“I was wakeful enough for both, Mavin. I knew you would be about as soon as the wind dropped. I will sleep in a while, perhaps, while the Thinker keeps watch. If you need me – though I do not suppose you will – call me.”
“Ah,” she thought. “So you are still unhappy with me, Mercald.”
She sidled out through the gate, surrounded at once by a great cloud of blue fish. Across the clearing, one of the flattree garments moved purposefully toward her.
CHAPTER NINE
“You are not Mirtylon,” she cried.
The balloon dress, twitchy upon its framework, stopped where it was, trembling in indecision.
“You are not Mirtylon,” Mavin cried again, “but that doesn’t matter. You do not have to be Mirtylon to talk to us.”
“Am Mirtylon,” it puffed Ahhm Muhhrtuhhlohhn.
“No.” She moved across the clearing, thrusting her way through a cloud of importunate fishes to stand beside it, almost within touch. “No. You ate Mirtylon. Now that you have eaten Mirtylon, you think Mirtylon. You have his name and can use it if you like. But you are not Mirtylon. What did you name yourself before Mirtylon?”
There was only an edgy silence during which the balloon quaked, shifted, and did not answer. At last an answer came, from another of the forms.
“No name … had no name…”
“Ah. Well. If you did not call yourself by human names, what other name would you have?” The Thinker had suggested this line of questioning in an effort to determine whether the things thought at all, whether they could deal with conditional concepts. Everything the creatures had said until now might have been mere stringing together of phrases the humans might have said – or so the Thinker thought. She waited. Silence stretched thin. She could feel the Thinker’s eyes, behind her in the cave, watching every tremor.
“We … bug … sticky.”
Mavin’s mouth fell open. What in the name of the Boundless or any other deity was she to make from that? She heard the Thinker hissing from the cave. “See if you can get it to come out of cover! Let us get a look at it.”
“Come out of that shape,” she commanded.
“No.” The word was strong, unequivocal, from several of them at once. “No. Ugly.”
She scratched her head. “Ugly” was a human word and therefore represented a human opinion. Which meant it was possibly what the dwellers of Waterlight had thought of these creatures. Which had a great many implications. “Ugly is all right,” she said at last. “Thinker is ugly.” She waved at the cave behind her. “Many things are ugly.”
“Ugly … things … are … bad.” Ahhhr bahhhd.
“Not … always.” She shook her head, understanding what horror these words conveyed. She could visualize what had happened on Waterlight bridge. It would have been night, people would have been asleep, then would have come the invasion of these whatevers, the terror of being eaten alive, consumed, only to find after one had been eaten that thought and personality did not end but went on, and on, and on. Still, there must have been some self-awareness in the creatures before. Otherwise they could not have named themselves at all.
“All things which eat us are ugly-bad. Being eaten is ugly-bad. If you do not eat me, I do not think you are ugly-bad.” There, let them chew on that, she thought, turning to rejoin the Thinker. “What do you think?”
He shrugged. “I postulate mentation prior to their having eaten people. However, seemingly they had no visual or symbolic communication. They obviously had some form of language, however, and it may have been in smell. They had a concept of number – the thing said ’we’. They had a concept of otherness – it said bug. They had a concept of relationship – Sticky. It’s possible we’ll find they’re a kind of mobile flypaper.
“However, if the people of Waterlight used the phrase ‘sticky-bug’ then these creatures may just be using it because they swallowed it. In that case, all we’re left with is the fact one of them used a plural.”
“All of which means?” sighed Mavin, understanding about one word in five.
“That I can’t say at this point how intelligent they are, leaving aside for the moment that we don’t know what intelligence is. I have always eschewed the biological sciences for exactly that reason; they’re unacceptably imprecise.” He peered over her shoulder, eyes suddenly widening.
