Raising The Stones (34 page)

“Ma’am,” said the composer, who felt himself greatly honored by the commission, “even on Phansure we know Stenta Thilion. I’ve known her work all my life.”

And so he had. Stenta Thilion was a rare genius, one of those who were recognized early and who throughout their lives receive adulation with modesty and good humor. The First Symphony for Gharm-harp and Orchestra, when finished, met with both the conductor’s approval and that of Stenta Thilion herself. Rehearsals took place in an atmosphere of welling enthusiasm, and everyone who heard the work used words like
enchanting
and
marvelous
and
a new age in Ahabarian music
. It said much for the political savvy of the composer that he had used several familiar patriotic themes in the work—including a few motifs associated with the royal family—and much for the skill and good nature of the harpist that she played them with appropriate verve and ferocity.

Now there were only a few days left before the concert, which the Queen would attend with her sons, Crown Prince Ismer and Prince Rals, Duke Levenar. As for Stenta, the harpist rested at home with her two daughters, all of them quite excited about the impending event.

“Coribee, Gem, sit,” said Sarlia, the eldest daughter, a grandmother in her own right, to her mother. “Sit, Mama-gem. Take tea.”

“Don’t fuss at me,” murmured Stenta, smiling. “Don’t fuss.”

“Who fusses? Do I fuss? Does Liva fuss? We are fussless, no, Liva?”

“Fussless,” agreed her sister. “Totally, Sarlia.”

Stenta subsided onto the couch beside them, giggling. “You, fussless? Aha. Then would a new sun rise.”

“In a few days does a new sun rise,” said her daughter, bowing. “At the concert does the sun shine on Stenta Thilion, great artist.”

“Coribee,” blushed her mother, turning a dark, brick color. “Oh, coribee.” So she disclaimed her own talent and laid it upon the Gods of the Gharm, saying, “as the Tchenka will it.”

“No coribee about it. The Tchenka had, perhaps, a part in it. Mostly you did it yourself. Sadly, the Tchenka are mostly likely far away, on the old land. The Old Ones do not say they have followed to this one.” Sarlia shook her head in sorrow.

“Perhaps by now,” Stenta breathed through the steam of her teacup. “Perhaps by now.” There was great longing in her voice, a longing she did not need to explain to her daughters. The Tchenka were the spirits of the ancestors of Gharm, the spirits of the creatures of the planet Gharm, the kindly ones, the guardians. Since the planet Gharm had been first killed and then abandoned long ago, the Gharm did not know what had happened to the Tchenka. Since coming here, the Gharm had had no spiritual protection, and little kindness.

“I rejoice in my deliverance,” whispered Stenta. It was ungrateful to think of little kindness when all in Ahabar had been so kind.

“We pray solace for our kindred in bondage,” whispered her daughters in response. “Coribee.”

Though it was hard to enjoy one’s own deliverance when so many remained behind. It was Stenta’s grandmother and grandfather who had made the escape from Voorstod. Stenta herself was the second generation of Thilions born in freedom. Her great-grandchildren, Sarlia’s and Liva’s grandchildren, were the fifth. Even after all these generations, the plight of the Gharm remaining in Voorstod was a constant pain, not only in an emotional sense, but also in a physical one. What one Gharm felt, all Gharm somewhat perceived, a sensation attenuated by distance but still identifiable. If a Gharm died painfully in Voorstod, all free-Gharm knew of it in their bellies, and wept for it, not only for the pain but for the loss. Since many Gharm died in Voorstod, their deaths weighed upon the free-Gharm in an endless melancholy. The Gharm at home in Ahabar were in many respects no freer than their kindred in Voorstod, though here in Fenice there were thousands of miles and many years separating the Gharm population from the deadly peninsula.

Stenta sat upon a cushioned chair and held out her cup to be refilled by her eldest child. A disinterested observer would have seen no apparent difference in their ages. The slight, lithe forms were of a kind. The tight caps of dark fur were identical. The eyes and button noses and unlined skins appeared no different in the daughters than in the mother. Even the sinuous movements of arms, the mannered extensions of the four-fingered, two-thumbed hands, the ritual courtesies of full and half-obeisance, were the same in both generations, save that Stenta did not bow quite so deeply nor kneel so swiftly. As the eldest, the Gem (for the Gharm saw their old people as jewels to be treasured), she was entitled to deference, no matter that the outsider would scarcely notice how much was given her. Among themselves, they were aware, and what others thought or perceived about so private a matter was of no concern.

