Raising The Stones (29 page)

“But you said we had no legends on Hobbs Land.”

“We don’t. We have no common ground to tie us together. So, when I want to say to you, China Wilm, that I love you as the greatest lovers ever loved, I have no names to put to them. What are Heloise and Hero to us? I read their stories, and it means nothing to me. Who are Gercord Thrust and his fair Madain? Do the words make any picture in your mind?”

She shook her head, beginning to comprehend what he was saying. “So when my son Jeopardy seeks to tell Saturday Wilm how he feels, kissing her, he has no words.”

“Ah,” he said, something wicked and sharp-toothed rearing inside him at hearing her say, “my son.” Abruptly, all his easy way with her was aground upon that particular stone in his craw. “Perhaps he will say, ‘Saturday, I love you as my mother loves my father.’”

She flushed, not speaking, balking at the word he insisted upon using, finally agreeing, “Perhaps he will.”

“And do you?”

She became very quiet. Now his voice was as it used to be, harshly demanding. Now it was like those other times, when he had wanted something from her and she hadn’t known what. “Would you be here, Sam, if I didn’t love you?”

“How would I know? I don’t know who’s been here since I was here last.” He gestured at the room, her room, into which she could invite anyone she chose.

She could have told him, no one. Perhaps she should have told him, no one, letting him lapse again into that peacefulness he had shown earlier, but it wasn’t something he should have asked. It wasn’t the way things were done among the Wilms. If she said, no one, then he would say no one until now, how about tomorrow? And if she said, no one tomorrow, he would say, what about next year? And before she knew it, she would be eaten up for all time, pledging herself where no one should have to pledge herself. “Time spins, people change,” so ran one saying in an old language.
“Vota errod, Erot vode
.” Or that Gharm poet Maire was always quoting. “A vow of forever stands like grass/against the scythes of change.” People did change. Even she might.

“You are here now, Sam,” she said, knowing it would not satisfy him. Knowing nothing would satisfy him.

“You will not say,” he muttered, getting out of the bed and standing at the window to see the rain. “Well, I have no better Hobbs Land words to use than these: I love you, China Wilm, as a creely loves its legs.” And he burst into harsh laughter. “The words do not satisfy me, China Wilm. I need others. Perhaps, someday, I will find them.”

She did not laugh with him. He was, perhaps, not the same man she had known before, but he was not a new man either. Something dwelt in Samasnier Girat that dwelt in no one else left on Hobbs Land. Wandering around at night was not enough. Fighting monsters was not enough. Exploring the miraculous new lakes and forests—even the brand new ones over near Settlement Three that no one had ever seen before—was not enough. He wanted something she could not give him, something no one could give him, and for a moment she wondered why he was still here, why he had not gone away with the other malcontents, wishing he would go.

So, for a time, she had loved him as she longed to do, but now the gentle time was spoiled, leaving her hurting and close to tears. She resolved once again to stay away from Sam Girat.

•     •     •

•
Shan, Bombi, and Volsa
arrived in their flier at Settlement One and were met at the flier park by Sam in a surface vehicle.

“You didn’t need to do this,” said Volsa, admiring Sam from beneath her lashes and thinking that, had she not been High Baidee, she would have set herself at this man. “We could have walked over to the guest quarters.”

“Topman, I could
not
have walked,” said Bombi dramatically, falling about in not entirely pretended exhaustion. “I could have walked no farther than the nearest bathhouse. I am
filthy
. I want nothing but water, hot water and peace.”

“What’s this I hear about your discovery?” asked Sam, with genuine curiosity. “Some kind of strange monument?” Monuments, any monuments, interested Sam greatly.

“Some kind of strange something,” admitted Bombi, “which we have
no
idea what is, except that, probably, it has been there for a
very
long time. Animal, vegetable, mineral, real or mythical, we cannot say. Something which occurs naturally or something which was built. By the Departed or by some former race. Or, by visitors, there’s always
that
possibility.”

“Remarkable,” said Sam, his mind spinning with a thousand questions. “Remarkable that it was never seen on survey maps.”

