The Howling Stones

  "This, however, is another of your wonderful carrying containers, and for this gift I thank you."

  "See?" Fawn spoke again to her companion in their own language. "Any other seni society would have been glad to have the hooks, if only to trade with another is­land group. Not the Parramati. Here, a gift must be deemed immediately useful or it's refused."

  "You should have this." Digging through a pile of wooden shapes, Jorana extracted an exquisite carving a little larger than Pulickel's palm. Finely polished, the wood was jet black streaked with red. The carver had fashioned it into the likeness of a local animal with four legs, a stubby body, and two eyes protruding on stalks. The eyes had been carved so that they contained only the red grain, and a double set of external gills appeared made of lace, though they were also part of the single piece of hardwood.

  Fawn was taken aback. "I can't accept that," she protested. "Not in exchange for a lousy plastic bag."

  "Please." The native pushed the sculpture at her. "It is a fair exchange. I have many, many carvings and they are easy for me to make."

  Professional considerations aside, Pulickel could see that Fawn wanted the delicate carving. Hell, he wanted it himself.

  "Very well," she agreed reluctantly, "but to make it fair I must bring you more bags."

  "Done." Pleased, the native handed her the little sculp­ture. Pulickel found himself wishing he'd brought along a few spare bags himself.

  According to the information in the slim manual that had been prepared for him, now that official greetings, introductions, and gift‑giving had been concluded, the conversation was open to any topic any of the partici­pants might choose to introduce. Edging a little closer to the big person and avoiding something that scuttled along the ground on far too many legs, he watched ap­preciatively as the Parramati used a sharpened palm ­size shell to etch traditional spirals and whorls into one table leg.

  "I have come from my home, from my island in the sky, to..."

  The native interrupted him with an expression that at the very least was suggestive of a smile. "It is not neces­sary, Pu'il, to explain. F'an has told us many things. Be­sides, the Parramati have always thought of the lights in the night sky as other islands, whose people set torches at night to show travelers the way through the ocean of darkness."

  "Then I won't go into a lot of background. I know that my friend Fawn has already spoken to you about signing a treaty of friendship and commerce with our people. One that would allow us to move and trade freely among the islands of the Parramat and to search for and remove cer­tain rocks from the ground. Such a treaty would greatly benefit the Parramati. You would be given access to many wondrous tools and learning devices.

  "For example, you could learn how to better farm your gardens, how to produce more with less work. You would acquire weapons that would let you fight not only the for­est animals that menace you but even the dangerous crea­tures of the sea. We can give you boats that would not sink in a storm and that could tell you always where you were, even in thick fog."

  Jorana did not look up from his work, though both ears stayed turned in his guests' direction. His long snout twitched. "Why would one want to know where he is at all times?"

  Pulickel smiled patiently. "If one knows where one is at all times, it is impossible to become lost."

  "No Parramati is ever `lost.' " Jorana knocked a shav­ing off the top of the table leg.

  The xenologist frowned. "I don't understand. If a fisher­man sails far, far out to sea, farther than he or any other Parramati has ever traveled before, could he not become lost among unfamiliar islands and places?"

  "He would not be lost," the carver explained, "because he would know exactly where he was. Wherever he hap­pened to be, he would be there. `There' is always a place, and as long as one is in a place, one cannot be lost."

  Pulickel fought down his impatience. He hadn't ex­pected quite so sophisticated a rejoinder to what seemed the blatantly obvious. "But he would be lost in relation to his home, and night not know how to return."

  "Nonsense. He would simply return the way he had traveled."

  The xenologist decided to try another approach. "You've seen some of our kind's tools." He patted the sidearm snugged at his hip. "Our weapons, the boat that flies in air, our clothes. You've' seen how they last. Wouldn't you like to have these things for yourself and for your people?"

  "Not so very much." Wood chips spiraled lazily to the ground. "They are your weapons, your boat, your clothing. If we were to make use of so many of your things, it would mean that ours would be neglected. That would mean neglecting tradition, which is the same as neglect­ing kusum."

