Grass

  Over the decades the towers had been climbed by amateurs, then by enthusiasts, and finally by experts who had invented a cult with its own hierarchs and acolytes, its own rituals of baptism and burial, its own secrets shared among its own adherents. Each new acolyte was tested within days of his arrival to know whether he would be one of the climbers or not. When Brother Mainoa first warned Brother Lourai that the climbers would be after him, he spoke no more than the truth.

  They did not wait long.

  Brother Lourai, lately Rillibee Chime, sat in the refectory as generations had sat before him, the front of his robe rubbing another layer of gloss upon the table edge, waiting for the gong which would allow him to rise from the table, carry his plate to the service hatch, and then go out to the washing house for his evening duty. The voice which whispered at him came as a surprise, for it came from behind him. Nothing was there but a blank walled end of the hall without even a shelf on it.

  "You, Lourai," it said. "Pay attention."

  He looked up and around, doing it slowly so as not to attract attention. His nearest neighbors were some distance away, minor functionaries recently sent to beef up the Office of Acceptable Doctrine, or so Mainoa had said, and the least notice attracted from them, the better.

  He saw nothing but the woven mats which made up the end wall of the hall. "You," came the voice again. "After duty tonight. Time for your initiation."

  The sound that followed was suspiciously like a giggle, a nasty giggle, almost a snigger. Rillibee closed his eyes and prayed for help. All that came in answer was the sound of the old men shouting at one another far away on the dais. After a time, Rillibee opened his eyes and looked around him, wondering if he could find anything in the Great Refectory which would help him.

  The refectory had four vaulted halls radiating like fingers from a central dome. Under the dome was the dais on which the Eldest Brothers sat: Jhamlees and Fuasoi and Laeroa, plus half a dozen others. Down the splayed halls, in long, single rows, stood the woven grass tables of the penitents, seated in order of seniority. The tables themselves were wonderful, or at least so Rillibee thought.

  Strips of grass stem had been spiraled and woven into shapes representing twigs and leaves and blossoms. Tabletops curved down into serrated aprons and thence into legs bulging with rococo excess. At home, Rillibee's mother would have called it wicker, pointing out the similarities to the old brown rocking chair beside the fire. Here it was known only as grass weaving, but the grass had dozens of hues and a hundred tints.

  Lifetimes of Brothers had fondled the braided arms of these chairs, rubbed the basketry seats smooth with their bottoms, shined the convoluted edges of these tables with their bellies and sleeves. Brother Rillibee/Lourai's place was at the far end of a row of tables so long that it dwindled almost to nothing as he looked along the tops toward the dome. It made eating a lonely business for the newest Brothers, however much it encouraged reflection.

  And it made living a lonely business, too. The chairs to either side of him were empty. There was no one he could ask for help. Probably, no one who would help him if he did ask. And no time to ask, in any case, for the harsh clangor of the ending bell broke through all other sounds and stopped them. He rose to follow hundreds of other shuffling forms as they set their plates within the hatch and went out into the evening.

  When he reached the open air, he turned aside from the court into an alleyway which led back beside the refectory to the washing house. There he stationed himself at one handle of the pump and waited for his coworker to arrive. This anonymous, middle-aged Brother sat down at his own handle and the two of them began the monotonous thrusting which would bring water from a hot spring far below. From the pump the water went into the hot kettles. When the kettles were full, the water went into the rinsing trough. By the time the rinsing trough was full, the kettles would be empty again.

  "Damn fool thing," muttered Brother Lourai, thinking of solar batteries and wind-driven pumps, both of which were in use elsewhere at the Friary to pump bath water and fill the fish ponds and the large tank that provided drinking water.

  "Hush," said the older man with a glare. Pumping was a penitential service. It wasn't supposed to be easy or make sense.

  Rillibee hushed. No point in wanting it over sooner. Tonight, it would be better for it to last as long as possible. He spent the time thinking about the interview he'd had with Elder Brother Jhamlees the previous day.

