Wulfsyarn: A Mosaic (11 page)

Jon Wilberfoss unpacked slowly, almost ritualistically, placing his clothes methodically in the cupboard and his toilet articles in the shower alcove. He had a picture of Medoc and his children and this he placed on the table next to the Musca Lavender. Then he stripped off his robe and underclothes and yawned hugely scratching himself simultaneously on his crotch and ribs. “Wulf,” he said. “You can record that my first positive decision since entering this retreat is to try and sleep. I feel heavy and sad and don’t know why. By rights I should be happy. But I’m not.
(At this point Wilberfoss climbed into bed.)
Is this because at any turning point in our lives we are aware of the alternatives which we must now
(yawn)
forsake? Don’t bother to reply. I’m just
(yawn)
ruminating. Will you be with me for die entire forty days?”

“I may occasionally have to visit Magister Tancredi if there are special translating tasks. But beyond that I am to remain with you and help you in any way I can.” “Good.
(Pause.)
I’m glad you . . .
(yawn)
I’m glad. . .
(pause)
There’s a high tower to . . . and cold hills to . . .” I have never watched a human fall asleep before. Wilberfoss’s voice became a drawl which lost articulation with his first deep breath. The face relaxed and became vacant and vulnerable. I saw for the first time the face with which I became so deeply familiar after his return.

Lily moved into the room and picked up and folded Wilberfoss’s clothes. A dexetel snaked out and lightly nipped his earlobe. Another dexetel reached across his chest and dipped into his armpit. Lily took readings. “He will sleep for several hours,” she said. “There is great disturbance in him. Has he been in an accident?” “Not really. Though your question makes sense. He has to make a decision. He has been invited to captain the
Nightingale.”

If I had expected any reaction from Lily I would have been disappointed. Spaceships are spaceships to Lily. I suspect she either thinks of them as bringers of death, as in the War of Ignorance, or as Houses of Pain, in which she might serve professionally, or merely as bigger and more complex machines than ourselves. As I have indicated before, Lily lacks curiosity and philosophy. She has a basic drive to protect and nurture life. She will patch up a soldier: but it would never occur to her to investigate and exterminate the causes of war.

This brings me to a speculation which I hope you will forgive at this inopportune juncture in the story. What would happen if Lily and Wulf were to mate? (Not literally of course.) I think there would be contradiction and we oil cans cannot function with contradiction. We must always be seeking the radical sole cause. But, if an asteroid of cold iron had somehow gained the gift of life and evolved into us, then perhaps we could have tolerated contradiction. As it is, we are the offspring of part of the human mind. We are not autonomous and never can be. So, Lily and Wulf are good and will remain so, while solo. End of speculation.

Lily attached a small radio pad behind Wilberfoss’s ear. This allowed her to monitor his activity at a distance. She would know when he was lifting from sleep. “I will serve him broth when he awakes,” she said and then turned and rolled from the room.

What was there for me to do? I cannot read dreams. There seemed no point in waiting like a body guard while my charge slept. I decided to explore Lily’s domain. I let myself drift through the door.

The morning was well advanced and the sun had disappeared. A light rain was coming in from the sea and bending over the tops of leaves and running down the trunks and stems and entering the soil. This is not good weather for machines but I have survived much worse—much, much worse—in my time. I rose up through the branches of a Builder Tree and let its thin outer fronds slide over my domed bulk. In the top canopy of the tree I paused and scanned. From this height I could see over the walls of Lily’s Garden and up the hillside of the Pacifico Monastery. There were people bustling. It was an ordinary day.