  "Not in the least," Pulickel argued. "You could still use your traditional things. You would just have more choices."

  The shell planer paused in mid‑scrape. Bright, intelli­gent eyes peered directly into Pulickel's own. "Some­times it is not a good thing for a people to have too many choices." Double eyelids blinked slowly. "People with too many choices night forget their kusum. We know that this has happened on other islands. The people there have changed and cannot go back. From what we hear, I do not know that they are any happier for this." He raised a three‑fingered hand.

  "We cannot talk through the air as F'an does, but neither are we ignorant of what happens elsewhere. Talk travels quickly enough, Pu'il. We have heard of what has happened to some who have accepted the big gifts from your people and from the shiny‑skinned ones. We have heard what has happened to the Jimeri, the Corchosi, and the Trefaria. They have traded away their kusum, which is a bigger thing than trading bags and carvings."

  Pulickel searched his memory. "There was an epidemic of food poisoning on Corchos. Commonwealth medicine saved many lives there."

  Ears flicked, indicating that Jorana was not impressed. "There were too many Corchosi. Some must die so that others may live. The Corchosi who survive do so without their kusum. They are alive, but they are no longer Cor­chosi. Now they must rely on their trade to feed and sup­port them. They have become wards of your kusum. This is bad for the spirit."

  "I don't know that that's the case," Pulickel responded doubtfully.

  "We do. Understand," the native continued gently, "I do not mean to criticize the decisions of the Jimeri, the Trefaria, or the Corchosi. They have done willingly what they have done. They have made their choices. But the Parramati choose the same road we have always chosen. Our kusum will stay pure. You may keep your boats that fly in air and bows that kill without arrows."

  "I'm sorry you feel that way." Pulickel was not dis­couraged. After all, this was his first attempt. "Perhaps other big persons will feel differently." At this, Seaforth shot him a warning look, but he ignored her. It had been his experience that alien aboriginals of whatever intelli­gence favored directness.

  Jorana was not offended. "You may talk to any of the Parramati that you wish." His left arm came up and three fingers spread wide in an eloquent gesture. "Some will not listen to you, but all will be polite. It may be that you will find one who can be swayed by what you have to of­fer. But it will be only one. Even if it is another big per­son, it will be only one."

  "I understand. I, too, can be patient." To Fawn he added in terranglo, "How the hell are we supposed to achieve a viable consensus here? Are they all going to be this stubborn?" As he spoke he continued to smile at the alien, who had returned to his carving.

  "I hope not. I've had luck with some of the younger Parramati," she told him. "Maybe with your skills we'll be able to secure some firm commitments. I'm hoping for a snowball effect, especially among the younger and middle‑level big persons, but I've had to learn patience."

  He nodded. "That's the ticket. Get a fair number to come around to our way of thinking and let them do the convincing of the others. I can see why you wanted me to meet this Jorana: he's clearly an exceptional individual among his kind. But I agree that we might do better to concentrate the majority of our efforts on the younger, more flexible
members of the tribe."

  She nodded. "We can still try to convince Jorana and Ascela and the other elders. I have to confess that part of the reason I've spent so much time working with them is that I enjoy listening to them."

  "That's okay," he replied. "We need to learn all we can about their society and culture, and for that you have to speak with the local elders. But I can see already that a political solution to our problem will have to be found in working with the more malleable islanders. We'll keep trying Jorana here and his counterparts; we just won't rely on them." He addressed himself anew to the alien.

  "I am curious, Jorana. Do you think we offer you these things because it is our intention to harm you, or because we want to make you forget your kusum?"

  The elder paused in his carving. "No, Pu'il. I am sure your people wish to do us good. That is part of your kusum. It means that you believe your kusum to be stronger than ours."

  "Not stronger," the xenologist objected. "I choose to see them as different but compatible."