Volsa shook her head at him. “The area is wooded. The mounds might have shown up if there had been no trees. They would have shown up on instruments if they were of very dense material, but they don’t seem to be any more dense than the surrounding soil and rock. We just don’t know. We didn’t bring the proper equipment to do excavation. As a matter of fact, we’re not trained xeno-archaeologists, and we’ll undoubtedly be criticized for even putting a probe into the soil. Of course, when the Ancient Monuments Panel learns of the discovery, who is to say what may take place? We’ll probably be innundated by experts.”

“Interesting,” Sam murmured, thinking that the things they had found might have appeared recently, as certain other geographical features had, but not wanting to say so. Evidently these visitors had not noticed the new features, and Sam was no more eager than anyone to have teams from Thyker or Phansure or Ahabar investigating. He brought the vehicle to a halt beside the Supply and Admin building. “Guest quarters upstairs.”

“Hot water,” moaned Bombi.

“Hot water,” Sam agreed. “By the way, I’ve had some of our better cooks select and prepare food for you, in accordance with the information received by CM from your Religious Center. If anything seems improper or even doubtful, please let me know. I think we depended pretty heavily on poultry, fruits, grains, and vegetables.”

They left him to go to the upper floor and make themselves at home. Shan fell onto a bed and was asleep within moments. Bombi got himself under the water shower and began singing Thykerian mind-clearing mantras, loudly and tunefully. Bombi had an excellent voice and had sung during the recurrent opera revivals in Serena. Shan, who had an even better voice, had never evinced any interest in music.

Volsa used the sonic cleanser, which she preferred to getting wet, and then sat by the window, nibbling at the nicely prepared oddments she had found waiting on a tray in the kitchen and thinking of Sam Girat. It was all very well to be restrictive in one’s sexual pleasures, but on extended trips into places where there were no Baidee, one might desire to have other companions than one’s own brothers. It didn’t seem to bother Bombi much. Bombi had a tendency to take it or leave it, in almost any environment, and Shan had a strong touch of the ascetic in his makeup. For herself, however, Volsa preferred reasonably frequent access to acceptable companions. She decided to call Spiggy Fettle and ask him if he would join them for a few days when they returned to the escarpment. No point in making talk here in the settlement.

Here in the settlement. She watched it from the window, in all its dusty frontier guise: low, flat-roofed, sponge-panel buildings with wide porches; mostly unsurfaced roads; greenhouses stretching their glittering length toward the west; fields, which could be seen over the rooftops, green and orange and yellow and purple and dun, in wide rows and narrow, and no rows at all, reaching away on all sides, almost to the western horizon, where the suns flattened.

There were long, evening shadows across the streets. People went by purposefully, without hurrying. Children raced down the street and into a narrow alleyway and out again, shrieking, as children have always done. There were many cats. Volsa had expected that. Most farm settlements used cats, sometimes thousands of them, to keep the vermin in check. The local breed was sizeable, with large round heads, big eyes set well apart, and short hair. Some were plain-colored and some striped, and all had long, sinuous tails. Every now and then one of them looked up at her, standing quite still, tail carried low, one foot raised, eyes bright with a perspicacious, interested stare, as though to say, “Aha. Someone new.”

Bombi came out of the shower much refreshed and very wet, his long hair hanging in dark strings almost to his knees. “No fas-dry in there,” he complained. “Only towels.”

“Sit here in the sun,” she suggested. “It will dry quicker.” She stood behind him and plied the towels, several of them, until the long strands were only moist. Then she combed and braided his hair for him, as he often braided hers, the long, complicated braids that would end up wound tight under his turban. Volsa had often wished the prophetess had said
minds
instead
of heads
. How wonderful if she had said, “Don’t let anyone fool with your minds.” This business of never cutting one’s hair was a bore.

Music came to them, at first faintly and then more loudly.

“Are you dry enough to get dressed?” she asked.

He nodded, sighing as he heaved himself out of the chair. “You want to go see who’s singing?”

“It sounds interesting.” She leaned out of the window, trying to ascertain where the sounds were coming from. “Besides, we want to look at the temple, don’t we?”

“I have seen enough ruined temples to last me forever,” Bombi said.

“Shouldn’t we wake Shan?”