Mavin turned. Something was flowing out at the bottom of the balloon dress, something thick and oleaginous, shiny on the top, puckered here and there as though the substance of it flowed around rigid inclusions. When it stopped flowing, it was an armspan across, ankle high, and it quivered. Out of the centre of it, slowly edging upward as though by terrible effort, came the shape of an ear, a bellows. The ear quivered. The bellows chuffed. “Not … eating … you…” it puffed. “Not … ugly…”
While Mavin considered that, trying to think of something constructive to say next, a cloud of small flutterers swept through the clearing. As though by reflex action, the thing that had spoken lifted a flap of itself into their path. Wings drummed and struggled. There was a momentary agitation of small bodies upon the surface of the thing, then the smooth shininess of it closed over the disturbance.
“What did I say?” asked the Thinker, triumphantly. “Mobile flypaper!”
“Not ugly,” said Mavin, firmly, trying not to laugh. “Very neat, very good-looking. Very shiny. You are … Number One Sticky.”
Across the clearing another puddle of glue thrust up its own ear and bellows. “I … Number … Two … Sticky.”
“Well, that answers a lot of questions,” said the Thinker. “They certainly have self-awareness.”
“And they can count,” commented Mercald. “So, it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that they…”
“I don’t want to hear it,” said Mavin. “There isn’t time. Whether they are religious or not, Mercald, I don’t want to consider the matter now.”
“Well. So long as you don’t expect them to do anything that would offend against…”
“I don’t want to hear that, either, Mercald. My understanding of what would offend against the Boundless is at least as good as yours. As you would remember if you reflect upon recent history!” Mercald flushed and fell silent, obviously distressed. Mavin turned to see the ears quivering at full extension, and cursed herself for having yelled. Undoubtedly she had confused them. “Pay no attention to the arguments we humans have from time to time. It is our way. Often, it means nothing.”
“We … remember,” blob said. “Number … Two …Sticky…?” It repeated with an unmistakably questioning rise in tone.
“Number Two Sticky,” agreed Mavin. “But you will have to mark yourself somehow, so that we will know which one you are. We cannot smell the difference as you probably do. We must see it.”
Ears and bellows disappeared into the flat surface. The blobs quivered, flowed toward one another, seemed to confer through a process of multiple extrusions and withdrawals. Finally the surfaces of both began to form a dull fibrous pattern against the overall shine. The figures were clear, a large figure “1”, an even larger figure “2”.
“They’ve moved some of their bottom membrane onto their tops,” said the Thinker. “That stands to reason. They couldn’t move around at all if they were sticky on the bottom.”
The conference among the Stickies went on, and more numbers began to appear, 3, then 4 and 5 in quick succession. When all those in the clearing had identified themselves, there were fifteen.
“Handsome,” announced Mavin in an approving tone. “Very handsome. Very useful.”
“And very fortunate that the poor people of Waterlight were literate,” sighed Mercald. “I wonder if any of these creatures ate the babies on Lostbridge. Poor things. They wouldn’t have enough language yet to talk with us.”
“There … are … more…” said One, breathlessly. “In … the … place we … stay.”
“How many?” asked the Thinker. “How many of you?”
The glue blob quivered, shiv
ered, erupted in many small bubbles which puckered and burst, then became calm, slick, only the fibrous identifying number contrasting upon its surface. The bellows gasped, puffed hugely: “Three thousand … nine hundred … sixty-two now. One was … crushed in the last … wind.”
“And that,” said the triumphant Thinker, “proves they can reason with quite large numbers. Well. Most interesting.”
“Do all talk human talk? All understand?” Mavin’s keen sense of survival quivered to attention. How many people had there been on the lost bridge, after all? Surely not almost four thousand of them.
The ear drooped, the bellows pumped. “Only … four hundred … seven. All. We … want … ed … did want … did want … not now … understand … not now.”
“What did you want?” asked Mavin, already sure of the answer.
“Did want … people … to eat. For … the … others.”