  "You imply otherwise when you suggest that your weapons, your tools, and your learning should replace ours."

  "Not replace. Supplement."

  Jorana's ears twitched and his upper lip rippled like a wavelet on a shallow beach. "Listen well to me, Pu'il. The Parramati have their own weapons, their own tools, their own boats, and their own ways. Each has its own power, its own magic. The trees behind you, the bench you sit upon, the ground beneath your feet. It takes time to learn to know these powers and magics, to see the best way of using them. We have ours, you have yours. Ours does not need to be supplemented, not even by those good of heart and intention."

  "Hierophanes," Fawn murmured.

  Pulickel frowned at her. "What did you say?"

  "Parramati society is based on hierophanes. Every­thing in the world is seen as a manifestation of the sa­cred. Each is a hierophane and each has power. With access to so much power, they see no need to invite in outside influences."

  He nodded disappointedly. "It makes it difficult to con­vince a people to give something up if everything con­trols something else. But I still think that when some of the younger villagers accept access to advanced tech­nology, Jorana and the others will come around." He switched back to the local dialect.

  "I agree with you, Jorana. Everything in the world has a certain amount of power. Some have more, some less. Certain minerals that lie beneath the Parramat have very much power. My people have spent a lot of time learning how to make use of these, while the Parramati have not. So you see, our kusums are not so very far apart."

  The old carver considered. "F'an has spoken of such. As you say, I would not know of such powers. I am a wood person, not an earth person. My road leads through the forest. To learn the value of certain rocks you would have to talk to someone whose road is of the earth."

  "But if no one is using these minerals, why would the Parramati object to my people doing so?"

  Jorana blinked double lids. "If the earth is turned up too much, it is bad for growing things."

  The xenologist had had enough. "I think that's plenty for one day. We don't want to tire the old fellow, or irri­tate him. I'm happy with the progress we've made. Let's leave him to consider what has been said." He brushed wood dust from his shorts as he rose.

  Fawn straightened. "You don't want to talk to anyone else in the village?"

  "Not today. I don't want to get a reputation for being insistent or demanding. Nothing puts primitive peoples off more quickly. Better they should grow curious about me. That way, hopefully the next time they'll be anxious to see me, instead of simply polite."

  Stretching, he bid the elder big person a polite fare­well. "It has been good to talk with you, Jorana."

  "And with you, Pu'il. F'an, I am always warmed by your presence." He bent low until his nostrils skimmed the ground. It was as close as he could come to perform­ing the traditional flip.

  "I am pleased by your happiness." She duplicated the elder's motion, bending double at the waist.

  "Then I will see you both again?" Vibrantly colored alien eyes regarded them both.

  "Very soon, I hope." With a hand gesture, Fawn turned to leave.

  They headed out of the village and back toward the forest. A clutch of boisterous, barking juveniles escorted them. With powerful legs and feet too big for their still immature bodies, they tumbled and fell over one another in their eagerness to accompany the strange visitors. Only when dense vegetation closed in around the humans did the pack fall back, in twos and threes, toward their home. Their playful, high‑pitched singing followed Pulickel and Fawn for long moments thereafter.

  "You did pretty good for a first encounter." She stepped over a hollow that had filled with rainwater. "Just the right mix of conviction and understanding. I was afraid the stiffness and formality of your character would carry over into your fieldwork."

  "But it didn't," he responded, "which means I'm just stiff and formal the rest of the time, right?"

  "Not exactly," she demurred, trying to backtrack.

  "It's all right. I know that I'm something of a cold fish. Like I said before, I relate much better to aliens. There are no preconceptions on either side."

  She changed the subject. "I know it's premature, but do you have an opinion of the situation so far?"

  He shrugged. "If this Jorana is a typical big person, then I don't foresee any further extensive delays. They're stubborn, but they seem to enjoy debate. Any creature that will talk with me is one I can eventually persuade to see reason. I sense exploitable openings already. Conclu­sion? It will take more time than I'd hoped but less than I'd feared."