  "It says here, boy … " the Elder Brother had announced, "it says here you flew apart in refectory and began making wild accusations."

  Rillibee had started to retort, started to say something daring and angry, then had remembered Mainoa's advice. "Yes, Elder Brother." he had said.

  "Only had two years to go," the Elder Brother went on. He was a man with a face like cork, evenly colored, evenly textured, as though he were wearing a mask. All his features were ordinary except his nose, so tiny a nose, like a slice off the end of a wine cork stuck on the middle of his face, the nostrils mere slits. Around that tiny nose the other features seemed disturbingly large. "Two years, and you had to go doubting. Well, we won't have any of that here, you know that."

  "Yes, Elder Brother."

  "Let's see what you remember of your catechism. Ah, well now, what is the purpose of mankind?"

  "To populate the galaxy in God's time."

  "Ah. Well, what is women's duty?"

  "To bear children for the population of the galaxy."

  "Ah, well, how shall this population be accomplished?"

  "By the resurrection of all those who have ever lived, to the time of our first parents."

  "And how shall we be led?"

  "By the resurrection of the Son of God and all the saints who shall again be saints, of the latter days, to guide us to perfect Sanctity, Unity, and Immortality."

  "Hmm," said Elder Brother Jhamlees. "You know your doctrine well enough. What the hell happened to you?"

  Mainoa's advice forgotten, Rillibee asked, "When we all get resurrected, Elder Brother, will the machines do it?"

  "What do you mean, boy!"

  "There won't be any people left. The plague will have killed us all. Will the machines do all the resurrecting?"

  "That'll be ten stripes for impertinence," Elder Brother Jhamlees said. "And another ten for uttering falsehood. There is no plague, Brother Lourai. None."

  "I saw my mother die of it," said Rillibee Chime. "And my father and my sister had it. I may have it. They say sometimes it doesn't come out for years … "

  "Out," the Elder Brother had blustered. "Out. Out." His face had turned pale as he bellowed, so pale that Brother Lourai wondered if the Elder Brother had ever met anyone who had actually seen the plague.

  Brother Lourai had gone out. Ever since then, he'd been expecting someone to summon him to receive the twenty stripes Elder Brother Jhamlees had assigned him. No one had. The only summons had been the summons in refectory, the one he didn't want to answer. The one he was delaying now, pumping water while the dishes got washed.

  Still, inevitably, the task was finished at last. The kettles were emptied into a ditch that led to the cesspool, the rinsing troughs emptied into a ditch leading to the gardens, the soapy steam vanished out the open door as Brothers scattered wordlessly. Rillibee's counterpart at the other end of the pump handle hitched up his robes and went out. After a long, silent moment, Rillibee did likewise.

  He thought he might stay in the washing house and hide. He considered this for a time, quite seriously, knowing it for nonsense but unwilling to let the idea go entirely. Where would they be waiting for him? Outside the courtyard somewhere, perhaps in the alley which led to his dormitory?

  "Come on," said an impatient voice. "Get it over." It was too much trouble to answer the voice. It would be even more trouble to avoid it. Unwillingly, he shambled toward the summoner, through the gateway from the yard, into the alley, where three of them grabbed him and forced him through a door and down a hallway into an
unfamiliar room. They wore only their tights and undershirts. Their faces were lit in the lantern light with shiny and unholy glee. There was no doubt at all that these were the climbers Mainoa had told him about. Not warned him. What good was it to warn someone about the inevitable? But one could be told. One could be given time to consider. Not that it had done Rillibee any good.

  They pushed him toward a bench and he sat on it to hide the trembling of his legs. It wasn't fear. It was something else, something some of those confronting him might have understood if there had been time to talk. There was no time.

  The foremost among those standing there – the group had grown to a dozen or so – struck a posture and announced, "Call me Highbones!" He was a lean, long-armed man with a taut-skinned boyish face, though the wrinkles around his eyes said he was no boy. A hank of dun hair fell over his forehead and was pushed back with a studied gesture. The color of the hair was ageless. His brows grew together over his nose. His eyes were so pale a blue as to be almost white. Everything about him was studied, his stance, his gesture, his manner, his voice. Created, made up, out of what?

