Fish Tails (2 page)

Abasio patted him forgivingly on his shoulder. “Your mistake is understandable. And your patronymic, sir?”

“ . . . Uh . . . patro . . .”

“Your father's name?”

“Also Bertram . . .”

“Then you are Bertram Bertramson . . .  ?”

“No, sir, Bertram Stitchhand, sir, one of the Volumetarian Stitchhands.” Had he not been incapable of doing so from birth, Bertram would have paled. He clapped his hand over his mouth instead. What had he done! What had he said! Why had he said it!

This time Abasio smiled from honest amusement, though he had no energy left to inquire into either the Stitchhands or the Volumetarians. His body was dirty, every crease of it was filled with the detritus that joins with sweat to form an intimate muck, an invasive slurry that itches and complains, drawing all attention only to itself. He was tired with the weariness that doubts the existence of sleep. Xulai, too, was tired, dirty, hungry, and petulant as a . . . dyspeptic pig! They desperately needed a few days' rest,
if this man would only cooperate by giving them an excuse to take such a rest before Xulai committed all three of them and the babies to enmity everlasting.

Swallowing the exhausted sigh that was threatening to swallow him, Abasio said clearly, uttering each word separately, peering into Bertram's eyes to make sure the man understood him: “As I had begun to say, many of the children born during the next century or two will resemble these children you see here. They will live in the seas. The temperature of the seas is fairly constant, changing only gradually. However, our young ones are not yet full-­time sea-­children, and they are traveling across area where there has as yet been no significant inundation.”

“I . . . ah . . .” gargled Bertram, his eyes fixed on the children in question. The two infants, about yearlings, he judged, were loosely wrapped in knitted shawls and were reclining in their mother's arms, regarding him, Bertram, with great interest. Down to their waists they were appropriately human-­looking, their skin, where it showed beneath the knitted caps, was more or less the color of an aged ivory button. Not as light as their father's, though he was somewhat darkened by the sun. One little head of dark hair had reddish lights, the other blue. Their little faces were pretty, their eyes dark and very observant, and their smiles were delightful. Their nether appendages, however, whatever such limbs were called, were unquestionably fishy! But not scaled, no. The olive skin above the waist simply became darker—­blue? Or green? More leathery, thicker, and it ended in feet that were . . . webbed. Quite webbed. Extravagantly webbed! The insignificant heels were companioned by very long, almost froggy toes!

Abasio's voice hardened. “So, since we must travel where as yet there are no seas, the children are sometimes cold. They require jackets! Coats! Something to keep them warm!”

The tailor mumbled something.

“Yes?” asked Abasio with a lethal smile.

“Why would aquatic creatures be here? You are so far from—­”

Xulai interrupted, her voice like a well-­honed knife. “They must be both, Bertram. If you'll let me explain. May I sit down?”

Her words were a question, her tone was not. The tailor's conscious mind finally received the information his subconscious had been trying to get through to him for some time.
“Forget your oath! Forget the books. Forget defending your life's primary purpose of being a Volumetarian. Shut your mouth and listen. Shut your mouth and
smile
and
listen!
Shut up and smile and listen
sympathetically,
as any decent tailor would!

He scurried, fetching a chair while stretching his mouth into what he hoped was an understanding smile. She did sit down, with a weary sigh.

“We are in the age of the waters rising,” she said slowly, ­carefully, hoping to sound merely didactic rather than lethally threatening. “About two centuries from now, all our world will be under the waters . . .”

She paused for emphasis, but did not begin again, for Bertram had stumbled back, not merely astonished as many were who heard this information for the first time, but shocked as though mortally wounded. His dark face was turning gray, all at once!

He gasped. “Surely . . . you must be joking, ma'am. I don't . . .” He put his hand to his head, suddenly dizzy. He gasped for breath.

Abasio stepped around the corner of the counter and helped the man sit down. He and Xulai realized almost at the same instant that evidently the flooding of the world meant something more to this man than it meant to most ­people.