Now Liva, seeing the strain settle upon her mother’s face at the mention of kindred in bondage, cast a quick glance at Sarlia and begged, “Tell us of the Tchenka, Mama-gem.”

“You have heard,” the older woman breathed into the steam of her teacup. “Ten thousand times.”

“Were it ten thousand times ten thousand, it were not enough,” said Liva, ritually. “No retelling is too much.”

“So much is true,” Stenta agreed. The stories of the Tchenka were the heritage of the Gharm, to be passed on intact and unchanged to all future generations. Even though the Tchenka themselves might have been left behind—and no one was sure whether they had stayed or died or followed—still their history should be told. They were the spirits of the Gharm, no matter how long ago or faraway. It behooved every Gharm to hear; and hearing, tell; and telling, teach.

Stenta began, singing in the breathy chant that was the best she could manage these days, “Long ago was Billa-needful …”

•
Long ago was
Billa-needful, waking out of darkness and emptiness, aware only of a something-hunger. What am I? Billa asked itself. Why do I wake thus? Where do I find myself? When is this time, beforeness or afterness? Who is in this place with me?

Long did Billa meditate upon these questions, until at last Billa decided to test first whether any other being was present. So Billa sang one note, sending it into the darkness and emptiness until all the void was filled with the note. And the note went away into silence, leaving no echo and no answer.

There is no answer, so then, I am alone, said Billa-needful. And since there comes no echo, I am in empty; and since there comes no echo, I am before anything has occurred; and since I am before, I wake to create; and since I am in empty, I am All-There-Is-Now.

And long Billa meditated upon these answers, until at last Billa decided to create others which would echo.

I shall make others, said Billa. I shall make some to sing with me. So, Billa-needful sang into the nothing one song, and it was named He-Is-Accomplished. And Billa-needful sang another song, and it was named She-Goes-On-Creating. And He-Is-Accomplished was a male and She-Goes-Creating was a female, and the two of them went out into the nothing where they sang with Billa-needful until all of nothingness was full of song.

And He-Is-Accomplished heard the song and was content, but She-Goes-On-Creating took the song and rounded it and made many worlds of it, large and small, and set the smooth songs spinning around the fiery songs and the cold songs spinning around the smooth songs, and all music gathered up to leave no sound between so that the songs spun in silence. And when Billa-needful saw what she had done, Billa-needful was pleased, saying, “Now may happenings occur and one thing cause another and time come into creation and the reason for my being be fulfilled.”

But He-Is-Accomplished was uncomfortable, for there was much doing and confusion among the circling worlds, so that He-Is-Accomplished suffered greatly from itchiness.

“There is peace in silence between the worlds,” he said, moving away from the worlds, “and that is where I will dwell.”

So Billa-needful encircled all, watching what occurred, while He-Is-Accomplished dwelt in silence and She-Goes-On-Creating dwelt in song, and so all was inhabited. So say all Gharm, so be it,
coribee.

•
The annunciator at
the door brought all three of them to their feet. “Someone comes!” cried the mechanical voice, like metal foil, blowing in the wind.

Liva motioned the other two to sit. “I will see to it,” she said.

“Careful,” her mother said, out of habit. “Do not open unless you’re sure.” There was no such thing as safety, not even here in Fenice. Not when the men of Voorstod were determined upon killing every Gharm they could. How many of the innocent had died for no reason at all save the vicious pride of the Voorstoders? So now, Stenta repeated, “Careful.”

“So, Mama-gem,” Liva agreed. She peered at the door screen, noting the royal livery on the man carrying the package, the label and shape of the box he bore. “Your gown for the concert, Mama-gem! From the Queen’s own dressmaker.”

Liva opened the door, presented a finger for the messenger’s snipper to painlessly drag away a cell or two, and accepted the box. The royal page stepped inside and opened it for her, thus showing there was no danger in it. In these days of the Voorstod terror, so much was courtesy on Queen Wilhulmia’s instructions.

Liva carried the box in one hand, the frock over both arms as she returned to the inner room like a moving sheaf of diamonds, glitteringly resplendent, a preserved rainbow of light.

