Authors: Gardner Duzois
It was Lord Vrome.
Farber gasped and fell back against the wall, too stunned even to be afraid. “Lord Vrome!” he whispered, feeling the blood drain out of his face and his lips go numb. The man turned to look at him, that impossible face unruffled and remote, and said, “You are mistaken. I am not Lord Vrome. My name is Tanar
sur
Riné.” He brushed past Farber—who shrank away from his touch—and continued on down the alley, and was lost in musty darkness within five paces.
Farber stared after him long after there was anything to see. It
had
been Lord Vrome: the face was the same, line for line, the body and posture and gait the same, only the style of clothes different.
But, at the same time, it
couldn’t
have been Lord Vrome.
Farber started walking again, his skin crawling, looking fearfully into dark corners as he passed them, the uncanny silence and mystery of the Old City pressing down on him like a hand.
That night, Farber dreamed that he was present at the Creation of Life.
This was before anything had come into being, even mountains and oceans, and the world was smooth and gray as a billiard ball.
Farber—or Farber’s viewpoint, rather, since he had no body—was hovering just above a flat ashen plain that seemed to stretch to infinity in all directions. As he watched, the gods appeared on the horizon, looking down into the world. There were two of them, immensely tall, vaguely humanoid, with the blank, rough-hewn, oversized faces of Easter Island statues. Stiffly, the two gods—each miles high, storms and lightnings playing unheeded around them—began to walk ponderously forward, the ashy ground sinking and smoking under their weight. They walked steadily forward, side by side, looking straight ahead, past Farber’s viewpoint and away toward the horizon, shrinking to the size of big-headed Tiki totems, disappearing around the curve of the planet. Behind them they left a long double-line of deep-sunken footprints, each footprint filled with water and suffused with an eerie blue glow. Slowly, the footprints began to widen, merging together, spreading out in ever-increasing circles, and the Elder Creatures who inhabited the ashen plain, creatures who lived without being alive and without recourse to flesh, dwellers in the primordial Chaos, drew back in dismay before the steadily spreading advance of these pockets of causality and life—when they joined together, meeting each other after spreading around the planet, Chaos would be exiled, time would have begun, and the Fertile Earth would be born.
Farber tilted his viewpoint to look down into the puddle of water at the bottom of one of the gods’ footprints, at the squirming, wiggling life that bred there.
The puddle was full of worms.
The worms had Liraun’s face.
15
Sometimes Jacawen
sur
Abut, Liraun’s half-uncle, would come to visit them. Apparently this was motivated by polite custom more than by familial affection, as both Liraun and Jacawen were very formal with each other, most of their exchanges seeming to conform to a set ritual. But Jacawen didn’t know what to do with Farber. There was no ritual there to tell him how to act—the situation was unique. The man was there, he must be treated with, an interrelation must be formed. But what? Jacawen knew how to relate to outworlders: it was part of his job, and appropriate custom had evolved. But, like it or not, Farber could no longer be considered an outworlder—he was now tied by blood to Jacawen’s own House and Tree, he was, by law, a relative. Jacawen, however, found it impossible to accept him fully in that role either. Try as he might, Jacawen could not wholeheartedly attune himself to familial ritual with this huge, obstreperous alien. And Farber’s ignorance of the proper forms made things even more difficult. There was nothing left but to attempt to deal with Farber on an extemporaneous, one-to-one basis, unguided by custom or ritual, neither knowing what the other expected of him—a horrifying prospect for a Cian, especially one of Jacawen’s aloof and aristocratic caste.
To give Jacawen his due, he made a conscientious attempt to do it. Jacawen was a Shadow Man. Like the Apache
Netdahe
or the
Yaqui-Yori
of Old Earth, his philosophy was one of unwavering hostility to all outlanders, to all intruders. Unlike the
Netdahe
, he was not obliged to kill them on sight. Social contact with outlanders was regarded, by the Shadow Men, as a distasteful but unavoidable condition of interstellar commerce, which in turn was acknowledged as a necessary evil. Cian
Angst
rarely worked itself out in violence anyway—not socially directed group violence, at least, though there were many duels. Nevertheless, the hostility was there. Jacawen was trained to regard outlanders with polite scorn and bristling suspicion. He did. He would have had difficulty reacting to them in any other way. He did not like Farber. He did not approve of Farber—everything about the Earthman reeked of an offensive and contaminating unorthodoxy. He had been outraged by Farber’s marriage to Liraun, and was forever estranged from them by it. It was a wound that could never heal. But, by the custom of his people, he was obliged to seek synchronization of spirit with the despised outlander. It was unthinkable that he do this by increasing his tolerance of Farber’s unorthodoxy—ignorance of the Way was no excuse; its Harmony lay waiting to be discovered at the heart of all creatures, of all things, and if Farber had not found it, then it was a sin of omission on Farber’s part. Therefore, if they were to synchronize, it was Farber who must change. To this end, Jacawen spent long hours patiently explaining to Farber what, in his opinion, was wrong with the Earthmen’s way of life.