Scanning round, I could see the hills of the garden and the varied patterns of trees. In the middle, standing tall,

rose the shape of the Pectanile. It was placed on a small plateau almost on the crest of a hill. Dampened by the rain, the stonework was creamy. I drifted toward it, noticing the many tracks which ran through the garden, all leading to the Pectanile hill. Many trees were in blossom. There were rhododendrons, their massive flowers glowing like lanterns, red and purple and pink. Beside them were the blazing orange spires of the Flamboyant and the deep blue clusters of the Mizzen Tree. This is a very rare tree and difficult to grow, I am told. It comes from a distant and very cold world and the tree is believed to be telepathic! I have never been able to understand that, a telepathic plant. However, it is the human confreres who have reported this and they should know for they deal in such kinds of contact. I have it on record that one confrere, Jerichim by name, came to believe that one of the Mizzen Trees hated him and despite the entreaties of his friends and the deep counsel of his training, he went out and hung himself from one of its high branches. That means that he must have climbed. That argues compulsion coming from somewhere. On such things I ponder, trying to understand the human. I spent several hours drifting through these trees, trying to sense their natures. But as always in such quests I discovered nothing beyond the obvious facts that they have life and resonate.

I drifted to the hill where the Pectanile stands and then cruised over its open mouth. I could see down inside it to where its pool of rain-water reflected the gray sky. It reflected me, like the face of a giant warrior peering over the rim of some ancient fortification or staring into his wineglass before battle.

From this aspect the Pectanile looked like a plant, a Pitcher Plant perhaps which gathers water in order to drown its victims or a Sala in which the Tallines keep fish. Ah! That similarity could be another origin of the Pectanile. I have never seen that noted before.

There was sudden movement below me. One of the Talline women clambered out of the cave mouth of the Pectanile and down the steps. She jumped down to the ground and looked up and saw me and screamed and ran away into the bushes. I had disturbed her in her meditation. She had been resting inside the artifact as part of her cure, perhaps staring into the rain-water pool, when my savage face appeared.

I meant no harm. I was not spying. Why do people so often regard the unexpected or the strange as threatening?

I moved on. I drifted west and flew over the river which here passed through a narrow gorge. There were limestone shapes on either side of the gorge where small tributaries entered the main stream. The rock had been carved into shapes like animals by the rushing streams. Perhaps Talline artistry had also played its part for the Tallines love finding patterns in Nature.

There must have been minerals present too for the river became a bright, greenish blue as it flowed over the limestone and swirled in the pools. I explored the caves, many of which were large enough for me to enter. There were Talline drawings inside. I was surprised, though I should not have been. When I thought about this afterward I concluded that I could think of no place more apt for the frank depictions of Talline life than a cave where water flows. I made a thorough photographic survey.

Beyond the gorge the river began to meander and became a marsh which lapped and quaked through many low arches and so flowed out to the sea. Seagulls were feeding with a shrill clamor, beating the water with their wings as they competed for the small eels in the rich ooze. I paused in my wanderings to watch. At that moment as I looked down on the wheeling birds, as I drifted high over the garden wall and came in sight of the sea, Lily called me. Wilberfoss was waking up.

The waking minutes of a human are precious for in those moments a human may utter ideas from the deepest part of the mind. Invariably, .unless specially trained, the human cannot remember the moment of dreaming. Yet Wilberfoss might need those involuntary thoughts to help him with his decision.

I flew like a thrown rock the short distance from the sea to the inner garden wall where Wilberfoss’s cell was located. Lily was heaving herself over the threshold reminding me of one of the old automatic incendiary tanks which we used to see in the War of Ignorance. Of course, their technology is similar.

As I swooped down, I noticed how well this cell was constructed. It gave an impression of smallness, of tidy domesticity and of great antiquity. Yet Lily could enter quickly and maneuver. I began to suspect then, and subsequently verified, that this simple cell was in reality a complex hospital room with facilities to cater for Tallines, humans and Close Metabolism aliens, should the need arise.

Wilberfoss was still asleep but turning restlessly and he had his hands up over his ears as though to stop a voice he did not want to hear. Then he put his arms to his side and came awake peacefully. He stared at us for a moment, without comprehension, and then laughed. “I have woken in many strange places,” he said, “but never to be met with such care and attention. Medoc had better watch out. You’ll ruin me.”

“You are hungry,” said Lily in her matter-of-fact way. She has no humor. A section of her tin belly slid open to reveal a tray on which were cutlets, steamed fish, bread and a beaker of hot black tuvu which is mildly intoxicating and which the Tallines drink at all hours.

It is made from a variety of seaweed.