Bertram was babbling. “Travelers have said . . . Coastal flooding, of course, yes, but . . . a few lowlands perhaps, but . . . surely not the world!
The books . . . the books . . . the books have to be kept dry! What can I do with the books?
” He went on babbling, almost wordlessly, his face gray, even his lips so ashen that they might as well have opened his veins and drained all his blood away.

While the tailor's breathing gradually slowed, Xulai shrugged off her heavy robe. Though she shared the dislike of dirt that was customary to cats and Tingawans, it would have to wait! Unlike a cat, she could not lick herself clean, but with the filthy robe removed, she could half convince herself that she looked acceptably human instead of appearing to be some monster made of muck. She reached out to touch his shoulder. Let him feel her hand. Let him know she was as human as he!

Softly, in her most unthreatening voice, she went on: “In order to survive in the changed world, our forms must change. There is enough time for this to happen; six or eight generations. When the earth is finally inundated, all of us who cannot exist underwater will have lived out our lives; so will our children and grandchildren; and in that same time new generations will have been born able to exist underwater, to swim, to dive, even perhaps to dance upon the waves.

“Abasio and I are . . . facilitators of that change. We—­and some other ­couples like us—­travel from place to place carrying with us the . . . the . . .”

“The process,”
Abasio interjected firmly. “The process by which ­people can be changed. Once changed,
their children will be born like our children, able from birth to exist in the changed world
.”

They glanced at each other. They tried not to talk about the first-­generation change at all. Sea-­eggs were needed to make the transformation, and Abasio still remembered his own transformation with embarrassment. He had behaved badly. Or, as Blue said, “Like a pig keeper just got himself knocked into the wallow.” It was the first-­generation changers, however, who subsequently gave birth to sea-­babies like Gailai and Bailai, so no matter how embarrassing, the first transformation might be, it had to precede the second. They had learned to speak largely in generalities, to let ­people see the children, to explain that yes, they were their own children, and if others would like to bear children who would survive the world wide drowning, they could find out all about it in Wellsport on the west coast. The change center there was now called Sea Duck 2 by its inhabitants, for they had, each and every one of them, been “sea-­ducked” and were able to breathe underwater. Sea Duck 1 was in Tingawa.

So far they had been unable to develop a satisfactory routine! Though they had been on this journey for almost a year now, their reception from place to place had been so varied they had been unable to settle on a routine. Words and phrases that were acceptable in one village turned out to be fighting words in the next place, even though they tried to avoid any fighting at all. If hostility seemed imminent, they had the means to leave, and they did leave: horses, wagon, and all. Essentially they had three duties: first to explain that the world was being drowned; second to let ­people know about the sea-­children. Third: to survive!

Xulai, seriously worried about Bertram's seizure, had not left his side. He now had some color coming back into his cheeks, but he still looked woefully unwell, and Abasio suggested he go lie down for a while. Abasio escorted him back into his living quarters, settled him on his bed, and asked if he, Abasio, and his wife might pay him for the use of his bathhouse, if that chimney out in back did, indeed, indicate a bathhouse? Also, would Bertram allow him the horses to be unhitched to graze? Might they take advantage of his hospitality, perhaps, to stay for a day or two, just to rest?

Bertram could only nod repeatedly. Oh, yes, it would be so good to have company. And if they would stay, he could show them and explain about the books. He murmured distractedly, “Oh, Sir Abasio . . .”

“Just plain Abasio will do, Bertram.”

“Well, if you see any ­people coming up from down the hill there . . . be careful. There's been a bunch of Lorpists down there . . . I didn't notice. Does your lovely wife have pierced ears? That would count against her ‘wholeness,' you see. I suggest a scarf over the head and ears if she sees them coming . . .”

“Lorpists don't like . . . what? Any trifling with the human body?”

“That's it. Yes. And God help a man who loses a finger due to an accident. Lorpists feel it their duty to kill the rest of him so he doesn't walk about as an affront to the Creator.”

Blue had stationed himself by the window of the tailor's shop, where he could hear the conversation. He relayed the word about the Lorpists to Ragweed.