“Oooh,” breathed Stenta, who had been fitted only into the basic garment, before the Phansurian bead-artists had been at it. “Oooh.”

Upon the high-necked breast of the dress was worked the heads and bodies of two saber birds, facing one another. Their head and wing plumes arched away onto the shoulders and down onto the drooping, bannerlike sleeves of the dress. Tail plumes filled all the space to the hem, every plume with a gemmed eye. On the back of the dress, butterflies flew from the hem toward the neck, around a space of Phansuri silk at the hip and thigh, where Stenta would sit, filling all the rest with glittering beauty. The saber bird was the clan Tchenka of Stenta’s mother. The butterfly was the clan Tchenka of Stenta’s father. Stenta had been born out of the Butterfly people into the Saber-bird people, though there were neither butterflies nor saber birds where any of them had lived for generations. On the neckband of the gown was a tiny frog, worked in emerald beads. The frog was Stenta’s personal Tchenka. The dress was of scarlet and yellow and every shade between these two: wine and gold, pink and melon, orange and ochre.

The style was an adaptation of that traditional to the Gharm for festive occasions, though there had not been within living memory such a gorgeous or extravagant application of tradition. Sarlia stroked the beads, marveling at their chilly, heavy surface, like flowing metal.

“Mama-gem,” said Sarlia, “the sleeves are so heavy. Surely you will not be able to play, wearing this.”

Stenta came forward to peer closely at the garment. In a moment she found the seams she sought, opened them, and removed the sleeves. Beneath were other sleeves, close, light ones of Phansuri silk, red as new blood.

“I come on the stage all glorious,” announced Stenta with a straight face, walking with decorous steps around the room. “I glitter and shine and bow to the conductor, and he to me. I bow to the audience, holding out my arms so the sleeves hang down like flags. I wave my hands, so, showing yet once more how graceful we Gharm are. I go to the harp. I seat myself, being careful that under me is this place on the dress where there are no butterflies to make uncomfortable places on my bottom. I hold out my arms, straight, letting the sleeves glitter. A woman comes from the wings and leans above me, unfastens my sleeves, and takes them away. The undersleeves are red, very highly visible, so everyone will see how my arms move. So, now I may play. So we have rehearsed it, to make a show. The conductor says I am so small, I must shine like fire for them all to see me.”

“Beautiful,” said Liva. “I’ll hang it up, Mama-gem.”

“No,” her mother instructed. “The beads are too heavy, You must lay it flat, in the spare bedroom. The Queen’s dressmaker told me. Even so, it will stretch a little during the concert. It was made to wear only this one time.”

“And the bracelets?”

“What bracelets?”

“The ones in the box with the dress,” said Sarlia, drawing them out. They glittered with the same colors as the gown, though their faceted surfaces were set with gems rather than beaded.

“Ah, ah, how kind of the Queen,” said Stenta. “She does too much.”

“I’ll put them with the dress,” said Liva. “Then Mama can tell more of the Tchenka.”

She went off to the guest room, returning a few moments later to refill their teacups and demand that the story of He-Is-Accomplished and She-Goes-On-Creating be continued.

•
She-Goes-On-Creating
wandered a time upon the worlds and among the stars, singing as they sang, but the surfaces of the worlds were dull and uninteresting, like beads, while the surfaces of the stars were furious and uncomfortable. “I will sing life,” said She-Goes-On-Creating, as she stood upon a world, “I will sing life to make things more comfortable.” And she put out her hand and sang water into being, and then grass into being, and when they were created, she put them on many of the worlds while she sang forest into being.

After that she sang Water-Dragon into being, and after Water-Dragon, she sang Desert-Dragon, and after Desert-Dragon, Forest-Dragon, and then all other dragons of every kind, and sent them to the various worlds where they were to live …

•
“You don’t want
me to say the entire catalog, surely,” said Stenta. “You have known the list of the Tchenka since you were eight!”

“So we have,” Liva agreed. “Dragons first, then fish that eats grass in all its kinds, fish that eats on the bottom in all its kinds, fish that eats other fish the same; then bird that eats grass, bird that eats in the field, bird that eats other birds; so on and so on, creatures of every kind. All the Tchenka, lost forever.”