  Rillibee saw all this as he nodded an acknowledgment just to let them know he had heard. No point in saying anything. Least said, the easiest denied, as the master of acolytes at Sanctity had been fond of telling them.

  "As for you, having observed you carefully for several days, we can say without fear of contradiction that you're a root peeper." That snigger again, as though the insult meant something.

  Rillibee nodded again.

  "You're required to acknowledge, peeper. Say you're a peeper." The voice was like a chant, empty of any feeling. Like the mosquito voices at Sanctity.

  "I'm a peeper," said Rillibee, without embarrassment or emotion.

  "The point of all this is," Highbones went on, striking another pose, "that we climbers consider peepers to be the lowest possible form of life. Brother Shoethai, he's a peeper. Isn't that true, boys?"

  There was a chorus of agreement. Yes. Grass peepers were beneath contempt.

  Rillibee had seen Brother Shoethai, a misshapen creature of uncertain age, the butt of everyone's jokes – though covertly, for Brother Shoethai worked for the Office of Acceptable Doctrine. Highbones gave Rillibee little time to reflect on this.

  "Of course, we realize that some are like old Shoethai, constitutionally incapable of climbing, and all of those will end up as peepers anyhow. Still, we'll give you a chance. Everyone gets a chance. That's only fair, wouldn't you agree?"

  Unwisely, Rillibee risked a comment. "I'm willing to be a peeper."

  There were yelps and halloos from those assembled, men who could have been Highbones' brothers or cousins, all as shiny-skinned and slender as he, all with that long-armed look, like ancient apes.

  Highbones shook his head. "Oh, no, no you're not willing, peeper. No, you speak from ignorance. Perhaps even from congenital stupidity. Peepers get hung from the towers by their feet. Peepers get knocked about by this one and that one. Their lives are sheer misery, nothing but misery, nothing anyone would choose for himself. Far better to take the test and see how it all comes out, don't you think? And if you simply can't climb, well, then we'll consider mercy. But you have to try. Those are the rules." Highbones smiled. It was a kindly smile, a practiced smile; only the eyes betrayed the cruelty of it.

  Rillibee, seeing those eyes, felt his stomach clench. They were like Wurn's eyes, long ago, big, angry Wurn, when he used to borrow Rillibee's school supplies, hoping Rillibee would say no so Wurn would have an excuse to hit. It had been only a matter of time until Wurn would kill someone. Only a matter of time until Highbones did, or had. Considering his age, he probably already had. He probably would again. He might tonight. Highbones wouldn't much care. He might not desire his victims dead, but he did not care so long as the process offered some amusement. Or perhaps not amusement. Perhaps something else.

  Even now he was saying, "Peepers have such a horrible life, little man. Such a horror as you've never thought of. Ask old Shoethai, if you don't believe us!"

  "Have you ever seen anyone dying of plague?" Rillibee asked, the words coming out without thought. He wished them back in the instant, but the group did not react as though they knew what he meant.

  "Plague?" Highbones laughed "No good trying to detour us, peeper. Tell your stories to somebody else but not to us. Time for you to climb."

  "Climb where?" Rillibee asked. With difficulty he kept his voice reasonable and calm. This dozen and whatever others there were waiting elsewhere were a pack. Rillibee had seen packs when he was a child. Packs of coyotes. Packs of wild dogs. Joshua had explained about packs. Let one start baying, and all would follow. It had happened that way in Sanctity, too. Let one start panting and screeching and others would join in. They had done so when Rillibee started yelling. By the time they'd knocked him off the table and carried him away, twenty or thirty others were shouting as well. A pack. If one didn't want to deal with a pack, it was important to keep the leader from baying.

  "Are you the only one with a name?" he asked of Highbones, attempting a diversion.