“Wonder what one of 'em'd do if I kicked him in the you-know-wheres and he maybe lost a ball,” murmured Ragweed.

“Now, Rags. Don't go kicking up trouble,” said Blue.

When Bertram had somewhat recovered himself, he invited them to stay as long as they liked. They would, yes, said Xulai, if he promised to go to bed and stay there until he was breathing properly. If he had any customers, she would see to them.

Gratefully, Bertram said the horses could graze around the shop and into the little pasture that lay over that way. He was later amazed to find no horse droppings at all.

Xulai explored the place; Abasio fired up the water heater behind the shop and left it to gurgle warmly to itself. When it was hot enough, he and Xulai and the babies (though they didn't particularly like hot water) had a bath. Afterward, Xulai used their bathwater to wash all their blankets and she hung them over Bertram's side fence to dry. For some time, there had been no stream or pool to give them even a halfway convenient place to wash. The back of Bertram's house was built right up against the mountain for some reason—­which they discovered later. Xulai invaded Bertram's kitchen, found the ingredients for a proper soup, took a bowl to his bedside, and fed it to him.

Meantime, Blue and Rags received a visitor. A very dirty small boy came sneaking out from under a bush and, seeing the wagon appeared empty, decided to explore it. The boy was blocked by a very large horse. The boy decided to go in over the wagon seat and found his way blocked by another horse.

“Blassit,” said the boy. “I 'uz just goin' to look! Was'n gonna take nothing.”

“What's your name?” asked Blue.

“You can't really talk, can you?” the boy asked. “Somebody's hidin' somewhere pretendin' to be your voice.”

“Ragweed and I can talk. I was given the gift of speech by some very lofty creatures, angels maybe. Ragweed got her voice from a woman named Precious Wind, friend of Xulai's. It requires some trifling with the anatomy and it won't work on just everyone. What's your name?”

“I got a dog, maybe she could get him to talk.”

“What's your name, boy? Either tell me or I'll kick you all the way down the hill.”

“Willum,” said the boy.

“WILLUM,” came a call from down the hill. “WILLUM, you get yourself back down here and eat your supper.”

“Quit upsetting your mother,” said Blue. “Go on and get your supper. We can talk again later. Looks like we'll be here for a day or so.

The boy left them. “You don't usually talk to brats,” said Ragweed.

“No. Have a strange feeling about this one, though.”

The boy came back, some time later. “Horse.”

“Yes, boy.”

“There's Lorpists down there. They've heard about the fish babies. They're all set to do you some damage when you go down the hill. Where you going, anyhow?”

“Someplace over a pass, Findem Pass, then down into Artemisia.”

“Well, 'f'you're going to the pass, you gotta come down through Gravysuck, where we are. Just remember, those men they got axes n' things.”

“Why's your town called Gravysuck?”

“ 'Cause . . . we used ta have this man . . . he was real nasty with women, even little girls. Y'know what I mean? He used to hurt 'em. So we had this other man visitin', and he told us the town needed a cata-­pull-­it, n' him and a buncha the men they built the cata-­pull-­it an' they put it out nexta Gravy Lake, and they call it that because it's kinda thick and brown like gravy. And it's gotta bottom in it you can't walk on, and if you fall in you can't get out, it kinda sucks you down. Then the man said we had ta tell everybody if they didn't behave, they'd get cata-­pull-­ited. And everybody got told. And the bad man didn't listen, so next time he grabbed some little girl, they were ready for him, and they cata-­pullit-­ed him right out inta the middle of Gravy Lake and it sucked him down, sploosh, like that. Three or four men got catta-­pullit-­ed since, oh, and one real rotten ol' lady use to poison ­people's wells. And since that, we haven't had any trouble.”

“Very interesting,” said Blue. “Well, boy, thank you for all the information. I guess we'll be leaving tomorrow or the next day. Do you think your folks and friends would like to see the sea-­babies? If you think so, you ought to tell them to ask my ­people.”