“Noble,” sighed Mercald. “Risking their lives to help their brethren. Giving it up when they learn it is a greater wrong…”
“Mercald, I am not at all sure they have learned any such thing,” Mavin hissed at him, cupping her hands around her lips and standing close so that the Stickies should not hear her. “They have said they do not wish to be ugly. Very well. But they desire to acquire more of – well, whatever it is they acquired when they ate the people of Waterlight. They’re outnumbered nine to one by those who speak only in smells. Now, no matter how ugly I might wish to avoid being, that kind of desire would speak strongly to me. We will do them a courtesy by not putting temptation in their way.”
“Of course not,” he said with offended dignity. “I wouldn’t.”
“Then don’t adopt them, Mercald. Don’t make them into some kind of Bottom-dwelling holiness. I’ve had some experience with promises of expiation and reformation. I’ve seen what happens when people act on such promises prematurely. We must not risk our lives on some religious notion you may have.” She realized she was glaring, panting, that her face was flushed. “Oh, foosh, Mercald. I feel like we’ve been arguing about this for days. Can’t you simply leave the religious aspects of it alone until you can get back to Topbridge and have a convocation or something to decide what it all means.” She turned away, sure he had not heard a word she had said.
She turned to the Stickies. “We have come here to find the big beasts that are eating the roots.” Mavin had started to say “Great, gray oozers,” and had then remembered what Mirtylon, nee Sticky One, had called them. “Do you know about those big beasts?”
“Beasts … eat… Stickies … too,” puffed Sticky Seven, quivering in indignation.
“We put … rootsap… on them…” puffed another. Mavin could not see its number, hidden as it was behind two or three others. “Make little … ones sick …. die…”
“There, you see!” demanded Mercald. “Our interests are similar. We can help them!”
“We’re going to have to help one another,” muttered Mavin. “Rootsap won’t kill the big ones? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Too big…” came the disconsolate reply.
“Can the net hold the beasts? Do the big beasts crawl around on top of the net?”
“Go on … top, yes.” Puff, puff. “Sometimes, net … breaks … beasts fall … down… eat us. Crawl around … eat… everything.” This was the same Sticky that had spoken before. By extending her neck a little, Mavin could read its number. It was Sticky Eleven.
“How many beasts?” she asked. “Many?”
There was a quivering conference among the glue blobs, with much extrusion of parts and emitting of smells. At last number Eleven struggled to the front of the group. “Nine … big ones … left … near here. Sap … killed… little ones. Always had … little … ones here … making pretty stones. First time … big beasts … come here. They come from … down-chasm.” Puff, puff, puff, collapse. Eleven thinned to a pancake, bellows pumping impotently.
Sticky One took up the story. “Eleven is … right. Nine big … ones … left.”
All right, thought Mavin. I’ll need to think about this. She turned to Mercald and the Thinker, hammering a fingertip into her palm. “Now’s the time to negotiate. None of the three of us is a representative of the bridge people – I speak of the governance of them, Mercald, not their religion. So, we need to get Beedie down here promptly. As a Bridger, she should serve nicely as ambassador. I can think of a few things we can try, but the agreement needs to be between the Stickies and the chasm people so that it can’t be repudiated later by some collection of Banders or whatnots.”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” murmured Mercald. “Whoever speaks for us should be open-hearted. There is too little love and trust in you for that. You are too cynical. I do not think you are a real messenger from the Boundless, Mavin. The white bird … your sister … now, she is a different matter. I can believe she is a messenger.”
Mavin stepped back, stung, angry. Ah, my sister, she thought. Poor, mad Handbright. Yes. She is a different matter indeed. Besides, she doesn’t argue with you, you pompous, self-righteous idiot!
Aloud, she said, “You have not heard me, Mercald. I’m sorry. I have tried to tell you there are dangers in the unknown.”
“And opportunities,” he said. “Opportunities to extend the hand of friendship, the hand of…”
“And I have asked you not to extend anything yet,” she snapped. “Wait until Beedie and Roges get down here. I’ll fetch them now and be back by the time it gets light. Just wait here, both of you, and don’t … do… anything.”