  It worked, for a moment. Hardflight was introduced, and Topclinger. Mastmaster and Steeplehands. Roperunner and Long Bridge and Little Bridge. Rillibee distracted himself by memorizing their names, their faces. Lean faces, all atop slender forms, and most with those long arms and big hands. Light weight was obviously an advantage. Rillibee's hands were inside the sleeves of his robe, and he put his fingers around his arms, feeling the ropy muscle there. All those years of exercise at Sanctity. All those years climbing up and down the towers.

  Topclinger was staring at Highbones, his face carefully blank, his eyes unreadable. Here was one who did not follow blindly, exclaiming and shouting. Here was one to whom appeals could be made, perhaps?

  But there was no time to appeal to anyone.

  "Time's passing," cried Highbones. "Light's going. Time to climb!"

  Rillibee was surrounded by a whispering mob of them, hustled down one corridor and into a storage building, then up a flight of stairs and out a hatch onto the thatched roof of the hall. Beside him was the leg of a tower, a slender ladder running beside it to the first crossbrace. Above that were other legs, other ladders. The mists hung about the top of the towers, hiding them. Between the clouds and the earth speared the last rays of the setting sun, beginning the long dusk of Grass.

  Topclinger whispered, "This one'll climb, this one will," gripping Rillibee's shoulder in his hard hand, squeezing it.

  "Oh, I'll wager on that, Tops, I will," snarled Highbones.

  Rillibee heard them through the muttering. All those years listening to the mosquito whines at Sanctity, picking meaningful language out of nonsense, let him understand what they said though they did not mean him to hear.

  "Bet," responded Topclinger. "Bet one whole turn on kitchen duty."

  "Done," said Highbones, giggling. "In my opinion he's a deader."

  Rillibee felt the chill of that giggle run down his bones.

  "Oh, God, oh," said the parrot in his mind.

  "Shut up," he whispered to himself.

  "Did you say something, peeper?"

  Rillibee shook his head. Highbones was not the sort to leave the winning of his bet to chance. Highbones would try to make sure, up there somewhere.

  But then, did it matter? Why not let him have his way?

  "Let me die," begged the parrot.

  The dozen surrounded Rillibee, all of them posturing now as though they were one creature, pointing upward toward the heights, toward the last of the sunlight.

  "Will he climb?" they wanted to know, pressing closer to him as they explained the rules. They would give him three minutes' start and then come after him. If he could reach another ladder and get down without being caught, then he'd be a climber. If they caught him, he'd be a peeper, but they wouldn't beat him too badly if he gave them a good chase. If he fell off, he'd be a deader, depending on where he fell from. He might get away
with no injury at all. But if he wouldn't climb, he would die right there on the thatch. They would rub his face in shit and keep hitting him in the stomach until he'd wished he'd died up there, rather than here. If he didn't climb, said Highbones, there were other pleasures some might find in Brother Lourai's anatomy before they killed him. Others agreed to this with wide, toothy grins and feverish eyes.

  "Up," they chanted. "Up, Lourai. Got to be initiated. Got to climb!" The word "climb" was howled from half a hundred throats as others, drawn by the initial ruckus, ran to join the ten or twelve who had started the racket, clambering up the side of the hall on rope sashes dropped to them from those above, clustering upon the thatch. "Climb, Lourai! Climb," bellowed the Brothers of Sanctity, the Green Brothers, with Green Brother names like Nuazoi and Flumzee and faces intent upon mayhem.

  Bored, Brother Mainoa had said. Bored to insanity. And Brother Lourai would just have to learn to get along with them.

  It wasn't their threats that moved Rillibee. He had considered death many times during recent years. He had seen no reason why he should go on living when Joshua and Songbird and Miriam had all died. Dying had not seemed a bad thing, though getting dead had seemed to be more difficult than he had liked. So now getting dead seemed the problem. If he gave himself to this pack, here and now, there would be pain first, and humiliation, neither of which he wanted. If he was to die, he wanted it to be in peace, and not at the hands of some long-armed barbarian like Highbones.