“You go too fast.” he said once, unconsciously echoing Ferri’s words. “You have no patience. You do not understand what you see, and you will not wait for understanding to come, you just rush ahead, so
fast
.” He blinked, shaking his head, groping for expression. “You are all so hungry. You are
aggressive
—” he used the Cian term, which translated as “The Mouth (Which) Is Always Hungry.” “You are
ambitious
” he used the English word here, as this concept could not be translated into his language at all—-”and you go so fast that you cannot watch the ground under your feet, and so you smash what is around you. Like wild things, you are dangerous even when you are not overtly hostile. You are too much enmeshed in the external world, the world of flesh and duration, and you do not perceive the inside of the world or of yourselves. It is a disease with you, a contamination, this thing that lets you see only the one aspect.” He paused, and his expression shifted from somber to grim. “We, the Shadow Men, have that disease too, although we suffer from it much less. That is why we can deal with you, why we can understand you at all. We are aberrant, abnormal, but we have our purpose—the burden of earthly government is left to us. We serve as buffers for the rest of our people. We are barriers against the contamination of corporeality that creatures such as yourself spread. This is our pride and our sorrow—honor to us that we guard our people so, shame to us that we are tainted enough to be able to do so.”
And so on, throughout the night.
Farber did not understand. Jacawen did not understand Farber.
After a while, in spite of tradition, Jacawen stopped coming at all.
Farber began to spend time with Genawen
sur
Abut, Liruan’s father, and Jacawen’s older half-brother. Although one of the Thousand Families, Genawen was not a Shadow Man—you had to become one, you could not be born into the cult—and didn’t seem to share Jacawen’s dislike of aliens. He was a shrewd, jovial old man, and he ran a large household with benevolent firmness. His house was a rambling stone structure fronting the Square of the Ascension, at the far end of the Esplanade.
Genawen’s wife was a Mother at the time, and that gave him and Farber some common ground for conversation, although Genawen seemed to want to spend most of his time complaining about how his wife was simply ruining his household staff during her period of authority over them. But what was disrupting Genawen’s household the most at the moment, it seemed, was what looked to Farber like a circus parade, sans elephants, in the inner courtyard.
“What in the world is that?” Farber asked, as Genawen led him around the flagstone rim of the courtyard.
“It’s the rehearsal for my wife’s Procession,” Genawen answered.
“But what’s a Procession, anyway’?”
Genawen stopped dead. He stared at Farber in amazement. “What’s a Procession?” he murmured blankly, and then he said: “What’s a Procession! Oh, ho ho ho! By the First Dead Ancestor, Mr. Farber, do you know that I’m not really sure how to tell you what it is. I’ve never had to explain it to anyone before. Oh, ho ho ho!” Genawen always laughed by saying “Ho ho ho!” like Santa Claus, with perfect enunciation and never an extra “ho!”—or a missing one. He even looked something like Santa Claus, minus the beard: bushy eyebrows, ruddy cheeks, fat jelly-bowl stomach. Since his wife was pregnant, he was in lactation, and his six pendulous breasts flopped up and down when he laughed. “Well, let’s see, how do I explain,” Genawen began, becoming more serious. “You know that my wife, Owlinia, is a Mother, and she’s pretty close to term. She should be delivering any day now, as a matter of fact. Well, these people will escort her to the Birth House when she’s ready—you do know about the Birth Houses, don’t you?”
“Yes, Liraun mentioned them just the other day.”
“Well,” Genawen continued, “the Procession will escort her to the Birth House, sort of like a—” he groped through his small stock of Terran referents.
“—an honor guard?” Farber suggested.
