells, now the tower’s gone.’ ” His voice drifted off. He sighed. “Mostly, it was very sad. The children seemed to accept it as history, but the women . . . the tragedy had actually happened during their lifetimes. When the talents were lost, it happened to them.” He sighed again. “Anyhow, that’s the dream . . . oh, except for the subject they were discussing.” He laughed. “They were discussing an upcoming trip they‘re going to make with the ‘glactic ossifer.’ His name is Balytaniwassinot. His nickname is ‘Fixit’—­he’s in that dream, and he’s in some of the others, too. And they’re coming here, to Earth.”

  He turned to give her a skeptical look. “Now, are you satisfied? I notice Rags and Blue have been very quiet. Are all three of you satisfied?”

  “Yes,” said Xulai, in a very relieved tone of voice. “It’s all perfectly understandable, dear heart! During the Big Kill, in an effort to allow the human race to continue, two ships carrying human settlers were sent to Lom. Lom isn’t a planet, by the way, it’s a geographic part of a planet, either a large island or a peninsula. The planet is called something else. You’re merely making a dream out of historic fact, that’s all.”

  He shook his head. “Oh, really? Now how did this historic fact, which you have just told me for the very first time, this fact that I never knew anything about, how did it get put into my head as a dream?”

  “You probably heard about it as a child. It doesn’t matter, Abasio. You’re not going crazy.”

  “That’s so very nice to know. The one called Silkhands says, in the dream, that the reason humans lost their talents is because they have no bow. Do you know what that means?”

  “Not a clue,” she said, smiling. “Do you think it’s important?”

  For some reason he did think it was important. Terribly, terribly important. Not important enough, however, to argue about with Xulai. Arguing with Xulai was . . . futile. One could tie her up and carry her over one shoulder (and on at least two occasions, under extreme provocation, one had done so), but one could not win an argument. He took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the road, that is, the ruts ahead of him. They should be approaching a village called . . . Gravysuck. Undoubtedly there was a good reason it was called Gravysuck. He awaited with great anticipation finding out what that good reason might be!

  Not real
ly. He was very, very weary of villages. Evidently he need not worry about it yet, for there was no sight or sound of it, only the ruts going on and on and on.

  Xulai went back into the wagon to lie on the bed while she fed the babies. Blue and Rags kept discreetly silent. The road went on. He fell asleep puzzling yet again about the tower. What had it been about the tower . . . ? As if in answer to the question, the dream began again . . .

  He was there, over the pool. The women and the children were there. Silkhands and Jinian. The children were hers, but Silkhands was telling the story . . .

  “The ­people of Lom were called Eesties. The young ones rebelled against their ruler . . . their king? They wanted to destroy all the humans on Lom, and finally a mob of them wrecked the Daylight Tower and broke the Daylight Bell that hangs above us. Before that there had been two towers, and there was a verse about it . . .”

  “I know, I know,” cried the little girl, Crumpet. “ ‘Shadow Bell rings in the dark, Daylight Bell the dawn. In the towers hang the bells, but now the tower’s gone.’ ”

  “That’s right, Crumpet. Without the Daylight Bell to control them, the shadows were free to spread, covering everything and eating living creatures. The Eesties who joined the rebellion were glad, for they thought this would destroy all the humans in Lom . . .” Her voice faded and she stared sadly out through the arches.

  “But, but,” cried Crash. That was the boy, slightly older than the girl.

  Their mother bit her lip, taking a deep breath. “But their leader didn’t tell them the shadows would destroy them as well. Lom had depended on the towers and the bells to keep everything in balance. Without the towers and the bells, all the moving living things in the Lom part of this world began to kill themselves.”

  Silkhands said quickly, “So some animals and ­people had to go into Lom’s memory and find the part where the tower was destroyed, and then dig out that part so it wasn’t a memory anymore. And then the humans had to rebuild the tower and recast the bell. It took them a very long time because they no longer had the talents Lom had given them . . .”