  She shoved a branch out of her way. It promptly ex­uded a cloud of perfumed dust. Since she walked right through it, Pulickel saw no harm in doing likewise. For a delightful moment, the world smelled of sandalwood and myrrh.

  "Jorana's right, of course. If the Parramati give their consent to a full treaty, much of their traditional kusum will eventually be overwhelmed."

  "I know that." He stumbled awkwardly down a slight slope. "But the alternative is for them to fall under the in­fluence of the AAnn. Better the Commonwealth than the Empire."

  "Certainly. Unless they choose the third option and elect to remain unallied with either side."

  He moved up alongside her and gazed flatly into her face. "There is no third option, Fawn. Not for primitive aliens. I'm not sure there ever was."

  Chapter Six

  "Why do I have the feeling?" he asked as they prepared to reboard the skimmer, "that there's a lot more to the Parramati and their kusum than you're telling me? You keep insisting that they're different. Of course they're different; they're aboriginal aliens."

  Both hands on the ladder built into the vehicle's flank, she paused. "I've told you, Pulickel. I can't quite put my finger on it. Sure their society is unique among organized seni groups, but it's more than that. There's an assurance, a contentment that you can't find among the Eoluro or the Semisant, or even the Ophhlians. It's easy to see but hard to quantify." Effortlessly, she boarded the skimmer.

  He followed and settled himself into the passenger seat. "I think you may be making too much of them, Fawn. The Parramati may be different from other social groupings on Senisran, but they don't strike me as par­ticularly unique. Reactionary, yes, but not unique."

  "I expect you're right." She powered up the skimmer's engine. In response to the rising whine, something with a tail three times the length of its body went screeching off through the trees. With wings that were feathered in front and membranous in the rear, it had the appearance of a marvelous kite whose string was being given random jerks and pulls by a mischievous child.

  The skimmer rose and pivoted to face the water. Fawn spoke without looking up from the console. "One thing I am sure of: we're never going to convince the Parramati to sign a treaty with us as opposed to the AAnn unless we can find a way to convince them that our road is the bet­ter one."

  He blinked a
t her. "Our `road'?"

  The skimmer slid out over the calm water of the inlet. Small silver‑sided cephalopods leaped into the air ahead of them, strips of mirror flashing in the sun.

  "According to the Parramati belief system, everything in the universe‑every person, every place, every dust mote‑is connected by roads. These roads are fixed and immutable. Many are irrelevant to the scheme of things, but many others link places of importance and power. The location of these important roads are marked by special stones."

  He turned thoughtful. "And each stone possesses cer­tain qualities, powers, or mystic ascriptions?" She nod­ded. "A fairly basic and straightforward mythology, not especially remarkable. I could list a dozen analogies off the top of my head, others after doing a little research. Cultural specifics of primitive sentients often overlap, re­gardless of species."

  They were out over the main lagoon now, accelerating as Fawn turned southward. "From my conversations with the Parramati, I've been able to make a short list of these stones. There are stones for healing, stones for fertility, for warding off disease or confounding enemies, and for forecasting the weather. There are stones that help in the steering of outriggers and stones for communicating with the spirits of dead ancestors.

  "Control of the stones is strictly hierarchical. The pa­triarch of a family charged with the keeping of a planting stone wouldn't try to swap rocks with the matriarch of a clan holding a fishing stone. Stone magic is handed down through family lines and helps to keep the peace among the Parramati. You can't fight with your neighbors be­cause you might want the assistance of their stones some day."

  "Very convenient and ingenious, but I still see nothing that could be considered remarkable." Pulickel shifted in his seat, watching the clear water race past several meters below them.

  As always, they found the station undisturbed. At their approach a gaggle of polutans‑short, two‑legged crea­tures with mournful dark eyes and incredibly ornate feath­ery crowns‑went loping away from the trash pile like a flurry of midget extras from the last act of a Puccini opera.