“Yes,” Genawen said, “that fits well, although you must realize that there are solemn religious aspects to it as well. That’s why those men are in costume, and why some are carrying Talismans, or idols, as you people would have it—although that doesn’t quite get the concept across. Many represent People of Power, or symbolize natural forces.”
“What does that one represent?” Farber said, nodding toward a Cian who was dressed head to toe in an odd gray costume, which was covered in turn with soft downy hair—he had big staring circles of red and black paint around his eyes, and gilded false canine teeth that were almost a foot long.
“That’s one of the Fetuses,” Genawen replied, “and it is ill luck to talk of what they represent, especially for men in our position, with Mothers almost ready to go on Procession. The proper forms must be observed in these things. That’s why there are always at least two of the Twilight People with a Procession, a
twizan
and a
soúbrae
.”
As if responding to a cue, a
soúbrae
picked that instant to come out of one of the encircling buildings and enter the courtyard. This was the same emaciated, hatchet-faced Old Woman who had presided at Liraun’s Naming, Farber realized. She glided like an iceberg through the sea of brilliant costumes, giving orders with a word, a nod, a curt gesture. They were instantly obeyed. The
soúbrae
stopped momentarily, and stared at Farber. Farber returned her gaze. It was obvious that she recognized him. She flared her nostrils, gave him a look of cold disapproval, and moved on. She seemed to leave a chill behind her even in the dusty afternoon courtyard.
“I don’t think she likes me.” Farber said.
Genawen shrugged.
“What does
soúbrae
mean anyway?” Farber asked.
“It is an archaic word,” Genawen said. “It means ‘Sterile One.’ ”
“She looks it, too,” Farber said. “Sterile as a rock.”
Genawen grinned. “Oh, ho ho ho! You had best be careful, Mr. Farber. Some of them have power. She might curdle the milk in your paps!”
“I’m not worried,” with a lazy grin.
“Eh?” Genawen said. Then: “Oh, ho ho ho!” again as the joke hit him.
Farber was counting. “How many men in this Procession, ah, twenty?”
“Twenty-five in this one.”
Farber whistled, then clicked his lips for Genawen’s benefit, as the Cian did not whistle in surprise. “That must be expensive.” He suddenly looked worried. “Am I supposed to pay for Liraun’s Procession?”
“No, the government, by custom, will always finance at least a small Procession for any Mother of Shasine. Of course, if you want extra marchers, or expensive costumes, then you must pay for it, as I have here. Oh, ho ho ho! Though I won’t be able to afford it for long, by the Second Dead Ancestor, if Owlinia keeps mismanaging the budget—”
But Farber wasn’t listening. There was a thought in the back of his head that kept itching for attention, but he couldn’t quite reach it to scratch.
He forgot it.
A week later, Farber met Genawen again in a little park at the foot of Kite Hill. Genawen and a young Cian woman were strolling six babies in a complicated, crowded wheelbarrow-wagon.
Farber greeted them, and Genawen insisted on picking up one of the babies and thrusting it enthusiastically under the Earthman’s nose. The baby began to cry, just as enthusiastically.
“Oh, ho ho ho!” Genawen said. “A fine litter, don’t you think! Just listen to him squall!”
“They look very healthy,” Farber said.
“Too healthy,” Genawen replied. He had switched the baby to one of his fat, glistening, breasts, now left exposed in the fashion of nursing fathers. “They hurt when they suck too hard.”
Farber suppressed a smile. They stood in silence for a moment, looking down over the sprawl of New City below, while Genawen fed another insistent baby. The young woman remained in the background, looking on.
Finally Genawen noticed her. He beckoned her forward, and put a meaty hand on her shoulder. They both smiled at Farber, Genawen enthusiastically, the girl shyly. “Mr. Farber,” Genawen said enthusiastically, “I’d like you to meet my new wife.”
The next time, Farber managed to catch the elusive thought in his head.
He instantly wished that he hadn’t.
16
Farber left work early the next day and went in search of a Birth House. They were not easy to find—the Cian sense of propriety dictated that they must be unadorned, nondescript buildings, and there was no Cian equivalent of a telephone directory. But one of Farber’s workmates had taken his wife to the Birth House a few days before, and although he had stonily refused to answer any of the Earthman’s excruciatingly impolite questions about the process, Farber had overheard him describing the route of the Procession to his friends. Farber had a vague idea, then, as to the location of one of the Birth Houses anyway.