She cast one quick look in the Thinker’s direction, remembering that he had not yet seen her change shape. Bidding the Stickies loudly to wait until she came back, she drew upon the power of the place to Shift into the great bird-bat form she had put together which could fly even in the soggy air of the chasm. Around her the place grew chill. She saw the Thinker shudder with cold as he stared at her. As she lifted through the cold in a whoosh of wings, she heard him cry out behind her.
“Marvelous! Revolutionary! A verification of the ergotic hypothesis!”
“Oh, by Towering Tamor,” Mavin muttered. “Now I’ve done it. He’ll want to talk to me about how I do this, and I can’t explain because when I try to explain or even think about it I can’t do it at all!” Resolutely, she turned her mind to other things, not thinking about flying as she circled upward toward the amber gleam of Beedie’s fire.
As she came closer, however, she saw that it was the gleam of a torch they carried in a headlong dash down the stairs. She Shifted into her own form and met them.
“Mavin!” cried Beedie. “Whoosh, I’m glad it’s you. There’s a hundred Banders clumping down behind us, and I wanted to warn you. I know you told us to stay put, but we didn’t expect so many.”
“A hundred?” Mavin was doubtful. “Surely not so many as that.”
“One hundred seven,” said Roges, putting down his pack in order to stretch his arms. “When we heard them coming, Beedie went back up to a place she could count them as they crossed a break in the stair. One hundred seven of them, each with much cursing and many weapons. They think they are to find some great treasure down below, something the Beeds and Chafers have kept secret from them for generations.”
“You’re right,” admitted Mavin. “I expected neither so many nor so soon. Let me carry part of that for you. I think we’d best hurry to get as far ahead of them as possible. Throw the torch over; it will go out on the net below. The fish make enough light. Come.” She led them on down, carrying some of their burdens so that all could move faster, ignoring all attempts at conversation.
When they had come some little way, she left them in order to fly up along the stair and see the descending Banders for herself. There were over a hundred, as Roges had said, old Slysaw in the forefront, all galumphing down at a steady pace and cursing the stairs as they came. She hovered just out of their sight, listening to their mutinous threats as to what they would do if they were not al
lowed to rest soon, then dropped on her bat wings down the chasm once more with a feeling of some relief.
“You’ve gained good distance on them,” she told the others. “And they’ll soon stop to rest. Evidently they’ve been climbing in the wind, and even though many of them have strong Bridger’s legs, they are tired and hungry. Come, give me that pack again, and we’ll go a bit more slowly.”
Beedie refused to relinquish the pack until she was told what Mavin and the others had found in the depths. Then there were squeals of astonishment at the descriptions of the Stickies and still greater astonishment when she was told they would soon meet Mirtylon and Lovewings – or what remained of them.
“The Thinker is ecstatic at all the new theories he has about them,” said Mavin. “But Mercald is determined that they are something very holy, somehow sanctified through guilt or some such. I have begged him to simply wait until we know a bit more before doing anything, but he accuses me of cynicism.”
“Mercald is such an uneven person,” said Beedie. “He can be brave as a pombi if it is a question of faith in the Boundless, and in the next minute he is peeing in his pants because he has the down-dizzies. I hope he will listen to you, Mavin, because I think he is not very realistic.”
“And I hope you’ve had time to discuss a few things besides theology,” panted Roges. “We may have gained on the Banders, but they will arrive at the Bottom eventually. When they do, they’ll expect to do away with us, I imagine.”
“I have a few ideas,” said Mavin modestly. “A few things that might work out.” Her foot jolted upon the solid floor of the chasm, and she sighed with relief. “Follow me. I’ve found a shorter way than the one we were led in by.”
She led them at a fast trot through the whiskery halls beneath the net, pointing out the features of the place as she did so; the boiling pools – including one very large, deep pond alive with steam – the flopperskin kites that dotted the net, the ankle-high holes connecting between the hallways. Though her way was much more direct than the path the Stickies had led them before, daylight was shining through the flattrees on the rim when she brought them into the clearing to find – no one. No Thinker. No Mercald. No Stickies.