Wilberfoss received the tray and began to eat with gusto. Lily watched him. Her eyes are twin lamps set high on her frame. She was simply glad to see him eat. I noted that there was a kind of glee about him.

When he had finished Lily received the tray and dishes. “Will you rest again or take mild exercise?” she questioned. “Mild exercise helps the digestive tract and is advis—”

“All right. Mild exercise it is. A walk in the garden.”

“Would you like me to accompany you?” I asked, bobbing in the air.

“Not for the time being,” he replied, and I had the impression that Wilberfoss was deliberately excluding me. I decided to press my case.

“I have great powers of analysis,” I said. “I can detect patterns.”

Wilberfoss looked at me and nodded. “I am aware of your powers, Wulf, and when I need you, rest assured I will ask you. But at present I need to be alone. I have no thoughts. I want to ride my indecision. I will be strange, but I will eventually know my mind.” With that he swung from his bed.

Wilberfoss dressed himself in loose Talline robes. These allow a lot of air to the body. He was ready in minutes. He walked outside and followed the path which led back to the river. When he came to the Savior Trees he branched off the path and climbed a short steep hill at the top of which were stoops of sweet-smelling bracken. He trod an area flat and settled down, lying with his back against a tree and his legs spread. In the distance, perhaps half a mile from him, was the shape of the Pectanile.

He saw that I had followed him, drifting at a discreet distance, and he waved me to go away, as though he were shooing a dog from a vegetable patch. I had no choice but to obey. I was not a spy.

So let me tell you. During the entire time that Wilberfoss was in the garden, he never once asked me for help. I did the occasional letter for him but that was all. He never once shared with me his thinking, and that in itself, in retrospect, was sinister.

Two days later, as you know, I was called away to discover what was happening with Medoc and why she had posted the declaration of divorce.

When I returned to the garden I found that Wilberfoss had indeed changed. He had taken to walking about the garden naked. His sleep patterns were erratic and sometimes he slept outside, with just a blanket over him. He rolled up close to the Katarapa, with its pink and white flowers glowing over him.

I have said before that Lily’s Garden is an ancient Talline garden. In combination its trees and shrubs can have an awesome effect on the human metabolism. The smell of some leaves can bring sweet dreams. Others burned and the smoke inhaled can induce trance. There are glades of silence which I cannot explain but where there are no sounds but the flexing of the trees. It is as though such areas were surrounded by a fine membrane which filters out any distracting sounds. There are places of moist shadow where the sun never reaches and the plants grow pale. Occasionally, especially close to the Pectanile, you will come across small clearings in which flowers have been planted. This is an old custom and one which is now felling into disuse but in the days before the garden became part of the Pacifico Monastery, the garden was a place for lovemaking. Those who felt their lovemaking had been particularly successful or significant would often return to the garden and plant flowers and sometimes vegetables. Some parts of the garden are left wild and if you were to ask a native Talline such as Medoc about these areas she would say that they are for the old spirits. Anyone can walk there, but there is no planting and no cutting. Many parts of this planet remain wild. On the rare but significant occasions when a Talline commits suicide, it is invariably in one of the wild areas and frequently in one of the gardens.

I mention all this merely to document that Wilberfoss wandered throughout the entire garden. He entered the wild parts where I could not follow him and came out stung or bruised or with an ankle twisted. He lay on his back in the sunshine in the flower glades, indecent as a dog. He climbed into the Pectanile and spent hours beside its quiet pool. And all the time, though I could not gather his words, he was talking to himself. He was, of course, seeking out some mystical experience which would vindicate or sterilize his invitation to become the Captain of the
Nightingale.

Well, it is an old saying among humans that if you go looking for a mystical experience you will surely find one. And nowhere better to go looking than in a Talline garden.

As Wilberfoss identified with the spirit of the garden, so he slowly shed some of the trappings of civilization and became simpler and more concentrated. This is the essence of retreat, is it not: that everything becomes more completely charged and more tranquil? The narcotics floating in the air of the garden helped too, no doubt. And just as day follows night and fruit follows blossom so Wilberfoss achieved his mystical experience which he took to be affirmation. Let us acknowledge also that if ever a man were prone to mystical visitation, that man was Jon Wilberfoss.