“Leave him.” Ever since they had found the mounds, Shan had become a pain, twitchy and jumping at shadows. Bombi frowned. “He needs his sleep.”

They went out into the air, found the ruined temples, and gave them a cursory once over, enough to know they were exactly like every other ruined temple upon the heights.

“What’s the music?” Volsa asked a passerby, a stout woman in a bright coverall.

“The choir?” she asked, surprised. “Oh, I’ve gotten so used to it, I don’t even hear it anymore. The children started a choir, many grown folk have joined, and Maire Girat is its leader. They practice out near the temple. Just follow the road across the stream, that way.” She pointed and smiled, then scurried away as they went in the direction she had indicated.

“Happy place,” commented Bombi, two lines appearing briefly between his brows. “Remarkably.”

“Everyone seems well-occupied,” agreed Volsa. “Busy.” The two of them walked in the direction indicated, toward the sound of the voices. “We should have brought Shan with us,” she fretted. “Except he’s been so strange lately. Have you any idea what’s wrong with him?”

“Only the Overmind knows,” Bombi replied shortly.

“Do you think it has something to do with that time, you know, the Porsa?”

Bombi frowned again. He had resolutely not been thinking about that. He had been very self-consciously not-remembering. Now he did remember, and it made him cross. When Shan had first returned from Ninfadel, he had driven them crazy. He had spent most of every day bathing, over and over, claiming the smell of the Porsa had permeated his flesh. Night after night he had scrambled from his bed, screaming, bringing his siblings running to shake, wake him, talk him into reality again. After ten times, a dozen, it had been too much for Volsa and Bombi. The doctors had been summoned, to give Shan things he could take to make him sleep, to teach him techniques for ridding himself of memory. The doctors couldn’t do it for him, since that would be fooling with his head. He had to learn to do it himself.

As he had done, Bombi reminded himself. As Shan had done. Shan had concentrated, had studied, had learned to control it. Give him full credit for that. He had been very strong. Now Bombi gave homage to that strength by saying, “Volsa, he was over that
years
ago. He’s all right. He’s just tired.” And he repeated the words silently to himself, reassuring himself. Shan was just tired.

“So we let him sleep,” said Volsa, willing to be convinced. It was what she wanted to believe. He was just tired.

They crossed the stream and noticed the ribbon-willows, which were quite different from the Topes of the heights. They saw the rebuilt temple without, at first, realizing what they were seeing. The thatched roof completely changed the shape of the thing. The brightly painted walls made it seem almost spritely, almost joyous. They both realized at the same moment.

“By the Overmind,” whispered Bombi. “A new one.”

“It startled me for a moment, too, though I don’t know why,” Volsa commented. “We knew the children of the settlement had rebuilt a temple. That’s what Zilia Makepeace told the Native Matters Advisory, after all. It’s what set her off in the first place.”

They thought for a moment of going in, but the choir drew their attention away from the structure, and they moved toward the singing. Childish trebles were soaring along with the women’s higher voices, deep bass notes anchoring their flight, the lighter baritones and tenors and contraltos filling the pattern with harmony. Highest and brightest of the voices was that of a child of about thirteen or fourteen lifeyears, standing at the front of the group, her voice tumbling through the harmony like that of an ecstatic bird.

“Let’s sit here on the grass and listen,” suggested Volsa. “They’re really quite good.”

“Not what I’d call up to professional standards, but yes, quite good,” agreed Bombi. They sat down on the grass, among a dozen settlers similarly engaged, falling under the spell of the music, letting the time pass gently.

Back in the settlement, in his room in the guest quarters, Shan Damzel dreamed he was once again on Ninfadel.

The dream started as his dreams had always started, with him just emerging from the Door to see the inside of the high-walled compound where several small buildings squatted on bare gravel amid stacks of supplies. Theoretically, the wall wasn’t necessary, not here on the highlands of Ninfadel. Nonetheless, a wall had seemed prudent to the bureau in Ahabar responsible for such things. In the dream, Shan already knew this.

A pile of food crates lay on the sand beside him. All food came from Ahabar. Food could have been grown on the highlands of Ninfadel, but the soil required much labor to produce anything worth eating, and no one stayed long enough on Ninfadel to make the effort worthwhile. Shan knew this, too.